On the Third Day (2 page)

            “I know that there is something to this, but I know equally well that it is not a miracle from God.  Miracles, in this day and age, are rare, and very precious.  I will not have you making a mockery of them in a parish under my control.

            “I also have no idea what we are going to do about these,” he swiped his hand through the pile of papers, and the frustration behind his anger shone through clearly.

            Father Thomas remained rigid, as if all flexibility had been lost to his limbs, but he managed to respond, and he managed to do so in a clear, level voice.

            “It is nearly Easter, Excellency,” he said simply.  “All that I have asked of you is that you attend, and, if something like what occurred a year ago should return to me, that you should see, and advise me.”

            The Bishop smiled then, but it was not a pleasant expression.  He pushed off from his desk, fell back into the heavy leather of his chair, and laced his fingers together, holding them against his chest. 

            “And what is it that I will see, Quentin?” he asked smugly.  “Will there be lots of blood?  Will I hear angel choruses in the background?  Will there be souvenir programs handed out at the door, do you think, or will I have to purchase that?  What would be the price, I wonder?  Will the walls tremble?  Will I get to be on national television and cry ‘Praise Jesus’ like some white-suited flame-tongued televangelist?”

            The sarcasm hung in the air like a bitter cloud.

            Michaels hesitated, just for a second, and then said, “I will be there.  Count on it.”

            Father Thomas stared at the Bishop for a moment of unbelieving silence, and then lowered his head.  He nodded slowly and turned, his shoulders bowed.  He had come expecting something; he didn’t know what it had been, but not this.  The Bishop’s reaction had shocked him to his core.  He exited without reply, leaving the heavy wooden doors open behind him.

            Bishop Michaels watched the doorway until all trace of Father Thomas disappeared, and the soft brush of robes and vestments ceased to echo.  The afternoon had grown late, and the light that streamed in through the windows had fallen away.  The shadows lengthened slowly, stretching out from all corners of the room and following the light.

            On the edge of the old wooden desk, the Bishop’s grip tightened again.  His nails threatened to dig into to the polished surface, and his hands trembled so powerfully that the shivers ran up his arm and shook him back to his senses.  Almost absently, he reached out and gathered the scattered papers back into a neat stack. 

            He stared at the doorway where Father Thomas had disappeared and fought back the anger that threatened to boil out of control.  He didn’t glance down at his desk, because there were loose objects on that surface, and he didn’t trust himself not to throw them.  There were beautiful, ancient things surrounding him, on the desk, the shelves, hanging from the walls, and he was on the verge of devastating it all, rushing around the room to smash the Tiffany lamp into an ancient Sumerian vase, or to yank the hand-woven rug from beneath the table that held his cut-crystal.

            When he had slowed his breathing enough to trust his hands, he released the desk and reached to the bottom right hand drawer.  There were two tumblers there, and a small flask.  He pulled one tumbler and the flask free, and poured two fingers of amber liquid.  He stared at it, frowned, and then tipped the flask again, doubling it.

            When the heat of the brandy began to seep through his nerves and calm him, he poured again, and reached across the now shadowed surface of his desk for the ornate black phone.

* * *

            On a nightstand across the world, another phone rang.  The shrill sound drove itself through the darkness and snatched the room’s occupant from the warm, comfortable arms of sleep.

            Cardinal Sean O’Brien, thick, swarthy, and not at all happy at the prospect of being awakened before his appointed hour, rolled in his bed and pulled the pillow more closely over his head.  It did no good.  The phone was loud, insistent, and came with none of the amenities of American phones – like an answering machine.

            Groaning, O’Brien rolled over and slapped ineffectually at the nightstand, nearly overturning the glass of water he kept by his side at night.  As he came fully awake, his fingers regained their dexterity, and he managed to snag the receiver from its cradle with an irritated grunt.

            “Yes?” he said.

            The sound of someone breathing was the only answer for a long moment, then, Bishop Michaels’ voice crackled over the line.

            “Sean?” he said.  “It’s Tony.  I . . . I’m sorry to call.  It’s so late.  I should just let you . . .”

