Bishop Mackey
Stanislaus Mackey howled. Like a wolf he howled.
“Shut up back there,” shouted the driver.
He’d howl if he wanted, let them do what they will.
No full moon, but this astral detail did not prevent the bishop from howling all over again. If he had known howling was so satisfying, so soulful, he would have unleashed a torrent of howls during his life, a life that was, according to all indications, currently at risk. So many occasions to howl had presented themselves, and he had squandered every opportunity till now: meetings with the disgruntled, arguments with lawyers, dustups with his superiors and his underlings, all the invoicing overweight fat-tie consultants.
Didn’t need to have a full moon, either. Though that would be extra inspirational while being kidnapped.
Ah-oooh. Ah-ooh.
Besides, what did he have to lose, howling?
Okay, trick question, he had to admit.
“God, you’re still three sheets, shut the fuck up, I said.”
But no, he was not drunk anymore, whatever the wolf howl signaled. He had missed a million chances to howl in his life. Time to make up for lost opportunity.
That’s when the limousine rolled to a stop at a curious destination. They were at the circular drive entrance of the darkened, boarded-up Saint Thomas School, which was located on the untamed, farthest reaches of the diocese. Of course, he was familiar with every parcel of church real estate. Such an odd terminus. Why not go all the way, take him someplace completely beyond the pale—Roswell, New Mexico, or Lourdes? To a land of miracles or unidentified flying objects and Martian cadavers? Another bizarre stop—the final stop?—during a strange night’s sojourn that began at the gala, where he successfully hauled out wheelbarrows of money, and then followed, not long later, by what he could only describe as, not to put too fine a point on it, his abduction.
He could truthfully say that this was the strangest kidnapping he’d ever experienced, though this kidnapping was, needless to qualify, a first for him. Part of him was terrified, and part of him couldn’t take the whole thing seriously. If somebody was looking to take down a load of ransom loot, Stanislaus Mackey was not the candidate with the biggest upside. Given his shaky status with clerics and laypeople alike, he would guess nobody in the diocese was going to hustle up to fill a satchel with unmarked bills and leave it, per instructions, at some remote train station drop-off.
Stars shimmered in skies washed clean by all that rain. The slivered moon loomed so low and close that it was tempting enough to reach out for, like fruit from the spooky tree.
“Definitely werewolf country,” the bishop called out to the driver, who was not Brendan, whom he would nevertheless fire if he got out of this mess, and was answered with aggravated silence. No surprise. He was intending to provoke the guy—was it a guy? He should have howled instead. Who can resist responding to a howl?
There he was, alone in the back seat, being shuttled for who knows why—although he now knew who knows where. His initial reaction, prompted by the gun’s steely appearance, had been mortal apprehension—who wouldn’t have felt as much? But his thoughts never ceased churning. He’d been kidnapped—kidnapping was the statutory term, he supposed, not that he was a law enforcement officer or a prosecutor, because how else to describe his unelected, unwilled current circumstances? What script was his kidnapper or kidnappers following? Nobody blindfolded him, or bothered to search him for a cell phone, or cut off a proof-of-life ear or pinky to make a persuasive case for payoff, for which he should be thankful. So avarice wasn’t apparently driving him or her or it or them. Mackey had watched too much television, he supposed, or—too late now—not enough.
Whatever was going to happen was beyond his control, and it was only a matter of time before designs became clear. Certainly, the bleak setting that presented itself was perfect for some sort of diabolical half-assed plan to unfold.
This was the part of town where police cruisers wouldn’t have bothered to patrol, so whoever was the ringleader was hypothetically proceeding along tactical lines. Mackey was also imagining that whoever this self-assured driver was, he was operating on the footing of privileged information. Everything argued against randomness, therefore, and everything pointed to an inside job of sorts. For starters, the driver had to know enough about Brendan, the bishop’s regular driver, and his routines to remove him from the picture. Although, wait a second, unless it was the case that Brendan was himself implicated—but on second thought, this seemed farfetched as it pertained to Brendan, who wouldn’t harm a fly, much less a bishop, or so Mackey vainly banked upon.
