35

The kitchen was quaint and lovely. The tea pot and cups were antique and lovely. Even the date crumbles and homemade chocolate chip cookies on the plate were sweet and lovely. Father Cooke thought everything in Sister Pius’s house was just lovely.

She poured the tea and sat at the table next to him. “Sister, I didn’t know where else to go.” His big hands were still shaking.

“It’s Kathie,” she reminded him, and he looked at her like he didn’t know what she was saying. “My name is Kathie.” She sipped her hot tea. “That’s my real name, and it’s what I go by now, not Sister Pius.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m just not thinking. He didn’t realize that he had put on his fisherman’s cap backwards until he arrived at her house and took it off.

“Are you cold?” Kathie was concerned about him. She had watched the interview but wasn’t going to bring it up until he did.

“No. I am fine. It’s nerves.” He used two hands to steady his cup. “The house looks great. It feels like a home.” He looked around the kitchen. “A really good home.”

She looked around, taking note of all the renovations she wanted to make. “I need to update the cupboards. They were built with the house over a hundred years ago. I’m scared to death when I think about what I am going to find behind those old plaster walls,” she laughed. “Could be hundred-year-old copper pipes or the corpse of an old pirate. I think I would prefer the pirate.” They both gave a small chuckle, knowing they were just stalling before the real conversation took place.

“Did you watch my interview?” Father Cooke laid the porcelain cup on the table.

“Yes, I did.” She felt so sorry for him.

“What did you think?” He valued her opinion on everything.

“You were ambushed. Simply put. Ambushed. That reporter was trying to make a name for herself at your expense.” She was angry that someone would treat such a kind, decent man that way.

“I was inexperienced. I should have been more prepared.” His hands began to shake again.

“There’s no one more knowledgeable on Wormwood, or the church, or even God, for that matter, than you. She took advantage of your kind heart.” Kathie was disgusted with the way the reporter had spoken down to him.

“I watched The Bells of St. Mary’s last night. I thought I could be Father O’Malley, saving the church while singing a fine tune.” He still had a boyish charm about him.

“Does that make me Sister Mary Benedict? I always thought I looked like Ingrid Bergman,” she said, touching a hand to her cheek and striking a movie-star pose.

Father Cooke joined his hands together on the table as if in prayer. “I didn’t see it coming. I’m afraid to go back to the rectory. There will be quite a few people waiting to make fun of me.” He was embarrassed and sad.

“Then make fun of them back,” she scoffed. “Ask them what they have done throughout their careers that gave people back their hope, their dignity . . . their church?”

“I didn’t think this through. I didn’t see beyond the news conference. I know that’s hard to believe, but I honestly thought I would bring this disease to light, tell people God was not only listening but responding to their prayers, and they would come back to the church and we would start over.” He sighed. “That would be the end of it.”

“I believe you, Peter. I know you don’t have a bad bone in your body.” She was sincere and had always had a soft spot for him. “You walked into a hornet’s nest, and you got stung.”

They both sipped their tea, deep in thought.

“So, what’s your next move?” She poured him another cup.

“Some remote cove in Labrador after the Holy Father sees that interview.” His future seemed more uncertain now than ever.

She laid down her cup. “Peter, that’s not what I meant. What is your next move. You have to do something to fix this mess.”

“Like what? I’m a laughingstock now.”

“You’re an excellent priest, probably the best I have ever known. You believed when you held that news conference that God had a plan for you, right?”

He nodded.

“Do you think God has changed His mind? Do you think He has given up on you?”

“Then maybe God should have sent me on a media course before He put me in front of a live camera.”

“Well, that’s where you start.” Kathie stood up and took a notepad and pen out of a drawer. “Let’s make your list of demands.”

“Am I the hostage, or are they?” She was beginning to see a glimpse of her old friend in his eyes.

“Right now, you’re both. You need to go back to the rectory with a list of things you need to do your job. If you want to solve a problem, you must find a solution you can live with, otherwise they will give you a solution that you can’t live with.” She knew the archbishop’s staff would be scrambling just as Father Peter was. “Well, first they need to send you away for media training. And not some one-day course. It should be one that is in-depth and deals with issues specific to the church.”

Father Cooke wrote down every word.

“Then you need a communications assistant who will help you. One that will work with reporters and build a relationship. They should go to all interviews with you to keep you on track and take notes.”

“Are you interested in the job?” he asked seriously.

