William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

“If he were to simply take money, even surplus money, from suburban parish savings and apply it to the inner city, why, in no time he would have a hundred percent of nuthin’! And, eventually, the aid the Archbishop is able to give us now would dry up. And we’d be left sharing with him a hundred percent of nuthin’!”

In the pause that followed, some mumbled agreement with Powers, others with Brown.

“Boyle would not be the first Irish martyr,” Brown suggested.

“You’re not talking martyrdom, Perry. You’re talking fiscal insanity!”

“Christianity ought to have a little bit of insanity mixed in with it, the way I look at it,” Brown responded. “Didn’t St. Francis of Assisi call himself ‘a fool for God’? Besides, now that our Archbishop is going to become a Cardinal, this would be heeded by just about everyone in the world.

“You’re part of his official family, Tyrone; you’re part of the bureaucracy . . . why don’t you test the water? Why don’t you propose the idea? You never know till you try. Maybe the new Cardinal Boyle would be willing to consider martyrdom.”

“Let me put the shoe on the other foot, Doctor.” Powers smiled. “You’re going to Rome with the Detroit contingent. You’ll be with us when the Archbishop becomes a Cardinal. Why don’t you take it upon yourself to propose this ‘martyrdom’ to the Archbishop?”

Brown appeared lost in thought. Finally, he said, “You have a point, Tyrone. Perhaps it’s time for me to make an unmistakable statement on this matter.”

Brown once more retreated into his contemplation. He seemed troubled by what he found there.

3.

In a separate wing of the building that housed the Office of Black Catholic Services, Mrs. Irene Casey, editor of the Detroit Catholic, was seated at her desk in her private office. She was talking on the phone.

“What’s so different about your backyard shrine to the Blessed Mother?”

“What’s so different?” the caller echoed.

“Yes, different—unusual, out-of-the-ordinary. You know, a lot of Catholic homes have backyard shrines. And as we enter spring, most of them get their shrines ready for summer. You must realize that it’s simply impossible for us to run pictures of all these shrines. We just don’t have the space.”

“So?”

“So what is special or different about your shrine?”

“Well,” the woman hesitated. Obviously, she had not anticipated any resistance to having a photo of her shrine placed in the archdiocesan newspaper.

“Well . . . if you drive up Lahser between, say Eleven and Thirteen Mile Roads, you’ll see lots of statues of the Blessed Mother in the yards. But,” her voice rose, “they’re all Immaculate Conception statues.”

Irene could not suppress a smile. She was grateful videophones were not yet in general use.

“Now, my shrine,” the woman continued triumphantly, “has the Pilgrim Statue of Fatima as the main attraction!” She paused to allow this revelation to have its effect.

Shifting papers on her desk, Irene said nothing.

“Well?” the woman snapped at length.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what do you say to that?”

“I can think of any number of backyard shrines that have the Pilgrim Statue of Fatima,” Irene exaggerated. She wondered if anyone had ever wasted time on a study of the subject.

“Now you listen here, Mrs. Casey: I’m a parishioner of St. Ives, and our pastor subscribes to the Detroit Catholic for all his parishioners. This is a parish the Detroit Catholic can ill afford to lose!”

“I understand. And I agree. But you must understand what precious little space we have in the paper. If we ran a photo of one private shrine, I wouldn’t be able to refuse anyone else who has a shrine. And very soon the paper would be filled with nothing but shrines. So you see, there just would have to be something unique before we could consider yours.”

“Well,” Irene could tell from her altered tone that the woman was taking another tack, “my husband and I occasionally see a vision over the shrine . . . at least,” in a slightly smaller voice, “it looks like a vision.”

“Fine,” Irene spotted light at the end of the tunnel, “you get a photo of the vision and we’re in business.”

“Oh, what is it with you people!” Obviously, the party was over. “Last year you refused to run a photo of my daughter twirling her baton!”

“You’re the mother of the cheerleader!”

No way could Irene have forgotten: the woman, within the confines of the Detroit Catholic, was notorious.

“Yes, I am! And you haven’t heard the last of me!”

The woman slammed down the receiver. Irene gently massaged her ear and prayed that her caller was mistaken and that this would indeed be their terminal connection.

The phone rang again. It was going to be one of those days.

“Mrs. Casey?” The familiar deep voice resonated with barely curbed fury. “This is Father Cavanaugh at Divine Child. I am just going to make a statement. I do not expect a response from you. It’s about a story that appeared in the latest issue of the Detroit Catholic . . . about two former priests who are now employed by Wayne County as marriage counselors.

“Your story quoted them as saying that they were happy in their new work and that they felt completely fulfilled. One of them even compared what he was doing to what he did as a priest, stating that counseling was now his full-time ministry.

“I just want to say, Mrs. Casey, that this is not the sort of story one should find in a Catholic newspaper. When you have ex-priests who are out of work or who have found only distasteful employment, that is the sort of story you should print.

“That is all, Mrs. Casey. I just want you to know how I, and many others, feel.”

He broke the connection.

This type of call, though rare, was among the things Irene found most unpleasant about her position as editor of a Catholic newspaper. Even if she had been allowed to respond, there was little she could have said to a man like that. He was a priest and she was of the laity. She could not overlook his privileged position. Nor would he allow her to overlook it.

Furthermore, what could anyone say to someone like Father Cavanaugh, whose mind and heart were closed?

“You look as if you just lost your best friend, Irene.” John Howe, gray-haired business manager of the Detroit Catholic, knocked pro forma on the open door as he entered her office.

“I feel like it. I just had a very depressing phone call.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

She shook her head.

“Well, then,” he brightened, “I’ve got some good news: The archdiocese is going to pick up the whole tab for your trip to Rome!”

“Well, there’s a break.”

“You said it! In our present financial condition, it would have been pretty tight, to say the least. I was going to offer to pay half and see how the chancery would react. But Monsignor Iming called just a few minutes ago and said they would take care of all your travel and hotel costs. You’re on your own for food and out-of-pocket expenses. But we can handle that with no problem.”

“That’s just great!” Irene beamed.

“Of course,” he grew serious, “that covers just Detroit to Rome and back.”

“No London or Ireland, eh?’’

“I’m afraid not.” He smiled. “You’ll just have to wait for an Irish Catholic Press convention for a visit to your homeland.

“Unless,” he shrugged lightheartedly, “unless you find something that needs reporting in addition to the Rome story.”

“That’s another definition of ‘fat chance.’ It’s not as if a visit to England or Ireland per se constitutes a breaking news story. I mean, what can happen to an archbishop after becoming a Cardinal?”