Philip & Family
Two Years Later
Excellence, thank you for seeing me.” Philip didn’t add what he was thinking: And taking out time from marshalling your army of angels.
“Certainly, Monsignor.”
It was late morning when Philip met with Bishop Stanislaus Mackey, sitting across from each other in oversized armchairs in the dark red velvet parlor. This is where the bishop spent his private time for quiet reflection, and also where he took intimate, confidential meetings. Three incense-scented votive candles flickered on the credenza and dimly illuminated conversation and countenances. This is the special room where the bishop would sit with a family in mourning and commiserate, offering words of comfort and support, and more than words his silent presence, being with people in their abjection. Also a place where he would give personal counsel or express heartfelt gratitude. Sometimes a place to hear confession. Also where he would read, meditate, pray. And yes, of course, where the crowd of the bishop’s angels regularly congregated. No phone, no computer, no booklets or breviaries on the table; heavy crimson curtains, a spray of freesias, whose syrupy bouquet threatened to overwhelm him.
—
For Philip, this time, no tequila fortification. A three-month sabbatical he took after the birth—a break granted by the bishop predicated on false claims (fatigue, a need for rejuvenation, in other words: lies)—created valuable time and space for him and the family, but left him longing for more. By the time he met with Mackey, he had been living, somewhat incredibly, his secret life, whose effort required constant vigilance, and that all-consuming effort had taken its toll.
“This has to stop, Philip,” said Ruth more than once. “I can’t do this, I don’t want to be a single mom, I’m worn out waiting for you.”
Of course, once the Fitzgeralds had heard the unbelievable news, and after they recovered from the shock, the happy shock, they banded together, tightening their circle, keeping sacrosanct the secret, and furiously pitching in: babysitting, shopping, doctor’s visits, the entire gamut of baby world. Paddy couldn’t snap enough pictures, though he could not show them to anybody who wasn’t inside the family—for the time being, anyway. He was there every day. Along with Jonesy, he sat through the night with the infant boy when he fought off a series of withering ear infections, and no toy or pop-up book or cowboy sleepwear was left behind on the store shelf or the internet in his wake. Colleen and Caitlin were the unquestioned stars of the new Fitzgerald family show, and they stole as much time as they could away from Floozy’s. Ruth had bonded with those two women and relied upon them for love, company, assistance, especially during all those times when Philip could not sneak away, drawn out of the home sometimes for days at a time to keep his clerical obligations. In general, the Fitzgeralds were united in their campaign to help the baby and his mother—and to shield Philip for as long as was necessary—and joined together in a common, furtive, confidential resolve, which, truth be told, was not new territory for them. Many an afternoon, Donovan would run up and down the rolling grounds of Haymarket, happy as can be, his grandfather in close pursuit. The boy had a family.
“I mean it, Philip,” Ruth said with finality, “your family has been great, but this has to stop. When are you going to the bishop?”
Expert prevaricator Philip may have been, but he was now beyond exhausted living a lie that had become his truth, his doubled, his tripled, truth. That is, he was a father of a young boy and a mate to Ruth and he was a priest who had by sheer force of his will (or was it guilt?) maintained his duties nonetheless. Yet at the same time, he continually yearned for the relief of casting off this burden once and for all. It is well-known that there were more than a few rogue priests in Italy, South America, and elsewhere who maintained clandestine, thriving families while they served their parishioners faithfully. It was equally clear that Rome formally and unambiguously insisted upon priestly celibacy—and for the foreseeable future would continue to do so. The Church made room, however, for rare exceptions: such as Episcopalian priests who convert to Catholicism, who bring with them their families, not to mention Eastern Orthodox married priests. Whatever was going on elsewhere in the world, Philip couldn’t imagine indefinitely doing what he had been doing, even if he was at heart simultaneously a priest and unquestionably familied.
—
“Something’s on your mind, Monsignor?”
“I think the time has come, Excellence.”
He proceeded to tell Mackey everything.
—
But everything? After speaking without cease for ten minutes, it wasn’t quite everything. As far as Philip was concerned, nobody, not even this bishop, to whom he was answerable on multiple levels, needs or desires to know everything. And not everything is ever truly knowable. Yet it was enough, what Philip said, more than enough.
The bishop listened intently—he’d gotten progressively better at listening ever since the gala aftermath. He did not take notes, didn’t fixate on details, didn’t dwell on the historical sequencing of events and decisions and the systematic, sly abrogation of his priestly commitments, and didn’t interrogate him. The monsignor’s words seemed to settle heavily inside his chest. When Philip finished, Bishop Mackey sat back and closed his eyes. He looked as if he had been pelted by a hailstorm. He did have one important, to him, question, which he asked with his eyes reopened. “Why are you telling me this now, Monsignor?”
