The Gus Quill problem had blighted the end of summer a couple of months before. The Lord Cardinal had come into my room quietly, almost timidly. He didn’t even raid my liquor cabinet.
“We have a new auxiliary bishop,” he said as he sank into my easy chair, which I had vacated temporarily in search of a recent report on the finances of the Cathedral parish.
“We do not need one. We already have four.”
“Five,” he said mildly.
“Four,” I argued, counting on my fingers. “Pete, Jaime, Tony, and Steve. That’s enough.”
“You didn’t count yourself. You never count yourself.”
That was true. I take it to be exceedingly improbable that I am a bishop.
“Who is this new sweeper?”
“Gus Quill,” he whispered.
“Idiot Quill!” I shouted in dismay.
“That’s a cruel nickname, Blackwood.” He shook his head in disapproval.
“I didn’t make it up,” I said in self-defense. “He is an admirable man in many ways, hardworking, pious, sincere, kind according to his lights, which are pretty dim, and delusional.”
“Delusional?”
“I went to the seminary with him, if you remember. He lives in a world of his own fantasy, favored by the mighty and the powerful.”
“I suppose he even thought that he would become a
judge in the Sacred Roman Rota and then come home as a bishop.”
I sighed loudly. Milord Cronin had a point.
“You should not have agreed to take him,” I protested.
“I told them that I didn’t need him and didn’t want him. They said I had to take him because no one else wanted him. I continued to say I didn’t want him. They continued to say that of course I would take him.”
Cardinal Sean Cronin’s greatest weakness is a soft heart. In most men, that is to say, those that don’t have to deal with the Vatican dicasteries, that would be an unalloyed virtue.
“Why are they so eager to get him out of Rome?”
Milord Cronin leaned back in his chair as I freed the chair in front of my computer from a stack of floppy disks.
“They wouldn’t say. Or, rather, they talked as if I understood why. The Romans work that way.”
“Presumably the Signatura overturned too many of his Rota decisions.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He must finally have become an embarrassment.”
Most marriage annulments are granted locally, with an appeal to a review court in a nearby diocese routinely made and routinely granted. Then if one party wants to appeal to Rome the case goes to the Sacred Roman Rota. This happens rarely because normally both parties are happy to be free to marry again, though sometimes one party is furious at the Church for granting the other that freedom. Occasionally, someone appeals to Rome because they are angry both at their former spouse and at the Church. Some of the judges on the Rota love to take apart the local decision and reverse the annulment. Then the party that has had the annulment revoked can appeal yet again to the Apostolic
Signatura, the Church’s sort-of Supreme Court where yet another reversal is possible. Idiot Quill had an unblemished record of voting to reverse every annulment that came before him. The judges in the Signatura, no fans of the American annulment machine, had often reversed Quill’s reversal. I make no case for the annulment machine, which is an attempt to deal with a pastoral problem that has turned into a juggernaut. If the Pope would permit divorced and remarried Catholics to receive the sacraments, the demand for annulments would virtually disappear. In the absence of such change, fervently pushed by German bishops, many priests simply give that permission on their own.
I sighed loudly. “So now he’ll be an embarrassment to us.”
“More than you can imagine. He’s telling people that the Pope himself is sending him here as my successor to clean up the mess in Chicago!”
“What!” I rose from the chair in righteous anger not at all like me.
“Cool it, Blackwood,” Milord Cronin said. “He’s not a coadjutor with right to succession, much less an apostolic administrator. I don’t doubt that some of the Vatican bureaucrats hinted at that just to get rid of him. I checked to make sure. My contacts over there thought it was hilariously funny. They assured me that Saddam Hussein had an equal chance to replace me.”
I sat down, still, to my shame be it said, furious.
“What makes him think that he’s destined to replace you?”
Sean Cronin, thanks to the stern injunctions of the Lady Nora, was in better health than he had been for years. Moreover, he was the picture of physical fitness and could easily pass for fifty-five instead of seventy. The odds were excellent that he would survive till his seventy-fifth birthday and then some. The Vatican
doesn’t send in successors that long before a change.
“The Pope ordained him a bishop and was very nice to him.”
“The Pope ordained fifty bishops a couple of weeks ago and was very nice to all of them. That’s the way he does it.”
Sean Cronin raised a hand, “Cool it, Blackwood. You yourself said that Gus lives in a fantastical world. Somehow a lot of his delusions have come true because he believes them so fervently. This is just one more … . He came home a couple of days ago and told some of his friends and relatives up on the North Shore that he would be more or less in charge. His appointment will be announced tomorrow at seven. He’s called a press conference at the Chancery at ten-thirty.”
“Without asking you?” I rose again in fury.
“I said COOL IT! We can’t let this man upset us or we’ll blow it. I’ll be there with all the other auxiliaries and take over the press conference. You’ll take the calls from the media between now and then.”
I cooled it, indeed instantly.
“On the record, I will take the stand that he is nothing more than the junior auxiliary bishop among five—”
“Damn it, Blackwood, six!”
I paused to consider that.
“Someone else is coming?”
