Saturday, July 29, 10:00 a.m.
It was a good thing that there were very few worshippers at morning Mass because my mind kept drifting to my sister’s illness and her impending hospitalization. Father Vargas had kindly consented to drive over from Lorain to cover my six p.m. Saturday Vigil Mass so that I could spend more time with Justine if problems arose.
I hastily greeted my parishioners after the service, then hurried to my study, printed the photographs that I’d taken at St. Wenceslaus, and slipped them into an envelope. I didn’t change out of my clerical shirt and pants as I normally did after Mass, in hopes that being clergy might somehow streamline my sister’s hospital admission.
When Colleen arrived to care for my nephew, I asked her to stay in the kitchen until we left. Although she was no longer coughing, I wasn’t willing to take the chance that Justine might catch her cold, delaying the transplant. Colleen was not pleased and mumbled something in Gaelic that didn’t sound complimentary.
Justine and I had prepared RJ for this moment, but when my sister picked up her suitcase, he wrapped his arms around her leg, burst into tears, and refused to let go. We tried to calm him. Nothing worked until Colleen peeked through the doorway and promised my nephew an ice cream cone and an outing to the toy store. When she upped the ante to include a visit to the park, RJ relented, and Justine and I crept out to my car and made our escape.
St. Colleen, the patron saint of blarney and bribery.
Hope and fear filled my car, and Justine and I remained deathly quiet on the drive downtown. On weekend mornings, traffic on I-90 was light, and we breezed in to the massive Cleveland Clinic complex nestled between Carnegie and Euclid Avenue. We encountered a logjam, however, at the admissions desk.
While Justine filled out paperwork, I called the bishop’s office. I had encountered Lucci’s secretary before and anticipated resistance. She was the palace guard. Her primary responsibility was to protect him from unnecessary intrusions, and she was a master at her job.
“The bishop isn’t available on Saturdays, Father. May I take a message?”
Donors often preferred to meet on weekends, and Lucci was the consummate fundraiser. I was certain he was in his office and only unavailable to folks without hefty checkbooks.
“Please tell him that I have information about St. Wenceslaus. I’m sure he’ll take my call.”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear. The bishop isn’t—”
“I’m on special assignment for His Excellency, and this is important.”
“Oh. I’ll see what I can do. Please hold.”
A Gregorian chant filled my ear as I waited, its monotonous, hypnotic drone nearly lulling me to sleep by the time Bishop Lucci answered.
“Jacob, my son. You have news for me concerning … my problem down south?”
“I’d prefer to discuss this in person. I’m downtown and can be at your office in an hour.”
“Very well. I’ll see you then.”
Bone marrow transplantation required preparation in the isolation unit, and I knew I couldn’t accompany Justine upstairs. When a transporter arrived with a wheelchair, all I could do was promise to care for RJ and vow to keep God’s inbox filled with my prayers. A new swelling was now visible on the right side of her neck, most likely an enlarging lymph node. I hugged her for a long time. She felt so frail that I feared she might shatter in my arms. When the transporter finally cleared his throat, we both dabbed moist eyes, and she disappeared into the elevator. I stood in the hallway for a minute before I could move again, my eyes locked on the elevator door.
Justine’s physician required additional screening tests from me prior to donating my marrow, so I stopped at the lab where the vampires drained several tubes of my blood. I’d always believed that it was better to give than to receive, but best to stay away from needles wielded by phlebotomists in-training. By the time I left the hospital, my arm was an archipelago of jagged blue islands.
I arrived ten minutes late for my meeting with the bishop at the Diocese of Cleveland building on East 9th Street. Passing the four life-sized, ceramic saints guarding the lobby, I buttoned my clerical shirt, slid in a white Roman collar insert, took a wood-paneled elevator to the penthouse, and entered Lucci’s office suite.
The Most Reverend Antonio Lucci’s antechamber was a study in elegance, with vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors. Plush oriental rugs dampened sound, the hushed silence conveying the aura of a holy site. Every time I entered this room, I caught the scent of money seasoned with power—and Lucci had a nose for both.
Unlike myself and other Order priests, Diocesan clergy like Lucci took no vow of poverty, but the extravagance of the room felt wasteful given the tremendous need of the poor in downtown Cleveland and throughout the world. I was more comfortable in the homes of the sick or the chaos of the hospital than in this monument to excess.
Oil paintings of pastoral scenes in gilded frames adorned one wall. Portraits of Cleveland bishops dating back to 1847 lined another. Lucci’s image was solemn and forbidding.
On an adjacent wall, the likeness of Lucci’s friend and political ally, the Superior General of my Camillian order, appraised the room wearing our traditional black cassock emblazoned with a large red cross.
As I waited for His Excellency to see me, I realized that I’d completely forgotten about my promise to speak with Tina and Miguel. They had not responded to the message I’d left yesterday, so I called their apartment, got their answering machine again, and asked permission to stop by and discuss Pablo’s condition.
Lucci’s secretary finally set a fashion magazine on her desk and whisked me through heavy oak doors decorated with hand carvings of the Stations of the Cross. The sweet aroma of pipe tobacco and leather-bound books filled the bishop’s inner sanctum. Except for neutral cream-colored walls, scarlet accents dominated the room—the color reserved for Catholic Cardinals. Lucci made no attempt to hide his aspirations.
