The Accidental Pope (10 page)

“Why, thank you, Brian. You have a good memory. And how are the renovations going in the wake of the damage to the Church of St. Francis in Assisi?” They chatted about the earthquake that had caused extreme damage to the historic Church in Italy.

“And a beautiful fourth day of October you are enjoying,” Brian concluded. “I regret that time is of the essence.”

“I understand, Brian. I am trying to restrain my curiosity.”

“Well, I can't tell you much. The conclave matters are all secret. I can only say that since I am down here, I'd like to drive over to Buzzards Bay and see my old friend Bill Kelly.”

“Yes.” The bishop clucked his tongue. “I remember him when he was an assistant parish pastor in this diocese. He did wonderful work with the Portuguese immigrant children; spoke the language, arranged camps for them. We excused him from his vows, as I recall, and he married a very pretty Irish girl. That was an interesting time. Her uncle was the parish priest of St. Anthony of Portugal Church, a poor parish in the mostly fishing town. Didn't like his niece and his assistant prelate having a relationship.” He chuckled. “Billy Kelly is the head of the Southern New England Fishing Council. He's a good family man and good to his workers, and he still cares for the Portuguese children.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. Sean, as you know, Bill's wife—Mary was her name—succumbed to cancer some time ago.”

“Yes, I believe that I heard that. How terrible for such a wonderful family.”

“I'd like to see him as long as I'm in the area. He is one of my best friends and I feel like his family is my family.”

The bishop was too kind, and wise, to remark that it seemed odd that a cardinal coming out of the conclave to elect the next pope would have time to see an old friend from the seminary. Instead he said, “I can have you driven to Buzzards Bay, or”—he paused—“why don't I drive you down myself? We can talk on the way. Or we can remain silent.” He gave Brian an owlish look.

“I think I'd be better off going alone. I might just have lunch with Bill and his children and try to get the late-afternoon flight back to Rome. If you can arrange for me to rent a car—”

“Nonsense. You can use mine. Give Bill Kelly my warmest wishes.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Anything else I should know now?”

“The U.S. ambassador to the Vatican will be arriving within the next few hours in Boston. He doesn't know what my mission is, but he may be a part of it. He will call Bishop Murray, who will direct him to call you as a means of locating me. You can tell Ambassador Ed Kirby anything you know of my plans and whereabouts. It is possible that events will not proceed the way I am trying to steer them according to the conclave's instructions. I am beginning to think that God, the Holy Spirit, whatever, is taking things into His own hands, and as I see it my mission is do God's will, according to his call. Ambassador Kirby will be an integral part of doing God's work as He moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.”

Bishop Sean Patrick smiled. “Your Eminence, thoroughly confused though I am, I will carry out whatever wishes you express to me.”

“Good. Then I'll head for Buzzards Bay and contact you regarding my plans after I have seen my old friends, the Kellys. Your place is just a last stop on my visit to America, and it is solely designed to keep people wondering what I'm doing and where I'm going. You'll be hounded by the media. They'll want to know if you've been elected pope or have an idea of who has.” Brian smiled. “You haven't. The conclave isn't over yet. Are you with me so far?”

“If ‘nowhere' is with you, Brian, I'm right on track.” He laughed. “Anything else I can do for you? Let me know if you want one of the priests to drive you to Buzzards Bay,” the bishop offered.

“No. I don't want to turn a simple visit into a major media event by heading out of here with you or one of the priests. I need to keep them guessing. Call me at Bill Kelly's house when you hear from Ed Kirby and I'll tell you my plans. I will probably fly out of Boston tonight. And if I know that family, I'll be stuffed with lobster stew and apple pie shortly after noon.”

“In that case, Brian, here are the keys to my car, a used but reliable wreck. If a policeman stops you on the way, tell him to call me!”

“Oh, oddly enough, I do have a valid Massachusetts driver's license. I've spent several summer vacations with the Kellys. I love to drive around the Cape and see the sights.”

“It's settled then, Brian. Let's get you on your way so you can get to that lobster lunch.”