“No, I’m merely hoping that for once you’ll remember that you’re a bishop. Maybe even dress like one for a change.”
I sat down again. Idiot Quill could do a great deal of harm by undercutting the Cardinal’s leadership and perhaps creating factions among the clergy. I ignored his unfair comment about my clerical dress. I often wore my bishop suit and would have worn it more if I could have found my pectoral cross and episcopal ring.
“Off the record, I will point out that Bishop Augustus Quill had the second-lowest grades in our class, has often been the victim of delusions, and was in fact bounced from Rome because he had been an embarrassment.”
Cardinal Cronin leaned his chin on tented fingers. “That’s pretty strong stuff, Blackwood.”
“I won’t say it that way.”
My private phone rang. Doubtless Mary Jane McGurn.
“Father Ryan.”
“Mary Jane.”
I flipped on the switch for the speaker phone.
“Ah!”
“Blackie, what the hell is going on over there! There’s a rumor that someone named Idiot Quill has been sent to Chicago to replace Sean. It’s supposed to be announced by the Nuncio tomorrow morning at seven. Is it true?”
The Cardinal winced.
“You can say, Mary Jane, that a spokesman for Cardinal Sean Cronin denied these rumors categorically. Bishop Quill will merely be the junior auxiliary bishop. He will have no more powers than any of the others. The Cardinal, of course, welcomes his appointment. He feels that he needs all the help he can get.”
The Cardinal, pleased at my skills in mediaspeak, beamed happily.
“Are you sure, Blackie?”
“Absolutely.”
“The guy apparently thinks he’s going to clean up the mess in Chicago.”
“The Cardinal’s spokesman said that there is no mess in Chicago.”
“This guy is not, what do you call it, some kind of coadjutor?”
“Certainly not.”
“Even you outrank him?”
Sean Cronin grinned fiendishly.
“Though not for attribution, you say that even Bishop John Blackwood Ryan will have more seniority.”
“O.K … . Now, why do they call him Idiot?”
The Cardinal grimaced. It would not help matters for the people to know that a new bishop had such a nickname.
“On the deepest of background, his seminary classmates called him that because they thought the name fit.”
“Wow! You guys are going to have fun with him! … You think he’s crazy?”
I hesitated. We would be asked that often, almost always off the record.
“Bishop Augustus Quill is a dedicated, devout, sincere, and industrious man. The Holy Father must think that his many long years of work for the Sacred Rota have earned him the right to be a bishop. Now I go into background. He is perfectly sane but sometimes he misreads reality.”
The Cardinal nodded approvingly.
“Delusional?”
“Your word.”
“They got rid of him in Rome and dumped him on you and Cardinal Sean?”
“Arguably that is the case. That comment also is deep background.”
“O.K. Great. I have my story for the ten o’clock news.” She hung up.
Milord shook his head in mock dismay. “I’m glad you’re on my side, Blackwood.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Where did she get the nickname?” he asked with a frown.
“Doubtless from a fellow priest, not encumbered by loyalty.”
I fielded several more calls before the ten o’clock newscasts.
I also placed one—to my illustrious sibling Dr. Mary Kathleen Ryan Murphy.
“Watch Channel Six if you can. Both of you. Then call me. O.K.?”
“O.K.”
Mary Jane began with Augustus O’Sullivan Quill in front of a very expensive house in Forest Hills.
M.J.: Bishop Quill, what will your role be in the Archdiocese of Chicago?
(The Bishop is a large man, not so much fat as fleshy. His round face frequently lapses into a genial smile that does not always fit the words he is speaking. His forehead is high and is often creased with lines of surprise. He is wearing French cuffs—part of the uniform—a black clerical vest, an elaborate jeweled pectoral cross, and a sapphire ring that makes Sean Cronin’s ruby seem small. He laughs intermittently, especially before he answers a question. It is a superior giggle that a pastor might use when asked a silly question by a second-grader.)
A.Q.: I really can’t answer that quite yet. I must wait for Our Holy Father to announce it tomorrow morning at seven.
M.J.: It is safe to say, however, that you will be working in Chicago and with Cardinal Cronin?
A.Q.: I will not deny that.
M.J.: When the Cardinal retires in five years, will you replace him?
A.Q.: Oh my, that’s a premature question. I am completely at the disposal of the Holy Father. I will do whatever he asks of me. For the moment I am merely
eager to integrate my work with that of Cardinal Cronin.
M.J.: You’ve been away from Chicago for many years, Bishop. What qualifies you to become involved in the governance of the Archdiocese?
A.Q.: Prayer most of all. I spend an hour every morning on my knees in front of the Blessed Sacrament in fervent prayer. I like to think that during that hour I learn from God what he wants me to do that day. I also rely very much on my loyalty to the Most Holy Father, who is the vicar of Christ here on earth. With God and the Most Holy Father on my side, I don’t see how I can fail. The Pope has been very good to me. When he ordained me a bishop in Rome—personally and with his own hands—he told me that I would do great things for the Church back in America. I am content to leave the future to God and to the Most Holy Father.
