Acts of Faith (59 page)

Timothy, who had been unable to make any sound, now gasped. It was a staggering sum, nearly two million dollars. He suddenly found that only Latin could express his stupefaction.
“Deo grattas,”
he exclaimed.

“Ah no,” the Father General corrected him good-humoredly.
“Ascarellio gratias!”
He turned to the lawyer and asked, “Do I recall you mentioning a codicil?”

“Yes,” Leone answered. “The day before he died, Paolo called me to discuss Archbishop Hogan’s desire to build a children’s hospital in Brasilia. He instructed me to urge you both to make this a priority and left a note to that effect, witnessed by two nurses. Of course, it was not notarized, but—”

The Father General raised his hand to stop the lawyer’s oration.

“We need no legalism in this matter,
Avvocato.
Paolo’s words had the only witness necessary.”

Tim smiled and explained. “Father Martínez means Almighty God.”

As the priests prepared for the long journey home, Timothy walked among the Ascarelli vineyards. He could now see that they stretched to the horizon. When he was too far from the others to be heard, he looked up at the crimson sky and called exultantly, “God bless you, Father Ascarelli. You’ve saved thousands of sick children.” He added in a whisper, “And my soul as well.”

By the time the convoy had returned to Rome, though emotionally and physically spent, Tim knew he would not be able to rest until he had prayed for his beloved mentor’s soul.

At 11:30
P.M.
, St. Peter’s Square was empty and dimly lit. Tim could hear the echoing of his feet on the cobblestones as he walked. When he reached the main entrance, he was surprised to find the huge bronze doors locked.

He chastised himself for not remembering that the great Basilica closed at sunset and would not open again
until first light. As he slowly made his way down the Via della Conciliazione toward the river, he recalled the words of Christ in Matthew, chapter six. When you pray, do not be like those who pray in public so that they are noticed. Rather, pray privately—and He will answer.

And in the manner the Saviour preached, Tim whispered in his heart.

EPILOGUE

T
he Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago was gazing out of his office window at the gray streets of his domain—the largest Catholic diocese in America. He was dictating to a young graduate of St. Mary’s of the Lake, whose pencil raced to keep up with his torrent of words.

The phone rang and the younger priest answered.

“Oh,” he remarked, suddenly awestruck, “Oh, my …”

“Who is it?” the bishop inquired.

“It’s Rome, Your Excellency,” the young man whispered breathlessly. “I can’t believe I’m really talking to the Vatican—even though it’s only an operator.”

“Find out who’s calling,” George Cavanagh ordered, trying to act as if this were an everyday occurrence.

His secretary made the inquiry and then related, “It’s someone called Timothy Hogan.”

“My dear Jerzy,” George said with mock indignation. “You’re referring to a distinguished archbishop and papal nuncio.” He took the phone. “
Salve
, Your Grace. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“Can you spare me five minutes?” Tim asked in a voice that seemed somewhat muffled to George, but whose tone he ascribed to a bad connection.

“For you, Timmo, I can even stretch it to six. What’s on your mind?”

First, Tim reported Ascarelli’s death.

“I’m really sorry,” George said, “I know how much he meant to you.”

“Thanks. George, I’ve got something momentous to discuss with you,” Tim said somberly. “Are you alone?”

The Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago looked up at his secretary and said politely, “Will you excuse me, Jerzy? This is a very confidential matter.”

The young man nodded and withdrew.

“Okay, Timmo. Unless my enemies are bugging this line, we’re on our own.”

“Oh,” Tim responded. “Are you serious about having enemies?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Now tell me how I can help you.”

“I read somewhere that you’re on the Advisory Board of something called the Catholic Press of America. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” George replied, “except it’s the
New
Catholic Press of America. Don’t tell me you’ve written a book?”

“Better than that,” Tim retorted. “How would you like to publish the English translation of Ernesto Hardt’s treatise in favor of married clergy?”

“Ernesto Hardt?” There was reverence in his voice. “How soon can I see the manuscript?”

“Well,” Tim replied. “On the off chance that despite the trappings of power you had maintained your principles, I’ve already sent you some floppy disks by FedEx. They’re in Portuguese, but I think I’ll have the English translation finished within a month.”

“I assume you want to remain anonymous, right, Timmo?”

“No, George. If you think my translation’s good enough, you can print my name.”

“Excuse me, brother, but in gratitude I oughta tell you that’s not exactly a clever career move.”

“That’s all right,” Tim replied. “I don’t have a career.”

“What?” George said with amazement.

“You’d better sit down. It’s a long story.”

George listened intently to the narrative of Tim’s inner journey with Hardt as his guide. At the end he was deeply moved.

“To be honest, I don’t know what to say. A part of me wanted to see you on St. Peter’s throne. But another part of me thinks what you’re doing is worthy of sainthood. Do you want me to help you find a teaching job in the States?”

“No, George. I think I’m taking a sabbatical from the Church.”

“To do what?”

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency. The only clue I can give you is that my motivation is I John 4:8. Thanks for everything. God bless you.”

As the line went dead, George Cavanagh quoted the gospel passage half-aloud: “ ‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God—For God is love.’ ”

He pondered for a moment and then thought to himself, I hope it’s someone as pious and pretty as that girl I saw you with in Jerusalem.

E
li eyed the visitor to his
srif
with suspicion.

“Are you her son?” the stranger asked.

He was tall and tanned, his hair bleached white from the sun. Yet he clearly did not belong here, for he spoke hesitantly—in awkward American-accented Hebrew.

“Would you prefer to speak English?” Eli inquired.

