The Cloister Page 11

  “The Bishop?”

  “No one need know,” Fulbert repeated. It would not serve his purposes for the Bishop to know of his kindness to the cousin of the King’s wife, but the King’s wife would know, which might, in a time of intrigue, prove useful.

  Abelard shook his head. To be in conspiracy with the unscrupulous and self-promoting Fulbert was a further risk. Abelard cast his eyes about, to be sure they were unheard, and he was startled to see in the shadow the expressionless Brother Thrall, whose gift, clearly, was for making himself invisible. Within earshot of all that the Canon had said, the servus held himself as if he had heard nothing. But to Abelard, the jeopardy was clear. Prudence presented its mandates: One, stay out of intrigues between Bishop and King. Two, cavete feminam.

  Females were excluded from Cathedral study, and for good reason. For this reason. Out of the question. Forbidden. Such violation of the order of the school would be dangerous for a man of Abelard’s prominence, whatever it was to the conniving Canon. But in the brief joust over Saracens and philosophers, Peter Abelard had just been bested, and that set the old, beguiling impulse of contest moving in him. Plus, the young creature was beautiful.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Héloïse.”

  He saw her, he loved her. And so likewise Héloïse, him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Since 1948, the Chancery of the Archdiocese had been in the south wing of the Villard Houses, a sprawling Roman Renaissance palazzo on Madison Avenue immediately behind St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The place had been built by a nineteenth-century railroad tycoon, whose heirs were taken down by the income tax, the market crash, and the dislocations of two wars, making way at last for Francis Spellman, the shoemaker’s son who secretly believed himself to be a prince—a Borgia one at that. The stately complex featured Tiffany glass, La Farge murals, and bronze fixtures by Saint-Gaudens, but those names were merely names to Michael Kavanagh. Enough for him that the palace splendors were of another order entirely—not his.

  He tried not to judge, but really.

  As he mounted the grand staircase, with its polished pink marble under flashing chandeliers, its Oriental runners with brass fasteners, the elaborately carved oak wall capped by the huge seal of the Archdiocese—the tasseled Cardinal’s hat, the Greek cross, the flame, the motto Fiat Voluntas Tua—he felt as out of place as ever. The effort simply to carry his weight up the staircase, one raised foot at a time, registered as a coming headache. He shook it off and chastised himself for this smug alienation.

  The good works of the Church were focused on parishioners like his own, including the poorest people in New York. Offices in this building—the Catholic Guardian Society, the Hospital Apostolate, Catholic Relief, Catholic Home Bureau, Catholic Schools—made that service real. And the people themselves would love this lavish place for belonging to their Church—an immigrant’s revenge. So who the hell was Michael Kavanagh to be put off by its showy indulgence? The Villard Houses were a celebration of Irish Catholic arrival, even if the arrival belonged to one man alone: Spellman, the self-styled American pope. The building was as close as His Eminence would get to the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City. To come here was to risk running into him.

  And, yes, a headache was coming.

  On the second floor, under a barrel-vaulted ceiling and opposite a row of large windows opening onto a courtyard, the left wall of a long corridor was hung with portraits of crimson-clad Irish warlocks—Spellman’s predecessors, Farley, Hughes, Hayes—as well as of beatified New Yorkers—Mothers Cabrini and Seton, and the Jesuit martyr Isaac Jogues. Beyond a large, sterile fireplace with a flamboyant marble mantel, Kavanagh came to a set of double doors, on one of which was a small brass plate stamped with the words “Episcopal Vicar for Clergy.” He entered.

  A plain woman of indeterminate age looked up from a ledger on her desk. She wore rimless spectacles, her lank hair in a schoolmarmish bun. With an unfriendly expression of surprise, she took in the sight of him—his black suit and clerical collar, the omnipresent breviary under his arm. On the wall behind her was a Baroque painting of the Risen Christ. Below that was a file cabinet. That Kavanagh did not know the woman made him realize how long it had been since he’d come to Sean’s office.

  “I am Father Michael Kavanagh, hoping to see Bishop Donovan.”

  By way of reply, the woman glanced at the ledger, an appointment book.

