William Kienzle - The Greatest Evil

Father Vince Delvecchio had barely learned his way around the chancery when Monsignor Shanahan called in sick. Lacking the seniority to remain fixed in his fledgling position, Delvecchio was up for grabs.

He had been at work less than an hour today when he was called to the chancellor’s office.

“Vince,” Monsignor Jake Donovan said in his typically brisk manner, “Shanahan threw a shoe. Laid up. We’re short on the boss’s floor. Think you can handle it? Fine!” Donovan never waited for an answer when issuing a rhetorical command. “Go on down there and do a shallow dive. You’ll catch on before you know what’s happening.” Oblivious of the Irish bull, Donovan pressed on. “Anyway, Shanahan should be back in no time; how long does it take to beat a cold anyway?” He didn’t wait for answers to rhetorical questions either. “There’s a good man.”

Thus was Delvecchio dismissed to learn another trade.

He took no tools with him as he left the fifth floor. He had no idea what he’d need. As he entered the elevator, he noticed his name on the list of those the operator was allowed to deposit on the second floor. He reflected that he had received this assignment only seconds ago and already his name was in the Book of Life. Sometimes the mills of the Church did grind swiftly.

The foyer of “the boss’s floor” was a long rectangle with some doubtful art on the walls. At the far end of the foyer, in a partially enclosed work space, was the receptionist. Delvecchio knew her name. Jan Olivier. That was about the extent of his familiarity with the sacred second floor.

Beyond Jan’s station was an office. Mine, he thought. Temporarily, he hoped.

At the left of his office, the foyer turned a ninety-degree angle leading to the archbishop’s office. He couldn’t see that portion of the foyer, but he’d visited Boyle in his office more than once.

Hands jammed in trouser pockets, Delvecchio made his way along the carpeted floor. Reaching the receptionist’s station he turned to face her.

She smiled. “We’ve been expecting you, Father.”

His expression was grim. “I didn’t expect to see me down here.”

She laughed lightly. “We don’t bite. The archbishop wanted to see you when you arrived. I’ll tell him you’re here. Go right in.”

As he turned to enter Boyle’s office, Delvecchio heard Jan, in a low tone, announce his arrival.

He knocked; a firm voice with soft brogue overtones invited him in.

Delvecchio entered the spacious office with its broad windows overlooking Washington Boulevard. Boyle rose and extended his hand as he circled his desk.

Delvecchio took the proffered hand and began to genuflect as he leaned forward to kiss the episcopal ring. Gently, Boyle pulled him erect.

That’s right, thought Delvecchio, Boyle represented the new breed that was changing the changeless Church, even down to innocent conventions such as reverencing the ring.

Delvecchio didn’t learn much from Boyle about the duties of secretary to the archbishop. Except that the receptionist would help him. But not to depend on her too much; she had her own duties to attend to.

So, Delvecchio concluded as he left the archbishop’s office, it was he, a simple priest, and Jan Olivier against the world. He didn’t like the odds.

In fact, if anyone wanted to know-but apparently no one did-he was not happy about this entire adventure. It was grossly unfair to thrust him into this new position with no briefing, let alone training.

It didn’t matter. When Delvecchio was ordained, the bishop had enclosed the young priest’s hands in his own and said solemnly, Promitis mihi et successoribus meis reverentiam et obedientiam? (“Do you promise to me and my successors reverence and obedience?”) And the new priest had replied, Promito.

This was going to test that promise.

He returned to the foyer. There seemed little point in going into his office; he didn’t know what to do there.

Jan was on the phone. She raised a finger, indicating she would be with him in a moment. And she was. “I’m supposed to teach you everything you need to do this job”-she smiled understandingly-“… right?”

He nodded.

“The problem with that,” she said, “is time: I haven’t got the time you need. And you’re wondering what to do right now, aren’t you?”

Again he nodded.

“Well, here’s what I think maybe a help …” She led the way into his office, where she picked up a small pile of phone messages from his desk. “This,” she said, “is the most urgent business. These are requests for … varying things. Most of them are calls from priests. Most of them want an appointment with the archbishop. Some of them have scheduled confirmation services at their parishes.. Of course each pastor wants the archbishop himself to conduct his service at his parish-”

“That’s impossible, right?” Even though Delvecchio had never been a pastor, it was patently obvious that if Boyle personally conducted confirmations at all the parishes that wanted him, that would take up just about all his evenings throughout the year.

Also, Delvecchio had been exposed to enough parish politics to know that it was not reverence, respect, or love of Boyle that motivated nearly everyone to want him for confirmation. No, they all just wanted to be known as important enough to rate the supreme arch-diocesan boss.

“Yes, that’s impossible,” Jan agreed. “So, when you return this type of call, you need to assure the pastors that late next month the schedule of which bishops go where for confirmations will be drawn up. ‘Every effort will be made at that time’”-her delivery made it obvious that this was the appropriate jargon-“‘to have the archbishop come to your parish.’”

“What,” he asked, “will that accomplish?”

“Buy time. It’s the best we can do now. The bit about drawing up the schedule in late December is for real.”

Delvecchio fingered through the phone messages. By no means were all or even most messages concerning who would come to confirm. “What about all the rest of these?”

Jan shook her head. “I’ve gone over them with Archbishop Boyle. I have little marks next to the phone numbers. All of those little marks mean something …” She shook her head as he started to ask. “… but it’s too complicated to go into right now.” She looked at him pointedly. “You may not think so, but just returning the confirmation queries will pretty much fill the rest of the day.”

“Really?” He found that hard to believe.

“You don’t know how tenacious some of these pastors can be. Some of them feel that having an auxiliary bishop is a negative commentary on their parochial work. They’ll chew your ear off to get some sort of special consideration.”

Maybe, thought Delvecchio. But I don’t think they’ll get much chance to chew these ears. “When do I learn what your shorthand stands for on the other messages?”

Jan bit her lower lip. “That’s a good question. There just isn’t time during office hours. How about this evening?”

“I’ve got a couple of appointments. But I can postpone them. How about if we meet at my residence? I have an office in the rectory.”

“You could be interrupted by phone calls,” Jan reminded.

He winced and nodded.

“How about dinner out?” she suggested.

“I’ve never been able to stick to business in a restaurant. Taking notes while eating seems incompatible.”

Jan shrugged. “Then it’s got to be my place. I’ve got a first-floor apartment in a large complex in Warren.”

Delvecchio hesitated. This was solus cum sola- one on one. The only time thus far he’d been alone with a woman was in a safe situation … under correct, even if not chaperoned, circumstances. Except when he was bringing Communion to a shut-in he’d never been alone with a woman in her apartment.