Chapter 24

Father McCarrick was not happy. Monday was his day to sleep late, but the growl of a diesel engine woke him early. He curled his bedroom window shade back with a finger. A news van was parked out front, its lazy-looking driver puffing smoke out the crack of an open window. Needed a shave, McCarrick could tell from here. He had a mind to call the police if that’s all Smokey was going to do, loiter and despoil the environment. The driver had already flipped three butts onto Summer Street.

Another truck pulled up behind, this one with the ungrateful Jewish girl, still scratching that jet-black mop of hers. Bugs, probably.

Two more vans. Men drifted out and slammed car doors, explosions in the early morning stillness. They were in no hurry to approach the Jew. Couldn’t blame them—head lice were highly contagious.

Disappointing really. If this was all St. Ambrose’s had drawn, small fleet of rusted white vans with rainbow-colored letters of local news stations—

Wait. The newcomers turned to the sound of rolling thunder, and stared down Summer Street. A behemoth crept toward them. A gigantic truck, gray dishes sitting on its rooftop, giant salad bowls aimed at heaven. No four-letter W call letters on this monster. A Network. The big time. Three familiar letters graced the side of the van, large and proud. Damn the Olympics, Super Bowls, Hollywood murder trials. The Church of St. Ambrose was center stage today, and its story required satellites.

Movement on the left. Father Spinelli stood in the driveway, hand shading eyes from the sun, tight curls rising from the back of his hairy paw. He headed toward the trucks.

McCarrick ran downstairs, twisted the knob on the rectory front door, and threw it open.

Father Spinelli was standing in front of the church, arms spread like Christ the Redeemer.

“The church is closed, ladies and gentlemen. Schedule of Masses is on the sign. Confessions are on Saturday.”

Not a very welcoming Redeemer.

“Why is it closed?” Debbie Feldman asked, drawing out the word ‘closed’ as if only she knew how to pronounce it. “What are you hiding, Father?”

Microphones blossomed and others joined in, slowly advancing.

“Is the statue still crying?”

“Has the Vatican been notified?”

They stepped forward and Spinelli shuffled back, arms outstretched as if he could somehow contain the crowd.

McCarrick strode across the lawn between them and joined Spinelli.

“This is public property,” a gray-haired man with a tie said, loud and clear. “Taxpayers paid for this church.”

Father Spinelli lowered his hands and cupped them in front of him as if he were holding an infant. “Taxpayers? No they didn’t. Parishioners paid for the church, along with The Holy See—ˮ

“He’s right,” McCarrick bellowed in his best Sunday-sermon voice. “St. Ambrose’s is a church of the people.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Father Spinelli sputtered.

“Just go with it,” McCarrick muttered. “Who knows who paid for the church, Frank? Happened a hundred years ago, for Christ’s sake. This is television. Truth is irrelevant.”

A man in jeans and a parka ran around them and tried the front door. Locked.

“The door is locked,” Father Spinelli said. “Don’t bother trying.”

Mrs. Blodgett suddenly appeared. “Father Spinelli, you just have to jiggle the knob. Lock’s broken, remember?”

McCarrick smiled as the crowd surged past the priests, yanked the door open, and jostled to get inside. Most looked like laborers—hairy, unkempt. A few were well dressed—two men, one woman—their arms held high against the crowd, a clever maneuver to guard perfect hair and stretch handsome suits and dress so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

They poured inside, equipment knocking against ancient doorframes and pews. They shouted, barked orders, and smoked cigarettes in the cold, dry church. Debbie Feldman led the irreverent army to the Madonna and they dropped equipment on the floor. Two of them leaned back against the communion rail, fat asses resting on the red leather. One dabbed his cigarette butt in a votive candle.

The priests were close behind, a noisy caboose.

“This is private property,” Father Spinelli yelled to the crowd.

“Not really, Frank.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Certainly sounds like arguing to me, Frank.”

Mrs. Blodgett held the door, unable to step inside. Thick black cables were being dragged into St. Ambrose’s from the big van. They coiled, curled, and straightened like striking snakes, whipsawed the gritty floor, hissed as they slid. She waited patiently and stepped lively through the entrance when the wires finally stilled.

Blinding light shone on the Madonna. A technician had found an electrical outlet, plugged in, and turned a bleaching bulb on the Blessed Mother. Mary didn’t look so good. The cracks in her face looked like wrinkles. They even laced her pink and blue robe.

Father Spinelli searched the side altar, found the plug, and pulled. That light died, but another came to life instantly. He scrambled to find the outlet and stubbed his foot on the pedestal under the statue.

A news anchor shrugged himself ready. Cameras rolled. Polished speech filled the church.

Father McCarrick folded his arms and turned to his housekeeper. His deliberate murmur seemed unnecessary given the hubbub.

“Lots of activity.”

“Yes, Father.”

“We need to support St. Ambrose’s.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Are you prepared?”

“I am.”

A skinny blonde holding a microphone waved a bony hand at McCarrick. He waved back, and she crooked her finger and beckoned him.

He shot his cuffs and squared his shoulders.

“Then get back to the kitchen and do your magic, Mrs. Blodgett. They look like a hungry bunch.”