“You deserve the truth.”
“You and I both always deserved the truth, Philip, so I’m asking you again, why now?”
Why now? It was simple and it was anything but. Because Philip wanted to play catch with his son at the park. Because someday he wanted to go to dinner at a restaurant with Ruth and the boy. Because he wanted to do the right thing by Ruth and by his Family Fitzgerald. Because he was tired of keeping secrets. Because he wanted to open up the windows and the doors of his life and stand in the light of day. Because he wanted to tell the truth to someone, to everyone. And finally because now was as good a time as any to begin his new life, now, as a dad. That is what he told the bishop.
They sat in shared silence until the cathedral bells tolled eleven. Philip counted, and he would remember the bells whenever he remembered this moment with the bishop.
—
Despite what he had been told, and despite his heartbreak, Bishop Mackey had an important request. He asked Philip to officiate at the grand new school dedication ceremony. Yet another surprise on the part of
His Excellence.
“You would be perfect for the occasion. Truthfully, nobody else would do.”
Philip was stunned. “Excellence, respectfully. Let’s not be rash.” He referenced his reasonable supposition that everyone could one day soon be catching on, if they hadn’t already done so, as to his upended and notorious domestic circumstances, and also his worry he might sabotage if not sensationalize the proceedings, simply by virtue of being on the dais.
“I appreciate the element of risk, but we should take it, because it’s like what your own father, Paddy, says all the time. No risk, no reward, right? This will be a great day for the diocese, and for your family, and let’s not forget, there would be nothing to celebrate if it weren’t for the Fitzgeralds—all of the Fitzgeralds, including you, Philip. So I would be personally gratified if you would consider. If the occasion goes sideways, and if anybody takes the public relations hit, it will be me, and you know how little I concern myself with PR. After everything else that’s happened, that’ll be like rolling off a log. If I’ve learned anything about public opinion, it’s in the end not worth trying to engineer it. Time we do the right thing.”
Philip marveled and he doubted. He himself now played an indispensable part in doing the right thing? That’s what the bishop seemed to mean. Somebody as compromised as he? It was incredible, because the man’s message distilled into an affirmation of the bishop’s kindness toward his family and to him, personally. He pushed back half-heartedly:
“Do I have a choice?”
“God in His infinite wisdom and love bestowed upon us the gift of free will, so yes, each of us has a choice. You made your choice with your own life, and a rather major, consequential one at that. My choice consists of asking you to perform a task of some import. Yours, I hope, means accepting.”
The gift that was free will was a gift except for when we don’t have much of a choice, Philip considered. Some kind of infinite wisdom, the double-edged gift that whole free will thing was, something that had plagued the human race since the Garden of Eden, all the way up to now and especially for him. But as long as Mackey put it that way, he agreed to do what he was asked.
“And then, afterward?”
“Then,” Mackey said, and paused, weighing his words, “then the time will have come. You should take a leave of absence, go on retreat to ponder what awaits you, and when you return you and I will determine where you and all of us go from there.”
The bishop had no alternative to that course of action, and no reason to defer the inevitable any longer, and Philip understood Mackey all over again.
“You knew, didn’t you, Excellence. You knew all along.”
“To be clear, Monsignor, I gather this was no one-night stand. You have been keeping your fatherly obligations, caring for and loving your child, and looking to the child’s mother, correct? Even as you betrayed your promise of celibacy.”
Philip nodded, of course, yes.
“I’ll be praying for you, Philip, and your child and your child’s mother—for your whole family. A son needs a good father. Be a good father. You have sacred obligations to keep for your child and your child’s mother and your vocation. Which is why you sought me out today, to confess as much. I will facilitate your laicization if that’s the path to follow, and I will decide one way or the other upon my reflection. But whatever course we take, your primary obligation is to your child, priest or no. Because you are and will be, I don’t need to remind you, a priest as long as you live, and forever after.”
“I honestly don’t know what I should do, Excellence. I will take my retreat, with your permission, and hope to discuss this with you upon my return—again, with your gracious permission, of course.”
“Why don’t we pray together, for your family.”
Gravity pressed down upon him as never before and Monsignor Philip Fitzgerald dropped to his knees. He should have fallen already to his knees before Ruth. And a good father and a good priest? He wasn’t so sure he qualified on either score. But Philip couldn’t fault the bishop for praying for him and his family because, on the off chance it wasn’t too late, somebody should.