“Maybe. I do have an honours degree in English and a master’s in communications.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m a teacher. I did go to university to learn to teach,” she scoffed. “When I was finished my degree, I realized how much I liked learning, so I kept going. Doing courses here and there. Pretty soon I had my master’s.”

He shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“I will help you put together a proper communications strategy, and you go back to present it to the archbishop.”

“I answer to Rome now, not the archbishop, and that’s what I’m afraid of.” He felt like a fool. “They must think I’m a buffoon! Just some local hack who bit off more than he could chew.”

“Rome has made their own mistakes, don’t worry. Let’s go with a ‘those without sin throw the first stone’ on that one,” she teased. “Peter, before we spend the next two hours writing this up, tell me up front—what do you want?”

“I want this to go away. I want to do it over and be more prepared.” The anger was evident in his eyes.

“You can’t make it go away. You’ll just have to roll with this one. Promise yourself that you’ll be more prepared next time.” Kathie put her cup down and asked again, “In the beginning, what did you want?”

“I wanted the Church to say they were sorry for the hurt they caused. I wanted them to expel pedophile priests. I wanted people to come back to the Church and let God in their lives again.” Tears were stinging the corners of his eyes. “I never wanted fame or to be a celebrity. I wanted to have a full Church on a Sunday morning.”

She pitied him. She knew he was telling the truth. They rolled up their sleeves, and a few hours later he had a communications strategy and an action plan he could live with. He hated to leave Kathie’s kitchen. He felt safe there. But he knew he had to face the music. He put on his coat and hugged her goodbye.

“Hey, Father O’Malley!” She tossed his hat at him. “Don’t forget your cap.”

* * * * *

Father Cooke felt much better going into the archbishop’s office with a plan. The look on the archbishop’s face told him he was still angry and not in a very forgiving mood.

“What happened? Were you daydreaming? Did you have a stroke?”

Father Cooke sat back and waited for the tirade to end.

“I’m hoping it was a stroke. We could all just pray for you and find you a nice little convalescent home where you can live out your years.” The archbishop was grinding his teeth at this point. “Because I have to come up with a good reason why you lost your bloody mind on national television!”

“I was ambushed,” Father Cooke tried to explain. “I was told it would be pre-taped and edited for a later newscast. Things were changed at the last minute. I was given a choice of walking off and the camera following me, or staying and doing an interview. So, I stayed. Then she kept changing the subject and I got off course. I will do better next time, I promise.”

“You think there’s a next time? Why did you have to start this in the first place?” The archbishop was so angry and frustrated he couldn’t contain it.

Father Cooke very calmly began. “I started this because I was sick of getting up Sunday morning to preach to less than a dozen people. I was tired of children crossing the streets rather than walk next to me because they have been warned to ‘stay away from priests.’” An internal anger rose in his heart, and it hurt. “I started this because I wanted to be a priest, and I still do. I still believe in this Church.” He leaned forward and pointed his finger at the archbishop. “Isn’t that what you want? Don’t we want the same thing?”

The archbishop sat back, joining his fingers over his belly. After a few seconds he said, “Peter we have something in common.”

“We do?”

“We both started at the same place. We both started as young men in seminary school with dreams of serving God in whatever capacity He asked. We both walked away from having a wife and a family so we could serve the Lord. We both know how lonely that can be.” He rubbed his temples with his fingers to try and push away the pain. “Peter, we both want the same thing. Don’t look at me like I am the enemy.”

Father Cooke bowed his head and thought for a few minutes. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the communications strategy and action plan that Sister Pius, or Kathie, had helped him write. “Read this, please.”

The archbishop picked it up and started speed-reading through the material. A trick he had mastered in university. It seemed like an eternity before he laid it back on his desk and looked at Father Cooke.

“This is brilliant!” he shouted. “This is what you should have done from the beginning. You needed a plan.”

Father Cooke was happy he had stopped by to see Kathie before the archbishop. The other way around could have proved detrimental to his career.

“Let me make some calls. The first thing we need to do is get you on a plane to the Vatican, where you can work with their public affairs department and get you the training and experience you need.”

“Won’t that take months?”

“I don’t care how long it takes. If we are going to do this, we’re going to do it right. This debacle . . .” He pointed toward the TV. “. . . will never happen again.”

Father Cooke felt a whole lot better coming out of the archbishop’s office than he had going in. As he passed lay staff and other priests in the halls on the way back to his room, he received only words of encouragement and praise.

He realized that if he wanted to get his point across, he needed to turn to a higher power—the Vatican spin doctors. The next morning, he was packed and on an early-morning flight to Rome, where he would learn to tell an old story a new way.