Father Philip & The Bishop
It was midmorning after a fitful, restless night, nowhere near the hour Philip started drinking. There was destined to be nothing remotely normal about today. Lately he had begun drinking more than he ever had, and with something of a purpose, a purpose whose origins he didn’t comprehend. He didn’t think his drinking was a problem, but if it was, it was a manageable one, nothing but a temporary, passing phase. And he wouldn’t call it a diversion, and he would certainly not locate himself on the alcoholic spectrum. On balance, no big deal, he considered. Look, he drank a bit, all right, sometimes more than was prudent, he supposed.
He was standing there, fully dressed, vaguely at attention in the middle of his spare quarters, spare as in monkish. Personal touches were negligible. One bookcase, a pretty Navajo rug he impulsively picked up on vacation years ago in Santa Fe, unadorned walls. A rack of five black suits on wooden hangers in the armoire. A reading chair, where he never read. He read instead at the little wood desk in the corner, where he also worked on his laptop, underneath a bronze banker’s lamp that had been abandoned here by a long-forgotten somebody. The second-floor room did have a pleasant garden view worth studying down below, if he were in such a mood, and he wasn’t. More than anything, his bedroom often made him feel as if he were passing through on a business trip, staying in an off-the-grid, understated hotel. To this day, he felt more at home at his family’s on Haymarket Hill, and much more so at his and Ruth’s hideaway. Speaking of which: their shared living arrangements were about to change, radically and soon. All of which directly went to the issue before him today.
He threw back a shot of rare sipping tequila. To be clear, marketing types called this a sipping tequila, but he did not personally exercise such a sipping delivery system. Its heroic glow electrified him, right on schedule, speeding from his tongue to his belly to the tips of all ten fingers. His simple objective was to steel his nerves before venturing across the grounds and formally initiating conversation he had put off for too long. He rehearsed his lines once more and swallowed another, second shot, which was more sustaining and bracing. Now he felt something like brilliantly gleaming, along the lines of lit-up neon.
At first he may have landed on tequila because of what it wasn’t; that is, it wasn’t Jameson’s Irish or his dad’s go-to Midleton’s. If he ever reflected on the subject, he might conclude that he didn’t wish to brand himself with the Irish stereotype, as if that mattered when he wanted to tie one on. He was a private drinker, unlike the bishop, but to be fair, unlike the way the bishop used to be when he got routinely, embarrassingly gassed in public. Philip had to ask himself why it made some kind of difference, and to whom, that he only drank by himself, or alone with Ruth, and never in social settings, especially any Church-related occasion, where he drank mineral water exclusively. Clearly and altogether consciously, he set high value on being perceived as abstemious.
His drinking, such as it was, did not constitute a joyful activity. His father had been when younger an inveterate joyless drinker himself, and Philip wondered about genetic predisposition. These cheerless associations were real, but he deemed them irrelevant. In the dimmest recesses of his childhood past, he acquired the information that his grandfather, his father’s father, whom he never met, was legendarily an out-of-control lifelong stinking drunk. Paddy Fitzgerald never belabored his own father’s story, or any other aspect of his personal, family history. Such material seemed to be screened off, out of bounds for discussion or amplification. Paddy conveyed in myriad, relentless ways that he would never for a second let it be said he was the victim of anything or anybody else. To tell the truth, that was a singular character trait of his dad that Philip envied.
Thanks to tequila’s ministrations, as he headed across the grounds he didn’t feel the ground under his shoes, and in a few minutes he was rapping on the bishop’s office door. When granted permission, he entered, prepared to tell Stanislaus Mackey what he had determined about his future life as a priest—figuring it was well past time to be forthcoming. He wasn’t quite looking forward to the moment, but then again, he could not justify to himself, or anybody, and especially Ruth, deferring any longer. The leaden mass of his covert life seemed to be pressing down upon him, occasionally making it hard for him to breathe without effort. He wasn’t going to be able to hide much longer. A third shot would have pushed it, but then again, no risk, no reward. That thought was followed by a recognition that two had been already one too many.
—
Philip hadn’t inquired, but the bishop volunteered an update on his health. TIA, transient ischemic attack: that was what he had endured and been recovering from since. “Well, that’s one way of looking at what happened, I suppose.” If Mackey wanted to indicate that such a medical diagnosis was ultimately an incomplete if not a misleading explanation, he succeeded—and puzzled Philip accordingly.
“You mean a mini-stroke?” asked Philip, although any terminology containing stroke sounded ominous. Some type of neurological impairment of the bishop seemed clear to him and every other observer of Chancery business, so not quite a news bulletin. The diagnostic confirmation was significant, even if it wasn’t, the bishop seemed to be intimating, settled business.