—
It was a glorious late-summer Saturday, and over a thousand had gathered on the stately, open quad of the gleaming new campus still very much in progress. Fitzgeralds were conspicuously present, guests of honor, along with other donors as well as the usual cast of local dignitaries, politicians, and clergy. Construction was not completed, but an astonishing amount of work had been accomplished, more than anybody might have hoped for, and there were more than adequate facilities for students and teachers when the school year began in a few weeks. The site planners and architects and construction crew had been fortunate. The weather had cooperated and as a result few work days had been squandered. There were still Bobcats and one crane grazing on the land, and the science building was not yet finished, and neither was the library—though it wouldn’t be long before everything would be. The football field was freshly sodded, too, and between the goal posts and before the shiny grandstands it radiated a verdant glow. School would be opening its doors officially, and welcoming soon the entire school community. First day of school would take place a week later than they had initially planned, but in plenty of time for the academic year to begin before Labor Day.
Bishop Mackey approached the microphone at the podium on the makeshift stage before the new main school building and, after a few kindly words of welcome, he introduced Monsignor Philip Fitzgerald, who then stepped forward. He spoke slowly, self-confidently, without notes.
“Thank you all for being here on such a spectacular, gorgeous day. We all feel blessed to be in attendance. I’m myself honored to be here in a double, or triple capacity. First, as representative of the diocese and at the pleasure of Bishop Stanislaus Mackey, whose vision has inspired us every step of the way. Second, and very significant to me, as a representative of my father, Padraic Fitzgerald. His generosity has shown us all what it means to step up and fill the need. He has made possible, he along with a legion of fantastically generous donors, our beautiful new campus. Thank you, thank you, thank you, one and all. There will be many occasions in our future when we can celebrate you. I can also never forget that I’m also here as representative of my family, gathered here today, including those no longer with us in this world.”
He stopped himself, a little catch in his throat. His chest expanded and his shoulders lifted, then he exhaled. He looked out across the assemblage, and he would make systematic eye contact with each and every one of the Fitzgeralds in the course of his little speech. His family didn’t have the latest details, but they all knew Philip’s days as a priest in the diocese would become more complicated still, as how could they not be? Ruth was there, too, with his and her young child, on the fringes, trying to keep up with him as he scuttled around, marching headlong into his terrible twos, indifferent to any ceremonies or remarks, including by his daddy looming in the distance. Ruth would make certain the boy would not run into his father’s arms, and she would foreshorten their stay at the festivities, to take no chances.
Francesca herself was swept up in the moment, scanning the campus and trying to recall where it was on the twenty-five acres that she and Paddy drank the Brunello the day they laid the foundation of the deal that eventuated in today. If she had to guess, she would say they had conferred right over there, between the chapel and the cafeteria, where somebody planted a dozen mature, beautiful olive trees—something done, she would have surmised, at Paddy’s behest. And that’s where there was a small flat headstone to commemorate Dickens, who died in his sleep, forever a hero and her unforgettable, sweetest dog.
“We are all elated and humbled to witness what we, with God’s blessing, have created: a new school, a school that has been remade. You know, a school is a remarkable place. Here’s how remarkable. It’s where the marvelous happens every day, and that is certainly true for our school. I suppose it’s tempting to take for granted the goodness of a good school, but we know better. We know how far we have come to reach this point. A good school opens the heart and illuminates the mind, it reveals the workings of the fantastic creation that is our world, that is our earthly home for a while. There is nothing more sacred than the bond between a teacher and a student, a school and all the students. That’s where the work of redemption and the love happen. His Excellence Bishop Mackey has caused a miracle to happen, and it’s on par with the everyday miracle that takes place in a school.”
He couldn’t quite focus on the faces of Matty and Colleen, since they were far off in the distance, at the edge of the crowd, in the vicinity of the new gym. They were making their usual sort of statement, setting themselves apart from everybody else. They were Molleen and Catty, after all, the embodiment of the Afterthoughts, with no Claire in evidence. All he could glean this far away was that his brother, now that the loyalty oath was a dead-letter issue, was about to open his new classroom and continue teaching, only now as a department chair, and was staring down at the ground while his sister was peering up into the bluest of skies.
“The lessons learned at Holy Family High—well, our students carry them with themselves out into their lives, into their own families. They are all changed, and changed for the better. Same is true for our teachers, for our administrators, for our parents and families.”