Brian thanked everyone for their kindness, including Father Charlie, as the bishop led his guest into the garage and opened the car door. Bishop Sean Patrick handed Brian a small wallet-size picture of St. Francis with the prayer for peace on the reverse side. With a few directions and instructions, the cardinal understood the instrument panel, backed the car out of the garage onto the pavement, and headed to the Cape.

As Brian left Main Street in Fall River, he turned on the CD player to listen to some of the music that Sean liked. The selection that came on was the chorus of the Hebrew Slaves, “Va Pensiero” from the opera
Nabucco
by Giuseppe Verdi, which Brian had once heard magnificently performed at the world-renowned La Scala opera house in Milan with Ed and Kathy Kirby and Carlo Maria Martini, the archbishop of Milan.

9

“OH MY GOD! SO IT'S TRUE!”

As he drove toward Cape Cod on this clear October day, Brian mentally rehearsed his mission: namely, to obtain Bill Kelly's unequivocal refusal to take advantage of a mistake, an insane joke gone awry. A grim smile crossed his face as he considered the field day the press would have with this. The stern visage of the
camerlengo
reminding him of the secrecy required burned in his brain. He must tell Bill Kelly how this accident had happened and persuade him to take the information with him to his grave! Was it realistic to think that anyone could keep such a secret?

Brian thought back to an earlier visit to the warm and modest Cape Cod home years ago when he had been made a bishop. The Kellys had staged an elaborate clambake for him and his priest friends from the area, including the now Bishop Sean Patrick. Brian had stayed on a few extra days to catch up with the family news. He had delighted in how the children were growing up, how they were doing in school, all the things you talk about with close family. He truly felt he was “Uncle Brian” and that everyone accepted him that way.

Most of all he recalled the belly laugh from Bill as he watched him hand Roger, then age three, back to his mother and look down at the wet spot on his neatly pressed clerical trousers. “Well, Your Excellency,” Bill had roared, “you have been officially baptized for your new position. How many bishops can say that?”

As a cardinal he was grateful to God that he had enjoyed close friends like the Kellys. They kept him mindful of the ordinary man and the many problems with which he must contend. Yet at times he was painfully aware that as a celibate he would never know life fully, just as the common people—Bill excepted—could never understand the priestly vocation either. Still, he was happy to be serving God in his chosen manner and was at peace with himself. He knew beyond question he could trust Bill Kelly with the knowledge of what had happened at the conclave, and that this matter would never be revealed.

Brian's heartbeat quickened as he caught sight of the bay and the Kelly residence on a small knoll just above the inlet and docks. Soon he was swinging into the wide driveway and parked next to Bill's Chevrolet pickup truck. He walked up the steps to the house, and the front door opened slowly.

“Uncle Brian.” Colleen's voice was friendly, yet there was an air of coolness about her he had never experienced in the Kelly family before. “Meghan said you called last night. You really did come. Dad landed a couple of hours ago.”

“You didn't tell him I might drop by, did you, Colleen?”

“No, Uncle Brian.”

“Does he know I'm in the country?”

“I didn't tell him, and they don't listen to the news out there at sea. Dad reads poetry and books.”

“Where is he now?”

“By the boat inspecting the nets. Like I said, they just got in.”

God's timing, Brian thought. He gazed out the large bay window that gave him a clear view of the waterfront below. He saw Bill bending over his nets, busy as usual. “Where are the kids, Colleen?”

“Still in school. Ryan is off to see his friends.”

“Hey, Colleen, why don't you fix up some of that lobster stew your mom used to make while I go down and surprise the old boy?”

“Wonderful, Uncle Brian! You'll cheer him up. His mind seems occupied with something he won't explain. Very quiet he's been since he landed. Not like Dad,” Colleen mused. “Of course it wasn't a great trip; the fish are scarce out there. And always the bills coming in. But usually he goofs off and has a few beers with his crew at the Second Bristol Café or the Portuguese Club in New Bedford before coming back home.”

“I'll see you in a bit.” Brian stepped out the screen door and descended the steps. He smiled as he caught sight of his friend at the edge of the dock, half dreading Bill's reaction to the bizarre tidings he was about to spill. The story could be met with boisterous laughter as, cardinal or not, he was pitched into the ocean. They were that close.

I might as well get it over with.