“Yes, thank you,” said the man. “I’m a bit rusty in the holy language. May I come in?”

Though a moody teenager, Eli was never impolite. Yet there was something about this visitor that grated, something that annoyed him. He replied in a surly tone to discourage the man.

“My mother isn’t here. She doesn’t get back from teaching till after five.”

“Oh, she teaches?” said the visitor.

“Why are you asking all these questions?” Eli challenged him.

“Because I’m an old friend,” the American asserted. “And I’ve come a long way to see her.”

“What do you call ‘long’?” the boy demanded.

“Would Brazil impress you?” The man smiled.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. Now if I said ‘please’ in Portuguese, would you let me come in? You’re being pretty rude.”

“Yes,” Eli conceded, “I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just … I wasn’t expecting anyone. Would you like a coffee or a Coke?”

“Have you got anything stronger?”

“Well,” the boy remarked sarcastically, “if you need something really strong, you can get a beer in the canteen.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take the coffee if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Eli deliberately turned his back to start the electric kettle and to allow himself time to absorb the shock he had sustained. He hoped he had camouflaged it, but looking inward, he could not see the stranger eyeing
him
with wonder.

Nor could he imagine that the visitor was thinking, I know this boy. Not just because he has traces of Deborah’s features—there’s something more. I recognize his manner.

As Eli opened the cabinet and reached for the can of instant coffee, he glanced at the yellowed newspaper clipping that Deborah had hung inside the door. It was already as brittle as an autumn leaf.

He examined the photograph. It confirmed his suspicions. Then, still without turning, he asked, “Do you take sugar, Father?”

“One spoon, thank you. How did you know I was a priest? Is it that obvious, even in a sport shirt?”

Eli spun around.

“Oh, you don’t look like a priest,” he said, fixing the man with a level stare. “You look more like an archbishop to me.”

“Really?” The visitor was taken aback, but resolved to engage this feisty youth at his own game. “Do you have many archbishops dropping by your kibbutz?”

“No,” the boy answered. “You’re actually the first. But it just so happens my father’s in that business.”

The stranger’s expression froze. He was barely able to find words.

“You’re not serious.”

“Yes,” Eli retorted acerbically. “It appears you weren’t.”

Now they stared at one another in silence, each seeing his own blue eyes in the face of the other.

“She never told me,” Timothy murmured.

“Would it have mattered?”

“Yes.” Tim’s reply came from the very fiber of his being. “It would have mattered very much.”

“Well, you’re a little late, Reverend—you’ve even missed my
bar mitzvah.
But then of course you couldn’t have been called to the Torah, anyway.”

All right, Tim thought, recovering his self-possession now, I can give as good as I get.

“Listen,
boychik
, I can quote the Bible as well as you,” he said.

“In Hebrew?”

“
And
Aramaic. And Syriac, if necessary. And while we’re at it, when’s the last time you studied the Dead Sea Scrolls?”

Eli was suddenly off balance.

There was a moment of mutual hesitation.

“Does my mother know you’re coming?”

“No,” Tim answered. “Until a few days ago I didn’t know myself.”

It was only when Tim said the words aloud that the full impact of their reality struck him. Seventy-two hours earlier he had stood at a crossroads in his life. He had served God with all his heart, and yet the hope of Heaven still could not fill the void. He knew he needed Deborah. He had always needed Deborah. But was it not presumptuous after all this time to assume that she would feel the same?

“How long are you staying?” the boy asked.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether … your mother is … happy to see me.”

“She won’t be—if she has any sense. She deserves a
real husband, not some kind of Christian astronaut who flies to earth every ten years or so.”

“Fourteen,” the older man corrected him, adding, “And you deserve a real father.”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve done pretty well without one. What were you doing in Brazil, anyway?”

“That’s certainly changing the subject,” Tim remarked with amusement.

“Well what do you expect?” Eli said angrily, his voice breaking. “You waltz in here like the prophet Elijah and expect me to be happy to see you? Where the hell were you while I was growing up?”

He was nearly in tears.

Deeply moved, Tim wanted to embrace him.

“Please,” he murmured, afraid to open his arms lest he crush this fragile being who was his own son. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Eli shouted. “Can’t you see I’m pissed off? I’m mad as hell at you for walking out on my mother! You don’t know what she’s been through.”

“And you?” Tim asked softly. “I can imagine you’ve been through a lot, too.”

“How?” Eli asked petulantly.

“Because I knew a young boy not unlike you who also had to grow up without a father—”

“Another one of yours?”

“No, I’m not interested in overpopulating the planet.” He paused, then added urgently, “I never knew I had you. I swear I never knew—until I walked in here.”

“You don’t ‘have’ me. I’m not a package you can store and pick up when you want to. I’m a human being.”

“What’s your name, by the way?”

“Eli.”

“As in Psalm Twenty-two,
‘Eli, Eli lama azavtani—’
 ”

“Very clever, Archbishop. But if you’ve come to convert me, forget it.”

“All I’ve come for is that cup of coffee.”

Without a word, Eli turned, fetched the now-lukewarm
mug, and brought it to his guest—who was staring at a photograph of Deborah holding a six-week-old baby. Eli was tempted to make a caustic remark, but something in the man’s expression stopped him.

“How long till your mother gets home?” Tim asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Eli responded. “Maybe half an hour. Were you planning to leave before that?”

“No—I was just wondering if you’d like to kick a football around.”

“If you want,” Eli said with an elaborate shrug. “There’s always a game on the kibbutz field around now. In a half hour you can get your fair share of bruises.”