William Kienzle - Chameleon

“Sure. Although I don’t think it’s as bad where I am. By and large, most of our Catholics-at least the ones who still go to church-match the somewhat advanced age of the clergy. We are all precouncil people. So we tend to put as many of the changes as possible out of our minds as well as out of our liturgies.”

“Well, that’s not the case up here, Ralph.”

“I know. I know that. But for heaven’s sake, Larry, you’re talking about murder. That’s a whole lot more than just being a disinterested, disgusted, or even an angry Catholic.”

“It’s strange, I admit, even incredible, but it seems to many of us-it seems to me-that’s exactly what’s going on.”

“I find that hard to believe, frankly. But if that’s what you people think, all the more reason for you to come on down. You know our routine for vacations. Nothing evil can happen to you down there.”

“I know that well. That’s why I’ve been trying to convince him to go. But I think he feels his place is here now while danger threatens. The Irish have a phrase, an bearna baol -the gap of danger. It’s the spot where the bravest position themselves to take the brunt of any attack. You know Mark. You know he’s not the type to run from danger. Just the opposite.”

“Yes, I know. But even if you’re right, there’s nothing stopping you from coming down. Hell, you’re retired. You can spend as much time as you want wherever you want.”

“I can’t leave him, Ralph. I know there’s not much I can do to help or protect him. But I can’t leave him. Not now.”

Higgins shrugged. “If you can’t, you can’t. But we’ll keep your rooms cool and ready.” He was giving up reluctandy, bowing to inevitability. He glanced at his watch. “I guess it’s time for me to be getting out to the airport.”

“So soon? I was going to ask you about old John Gordon. Is he still helping you at Lourdes?”

“ ‘Helping’? That’s a rather generous word for what John does at Our Lady of Lourdes. Actually, we try to talk him out of ‘helping’ us on the weekends.”

“He’s worse, dien?”

“I’ll say. His latest symptom is a kind of unconscious kleptomania.”

“Kleptomania!”

“Stoles, altar breads, every now and again a chalice.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh. He’ll finish Mass, divest, and every once in a while tuck a vestment or some such in his overnight bag. I just go through the bag as a matter of routine before I drive him back to me home. I retrieve the items that belong to the parish or me. We never mention anything about it. But it’s nerve-racking.”

“Poor man.” Foley shook his head. “It’s just age, I’m sure. Could happen to any of us-please God not. How old is he now … in his late eighties?”

“Ninety going on a hundred. You might get a kick out of what happened when we celebrated his ninetieth birthday. Actually, it was a super turnout. Incredible when you think he doesn’t have any contemporaries left. They’re all dead now.”

“Careful, Ralph, we may be the closest he has to a classmate.”

“I don’t know about you, Larry, but I plan to be a little bit more in control as we assail the seasons.”

“Anyway, I interrupted: Go on with your story, Ralph.”

“Yes, well, there must have been a dozen, fifteen, priests there to concelebrate Mass with the old man. One of the guys was John Miller. You remember him, Larry?”

“I think so. Good sense of humor. Used to be Gordon’s assistant, wasn’t he?”

“Uh-huh. Pastor himself now. Well, you know how stooped over the old man is-almost doubled over”

“Yes, yes, the poor man.”

“Well, we are all vesting before Mass, and Miller came over to the old man and said, ‘I want to get one thing settled: Are you going to straighten up or are we all going to have to stoop over like you?’”

Foley chuckled.

“Then, during the Mass, right after the consecration, he put the chalice down on top of the host. He covered the bread with the chalice. None of us saw him do it; Actually, we should have been paying closer attention. Anyway, just before the Lord’s Prayer-”

“The minor elevation,” Foley cut in. “Don’t tell me: When it was time to elevate the host and chalice, he couldn’t find the host!”

“That’s it,’ Higgins said; “Hunted all over for it. Looked at us as if he’d just worked a miracle.”

They chuckled over that for several minutes. And that story led to another and another until they had used up an additional forty-five minutes.

Ralph Higgins glanced again at his watch. “Holy mackerel, wouldja look at the time! I’ve really got to move it.”

“What time’s your flight, Ralph?”

“I’m on the12:30 nightcoach.”

“You’ll be okay.” Foley glanced at his watch. “Just 10:30 now. Do you need a taxi? Or can I drive you?”

“No, no, Larry. Rented a car when I got in this morning. It’s right outside.”

“Then you’ll be fine. It hasn’t snowed today so the freeways will be clear. And you don’t have to worry about parking. They have shuttle buses at the rental places.”

Higgins struggled into his coat. “A few hours from now I’ll put this mackintosh back in mothballs. You know, Larry, if you guys are worried about some nutty killer up here, you shouldn’t be so free and easy about opening your door. There’s no peep glass in your front door, and you didn’t have the chain on when you opened the door for me. I could have been anybody.”

Foley chuckled. “I’m worried for Mark, not me. Who’d ever want to kill an old fuddy-duddy like me?”

“Anyway, take care, old friend.”

“You too, Ralph. Safe home.”

And he was gone.

Foley looked down at his dog contentedly wagging its tail and looking up at its master. “I’ve got to hand it to you, John Paul. You are a very well-behaved pooch. Now, you come in here with me. I’ve got my office to finish for the day. Fortunately, just compline, night prayers, to say. I’ll just have time to finish before our eleven o’clock last run.”

Foley shuffled back into the living room, John Paul at his heels, tail going a mile a minute.

The old man sat down in his favorite chair, picked up and opened the breviary, and tilted his head back so he could see through the lower part of his bifocals. Before he could begin compline, a compact ball of dog landed in his lap, nearly taking his breadi away.

“Ungh!” he grunted. Dog and master looked deeply into each other’s eyes. A long history of Irish humor crinkled the corners of Foley’s eyes. Clearly, John Paul was singularly eager for the next anticipated event of the evening.

“You be patient now,” Foley admonished. “It’s not eleven o’clock yet-no matter what your usually accurate inner clock tells you. We’ve got a few minutes till I finish my prayers. Then we’ll go for our walk, and then-and only then-your cookie.”

At the word “cookie,” the busy tail began beating a furious rhythm between the arm of the chair and Foley’s thigh. The archbishop patted the dog until he quieted.

Foley opened the tattered old breviary and began. “Noctem quietam, et finem perfection concedat nobis Dominus omnipotent.” May the almighty Lord grant us a peaceful night and a perfect ending.

Yes, John Paul, thought Foley, a perfect conclusion for you comes down to a cookie.

Distractions! The bane of my prayer life from the beginning, he thought, and plowed on.

“Fratres: Sobrii estote, et vigilate: quia adversarius vester diabolus tamquam leo rugiens circuit, quaerens quem devoret: cui resistite fortes in fide.” Brothers, be alert and vigilant, for your adversary, the devil, goes about like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour: you must resist him strong in the faith.