  “He’s not expecting me,” Kavanagh said.

  “One moment, Father,” she said. She stood, and disappeared behind a further pair of walnut doors. A moment later she returned, and, without disguising her disappointment, said, “His Excellency will see you.”

  Bishop Donovan’s office, in contrast to the opulent public spaces of the Chancery, was sparsely furnished: an uncluttered U-shaped desk in the window alcove, a tired leather couch adjacent to an off-kilter butler’s table, and a Windsor chair that had lost its sheen. Against the distorting glass of the leaded window, spindly bare branches scratched like fingers in the November wind. On one side of the alcove hung a simple crucifix, and on the other was a photo of the Pope, his familiar gaunt profile, spectacles glinting.

  Bishop Donovan came toward Kavanagh with his hand extended. He was well into his sixties now. His hair was white, his skin ruddy. His black cassock and purple cincture hung loosely on a frame made for more weight than he was carrying. A gold cross swung from the chain at his chest. “Father Michael Kavanagh, what a pleasant surprise!” The man’s happiness was unfeigned. “You are very welcome, dear Michael.”

  Only now did Kavanagh allow himself to feel that his odd waking impulse to come downtown was right. “Thank you, Bishop,” he said.

  “Cut that out, Michael.”

  Kavanagh grinned. “Thank you, Sean.”

  “Not ‘Agent’?”

  Kavanagh laughed, then so did Donovan. In truth, the old priest was proud of his long-lost nickname.

  They sat, Kavanagh on the sofa, the Bishop on the chair. Kavanagh placed his breviary on the cushion beside him.

  “It’s been—what?—most of a year?” the Bishop said. “I thought I’d see you at the Holy Thursday Gaudeamus.”

  “I was at Tenebrae, of course, in the Cathedral, in the shadows. Who doesn’t love the extinguishing of candles? But I couldn’t stay for the reception.”

  The Bishop nodded pleasantly. “Tenebrae is my favorite liturgy of the year. Shouldn’t say that, since it’s all about the death of the Lord. But I love getting the fellows together afterward. ‘Gaudeamus! Let us rejoice!’ Some take offense at the priest party I throw on the eve of Good Friday.”

  “Not me. Just couldn’t get there.”

  “What about next week? My Thanksgiving shindig for the fellows. Wednesday night. I’ve lined up Patricia Murphy’s. Swell place. Candles galore. You coming?”

  Kavanagh hesitated. Once, he’d relished the lubricated company of his fellow priests, but the edgy banter of such gatherings had gone stale for him. What was the Latin for “Let us trade barbs”? He said, “I don’t imagine so, Sean. Wednesday nights are tough. You know how it is.”

  “A busy parish priest. Right. I have the impression, speaking of candles, that you’re burning yours at both ends. I hear from Frank that you’re working too hard, Michael.” Bishop Donovan picked up a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table, shook a pair up, and made the offer. Michael took his. He supplied the light, a match.

  Waving it out, Kavanagh said with abrupt solemnity, “What else do you hear, Sean?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kavanagh’s mood had come between them. His headache was full-bore by now. “From Runner Malloy. John Malloy.”

  The Bishop did not reply, but neither did he lower his eyes.

  Kavanagh said, “John Malloy came to Good Shepherd yesterday. To the early Mass. He disappeared before I could speak to him. I was left wondering how he knew where to find me.”

  Still, the Bishop said nothing.

 
“Then it occurred to me. You told him. Before he came to Good Shepherd yesterday, he would have come to see you. I haven’t seen him in all these years, but you have. You’re in touch with him.” Kavanagh waited. Then he added, “Am I right?”

  The Bishop took a drag, then leaned forward to roll the tip of his cigarette in the ashtray. “It’s true,” he said, but carefully.

  “And you told him where I was.”

  “It didn’t occur to me that he was of a mind to contact you.”

  “He didn’t contact me. That’s the point. He was at the Mass. He came forward for Communion but didn’t receive. It threw me, a kind of message: showing up, out of nowhere, but also kneeling at the rail, then shaking me off when I offered him the Host. What was that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then he stalked away.”

