They both had their secrets. And both were duty bound to keep them. They had both taken vows to that effect, one secular, the other religious.
Ego sum Alpha et Omega …
Father McKean looked out the window at that green and blue spring landscape that usually filled him with a sense of peace. Now he found it almost hostile, as if winter had returned, not because of anything external, but because of the eyes with which he was now looking at it. After he had got up from his bed like a sleepwalker, he had taken a shower, dressed and said his prayers with a new fervour. Then he had walked up and down the room, barely able to recognize the objects around him. Poor, familiar things, everyday objects that, even though they represented the everyday difficulties of his life, seemed all at once to belong to a happy time that was now lost for ever.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’
‘Michael, it’s John.’
‘Come in.’
Father McKean had been expecting him. They usually met on Monday mornings to discuss the week’s activities and objectives. Whatever the difficulties, it was a gratifying time, which confirmed them in their commitment to achieve the aims the small community of Joy had set itself. But today John entered with the air of someone who would have liked to be in another place and time.
‘Sorry to bother you, but there’s something I absolutely have to discuss with you.’
‘No bother. What’s going on?’
Given their familiarity and mutual respect, John decided to start with a little preamble. ‘Mike,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I’m sure you’ll tell me in due course. And I’m sorry to be troubling you now.’
Yet again, Father McKean was made aware of John Kortighan’s great tact and how lucky he was to have a man of his calibre on the staff.
‘It’s nothing, John. Nothing important. It’ll pass, trust me. But tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘We have a problem.’
At Joy there were always problems. With the kids, with the money, with members of staff, with the temptations of the outside world. But judging by John’s face, this was a particularly tricky one.
‘I had a word with Rosaria this morning.’
Rosaria Carnevale was a parishioner at Saint Benedict, of Italian extraction, who lived in Country Club but ran a branch of the M &T; Bank in Manhattan, which handled the community’s financial interests and administered Barry Lovito’s estate.
‘What does she say?’
What John said next was something he had hoped never to have to say. ‘She says that while this case has been going on, she’s bent over backwards to keep sending us the monthly allowance, as laid down in our charter. But now, after a petition by Mr Lovito’s presumptive heirs, she’s received another court order. All payments are suspended until the dispute has been resolved.’
This meant that until the judge had pronounced, apart from the contribution by the state of New York, the community would lose its main source of income. From now on, Joy would have to rely for its general needs on its own resources and on spontaneous offers from people of goodwill.
Father McKean again looked out the window, silent and pensive. When he spoke, John Kortighan heard the unease in his voice.
‘How much do we have in reserve?’
‘Little or nothing. If we were a company, we’d be bankrupt.’
The priest turned with a small, colourless smile on his lips. ‘Don’t worry, John. We’ll manage. As we always have done. We’ll manage this time, too.’
But although his words might be full of confidence, there was little trace of it in his tone of voice. It was as if he had said these words more to delude himself than to convince the person he was talking to.
John felt the cold wind of reality gradually take possession of the air in the room.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you now. We’ll talk about the other things later. They’re minor in comparison with what I’ve just said.’
‘Yes, John, you can go. I’ll be with you soon.’
‘Okay, then. I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
Father McKean watched as his right-hand man left the room and gently closed the door behind him. He didn’t like the fact that John felt so bad about the situation, but what really hurt him was the feeling that he, Michel McKean, had disappointed him.
Iam God …
He wasn’t God. He had no wish to be. He was only a man conscious of his earthly limits. Up until now he had been content to serve God as best he could, accepting everything that was offered him and everything that was asked of him.
But now…
He picked up the cellphone from the desk and after a brief search in the address book dialled the number of the archdiocese of New York. He waited impatiently as the phone at the other end rang a few times. When at last a voice answered, he identified himself to the switchboard operator.
‘I’m Father Michael McKean from the parish of Saint Benedict in the Bronx. I’m also the director of Joy, a community that takes in teenagers with drug problems. I’d like to talk to the archbishop’s office.’
Usually his introductions were much more concise, but he had preferred to emphasize his status to make sure his call was put through immediately.
‘One moment, Father McKean.’
The switchboard operator put him on hold. A few moments later another voice came on. A young, polite voice.
‘Hello, Father. I’m Samuel Bellamy, one of Cardinal Logan’s colleagues. How can I help you?’
‘I need to speak to His Eminence as soon as possible. In person. It’s a matter of life and death.’
He must have conveyed his own distress very effectively, because there was genuine regret in the tone of the answer, as well as a hint of anxiety.
‘Unfortunately, the cardinal left this morning for a short stay in Rome. He’ll be meeting with the Holy Father, and won’t be back before Sunday.’
All at once, Michael McKean felt lost. A week. He’d hoped to be able to share his burden with the archbishop, to get some advice or instruction. A dispensation was far too much of a miracle to even think about, but the consolation of a superior’s opinion was vital to him right now.
‘Can I do anything, Father?’
‘Unfortunately not. The one thing I can ask is that you make sure I get an appointment with His Eminence as soon as possible.’