“Evidently they don’t call it a mini-stroke anymore, but that’s the idea.” Specialists would be monitoring him closely, having been prescribed new meds, including a modest daily baby aspirin, along with physical therapy twice a week. Considering his age, the man was progressing under the circumstances. But what were the underlying circumstances?
“You do seem to be doing much better, Excellence.” He did notice that the left side of the man’s face appeared subtly, almost imperceptibly, rigidified, palsied—or was he imagining that?
Mackey said in fact he was feeling better, thanks. Recovery was a long road to take.
“I don’t think I ever told you, I got to know your sister-in-law.”
Obviously, the bishop had known Francesca well, but that’s not whom he was referring to.
“Your brother’s wife.” As if Philip needed assistance defining sister-in-law.
Information snapped into place. “Oh, you’re talking about Claire?” The look of horror would have shocked Mackey had he been searching for corroboration.
“She and I had an important conversation—important to me, and definitely to her.”
As far as Philip was concerned, an important conversation with that difficult woman would have constituted historic occurrence.
“Yes,” added the bishop, “on the night of the gala.”
“I didn’t notice her in attendance.”
“That’s because she wasn’t.”
Philip was now concerned, as the bishop was not making sense. “Excellence, sorry, I’m lost.” Not to mention, why was he relating this information to him?
“I was lost at first, too, but there it is. She wanted me to understand Matty’s point of view about the contract, and also Hector Alessandro’s situation.”
“You discussed Caring Street. You and Claire.” Statements, not interrogatories.
“We did, yes, we did.”
“When, where?”
Those probative queries may have been borderline intrusive, and they didn’t interest Mackey, evidently, so he swatted them away. “She opened my eyes as to the human cost of my decisions. I know you did your utmost to alert me in advance, and I’m sorry I failed to heed your counsel, only I heard things in a new way when she opened her heart to me.”
Again, more news to Philip. “Claire has a heart?”
“You are being unkind, Father, and wrong, too. Claire might have played a big role in saving my life.”
“Excellence, I’m lost.”
“That much is obvious. Have you been drinking this morning?”
—
They took their places on opposite ends of the black leather couch, and Philip was hoping he could ultimately gain some information if not insight, and address the mystery as to what happened on gala night. Maybe the bishop would be forthcoming at last.
“I understand the allure of drinking if anybody does,” said the bishop, philosophically, “so I’m not going to wag my finger. All I’ll say is, be careful, Father. Next thing you know, you wake up one day, gaze into your bathroom mirror, and twenty years have passed you by. It’s a common curse of the priestly class, as we’re all aware.”
“Some things were weighing on my mind this morning, Excellence.” Philip didn’t have a drinking problem, he almost defended himself, this was Mackey’s pure projection. But he wasn’t going to protest, not now, not after considering the agenda that loomed before them. “I wanted to take the edge off a little.”
“I understand the urge. Before we get into that, Father, I need to catch you up on a few things. I’ve decided to put Hector back on the job as executive director at Caring Street. I know after your own fashion you cautioned me before I fired him, but back then I was still riding up on my high horse, and like you, I was wobbly in the saddle, and for the same reason. Which means you’re out as the administrator, but not because you did a poor job. You did all right, but Hector is unquestionably the best man for the job, and I hope you take this in the right spirit, but you yourself aren’t, Father, it’s not in your wheelhouse. You have other, more valuable skills.”
He couldn’t disagree with the assessment of his performance, but he was wounded, what with the unceremonious dismissal. He opted for gracious. “Thank you for granting me the opportunity to serve, Excellence.”
“Been meaning to ask, what’s the latest on Sister Patricia? She’s thriving in the classroom now, I hope.”
“Kids adore her, I’m told, and she is fitting into the convent as before—a fantastic, seamless transition back to her former life.”
“Arrange a classroom visit for me, would you?”
What Philip was thinking was: What the fuck is going on with him? What he said was: “I will see that it’s put on your calendar.”
“And about the teacher’s contract, Father. Been thinking. Let’s go back to where we were before I conceived of my not-so-dazzling plan. The old standard contract is plenty good enough. As you told me more than once, and which I systematically ignored, no point fixing what isn’t broken. I’d hate to push out excellent teachers like your brother Matty at Holy Family when we open the new campus. We’ve suffered enough collateral damage in the Church the past few years. Please let him know we are counting on him to be teaching brilliantly at HFH for a long, long time.”
“Excellence, that’s great. I also hear, the word on the street is, the capital campaign is building up a head of steam.”
“It is indeed, and Francesca is rapidly leading the way to accomplishing our fundraising goals. Thanks to her, Caring Street will soon be securely in the black, and will stay there, and the high school property—oh, wait, I have some more good news for you, Father. I signed the formal Letter of Intent on the real estate deal last night with someone you perhaps know, a certain Padraic Fitzgerald.” Mackey told him the number that had been struck, thanks to artful, deft, creative Francesca. It was roughly two-thirds the number Philip and everyone else on the inside had expected and he was stunned all over again. This was turning out to be some kind of morning. Perhaps he had thrown down the right amount of tequila after all.