  “That is odd.”

  “But you’ve talked with him. You’re in touch with him.”

  “Not ‘in touch.’ I had a letter from him—Special Delivery, out of the blue. Then he came to see me, the day before yesterday. First time I’ve seen him since he left Dunwoodie, what…?”

  “Fourteen years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “It hit me yesterday, Sean…how in all these years, you never mentioned him to me.”

  “I’m aware of that, Michael. I’m also aware that you never brought it up.”

  “You made it seem like the Seal of Confession. The private forum. How could I?”

  Instead of answering, the Bishop drew in smoke.

  “But yesterday…last night…” Kavanagh had to search for words. “I realized how strange the whole thing is….Back then, you told me Runner left the sem because of me.”

  “Not because of you.”

  “Yes. ‘Out of bounds,’ you said. Feelings for me that were ‘out of bounds.’ ” Kavanagh channeled his sudden agitation into the smashing of his cigarette into the ashtray. “And you never discussed that with me? Out of bounds? For years, I thought I’d done something horribly shameful. A guy kicked out of the seminary because of me?”

  “Not ‘kicked out.’ ”

  “He would have been. He confessed his feelings to you, and then you convinced him to leave. But if he hadn’t, you’d have seen to his being tossed.”

  Bishop Donovan only eyed the tip of his cigarette.

  “Then I’d have been tossed, too,” Kavanagh said, with the sudden spleen of a man seeing a thing for the first time.

  “No, Michael—”

  “Good God, Sean. You got Runner to resign as a way of protecting me. They’d have come after me! What’s his name, the Rector—”

  “Tobin. Peter Tobin.”

  “Right, Tobin! He wouldn’t have thrown out just one guy for being…”

  “It was feelings, Michael. But only feelings.”

  “Damn right! Feelings are what brought me here this morning. Feelings I’ve never gotten free of…something in me that was out of bounds. Obviously, I knew exactly what you had told me about Runner, but as for me…What the hell, Sean?” Kavanagh checked himself.

  “The love of men for men,” the Bishop said quietly.

  “We cannot even say the word, Sean.”

  “Yes, we can, if necessary. Is it necessary?”

  Kavanagh shrugged. “ ‘The love that dare not speak its name’? Don’t be ridiculous. I was in the navy, remember? ‘Why do they let Marines on ships? Because sheep would be too obvious.’ But there’s the point. Jokes like that are the big deflection. The navy has nothing on the Church: sailors terrified of the blue discharge. And priests? You said it: burning the candle…CYO…basketball drills…hospital rounds…parish school…hearing Confessions…Keeping at bay…what? Feelings that are ‘out of bounds’? My idea of hell is an afternoon without appointments.”

  “The people love you.”

  “I’m not talking about the people, Sean. Or about John Malloy, for that matter. I’m talking about you. You told me that my friend’s first dream of himself was crushed because of me. From then on, my dream was sullied. And I was to pretend it never happened. Which, God forgive me, I did.”

  “You’re right. I protected you.”

  “From what? Tobin? Expulsion? No! From feelings I should have acknowledged. Feelings that were not out of bounds. Runner was my friend, my particular friend. And you made me the means of his betrayal. You betrayed us both.”

  “You should have talked to me.”

  “How could I? You hid behind the Seal of the Sacrament of Penance. John Malloy was an occasion of sin! That is what you made me think. So I blanked it out. All these years, Sean, you…who knows me better than anyone…and who…” Kavanagh’s voice trailed off. He wanted to say “who cares about me,” but that seemed out of bounds. He let his silence make the point. Sean Donovan was no friend.

  The Bishop did not pick up the thought.

  Finally, Kavanagh asked, “Why did we never discuss what happened to Runner? Why did we never discuss whether I am a homosexual?”

  “Are you?”

  “No. No. I am not a homosexual. It took me the war years at the Navy Yard to understand that. Three years of loving men, actually. Men dying in my arms. Men whose cheeks I kissed…whose hands I held, hour after hour…whose faces I still see in my sleep. I loved those men, every blessed one of them. Homosexuality had nothing to do with it. But so what if I was homosexual? Is that what you thought to protect me from? ‘Particular friendship,’ Sean? The great crime at Dunwoodie? We were warned off it in a thousand ways. The threshold rule. No after-lunch walks in pairs. But what is friendship if not particular? What other kind of friendship is there?”