His Excellency was a large man, and his robes overflowed his chair. He wore a purple sash indicative of his rank, but not his violet zucchetto skull cap. What little of his hair that remained encircled his bald pate like a silver halo. A pectoral cross adorned with gemstones hung from a gold chain around his beefy neck.
Lucci was on the telephone and gestured for me to take a seat, which I did. He held up a finger in my direction and continued his conversation.
“No, Senator, I’m not after a donation.” He chuckled, then winked at me. “I was hoping you were free to play a round next Saturday. I do so enjoy embarrassing you on the links.” A pause. “Excellent! I’ll meet you at nine sharp.”
He hung up, focused on me, and his smile faded. He crossed his massive arms and leaned back. The chair groaned loudly.
“I hope you’re the bearer of good news, Jacob.”
“The lab work isn’t back yet, but my initial examination of the statue and altar revealed nothing significant, though Father Marek interrupted me before I could finish. I’ll go back soon and complete the job. His story, however, sounded believable, and two eyewitnesses have confirmed it.”
I re-counted my conversations with Maude Dvorak and Milan Cierny.
Lucci shook his head. His heavy jowls and wattle had lost the battle with gravity and swayed slowly side to side.
“Including you, three people have seen this … occurrence? And no evidence of fraud?” He swiveled his chair and gazed out of the window, then spun back. “That’s not at all what I had hoped to hear.”
“It’s puzzling, I’ll grant you. And the pictures I took didn’t help.”
I handed the envelope with the photographs to him. Lucci removed his tortoise-shell glasses, studied the prints, and rubbed his eyes. His round, pink face wasn’t the least bit jolly.
“So, where do you suggest we go from here, my son?”
“I’ve given this a great deal of thought. Although I can’t explain what I saw, the other witnesses said something that made me … suspicious.”
The bishop cocked one bushy eyebrow and brightened. “Please elaborate.”
“They both were alone looking directly at the statue when the blood materialized, just as I had been. Father Marek had left the church before each occurrence, and he claims he’s never witnessed an episode himself.”
“So, you think Marek may have slipped out and somehow … fabricated this fraud?” He slid his glasses back on, the thick lenses magnifying the bags under his eyes. “But how does a drop of blood appear from nowhere?”
“I’m confident from my examination that the blood didn’t come out of the statue, though I’d have to remove and inspect it carefully to be certain. I’d rather not do that, given the belief of his parishioners in a bona fide miracle.” I shifted in my chair, searching for the right approach to take. Since my assignment to his diocese, the bishop had become a minor deity in my life. I wanted to guide him without being pushy or painting him into a corner with his superiors, so as not to incur his wrath. “I believe you said the key word yourself, Your Excellency. Drop of blood. If it didn’t come from the statue, then it must have dropped from above.”
“Above?” Lucci sounded confused. “You’re not saying … from Heaven, are you?”
“I doubt that the Almighty is involved here.” I told him about the emerald banner that had been positioned over the statue on all three occasions that miracles occurred. It had been removed before I returned to investigate. “I suspect that banner may be the source of these incidents.”
“Okay, so how do you suggest we proceed?”
“Father Marek will resist any further investigation. I need you to contact him directly and request that he allow me free access to the entire church.”
Lucci snorted. “I don’t request. I’m done playing nice with that man. Do anything you need to do. Go through his underwear drawer, if that’s what it takes.”
“Your Excellency, I can’t coerce the man.” A line from the Mission Impossible movies came to mind. Should you be captured or killed, we will disavow any knowledge of your actions. In the event of a sinking ship, I was certain that Captain Lucci wouldn’t go down with me. “What if Father Marek calls the police and I’m arrested?”
“You worry too much, Jacob.” Lucci stared at me as if I had just denied Jesus for the third time. “Fine, fine. I’ll make sure you’re protected. Give me a second and I’ll prepare a document authorizing your search of the church and rectory, including Marek’s sleeping quarters.”
“Wouldn’t we need his permission to search his room?”
“St. Wenceslaus belongs to the Church. It’s in my diocese, under my stewardship. Marek has no say in the matter. As to his quarters, he may be outraged and raise holy hell, but I don’t think he’d dare challenge me. I’ve already spoken with the Cardinal, and His Eminence agrees that this is a top priority, requiring a thorough investigation to uncover the truth.” Lucci picked up his desk phone. “I’ll call the Diocesan Consultors and tell them how I see the situation. I’m sure they’ll agree with my recommendation. Then it’s full speed ahead.”
Lucci was the quintessential politician, always enlisting allies and covering his own behind. He might easily manipulate his handpicked, sycophant Board of Diocesan Consultors, but what he may not have considered was the blowback from other priests when they heard of this invasion of privacy—or maybe he planned to strong-arm them too.
Before dialing the phone he added, “Well, well. St. Wenceslaus may be closing after all.” He let a moment pass, probably while he mentally tallied the financial benefit of shuttering a small rural parish versus the cost of sending Marek to an alcohol rehab facility. Finally, he gestured toward the door. “Please take a seat in the waiting room. I’ll get you the paperwork shortly.”
When Lucci’s secretary brought me the document, I read it carefully. Despite his bluster, it protected his Excellency’s butt more than mine. What a surprise.