As for Philip’s father, Paddy was flanked on one side by Caitlin, whose arm was locked around his jubilantly, assertively, and on the other side by Jonesy, whose range of emotional expression was ragged but unlimited and who had never signaled anything other than unease when it came to Monsignor Philip, now holding forth up there and therefore vexing him. Jonesy had the idea, and not for the first time, that in another life he himself might have become a man of the cloth, and he would definitely be a better one than the priest at the podium polluting the air with his vainglorious words. And then, in quick succession, Jonesy laughed away that fantasy on the grounds it was ridiculous; if he had lived another life, he fully expected he would conduct himself in the same fashion all over again as before. As for Caitlin, her retrieved watch safe on her wrist, she was appropriately dressed for the occasion, chic and understated: a white linen pantsuit with blue silk scarf and a floppy blue hat shading her and shielding her fair complexion from the depredations of the merciless sun. Her physician had been stressing that she should take care, after calling her attention to some curious, early-stage dermatological changes that they would follow up on and vigilantly monitor.
Paddy looked over toward Ruth and smiled to see his grandson playing in the threaded shadows afforded by the shimmering, glimmering fifty-year-old olive trees he had imported and planted, trees that would stand there, like the school, for generations, for let’s say forever as far as Paddy was concerned. And as Philip’s boy scampered about, his own beautiful grandson, whom he had once lost hope ever to know, he recalled the wisdom of the Italians he lived by. Credit them for testifying that you plant grapevines for your children, olive trees for your grandchildren. Here at least Paddy got this one thing right. And in some awkward and strange and roundabout way, his son Philip had as well. Yes, it was a slight risk to have the child there, and the Fitzgeralds were unified and prepared to keep the boy distracted.
Paddy and Jonesy O’Dell exchanged a quick look and did not specify what they were both thinking, namely that near where Philip was standing and holding forth, under the earth beneath his feet, was the final resting place of somebody whose name nobody summoned to mind. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” Jonesy often reminded anyone who would listen, a man who gave in to sentimentality when it came to poetry but nowhere else, “but not the weak, for they are toast.”
“And finally, let me say, today my family also remembers my late beloved brother Anthony, alumnus of Holy Family, someone whose memory burns brightly every single day for the Family Fitzgerald, for me, and particularly for his cherished wife, Francesca. Anthony embodied all that is great about Holy Family High, and still does. So I am here as witness to the example of my brother’s noble, virtuous life, whose impact we all feel and whose memory graces us forever. Ladies and gentlemen, all of us who love Holy Family High, it’s now time to formally dedicate and bless this building.” Then he cued Bishop Mackey. “Excellence?”
The bishop was brief, and to the point: “The new Holy Family High School is now open, and God bless the school and God bless all of us!” And out of the line of sight somebody—it was Baxter—pulled down the rectangular white tarp covering the bronze plaque mounted prominently above the entrance door, so large and imposing that everyone within a hundred yards could read it.
ANTHONY FITZGERALD HALL
Honor Faith Heart Service
Holy Family High School
Francesca gasped—she had had no inkling, which was Philip’s and Paddy’s intention. Her body shuddered with tearful, fierce joy and sadness mixed and brutally reconciled.
The school band struck up the alma mater, largely on key, as the red-and-white Holy Family High School banner unfurled from the building rooftop and fluttered on account of the cross breezes and the exuberant exhalations of the crowd.
—
“Thank you, Philip,” said Francesca and clasped both his hands in hers. “What a beautiful occasion, Anthony would be so proud.” She noticed the tears welling in his reddened eyes.
He didn’t bother to articulate what he was thinking. All the buildings in the world, all the cathedrals, all the schools, all the museums, all the bridges, wouldn’t make up for Anthony’s not being there. He didn’t need to say as much, it was obvious.
“Your dad looked emotional, you should check in with him.”
In due time, he would. “I’m glad to see you here, Frankie.”
“Tesoro, how could I not be?”
“My dad and Mackey agreed on the naming, but they vowed to keep it secret till today.”
In response, her speechlessness was, as ever, eloquent.
Philip scanned faces nearby. She was unaccompanied. “Tommy?”
“Hard to explain. Maybe not. We were not meant to be. Story of my life. Ever since Anthony.” In this way, she glancingly touched on her and Philip’s history.
Funny how Francesca and Philip existed in a separate place exempt from the reach of the milling crowd, as, in truth, they always did.
“Miss you, Frankie.”
“Me, too, but.”
“I know, I know.”
“We both know.” She took a risk: “Are you going to get married?”
Philip half-expected the question, but he didn’t have an answer for her today.
—
Francesca wandered off as an elderly gentleman in a motorized wheel-chair approached with zeal and determination, rakish green silk scarf boldly, and somewhat improbably, looped around his neck, as he came to a halt before Philip’s feet.
“Your eloquence, Father, your pure Fitzgerald eloquence moved me. Because Anthony Fitzgerald, if you will permit me to say, Father, now there was a blood,” he said, chest heaving, teeth clenched. “A savage lawyer, a mortal savage, an attorney who held his mud, smart and fair and honest and totally devoid of bullshit, excuse the expression, Father. And you are his brother.”
