Another Family Fitzgerald
Back in Ruth’s apartment, now their apartment, Philip was softly singing a rock-a-bye baby don’t you cry lullaby. Based on the available evidence, the boy, gently, securely in his arms, was buying it. His eyelids were fluttering and he was breathing deeply against his father’s chest. They were standing out on the deck, the sun was setting gaudily, and a refreshing autumn chill filtered through the air. Ruth told him he had promise when it came to putting down the baby for a nap, even if that was only good for an hour or two before feeding the ravenous boy again. Her labor had been protracted but finally medically uncomplicated. That’s why they use the word labor, she reminded him, and if she hadn’t quite forgotten the experience, she also would not willingly bring it top of mind—though that epidural was a game-changer. Besides, look what her labors produced: a perfect baby boy, ten fingers, ten toes, eyes of steely, transfixing blue.
“You upset, Philip?”
He told himself not to cry in front of a woman who just gave birth.
She didn’t wish to explore his emotional state. It was fairly obvious, and she loved him for it.
“I’m really not,” he said, and turned his back to her as she sat exhausted at the table and sipped tea. “A boy needs his mom and his dad,” he said, to himself, but it was all right for Ruth to overhear.
He does, she communicated without saying a word, he really does.
“How can we do this, Ruth, and how can we possibly not do this?”
She stopped herself from slipping into therapist mode—she was done with that chapter of her life, at least as far as her relationship with Philip was concerned, but what was the new chapter to open in their mutual book? “All new families have challenges. We have ours, and they’re doozies.”
“We are a new family.” Fifty-percent question, fifty-percent declaration, one hundred-percent Philip Fitzgerald.
“We should give it a good shot.” It was worth trying, worth trying for their baby.
“Worth trying for all three of us.”
So there was a three of them.
“I am still a priest.”
“Yes, that’s right, a priest who is the father of a beautiful baby boy.”
“And a man who is in love with a woman named Ruth.”
“Who’s in love with you.”
“That makes it sound simple.”
“Who says there’s anything simple about love and family?”
“You think we should get married?”
“Are you about to take a knee?”
“I think I might, and if I did, would you say yes?”
“That depends on what you ask.”
“They are expecting me back at the diocese.”
She conceded that was likely the case.
“I don’t think I am going. I think I am staying here.”
She could tell he was caught in the crossfire of conflicting forces, but articulating them was the forerunner of actions, decisions. And yet, they had to be realistic. It would be a while before they could work out domestic arrangements, and it certainly would not be easy. There could be a while when he would be living in two places. But they knew that going in. And someday, so they hoped, they would put it all together. One home, one family, now and forever.
“I honestly don’t know if I can be a good father and husband. My track record is spotty.”
The therapist Ruth once used to be, and might be again, knew what she was supposed to do, to probe for meaning in his words, but she was not his therapist, never was, never would be. He was a man with secrets of his own, and flaws, some similar to hers, but she could live with them—and, she was hopeful, with him.
“You’re a good bet,” she said.
“Now you’re sounding like Frankie’s gambling dad.”
“Why do you mention her name?” There was some intensity to her words.
Philip never did answer her question, but for Ruth it had been a while since she reviewed in her mind that last session with Francesca, though in the immediate aftermath she replayed the memory of it over and over and over again. If she had not discontinued Frankie’s treatment, her own supervisor, to whom she had disclosed everything, would have put her foot down. But again, this was a long time ago, four months. Sixteen weeks is long enough to change the world, and since then, her world would never be the same. The day would come when Ruth and Francesca would revisit their individual relationships with Philip, and it would be an important day because the subject by then would have been rendered utterly irrelevant.
“Well,” Ruth said, “I have to imagine Frankie probably thinks you would be a great dad.”
“On the other hand, I could end up like my old man.”
“Well, I am clear on that one. You are definitely not Paddy Fitzgerald, Philip.”
“I’d probably be the last to know if I was.”
“You’re not, honey.”
“I want us to make a beautiful family.”
“Then we will, Philip, we will. When are we going to tell yours? The boy’s a Fitzgerald, after all.”
“Okay, about that,” he began.
—
Philip met Colleen the week before Ruth’s contractions began and her water broke as she stood in the shower, and after a speed-limit-violating race to the hospital, fifty miles away, twenty hours later, a baby.
He had taken his sister out for coffee, and at first opportunity, divulged. When by way of response she screamed with shock, everybody in the café practically jumped out of their chairs and jostled and spilled their lattes. Philip assumed that to be a shriek of joy. Then she hauled off and took a roundhouse swing, barely missing his nose as he bent back and away. He knew how to avoid a punch. Then, immediately, she threw her arms around his neck and laughed and cried, pretty much at the same time. Those are all the facets of what they grew up labeling the Full Fitzgerald.
She sat back violently and let loose a torrent. “You kept this all under your hat? Since when? Never mind, I can do the math. Due date? You in love? You better be. Tell me about her. How long have you known her? Will I like her and of course I will. Though the woman’s judgment is automatically suspect. Hooking up with the likes of you. And I’ve got just the book in mind for a prospective parent like you: What to Expect When a Fucking Moron Dad is Expecting.”
“Sounds like I could use that.”
