The Good Shepherd (44 page)

Again, Matthew Mahan sensed lurking in the shadows the man of angry power he once preferred. Not roaring rage, but cold, savage contempt was what he wanted to shower on this callow, half-formed young man. He could very possibly destroy him and his childish pretensions; at the very least it would be satisfying to try. But this version of his old self was now as unwelcome as the roaring rager.

“Emil,” he said, lighting another cigarette and mentally reprimanding himself for doing it, “would you do me one favor? In your book, would you avoid personalities? I’m not pleading for myself here; I’m speaking for everyone you’ve met who has held an opinion you dislike. Criticize the opinion, but don’t abuse the man. Give him credit for sincerity. I’m thinking particularly of Monsignor O’Reilly. He’s not a likable man. Did it ever occur to you that he may know it, but be unable to do anything about it?”

“He doesn’t give a damn about anyone enough to do anything -” Novak’s voice choked with hatred.

Matthew Mahan sighed. Instead of Father Novak’s shifty eyes and weak mouth, he saw Sister Helen Reed’s innocent gamin face, illuminated by the same angry righteousness. “How do you
know?”
he asked. “Very, very few of us ever have the privilege of knowing what goes on in another man’s soul.”

Father Novak stared at him for a moment and then laughed shrilly. “That’s the most asinine statement I ever heard in my life. I know exactly what’s going on in Monsignor O’Reilly’s soul. I have confronted that man’s malignant soul every night for a year.”

“No, you haven’t. You saw a man consumed by envy. By frustrated hopes, unfulfilled expectations. I know much more about Monsignor O’Reilly than you. But I also know this. He was a young priest once like yourself, with a heart full of love. For God, for his fellowmen. No one becomes a priest without feeling those things. I have no intention of trying to explain to you why he’s become a bitter old man. I only want to warn you that there are many, many roads to bitterness. They all have one thing in common. Arrogance.”

For just a moment, Father Novak’s bravado faltered. Perhaps he was facing his highly uncertain future for the first time.

“What are you going to do - what sort of work?”

“I don’t know. I’m not going to think about it until I finish my book. Martha - my - wife - is teaching in Lincoln Township.”

“Is she in complete agreement - about your leaving this way - not waiting to be laicized?”

“Of course.”

“And the children - will they be Catholic?”

“They’ll be people of God.”

“Well. That means they’ll be good people. We can’t ask for more than that. God bless you, Emil.”

Novak stood up. “Thank you,” he said. “I - I didn’t want it to end this way but -”

But, but, but. Matthew Mahan let the word toll in his brain as he watched Novak vanish through the doorway. Life was full of buts and ifs. If Monsignor Paul O’Reilly had not confused his ability to manipulate the tired, bored old man who had the power in this diocese with the power itself, he might still be vicar-general. But he went out of his way to be obnoxious to Monsignor Matthew Mahan, fundraiser extraordinary. If Matthew Mahan had not tried to solve the problem of Monsignor O’Reilly’s hatred diplomatically, by giving him one of the best parishes at his disposal, Emil Novak might still be a priest. Yes, Matthew Mahan told himself mournfully, that was where the failure lay - in his assumption that politics was the answer, when a bishop, a real bishop, would have had the courage to confront the man and say: Y
our hatred of me will destroy your priesthood.
But smoothies didn’t work that way. So now, ten years later, a priesthood has been destroyed, perhaps two.

Matthew Mahan picked up the microphone of his Stenorette and began dictating.

“Dear Monsignor O’Reilly, colon.”

He stopped. What he wanted to say could only be handwritten. Official business could be dictated and typed. But this was not official business. He picked up one of his pens.

He put the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Monsignor O’Reilly, sealed it, and put it in his outbox. For a moment, he debated asking Dennis to read it. Was the smoothie, in his blundering and much too late lunge for sainthood, making a fool of himself? It was impossible to know. Showing a letter like that to anyone could only look like grandstanding. That was one vice that his father, God bless his surly old soul, eradicated early.

Matthew Mahan could still see, feel, the day. A scorcher in July. He was in the seventh or eighth grade, pitching for the neighborhood sandlot team. After striking out nine in a row in the sixth, seventh, and eighth innings, he had called in the outfield and struck out the last three batters on ten pitches. As they trudged up the steps to the railroad bridge above the field where they played, he saw his father leaning on the sooty iron fence, watching them. That night at dinner, he had learned about grandstanding.
What are you saying when you pull a stunt like that? You don’t need the other eight guys. Just leave it to Mighty Matthew. It’s bad enough that the guys you beat that way will hate your guts. But your own guys wind up feeling the same way.

The next day, the vicar-general reported that the Archdiocesan Association of Priests would almost certainly pass a resolution calling for a full and complete report on the archdiocese’s finances at their meeting this weekend. There was even talk by some more militant members of a motion to demand the Cardinal’s appearance to give them an explanation of his policies in person. In other words, to defend himself against the accusations of Leo the Great. Vicar-General Petrie thought there was not much chance of this resolution passing. “But anything is possible these days,” he added with a sigh.

In the past, Cardinal Mahan would have testily told his vicar to make sure neither motion passed. The extralegal Association of Priests and the archdiocese’s Priest’s Senate had been handily controlled by groups of loyalists, with whom George Petrie kept in constant close contact. But the Cardinal could sense in the vicar’s helplessness a certain satisfaction, an implied whisper of
I told you so.