“Honored to meet you, sir.”
“Sorry to say, you and I met once, and I’m sad to note, at the cemetery, Father Philip, on that terrible day of interment.”
“Remind me, you knew him how, sir?”
“From Limerick Jewelry & Loan, not that he was a client of my establishment. I was his client. Name’s Slip McGrady, I’m the one honored to be here today, amongst the venerable Fitzgerald clan. Ask me, they should name the whole damn school after him, my alma mater, too, and then the town and after that the courthouse as well, because maybe justice would prevail at least somewhere in our godforsaken land. All babies born from now on should be named Anthony. I’ve been drinking today, but no matter. Best lawyer I ever knew, and trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share, so I should know, but you know what, he was even a better man. I miss him to this day. And he could talk, Mother Mary, I loved to hear the man talk. What I admire in a lawyer—what I admire in a man—is a man who finishes his damn sentences. Lots of men start sentences and don’t know how to finish them. They trail off. The old dot, dot, dot. But start a sentence, finish a sentence! And see this scarf? I admired it on him one fine day, and he was a clothes horse in his bespoke super two-hundred-thread-count suits, and he said his loving wife gave the scarf to him, and I don’t know why he did, but he took it off and gave it to me, just like that.”
“That is a very fine scarf indeed, Mr. McGrady.” He was thinking of getting one like it to give Caitlin, who fancied her scarves.
But Slip McGrady, inspired, took that as his prompt to remove Anthony’s scarf from his own neck and, saying nothing further, hand it over to Philip. He accepted the garrulous man’s gift—a gift that also importantly to him originated with Frankie—and solemnly draped his brother’s scarf around his own neck. A reluctant tear rolled down his cheek.
“Oh, and Father Philip, if you’re ever in the market for a fine timepiece for your wrist, it’s Limerick Jewelry & Loan, you know where we are downtown, you could not have missed my billboards. Why, I’ll personally never forget when your distinguished father, Mr. Fitzgerald, deigned to enter my store some years ago. He was looking for a special watch for a lady friend, he said. Man, he picked out a beauty, Piaget, practically new, sixty, seventy-grand retail, but with respect I gave him a deal. Much later on, circumstances afforded me the chance to assist him when this watch was briefly, dishonestly, out of his possession. In the spirit of today, Father, I invite you please to come take your pick of a timepiece, Cartier, Rolex, Omega, Panerai, whatever you fancy, be my guest, on me, if your vow of poverty permits, of course, but since it’s on me, why should the Holy See in Rome find that a problem? Just ask for Slip, which is me.”
“Rome, I’m sure, has more important business on its hands, and that’s quite a temptation, sir.”
“I’m practiced at temptation, Father, and a man my age who did a year in the clink wastes not a single minute of his time left on earth. Don’t forget. Slip McGrady. Limerick Jewelry & Loan.”
Slip McGrady was nodding and sadly smiling as he wheeled away, soon to be swallowed up by the throng that parted to grant him unimpeded passage.
—
Years before that commemoration, Francesca could not help herself. She had unsuccessfully struggled to make peace over where she left it with Ruth during that wrenching last session a few months earlier. So she reached out and pleaded to meet with her, and her former therapist agreed.
As they drank tea at a café on the campus of Saint Monica’s College, Francesca acknowledged she had crossed the line with Ruth, as she had crossed so many lines with so many others in her life, but in that wretched moment this one mattered more. She had to admit that she regretted her behavior. She guessed Ruth was pregnant with Philip’s child, and Ruth confirmed yes.
“If you were still my great therapist, we’d have many sessions on that subject,” Francesca said.
“Oh, Frankie. If I were ever a great therapist, we wouldn’t have any sessions. Sorry, that sounds wrong, but I am at a loss these days.”
“Eight months now?”
“Of course, the baby, the boy means everything to me.”
“A boy, marvelous. And he means everything to Philip, too, I’m sure.”
“I am sure of that, usually I am sure of that, yes.”
When two women like Francesca and Ruth share a history they cannot quite share, and feel a bond that disappointment cannot rend and truth cannot change, they might always have much, if not too much, to say to each other. There existed no perfect launch point or landing spot for the conversation they would have for the rest of their lives, and no prospect of ever returning to where they once had been. Such would be the case from now on for the two of them, and for all touched by the Fitzgeralds.
Francesca was curious if they had selected a name.
“Philip wants Donovan. Gaelic for ‘dark chieftain.’”
“Name like that, the boy will fit right in.”