            O’Brien sat up and ran his hand back through what remained of his hair.  He was alert now, and he detected something odd in his old friend’s voice.  Something he knew he should recognize, but that did not come to him immediately.

            “It’s fine, Tony,” he said.  “You never were one for ceremony, in any case.  What is it?”

            “I’m not sure,” Bishop Michaels replied.  There was a slight slur to his voice, and suddenly Sean knew what it was he’d heard.  Tony was drinking.  It had been a long time since he’d last helped his friend with that particular demon, but once the circuits connected in his mind, Sean knew.

            “It’s San Marcos, and Father Thomas.  You remember I told you about the – disturbance last Easter Mass?  Since then things have gotten a little crazy here, Sean.  The media is up in arms . . .”

            Sean thought quickly.  There were a number of ways this could be headed, and he didn’t like any of them, but if he chose wrong, he would be no help to his friend. 

            “So,” he said softly, “I take it you still think there’s nothing to it?”
            “How could there be, Sean?” Bishop Michaels asked.  He sounded as if he were pleading, as if he needed someone to either back up his opinion or set him straight quickly. 

            “This is California,” Michaels continued, “not the Holy Land, or even the Vatican.  Oddballs and lunatics are regular citizens here – and the Church has had its fair share.  I’m sure I’m on the speed dialer of every tabloid reporter and crackpot in the city.”

            Cardinal O’Brien leaned back against his headboard and focused.  He knew that Tony wanted something, something he could provide, but he wasn’t sure if it was help – or just a set of ears to listen, or a wall to bounce this off of.  It was critical that he figure it out, because if the slur remained in the Bishop’s voice, they’d have to send someone in – and Cardinal O’Brien did not want to see his old friend in that position.

            “What can I do,” he asked at last.

            “I’m not sure,” Michaels replied, his voice weary.  “I’m not sure if I can do anything, either, but I intend to try.”

            “How,” Sean asked.

            “I wanted to give you a heads up, Sean,” Michaels said wearily.  “I intend to attend the Easter Mass atSanMarcos this year.  I’m going to film it – cameras directly on Father Thomas.  The media will be excluded, of course.  I’ve called in favors from the local police.  They’ll be lined up in the parking lots and on the road, probably even bring in helicopters, but they won’t get into the church.”

            “Is that wise,” Sean asked.  “How will the parish react?  Do they support him?  Are they afraid?  We wouldn’t want to seem intrusive, or harsh.”

            “I’ll keep it all as low key as I can,” Bishop Michaels said.  “I will do everything in my power to make it seem routine, as if maybe we want to have the film for training, or a documentary.  I’ll even pretend to believe, if it can help us through this and on to normalcy.  Something.  I won’t come across as the ogre, but I have to set this to rest.”

            The line went silent for a moment, and Cardinal O’Brien broke that silence.

            “What if you can’t?”

            “That’s what you’re there for, isn’t it Sean?” There was a light chuckle at the other end of the line, and Sean relaxed slightly.

            He stared off into the shadows of his dark bedroom.  His mind was drifting, and he was thinking about other churches, other places, and other times.  He shook his head, realizing the line had remained silent for too long.

            “Try to keep an open mind, Tony,” he said softly.  “Call me, one way or the other, the minute the services have concluded.”

            “Of course,” Bishop Michael’s chuckled again.  “That’s why I called you now, Sean.  If this thing blows up in my face, I know you’ll be there to wipe it off – but if it doesn’t, I expect full credit for my good deeds.”

            They both laughed for a moment, then O’Brien’s tone grew grave once again, and he asked.

            “How have you been, Tony?”  He hesitated, and then added, “You sound a little more tense than usual.  Maybe you should pack up your things and pay a visit to Rome – unwind a little.”

            There was silence, just for a second, and then Michaels chuckled again.

            “When this all blows over,” he said, “I might just do that.  It’s been a very long time.”

            “That it has,” O’Brien agreed in mild relief. 

            “Get some sleep, Sean.  I’m sorry to have woken you so late.  I spoke with Father Thomas, the priest I mentioned, earlier this afternoon, and it just wouldn’t let me go, you know?”

            “I do,” O’Brien replied.  “More than you know, Tony.  Sleep, now, that has never been a problem for me.   May God be with you, old friend.”