The day was gorgeous, a slight wind driving ripples in the water and the bright autumn sun at its zenith.

As Brian approached the boat, Bill was kneeling, unraveling the fishing net. He became aware of footsteps and turned to see who was coming. His jaw fell open. He looked stunned. The net he'd been holding dropped to the deck. “Oh, my God! So it's true!” he gasped, reeling backward.

The words brought home Brian's perception of his mission in a lightning flash. He realized intuitively that calling Ed Kirby before leaving Rome had been an act of divine guidance. Abruptly he was no longer Brian but Brian Cardinal Comiskey, standing there. “What do you mean, ‘so it's true'?” he demanded, eyes locked into Bill's, searching for the explanation.

Bill turned away from the cardinal's questioning stare, nervously recovering his net.

“Bill.” The cardinal's voice was compelling. “Look at me. What did you say?”

Bill straightened up, forced a smile, and then threw his hand out to be shaken. “I don't know. Nothing, Brian. It's just so great, such a surprise to see you again.”

“Bill.” The cardinal's voice was sharp. “Of course, it's great. But what did you mean by ‘so it's true'?”

Timidly and almost apologetically, Bill sat down on the boat's gunwale and looked up into his friend's anxious eyes. “Just some funny, stupid thoughts I had. Not important.”

“I want to hear your funny, stupid thoughts, Bill.” Then, sternly, “Tell me. That's why I'm here.”

It was apparent the cardinal was not going to back off. Bill sighed. “Well, now, Brian, don't laugh at me. I suppose it's just because I know you and saw you on TV going into the conclave. I teased the kids that maybe, because you were my old buddy, you would cast one vote for me! We laughed about it. But the thought just wouldn't leave my mind. Then out on the bank yesterday morning just before sunrise—dear God, it scares me just to think of it.”

“Think out loud, Billy Boy. I want to hear it all … everything!”

“Well, things are a bit tough out on the bank—less fish, more work, and less money. God knows Colleen is doing her best to keep the family together and still get her college education. She is doing well at both, but with Mary's death she has lost faith in God, the Church—in everything but our little family.”

Bill was silent a few moments until Brian shuffled impatiently toward him on the dock. “I was really wiped out after a hard day's work. But I wanted to discuss something with my first mate, Manny, one of the great Portuguese fishermen. He's always been there for me in the worst of times. I wanted to get his feelings about making Ryan the captain while I took the good-paying desk job offered me at the Southern New England Fishermen's Association.”

Bill rubbed his eyes as though clearing his vision or pushing weariness from them. “Ryan was all excited, of course, but I told him to get some sleep. He was pulling the late watch and he had to get me up at five
A.M.
sharp.” He sighed and looked up at the cardinal, dressed in his simple black suit with Roman collar like any other parish priest.

“Keep on, Bill,” Brian said in a steadying tone.

“I went down to my bunk and literally collapsed. Now comes the weird part, Brian. I'm not sure whether I slept or not, but somehow my tired old brain reminded me I hadn't said my Rosary.” He paused and half smiled at his friend. “Is that just a pattern we get into by habit? I was thinking of Colleen at that moment, how to restore her faith in God.”

Again Bill was silent for a few seconds. Then he continued more forcefully. “I pushed my old bones out of the bunk and on my knees started to say my Rosary. I was so tired I could hardly concentrate on what I was saying. Then I was suddenly aware of a soft light in back of me towards the cabin door.”

Bill was silent in his recollection of the moment. Then, slowly, he continued. “I turned and … oh God, Brian! I saw the Blessed Virgin standing there. She was so beautiful … so radiant. The image of her appearance at Fatima. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as she communicated with me. I don't know just how, but I understood her perfectly.

“‘Be at peace, my child,' she made me understand. ‘My son has sent me to tell you how deeply he is saddened over the divisions in his Church. He is also heavyhearted at the mistreatment of his Father's chosen people, Israel. These things must cease! Like the first Peter who denied Jesus and suffered with sorrow until his death, you also will have to suffer. But in your weakness God will be able to show forth his strength. The chastisements I spoke of before will be upon the people, and the assault against clergy, Christians, and all people must end. Just trust him, my child. His messenger will come for you tomorrow.'”