More than a decade earlier, long before he arrived tonight outside the abandoned school, this was the dead end where suburban growth had once been touted as a can’t-miss prospect during a once-in-a-generation updraft in the economy. In all the excitement, city planners had fast-tracked residential housing development and public transportation and soccer fields and parks, and along with freshly paved thoroughfares, stores, restaurants, and shopping malls instantaneously popped up to serve the anticipated population rush. Optimism swelled unchecked: no one in a position of public or private sway doubted that a thriving, budding community would soon be flourishing. New families would flock here, and new families meant new children, all of which translated into new revenues for the diocese. To that end, the church had hastily built from the ground up an elementary school, which at the outset was enrolled beyond capacity. But that was then. The boom failed to sustain, and by the time it petered out, real estate values had cratered. Many, many houses were foreclosed upon or were in mortal decay, run-down and red-tagged and boarded up, unsellable and unsalvageable. Neighborhoods like this took on the character of combat zones. If any part of the economy was vital, it was likely the drug trade, and the gangs ruled the streets and the parks and the vacated shopping centers. It was a bad time. It took a while before the city conceded that it had made a losing bet. And so had the diocese. The school that had opened with abundant hopefulness and fanfare was now shuttered, and the current bishop, still ensconced in the back seat, nurtured no expectation it would ever reopen. As for the diocese: time to cut losses and run from the ruins.
Saint Thomas School was named, with no apparent consciousness of irony, after the saint legendarily called The Doubter, eternally notorious for questioning whether Jesus had in fact risen from the dead. The poor guy was made famous for insisting he wouldn’t believe in the Savior until he could place his own hands on the wounds. This moment of show-and-tell was soon to be made available for him, to his drop-to-the-knees edification and mortification. That Gospel story formed the basis of the bishop’s favorite homily, which consisted of his simple thesis, which was Jesus’s too, namely that Thomas was Everyman. Who didn’t really doubt, who didn’t ultimately desire confirmation? But that’s where faith came in, oh, ye of little faith and no balls. Fortunate are those who have not seen and who nonetheless believe. That was Stanislaus Mackey’s story and he, another Everyman, was sticking to it.
Through the rolled-up back seat window, Mackey riveted his attention upon this blighted spectacle. To him, there was nothing sadder, more vanquished, more depressing than an expired school, especially a defunct Catholic school, which represented the ultimate dashing of children’s dreams and aspirations.
On a rational level, he knew he should be afraid for his life, but fear vied with curiosity, as in how the hell was this going to turn out? He never kept count of his adversaries, but he had to acknowledge that there were indeed many, many out there who had tangled with him in the past, in this diocese and elsewhere, and they might have been surprised to discover that he hadn’t already had the crap beaten out of him—or worse. It seemed altogether simpler: somebody tonight was trying to make a point with him—or to make a point of him. How else to explain that this whole affair felt like somebody’s conception of bad civic theater? Kidnapping, gun, ravaged wasteland of a town—it was theater of the ridiculous into which he had been cast and he was a leading player. He was as sober as he had been for a year.
“Werewolf country,” he reiterated. “Where are the angry townsfolk with their torches when you need them?” And he howled once more.
—
By the time the sun would rise, matters would prove to be both much more and much less grave for Stanislaus Mackey. And before too many hours would pass, he would be probed and scanned and prodded and poked and tested and retested in the emergency room of the local hospital. He would be asked over and over again what he recalled of the night. His recollections proved fitful, partial, shadowy, with occasional, unpredictable lightning flashes of crystalline lucidity. Of course, these descriptors would apply to many if not most of his drinking years, but with a difference tonight, a difference that he struggled to decode in the aftermath.
In any event, these are the shards of remembrance, these are the images and the fragments of speech, that he fitfully remembered. When he tried to narrate the events that took place around him, he struggled and struggled. He would have the chance to fill in the spaces left vacant for reasons that were to be made clear—only much, much later.
—
His limousine door opened, and he was ushered out from the back seat by a materializing coconspirator. The gloomy spectacle did not correspondingly improve, and neither did his disposition.
“You howl again and I will smack you.”
The night reeked of damp, smoky firewood. Far, far in the distance, pealing car tires and a faint drumbeat, like at some impromptu Caribbean street festival. A siren wailed and stopped, then another picked up.
Walked between two ski-masked people, both equipped with powerful flashlights, along the path to the school door. One man, one woman, he guessed, pure supposition. And the strong intuition dawned that these two had absolutely no fucking idea what they were doing. That meant good news, and that also meant the opposite, if he wasn’t very, very careful. People without a plan are the most dangerous people in the world. He grew convinced of this proposition: it was up to him to come up with a plan to survive.