            “And also with you,” Bishop Michaels replied. 

            There was an audible click, and then the dial tone blared to life.  Cardinal O’Brien sat for a while, holding the receiver in his hand as the tone buzzed angrily through the silence.  Then, as if waking from a light doze, he stared at it and placed it back onto the cradle, returning the room to silence.

            He thought briefly of another man, a younger man.  The Cardinal reached up without thought and pressed against his nightshirt with the palm of one hand.  He felt the familiar bulge of soft leather, and he stroked it as he thought.  Father Prescott was in South America, but he would be returning soon.  If things progressed…  Still, that was something to think about only if necessary.

He lay back, stared at the intricate pattern of shadows on his ceiling, and off to sleep.

~Two~

            Sunlight streamed through low hanging, silver-gilded clouds and washed over the white stone walls of the Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea.  The view was overwhelming.  Breakers crashed into the rocks below and sent huge pillars of white foam dancing skyward.  The Cathedral, a throwback to earlier Spanish roots, sat perched on the brink of a vertical drop of nearly a hundred feet.  From just the right angle, particularly coming at it from the North on a boat, the church seemed ready to topple into the ocean below, or the waves themselves to be giant talons that would wrap themselves about the gleaming stone and drag it into the depths.  It was the perfect symbolic representation of man’s existence, hovering on the brink of destruction with the promise of beauty and light just out of reach.

            The main doors of the Cathedral were open wide.  They were huge, wooden and polished, and stood easily ten feet in height.  Their monstrous brass handles gleamed in the morning light, winking at the birds overhead.  The structure had been preserved with strict adherence to the original design; a wealthy parishioner living in nearby San Valencez donated the work and the funding.  At one point, the building had been near ruin and the Church on the verge of closing it down.  Now it was one of the gems of the Western seaboard.

            Though they still called it a Cathedral, San Marcos now served a congregation of those willing to make the drive each week from San Valencez and Lavender California, rather than housing its own Diocese.  The Bishop and his entourage had moved into more spacious and modern quarters in San Valencez proper, leaving the care of San Marcos, and those who attended services there, to Father Quentin Thomas.

            More than one hundred and fifty of the faithful curled their backs into the smooth, polished pews of San Marcos when Father Thomas took to the altar for Mass.  On a special occasion it would be closer to two hundred.  They trickled in all morning, some hurrying to get “good seats,” others arriving later, or lingering outside for gossip and fellowship.

            Most of them came from the city and enjoyed the scenery and quiet, serene drive up the curving coast highway, but there were others.  San Marcos had watched over the ocean and beyond, since the late 1700s.  Some families drove down from the mountains and hills, Friendly California, and Kingdom Come, as well as Lavender, down closer to the city.  These were families whose fathers and grandfathers had attended the Mass in San Marcos.  Old families.

            Father Thomas knew them all, old, young, those who were there every week, and those who rolled in for holidays and confession.  He knew the ladies who brought pies and cookies to the rectory each Sabbath, piling his desk so high with sweets and casseroles that he would despair of finding room for them in his freezer, let alone his stomach.  He knew who could be counted on for volunteer projects, and who showed up for the sake of appearance alone.

            Father Thomas had been assigned to the parish four years earlier.  Bishop Michaels himself handed over the keys to the rectory and introduced him to the congregation.  The Bishop, of course, had been fully tuned in on San Valencez and the future of the Diocese, explaining his move to those gathered as if it were their concern – as if he were a politician, and not the man responsible for their spiritual nurturing.  The congregation of San Marcos had not been particularly sorry to see Bishop Michaels depart.

            Father Thomas had seen the resentment in their eyes.  When he stepped forward, very young for such a responsibility, he felt the weight of years he had yet to live bearing down on his shoulders.  Then the Bishop had stepped down, and it had been Father Thomas alone, pinned in place by all their eyes, hopes, dreams and problems, and it had suddenly felt – right.  He spoke to them honestly that day, prior to performing his first Mass in San Marcos.   In a few short words, he tried to make clear to them that he understood the faith they were placing in him, the responsibility that faith entailed, and the commitment required to make it work.