A Galway Epiphany

Connie still considered herself a nun but whether official religions would recognize her as such was open to debate. Back in her days as a prison chaplain, she had viewed nuns as basically lesser than her own profession but being stripped of her chaplainship had cut deep. Sure, she had violated some rules of the correctional facility, but she felt they overreacted by insisting she not be sacked but relieved of her profession.

She felt it was humility to reinvent herself as a nun — plus the scrutiny was less rigorous. You had to love California; you were a nun if you said so.

Now, she was deep in the affair with Benjamin J. Cullen. Piece by slow piece he had revealed his hobby.

Arson.

Shocked? She was less horrified than she might have expected. You had a man who treated you like a queen. So what if he indulged in a little mischief.

Brid. Ah, Brid, becoming more and more of a problem, whining on an hourly basis.

Benjamin disappeared frequently, on business he said, offering,

“How else can I continue to treat you like a princess, huh?”

He’d come back from a trip to France. If you’ll excuse the dreadful pun, he was all lit up, said to her in a tone of huge excitement,

“Damn near achieved a masterpiece.”

She’d no idea what he was on about. He said,

“Turn on the TV.”

She did.

Notre-Dame was on fire.

One of the investigators of the Notre-Dame fire, a veteran of global infernos, had once worked with Red Adair. The official verdict was, perhaps, an electrical spark. This investigator, named O’Rourke, decided to walk the surrounding perimeter and stopped as he noticed a small bundle of long-stem matches, picked one up, saw it was the nonsafety kind, pondered it for a moment, then shrugged, dropped the match, moved on.

Ireland was in shock; a young journalist, Lyra, aged twenty-eight, covering an event, was shot dead. Huge crowds turned out declaring they would not tolerate a return to the old days of violence.

I was watching a documentary titled Moving Statues: The Summer of 1985.

For fifteen mad weeks, the country was gripped by reports of life-size statues that moved, wobbled, wept, and swayed. Small villages, reporting a movement of Our Lady, would suddenly be engulfed by up to twenty thousand pilgrims, then a sighting in another village and the crowds moved on. Perhaps the most telling aspect of all this was the Church’s reaction: condemned it as manipulating the most vulnerable of the people. That, of course, was its province. Not to mention that the official shrines, the real money earners like Knock, might have a dip in revenue.

Mass hysteria was cited as the cause and one bishop termed it contagion.

The current miracle in Galway hadn’t really mushroomed. The absence of the children was one factor and the crowds began to fall off.

No matter all my inquires I hadn’t found the children; they seemed to have vanished. Monsignor Rael, the Vatican guy sent to quell the phenomenon, came to see me. He appeared to be well pleased the whole matter had evaporated.

He was in my apartment, looking with slight distaste at the lack of furnishings, asked,

“Is this just a temporary home?”

I didn’t like him any better than the first time I’d met him. I said,

“Surely all of our existence is temporary.”

He didn’t rise to the bait, said,

“The fee we gave you?”

Waited.

I said nothing. He continued,

“Let’s call it a retainer: We may need your irregular services in the future.”

I asked,

“You’re done with the miracle, that’s it, end of story?”

He smiled, a very ancient one, framed from decades of Vatican chicanery, said,

“It was never really going anywhere but best to nip it in the bud.”

I pushed.

“The welfare of the children, that doesn’t concern you, even a little?”

The smile mutated into something more sinister. He said,

“When and if they show up we shall of course be very attentive.”

Then he changed direction, rubbed his finely manicured hands, said,

“Let’s have a wee drink to mark the end of this whole sorry episode. You do have libations, I’m sure. I mean, it’s what you do after all, drink?”

My turn, I snarled,

“Not if your life depended on it.”

He actually made that tut-tut sound that grinds my nerves, said,

“How small-minded of you, Taylor, but everything in your small world is thus. Tiny gestures masquerading as victories.”

Something occurred to me and I said,

“Malachy, I imagine he’s not about to be our next bishop?”

Now he laughed outright, sneered,

“That imbecile was never in the frame, good heavens, he’s the worst kind of PR.”

I really wanted to batter him into humility but that would be pretty much a lost cause. I said,

“You need to go now.”

He took a last look around, said,

“If I cared at all, I might even pity you.”

I opened the door, wanting to be shot of him and his maliciousness.

I said,

“The terrible thing is, there are some decent priests around. I’ve even met one or two, but you, you’re more than likely the new face of the future, the slick corporate asshole who never leaves prints.”

He was delighted at this, said,

“For a moment there, Taylor, you verged on actual insight. I doubt we’ll meet again but it’s been entertaining.”

Not sure if I even thought about it as my hand lashed out and slapped his face, twice, hard and fierce.

He was stunned, took a moment to focus, then warned,

“You’ll regret that.”

I finally got to smile, said,

“My whole life is a tapestry of regret but I promise you that will never, ever be something to add to the list.”

For the first time, in a very long time, I felt a tiny touch of pride in my own self.