“My father agreed to that deal?”
“I’m sure you played a role with him, being the good son and good priest you are. Thank you, Father. He gave us a damn good run for our money, didn’t he? And it took some frank conversation and Francesca’s incredible, persuasive ways, but yes, he did finally agree. Paul on the road to conversion and Damascus kind of thing, don’t you know. The communications people will send out a press release first thing.”
Philip shook his head in wonderment. “Should we have a toast? I have some nice tequila in my room.”
Bishop Mackey sighed and said with mournful emphasis: “Father, I don’t think so—Father.”
All right, that was an inappropriate suggestion, especially to somebody like the bishop, but that rare reposado would have come in handy—for Philip.
“That’s quite an amazing development, Excellence. As is Sister Patricia. And Hector. And the teacher contract. And the new school campus. And my little brother Matty back in the school. I count six miracles attributable to you, Excellence, many more than the three strictly required by Rome for beatification.” Philip reared back, fearing he’d crossed a line, making light of sacred ecclesiastical matters. But he had misread Mackey’s frame of mind yet again.
“And my being on the wagon, don’t forget that one, so I count seven. I pity the poor devil’s advocate arguing against my all but inevitable beatification. Yes, all Saint Stanislaus Mackey is missing is his stigmata.” He held up both palms to confirm that he wasn’t bleeding in the places where Christ’s wounds were when he was nailed to the cross. “Then again, it’s too early to tell for sure. Which is always the case. Everybody’s got their own cross to carry, don’t they, Father? Philip? Philip, are you feeling all right?”
“Me? Never felt….” And his voice trailed off. He couldn’t finish off enunciating the falsehood that he never felt better. Father Philip Fitzgerald had been rehearsing for days—months and months, more accurately—what he was about to tell the bishop, about the renunciation of his vocation as a celibate priest, and there was no point in delaying any longer.
“Excellence, if I may, there’s something I should tell you.”
The next sentence out of his mouth would mark the beginning of the end of his vocation. There are indeed such dramatic moments in life, he imagined, when one approaches a turning point from which there is no return, a definitive leap from the known to the unknown, or possibly from one unknown to a greater, more unknowable unknown. A warrior feels this keenly, the instant combat commences, and the bullets start to fly. Or an athlete, at a crucial stage in a game, a race, a match. Or a mother giving birth and then nursing her infant, or a father holding his child in his arms for the first time. People on the altar, exchanging wedding vows. A person burying a friend, a parent, a loved one. A man prostrate on the cold, marbled cathedral floor, being ordained. This is when you say to yourself, from this point forward I will never be the same as I was. All the routine and enormous moments that punctuate and demarcate everyone’s ordinary life, in other words. Turning points existed everywhere and always, if you permitted yourself to be conscious of them.
“Before you speak, Monsignor.”
Mackey must have been confused again, and Philip was derailed, being called Monsignor. The man was losing it in real time.
“Before you say another word, there is one other news item to share, which is about to be made public.”
Philip feared the bishop sussed out everything about his life with Ruth, so he waited submissively, fearfully.
“Father,” said Stanislaus Mackey, “I now need to address you Reverend Monsignor Philip Fitzgerald.”
Philip countered: there must be some mistake.
“I don’t think so, Monsignor.” Mackey peered over his bifocals beneficently.
Beyond everything, Philip also picked up the bishop’s anything-but-subtle signal. And maybe the bishop was right, now was not his time to unpack his story. Or maybe Father Philip had not quite reached his turning point yet. Monsignor Philip.
—
“Forgive me, Excellence, I’m reeling. I did not see this coming. Monsignor.”
“You should have. You should have long since been a monsignor, but alas, the wheels of Church politics grind agonizingly slow. My first months in, I recommended you, but the Holy See takes its sweet, divine time.”
“What’s important is that this is a marvelous day for the diocese, for Holy Family High School, for Caring Street. Because I don’t know what to say about Monsignor Fitzgerald.”
As the bishop rose to his feet, Philip was growing more and more certain Mackey knew everything that Philip was planning to tell him. Mackey glanced around as if he were searching for something he had lost track of. He stepped to the bevel-edge leadlight window outside of which spectacular red roses were blooming. He looked and looked and then said, “Oh, my God, there they are again.”
Philip asked what he was referring to—the roses?
That wasn’t it at all. “The angels, there they are again. There they are, and they’re everywhere, if you’re listening for their intonations and if you’re receptive to their voices.”
The priest was not of a mind to engage in a theological discussion with his superior and spiritual mentor. But he didn’t think he should let that bizarre remark stand without responding.
“Excellence, would you like some rest? You’ve been through a lot.”