Once inside the deserted main building, passing through the place where doors had been stolen, he sensed that the poor homeless and downtrodden, who were nowhere in sight, had squatted and commandeered the campus. It all amounted to a gigantic fire hazard, or worse, but considering the larger social questions, not an altogether suboptimal use of what was left of the otherwise obsolete school.
Feral creatures abounding, vermin. Stench: sulfuric, vinegary, burnt sugar, worse.
Corkboards dotted with curled-up announcements and obsolescent news, not that he could decipher the words in the gloam—except for the enormous header in enthusiastic, school-cheer bold letters: Never Doubt! St. Thomas School Rules!
Stepped over the debris and the refuse (wine bottles, newspaper, wrappers, cartons: the usual) littering the once proud foyer. Incoherent spray paint graffiti.
Never crossed his mind to try to escape, to hightail away, which would have been futile since his hightailing days were used up long ago, or to cry out for help—nobody within hearing distance.
“What circle of hell is this?”
“I’d say this would be your own circle of hell, Excellence.”
“Excellence? Thank you for the respectful touch.”
“Don’t push it.”
Guided by flashlights, they led him to what seemed to have once been the office of the principal. He heard the furious scurrying of scratchy rodent feet. Inside the spacious room there was an abused conference table and, weirdly, several functional wooden chairs. They sat down in silence.
Stanislaus Mackey broke the quiet and asked them what their next move would be.
“Because it certainly appears you are both clowns and that you have no glimmering as to what trouble you are in, or what objective is motivating you. Why don’t we call it a night and agree that nothing ever happened, and we can all go home and forget everything?”
One of them removed the ski mask.
“Bishop Mackey, I’m Claire Fitzgerald.”
“Wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, young lady. Related to Paddy Fitzgerald and Father Philip, I presume?”
“Father-in law, brother-in-law. And also related to your best teacher, Matty Fitzgerald, my husband, whom you’re trying to fire, like you fired my boss at Caring Street, Dr. Alessandro.”The other ski mask stayed in place and the wearer remained mute.
“Now that I know who you are, that might constitute very bad news—for all of us. Though most acutely and particularly as it applies to me. You might feel no compunction disposing of me, now that I could identify you to the authorities, who would take seriously, I don’t know the legal terminology, your crime spree? You now find yourselves in a position where everything may well spin out of control.”
“They won’t send out an Amber Alert for you, don’t flatter yourself. And no reason to bring law enforcement into the discussion, Excellence. After all, what I would say, if by some chance I were ever interrogated under a swinging light bulb or water-boarded, is that you begged us to take you on a little joy ride after the gala. You wanted us to find an all-night liquor store and pick up a bottle for you.”
“Do you think anybody will believe that, Claire Fitzgerald?”
“Oh, small step to believe Bishop Mackey wanted another pop. Besides, it doesn’t matter what anybody who isn’t here will believe, it’s what you will tell as your story, if you’re around to tell it. In the meantime, I think you’re going to find our input valuable. Thank you for listening as if your life depended upon it. Which it might.”
“When it comes to law enforcement, there might be some interest evinced with regard to that weapon that you have trained on me, Claire Fitzgerald.”
“That’s enough, stop saying my name. We did need to get your undivided attention, true, but as you can see, the gun is now on the table here. And we won’t take up a lot of your time, it’s late already. We’d like to make a few points for your consideration.”
“Hard for me to complain or suggest an alternative, being a captive audience.”
The mood changed in the room. Claire lambasted the bishop for his terrible teacher’s contract. He was destroying the morale of the whole school community and undercutting the noble efforts of their best teachers, like Matty.
“I agree Matty is a great teacher, or so I have been advised by every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”
She instructed him as to what he was going to do now. He was going to drop the whole contract thing, for good. And while she had his undivided attention, she also tore into him about what he had done to Dr. Alessandro, who was obviously the ideal executive director of Caring Street, where the kids loved and respected him. Sure, he made a few tiny, forgivable mistakes of judgment, but his heart was in the right place, caring for the kids.
“Last chance, Bishop Mackey, to clean up these two messes you created. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You think I owe you an explanation for my life? Nice try. And what makes you think that threatening me with a gun, kidnapping me, is going to further your cause?”