  “Michael, you’re not making sense.”

  “Maybe not, but that’s because talk of this is branded as dirty. Sealed off behind the Seal. I don’t buy it. Haven’t bought it for years.” Kavanagh stopped. Indeed, it surprised him to realize he’d stopped to catch his breath. He’d gotten ahead of himself. But he’d just caught up with something, too.

  The Bishop eyed him warily, and that also seemed an affront.

  Kavanagh was far from finished. “In the navy, I told guys to relax if they felt guilty for getting laid. I tell Inwood plumbers the same thing, and also their wives, if they can’t handle getting pregnant again. What is it with us and sex, Sean? God isn’t sending people to hell over the rhythm method, no matter what the Pope says. Not over masturbation, either. The people love me? Of course they love me. I tell them to relax.”

  “What you tell people in the Confessional is not my business.”

  “ ‘Out of bounds.’ What was that? I’ll tell you, Sean—exactly what it was. ‘You are on your own, bud.’ That’s the message, and I’ve been hearing it all these years in a voice I’ve always known, but could never quite identify. ‘You are on your own with feelings of grief and confusion and loss and loneliness.’ I saw it yesterday. I have not had a ‘particular friend’ in all these years…not since Runner Malloy. That’s why the sight of him threw me so. Simple friendship…that’s what’s ‘out of bounds.’ You made it an issue of homosexual love. What’s the phrase in Canon Law?—crimen pessimum? The ‘worst crime’? No. Wanting not to be alone—that’s the ‘worst crime.’ ”

  “Michael, you need to stop this—”

  “Right! Stop the feeling. Shut up about it. Sit on it. Bury it. How? Why, light the candle at both ends and let the mother burn. ‘You are on your own, bud.’ And what I’ve just realized is that the voice telling me that all these years has been yours.”

  Donovan shook his head sadly. “Nothing wrong with wanting not to be alone. Who wants to be alone? That’s why we have the Common Room in every rectory.”

  “Each with its bottomless bottle of Chivas.”

  “It’s not for Chivas that the fellows come to my shindig on Holy Thursday, the one you are too busy to attend. It’s for the friendship you claim to want.”

  “No, Sean, it’s for clerics cutting each other down to size. What passes for chumm
y humor, priest to priest, is sarcasm, and you know it. I bailed out on that bullshit years ago.”

  “My goodness, Michael. This bitterness is so unlike you.”

  “It is me, Sean.”

  “You are remembering your friendship with John as something golden, beyond compare….” Bishop Donovan leaned to the ashtray and tapped it, without breaking the practiced rhythm into which his speech now fell, a stilted rhythm, pretending to be easy. “A beautiful nostalgia…” He had assumed the mode of pastoral counselor. “But perhaps that feeling of intimacy was—don’t misunderstand—a bit of a boyish infatuation. That you have nothing like it in your life now…could that just be a simple measure of manly maturity?”

  “ ‘Boyish infatuation’? ‘Manly maturity’? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the life is hard, Michael. Toughen up.”

  Kavanagh laughed abruptly, even as blood rushed to his face, and his headache spiked. The Bishop’s rebuke surprised him, yet so did his own readiness to be chastised. Self-doubt loitered in Kavanagh, like a tumor in his lung. He knew that what Bishop Donovan said was true. He was prepared to think ill of himself, and here was another reason to do so. Toughen up, indeed. His skull was cracking.

  For want of something to say, he turned to his breviary, opened it and took out one of several printed bookmarks. He read, “ ‘To live in the midst of the world with no desire for its pleasures; to be a member of every family, yet belonging to none…’ Like that, you mean?”

  “Lacordaire,” the Bishop said, and he recited from memory, “ ‘To daily go from men to God to offer Him their homage and petitions; to return from God to men to bring them His pardon and hope…’ Not a bad vocation, that.”