This news led to another wrestle with an even more recalcitrant Chancellor Malone. Matthew Mahan decided the best possible response to the priests was the prompt publication of a full, honest financial report. The chancellor was appalled, dubious, sullen, as the Cardinal parried, evaded, and finally dismissed with regret his contrary arguments. “When can I get it, Terry?” Matthew Mahan asked.

“I have no idea,” said the chancellor. “It’s certainly not something we should rush into. I’ll have to talk it over with our accountants. I’ll check with the people in New York to see what they’re issuing this year.”

Matthew Mahan’s hopes drooped. “There’s no possibility of getting something out in a week or ten days?”

“Not unless you want to put us in jail.”

When Matthew Mahan tried to reduce this exaggeration to reality, he got buried in an hour of technical terms. There were, it seems, thirty-two different “generally accepted accounting principles” - all of them so general that they often contradicted each other. Should they use “flow through” or “comprehensive” procedures? The Accounting Principles Board of the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants recently frowned on flow through, but the archdiocese’s accountants still favored it. Then there was the new “costing” approach recently developed by a Big Eight accounting firm that had enabled one university to increase its government grants by 20 percent. Should they use that to state the costs of their parochial schools? If the state legislature passed the private school aid bill, it might make the difference between millions gained and lost. But stating the costs at their ultimate might panic pastors and parents, if no state aid was forthcoming. Then there were a number of bequests recently received by the archdiocese. Among these were stock in a chain of nightclubs, a herd of beef cattle, and a half-dozen oil wells in Oklahoma. They were all in the process of being sold, as canon law required. But stating their value before the sale was a complex matter. There was a question about the wisdom of selling the oil wells too hastily. The new federal tax law might permit some very juicy deductions from their income if they were held for a year, a latitude certainly permitted by canon law.

There was the hint of a grim smile on the chancellor’s lips as he finally departed, promising the Cardinal that a report would be prepared with “all reasonable speed.” By now, Matthew Mahan realized he would be lucky to see a first draft in September.

The next day, the vicar-general was back with news of two young curates who were asking for laicization. Almost too casually, he remarked that they had said Leo the Great’s articles were part of the reason for their making this negative decision. Petrie also reported that Monsignor O’Reilly was attempting to organize the older suburban pastors, to force a vote at the next meeting of their deanery, asking the Cardinal to repudiate Leo’s allegations about his birth control beliefs with a ringing affirmation of
Humanae Vitae.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they form one of those conservative pressure groups, like that Midwest outfit, Te Deum,” the vicar-general said.

Later that day came Mike Furia and Chancellor Malone to hold a wake for the fund drive. An interim report now estimated they would fall short of their goal by $2,500,000. It was especially disappointing to find out that contributions had declined during the past week, in spite of the extensive news coverage of His Eminence’s triumphs in Rome.

“That hurts the old ego,” Matthew Mahan said, silently adding:
What you needed, what you needed.

“I don’t think it has anything to do with a decline in your personal popularity, Matt,” said Mike Furia soothingly. “Terry here’s been telling us the day of personal fund-raising by amateurs is just about over. It looks like he’s right. You’ll have to rely on professionals, or tested techniques, from now on.”

“Maybe the answer is really psychological,” Matthew Mahan mused. “What does the average guy think when he sees his Archbishop deplaning from his personal jet, being toasted and dinnered at the best hotels in Rome, marching up St. Peter’s aisle in gold vestments? Maybe he thinks about the trouble he has meeting his mortgage and decides we can get along without his $100 this year.”

Terry Malone grumbled something about the importance of keeping up appearances. He obviously thought that the Cardinal was losing his grip. Morosely, he pointed out that their poverty solved at least one problem. There was no longer any need to debate building three new churches and three new parochial schools in the suburbs. That idea was kaput indefinitely.

“At least I can look like a statesman to the National Association of Laymen,” Matthew Mahan said. “Who knows, I may even get a few lines of praise in the
National Catholic Reporter.”

“I hope not,” growled the chancellor.

“Do me a favor, will you, Terry? Run a financial study of what the parochial schools will be costing us by 1976? Based on reasonable estimates of rising teachers’ salaries, costs, that sort of thing.”

The chancellor gave him a very suspicious look, but he glumly promised to get to work on it. “I bet it will knock your head off,” Mike Furia said.

Mike lingered for a few minutes after Terry Malone departed. He wanted to tell Matthew Mahan that he was leaving for a six-to eight-week trip around the world to check out his overseas companies. Mike had not resigned as chairman of the Cardinal’s Fund, but this trip, while the fund was sagging so badly, was the nearest thing to it. Although Matthew Mahan had asked for his resignation, he still felt like his old friend was deserting him.
Get used to it,
a voice whispered to him.

But Mike was absorbed in his own problems. “I thought you’d like to know - I’m getting a divorce. My wife can’t believe it. The Animal is finally standing on his hind legs and fighting back.”

The bitterness in these words pained Matthew Mahan. “Mike,” he said, “try to bring some charity, some understanding -”

“Charity I’m trying. I’m giving her $5 million in company stock.”

“I mean charity - from the heart, Mike.”

“I haven’t got it, Matt. Not for her.”

“All right. All right. We all have to do the best we can. At least you’re not looking for revenge. I hope you get married again - soon.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve got someone in mind.”

“Do I know her?”

“Yeah. But since I haven’t asked her, I’m not going to tell you her name. It’s probably a pipe dream anyway. By the time I get back from this trip, she’ll have forgotten my name - like my wife used to do.”

“I hope not, Mike. I mean it. Have a good trip. I’ll be praying for you whether you like it or not.”

No comment, only a brief smile from Mike. They shook hands, and he was gone.