Claire said kidnapping is a complex criminal category, so many gradations apply, she had looked them up, all related to intent. You have false imprisonment, for instance, a much lesser charge. And he was no Lindbergh kid, no Patty Hearst. It hadn’t been twelve hours, when the most punitive statutes would kick in—she claimed these were facts. But she was no lawyer, so time for him to listen up for a change. All they were doing was this: righting the wrongs Mackey had committed, and doing what they could by any means necessary.
“Let me stop you right there, young lady. Let me tell you about correcting all the terrible wrongs that afflict this world that you supposedly are on some personal crusade to correct. It falls upon my shoulders, my shoulders, to do all I can. I have cleared out the diocese of pedophile priests, I know you agree with me. That was a terrible wrong committed by the Church, a crime and a sin. And I pray every day for those children who have been harmed irredeemably as a result of our irresponsible, unconscionable practices. But Caring Street was a loose operation, and the teachers needed to be put in line, needed to be reminded that they are Catholic teachers, ministers, truly, defending, propagating the faith. Thanks to me and our fundraising, Caring Street is going to serve more kids than ever and do a better job of it, and thanks to me, we’re going to build a brand-new high school, if your father-in-law comes to his senses, the high school where Matty can teach if he ever wises up and signs the completely well-intentioned contract. There, I’ve said my piece, blast away if you like.”
“I think, deep down, there’s a chance you’re a good man, or were, Excellence, a good man who made some terrible decisions. You’ve made your share of good decisions, too, I’ll grant you. We’re here to help you attend to the better angels of your nature. You have them, don’t you, Excellence? The angels? Everybody does. Most everybody, anyway.”
“Yes, angels. They look after me. Had a feeling all along, Claire Fitzgerald…”
“Stop using my name, I said.”
“…all along that this was about Hector, more than Matty.”
The kids need him at Caring Street, she said, and the high school students need teachers who care about them, and who don’t walk in lockstep with your out-of-date Church policies. This is your chance to make a course correction, before it’s too late.
If you love the least of your brethren, Jesus says, you love Him.
“Help me understand what you want me to do.”
“The right thing, that’s all, do the right fucking thing for a change. You’ve been given another chance, could be your last chance.”
“You both are risking a great deal in this insane escapade. Hate to admit, but that’s impressive. But I also have to add that while you have not succeeded in intimidating me, something is going on. You know, the angels have encouraged me to reconsider. Listen to me, Claire Fitzgerald, you’re doing this all wrong, totally wrong. Let me help you.”
“Oh, fantastic, look what’s happened every time you’ve helped us all so much.”
“If I understand what you’ve done here tonight, you’ve risked indictment, conviction, and incarceration in order to talk to me? You wanted to talk? To persuade me to change my mind? At the point of a gun? That’s the masterminding plan? Why didn’t you call my office to make an appointment? True, I wouldn’t have given you the time of day, but that’s immaterial. But you wanted to talk. I have to say this is the dumbest criminal scheme ever hatched. Make room, Ten Most Wanted List.”
“Say you’ll do the right thing for a change, Excellence, and we’ll call it a night.”
“Let me put my hands into the wounds.”
“How can you still be hammered?”
“I have an idea. Let’s the three of us pray together.”
“That’s your go-to move, Excellence? Prayer?”
“It should be everybody’s go-to move, forever. And it should definitely be yours. For one thing, if you ever get out of the shit you have gotten yourself into, you’re going to need lots of prayers. Okay, take my hands, both of you, and let…”
—
He remembers he fell suddenly, strangely ill.
He remembers sensing his left side go numb, heavy, leaden.
He remembers the words he searched for would not cross his lips.
He remembers feeling dizzy, lost.
Swirling. Tilting. Drifting.
He never felt he was about to die. No, the opposite. Take that back. He was Catholic. He was continually conscious of his mortality.
More like, he was being washed over by—no other word for it—grace. He was being held in the gracious palm of divine forces, that of the angels, the angels whose songs and voices filled his heart and his head.
Then, next thing he knew—
He knew nothing.
He was being wheeled through the whooshing automatic glass doors of the ER, and somebody in a white coat scrambled over and read the sign that had been pinned to the front of his black suit, which he later was informed consisted of a single word: STROKE. He had been cast off into the hospital by someone who had fled into darkness. This would count as being a good thing, too, in one key respect. Because whoever it was might be under the illusion they had saved Stanislaus Mackey’s life, for what such a miserable life was worth. But over the weeks and months and years to come, the bishop was compelled to conclude something different. He was delivered to safety at the hands of his avenging angels.