There was so much ground to cover. Where to start? Philip issued the executive summary Ruth Report: all good with her and the baby kicking all night long to get out. Yes, and of course, he had deep feelings for her, of course he did. Yes, the two of them had history. Good history, mostly, he emphasized. One obvious, if secondary, subject loomed: Colleen asked if he were leaving the priesthood. Philip said he didn’t want to act precipitously.
“Oh, sure, precipitous would be ill-advised,” she said. “It’s not like your life is going to change or anything, because nobody is going to notice diaper bags and think anything weird about a crib in the rectory.”
“Wait a second, listen up, this gets interesting fast.” In sum, while Catholics were not generally aware of this, and many would be scandalized to be so informed, the Church was nothing if not nuanced when it came to the subject of priests and the children they fathered. They had centuries of practice in this regard, though nobody could put a verifiable number on how many priests and their children there currently were. Philip read around in the dusty ecclesiastical tomes and consulted with an old, retired priest in the next diocese over who was a canon lawyer. “Hypothetically,” he framed the issue for his friend, “what does canon law say about…” his situation?
“I’ll presume you’re asking for a scholarly friend, Philip.”
To Philip’s surprise, it turned out that canon law said…absolutely nothing. Though it did stipulate that priests’ children neglected by their priest fathers were the moral obligation of the Church. Which was also quite curious, and subtle. As he researched, he discovered that over and beyond the edicts, it had been determined by long-established practice conducted in the shadows of Chanceries everywhere that, in circumstances such as these, a man could and should be a good priest and a good father to his child, even if he had to take leave of his clerical duties—temporarily or perhaps permanently. Every situation would be different, every thus-conceived family would pose unique challenges. The priest in question may have betrayed his promise of celibacy, which was grave on its own terms. But he could be forgiven if he were repentant, and at the same time he would be unequivocally bound by his sacred promise to love and care for his offspring. But was Father Philip repentant? It depended on the day, sometimes a qualified yes, sometimes an affirmative no. Behind the scenes, ecclesiastical processes evidently kicked in, and financial considerations, too, he would bet, but everything took place securely sub rosa. But maybe not indefinitely.
“Heaven forfend!” said Colleen. “You aren’t implying Holy Mother Catholic Church is a racketeering operation, are you, Father?”
“You know who’s been causing a stink, Colly? Right, the Irish, go figure. They want to protect the kids, to make sure they are taken care of, and to lift the shroud of secrecy and shame.”
“Careful now, secrecy and shame are what totally make us Irish.”
“There’s gotta be a thousand kids with priests for dads in Ireland alone, they say, and who knows how many in America. Clearly, there’s no one-size-fits-all when it comes to how the Church regards them.”
“Now there’s a bloody shocker, the Irish! Always ready to throw down for a reason, even a good one. I want to be there to help when she delivers.”
“That’s so great, so Colleen of you, to offer. But I think we’ll do this on our own. We chose an OB/GYN out of town, and far from the diocese, and her hospital is where we’re going to deliver. That way nobody recognizes me. I hope. But that’s a chance we’re willing to take.”
To revisit her original question, no, Philip wouldn’t automatically be drummed out of his pulpit and ceremonially stripped of his Roman collar at sunrise. Once they found out about the baby, however, he’d be relieved of his clerical duties, almost certainly at least temporarily, so he could attend to his child. But where exactly did he stand, ultimately, with his child and with his Church? Time would tell. He would work this out, because—because he had no choice.
—
Philip had apprised Ruth of what struck her as arcane Church subtleties that ultimately amounted to insignificance now. Here was the simple truth overriding doctrine and politics: the baby boy right now swaddled in Father Philip’s ecstatic embrace. Monsignor Philip. She assumed Philip would do the obvious and right thing—the right thing by her and by their newborn child. In the moment, she was more concerned about something else: “I want to meet your sister. Have her come over, I can use the help. Can we count on Colly?”
“She’s on our side, she’ll hold her mud. She knows she has to keep this news inside the family tent, which is why I told her first. She’ll make every Fitzgerald take a blood oath of secrecy, to swear on our mother’s grave. And she’ll figure out how and when to break it to my dad that he’s finally getting the grandson he’s been waiting on forever. Only he probably didn’t imagine his dream would arrive courtesy of me.” He stopped himself—he’d hit the unintendedly off-key note. “Courtesy of us,” he clarified. “Because you know, never told you this other thing, Ruth, but when I held the baby the first time, I was seized by the strongest, strangest emotion, even as I was totally bowled over by the birth and being there with you. You know what else sneaked up on me, there in my green scrubs? It was about my dad. When the nurse handed me the child in the delivery room, that instant, I think I understood my father for the first time in my life.”
“Look at that,” she whispered, smiling in the direction of her little baby whose eyes were closed. “He’s dead to the world, so peaceful. You have the magic touch, Daddy. I think he likes you singing to him. You should do that all the time.” And she crashed down onto the couch, exhausted, as if she’d been shot. All she needed was a precious hour—if she were lucky, two. Please, she pleaded—to God and to Philip in case either was listening. And she fell into a deep, deep dream-drenched slumber.
Philip shuffled into the darkened hallway where it was cool and quiet, and he softly crooned while gently rocking his child: “Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full. One for my master, one for the dame, one for Donovan Fitzgerald who lives down the lane.”