M.J. (Eager to cut off this flow of piety): Isn’t it true that you reversed every annulment case on which you were a judge in Rome?
A.Q.: The collapse of the family is the greatest single threat to American society. The family is the basic unit of society. Too-easy divorce and the promiscuous use of contraceptives are destroying the country. The Church must resist these tendencies with all its power and challenge the faithful to do the same.
M.J.: You disapprove of annulments?
A.Q.: Except in rare cases.
M.J.: You will work with the matrimonial court in the Archdiocese?
A.Q.: I assume so. All my experience and qualifications are in that field.
M.J.: And you will clean up the mess there?
A.Q,: I will do whatever I can.
M.J.: Is it not true that if indeed you are appointed
auxiliary bishop tomorrow you will be the most junior of them?
A.Q,: Ah, I don’t believe that term has any canonical validity.
M.J.: Why is your nickname Idiot?
A.Q. (Blandly): I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name.
M.J. (To camera): This was the first interview with Bishop Augustus O’Sullivan Quill, rumored to be a replacement for Chicago’s Sean Cardinal Cronin. If this is true, Chicago’s two and a half million Catholics are in for some major changes. A spokesman for Cardinal Sean Cronin denied these rumors categorically. Channel Six was told that the Cardinal, of course, welcomes Bishop Quill’s appointment. He feels that he needs all the help he can get. Nevertheless, Bishop Quill will merely be the junior auxiliary bishop. He will have no more powers than any of the others. Bishop Quill has called a press conference at the Chancery office tomorrow at ten-thirty. This is Mary Jane McGurn in Forest Hills.
ANCHOR: Mary Jane, does it look like Cardinal Cronin will lose some of his powers in the Archdiocese?
M.J.: He won’t give them up without a fight.
Milord Cronin beamed happily at Mary Jane’s last comment. His smile was quickly replaced by the worried frown that had taken possession of his face throughout the interview. I noted that someone else in the Archdiocese had also briefed her.
“He touched all the bases, Blackwood. Humility, prayer, Holy Father, experience in Rome, protecting family life—”
“Most Holy Father a couple of times.”
“The faithful will rally to those themes.”
“What faithful! He’s thirty years too late with that approach.”
“You think so? Well, maybe …”
“Those who will rally to him are those that don’t like you anyway.”
“Judging by my mail that will be a lot of them.”
“How many times have I argued,” I said with some asperity, “that crank mail is not representative?”
“I know … . Still, he’ll be trouble.”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed.
The phone rang.
“Bishop Ryan.”
It was my aforementioned sibling. “Hi, Punk. Hey, you and Sean have yourselves one big, fat, oily problem on your hands … . Is Sean there? Turn on the speaker phone! Hi, Sean.”
“Hi, Mary Kathleen,” the Cardinal said with a broad smile, a smile reserved for beautiful women.
“My Jungian consort is here too.”
“Hi, Dr. Murphy,” he said with a grin.
“Hi, Cardinal.”
My sibling Mary Kathleen Ryan Murphy and her husband Joe are both psychiatrists, she a heterodox Freudian, he an eclectic Jungian. Ever since she had seduced him (not too strong a word, I believe) during a psychiatric clerkship at Little Company of Mary Hospital, the pretense, shared by all, was that she was the better clinician of the two. Everyone, including Mary Kate, knew that the pretense wasn’t true.
“How are all the kids and grandkids?”
“Flourishing. Chantal’s oldest is a senior in high school. Petey’s wife Cindasue is expecting her first. Didn’t waste any time. I think your new bishop might like that.”
“Diagnosis?” I said impatiently.
“Pretty easy. Borderline personality. Unusual type.
Not very bright. Passive-aggressive. Little sexual energy. Delusional. Manipulative. Probably learned from his mother to control his father that way. Becomes the poor, innocent, sincere child to get what he wants. Then turns officious with subordinates. Will have to be slapped down hard, but even then won’t get it.”
“He’ll mess up everything he touches,” the other Dr. Murphy warned, “all in the name of God and the Holy Father—”
“Most Holy Father,” I corrected him.
“PUNK,” Mary Kate interjected, “stop interrupting!”
“Punk” is the mostly affectionate diminutive my siblings use for me. And their children—as in “Uncle Punk”!
“It’s a well-structured complex, Cardinal. Impermeable, I’d say. He’s built it over time to protect a fragile ego. Take it away and he’s nothing.”
I had suspected a diagnosis of that sort. There would be trouble right here in Athens on the Lake, Richard M. Daley, Mayor.
“What do we do?” the Cardinal asked weakly.
“Hit him with reality,” my sibling replied. “Slap him down every time he misbehaves.”
“Do not yield an inch,” her husband agreed. “Ever.”
“Sounds grim … . No cure? No treatment?”
“Only if some extraneous event shatters the system. Then he’ll probably go into a sustained psychotic interlude.”
“What,” I demanded, “might we do to generate such an extraneous event?”
Silence from my sibling and sibling-in-law.
“Maybe,” Mary Kate said carefully, “catch him making love to a mother superior on the altar during Mass.”