The bishop smiled. “Monsignor, I feel I’ve been half asleep my whole life, I don’t need any more rest. You know, I have to give thanks to your sister-in-law.”
“Frankie, I’m sure, knows how much you value her. We all do.”
“Certainly, I think the world of Francesca, but no, I keep telling you—Claire. She’s the one who helped me attend to what the angels were telling me. I doubt that was her explicit plan, I doubt she even believes, but that’s all right, she is a vessel, and you are a vessel, and I am increasingly convinced I am nothing more than a vessel, an old and battered vessel on turbulent high seas.”
“Who is telling you what?”
“The angels, I just said that, aren’t you listening?”
“The angels.” Again, a statement, not an interrogatory.
“Unfortunately, you are skeptical.”
“Not in the slightest,” Philip lied.
“Yes, you are, Philip. But the seraphim and cherubim and archangels, thrones and dominations, powers and principalities, all nine choirs of angels—the whole spinning world is a-swim, is swarming, is buzzing with them. How many stars are there in the universe? There are even more angels. They are messengers, which is what I had forgotten, pickled as I was with booze. Angel also means messenger, and priests and church elders are called angels in the Scriptures. So now I attend to their clarion calling. That’s their act of mystical intercession.”
“And their message is?”
Mackey shook his head, not angrily, but powerfully, assertively. “I see what you’re doing there, Philip, I sense you’re concerned about my mental, my emotional stability. I cannot fault you, I suppose, and I am a little bit touched by your ratcheted-up concern, or is it unbridled suspicion? At least you’re not being your typical condescending self—for a change. But when you ask me to tell you what their message is, I know you’re not asking in the proper spirit, Philip, not yet, otherwise I would tell you, if I had the words. And their message is not like some silly epigram contained inside a cracked-open fortune cookie. It’s not like the I Ching, it’s not astrology or numerology, or any of the base gnostic systems of divination. It’s a message you’ll hear someday when you’re prepared to hear it, and you’ll know you’re ready when you hear the message loud and clear, Monsignor.”
“I see.” Which he didn’t, but that seemed to be what the occasion required.
“You recall what we learned in seminary, Philip. How a priest has two angels, one guardian angel assigned at birth, as it is for everyone, and one specially assigned when you are ordained. My God, given what struggles we priests have, I think we could keep on their toes a dozen, if not our very own legion of angels. Because when those pure spirits in the infinite recesses of a time before time began were given the chance to serve God or Satan, to become angel or devil, they had the singular opportunity to say Yes. And that’s what they did, they said Yes. We mortals spend our life pitching left and right, backward and forward, up and down, off target or on, right or wrong, but the angels? They are the Yes in our lives. I’ll tell you a secret, Philip. Not so long after I came back, after the hospital, I woke up in the middle of the night, restless, and then I screamed, or tried to. If I did, I don’t think anybody heard me. You see, there was an angel sitting on my bed, calm and reassuring. I myself located a well of inner peace after a while, and the angel made me to understand, and without words, all over again the big Yes I needed to affirm. You want to call my doctor, don’t you, ring the alarm bell, right?”
The bishop didn’t need a supernatural messenger to figure that one out, but it was true, that’s what Philip was contemplating doing as soon as he could liberate himself from this wild conversation.
“Excellence, would you tell me what happened to you the night of the gala?”
“Someday, I might, if I can find the words or remember. And if I determine you are ready to listen.”
“It would help me a great deal if you would.”
“I’m sure it would, but in the meantime, you will do what you will do, Philip. I want you to know, I have never felt saner, clearer, more attuned. And you, Philip? How troubled, how vexed are you?”
“More than I can say.”
“You will do the right thing, Monsignor, when the time comes, when you tell me what it is you wanted to tell me, and when you’re ready for the eternal Yes. In the meantime, listen, and listen very, very hard, and you may be blessed to hear the angels—including your priestly angel. That’s the secret that is no secret. Now is the other word for eternity.”
Philip took stock, which was hard to do what with his mental inventory shifting and jostling, crashing down. Mackey was insane or deluded, or Mackey was now a holy man, and what could be the difference in the end, because perhaps there wasn’t a difference. Frankie was working magic on Mackey and everybody, and evidently Claire was, too. His brother Matty still had a job. His father had done something unexpected, which Philip should have long ago learned to expect. In all the tumult and misdirection, one thing felt sure, and one thing only: Ruth was about to give birth to his son—to give birth to their son. This counted as a miracle of the first order, too. That was some kind of Yes. He wouldn’t tell Mackey or anybody that he had no time for angels. But then again the bishop probably already knew. And if you care, you angels, thought Philip, and if you have some grace to spare, grant some to Ruth and to the baby, and, while you’re at it, me.
Philip agreed that now and eternity indeed meant the same thing. And he would do the right thing by Ruth and their little boy, if there was any way he possibly could.