Chameleon

23

Archbishop Lawrence Foley was surprised when he answered the door to find Fadier Ralph Higgins.

Higgins was an old buddy from Miami. He and Foley had been friends all through the seminary years. After ordination their paths separated. Higgins had been assigned to a series of parishes in the St. Augustine diocese-from which the diocese of Miami was created in 1958-until he had been named pastor of St. Agatha parish and finally pastor of Our Lady of Lourdes in Boca Raton. Foley, of course, after ordination spent only a brief time in parochial ministry before he was sent off to Rome for graduate studies, followed by a series of chancery assignments; then he became a bishop and ultimately archbishop of Cincinnati.

Even though their ecclesiastical careers diverged, they remained close friends. After Foley had moved on to Cincinnati, whenever he and Mark Boyle vacationed in Florida, they would stay with Higgins.

“Ralph! What a surprise!” Foley exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

“Like most things when you reach our years: a funeral.”

Foley’s demeanor instantly changed to one of concern. “Oh, I am sorry. Who was it?”

“A sister-in-law. Not terribly close, But at this stage in life, one of the last of the relatives. I thought I owed it to her memory-and, of course, to my brother, God rest him.”

“But, if I had known … I would have attended the funeral … we could have gotten together, done some things.Why don’t we-I could get some tickets … the symphony, a show-?”

“No time, Larry. Another time. I just got in this morning. Leaving in just a couple of hours. Just couldn’t be in town without seeing you, even for only a few minutes.”

“Well, that’s great. Can I get you something, anything?”

“No, no; had supper. I can only stay a few minutes.”

Foley took his friend’s coat, and they proceeded to the comfortable living room where Higgins was assaulted by a small but eager dog. He tried petting the animal but it wasn’t having any. “Now I know how the early Christian martyrs felt.” Higgins laughed.

Foley spoke sternly to the dog. “John Paul, come! Sit! Stay!” The little spaniel mix bounced willingly to Foley and sat contentedly against his leg. “His manners are not the best, but he’s an obedient little fellow.”

“John Paul?” Higgins tilted his head. “You named him after the Pope?”

“It was the least I could do.”

They laughed.

“I’m so sorry you can’t stay,” Foley said. “Mark will be too.”

“Can’t be helped. How is Mark, anyway?”

“Very fit, I’d say. Walks a lot. Stays healthy.”

“That’s the secret, okay. The path to health is not to get sick. But try telling that to the oldsters in Boca Raton. And, by the way, Larry, when are you and Mark coming down? It’s January, you know.”

“Just. I’d like to go. God knows these old bones don’t react very well to all this cold and snow. But I haven’t been able to convince Mark it’s time for us to migrate. I wish … I fervently wish I could.”

“I wish you could too. After all, Larry, Florida is your home.”

Higgins never admitted it, even to himself, but he was jealous that Foley had chosen to live out his retirement in Detroit rather than in Florida. Quite simply, it meant that Foley’s friendship with Mark Boyle was stronger than his attachment to Higgins. So much stronger that Foley would endure the bitter Michigan winters instead of basking in the warmth of the sunny South. In addition, Foley’s roots were in Florida, not in Michigan, nor even Cincinnati.

“It’s not just the warmth or the golf or the relaxation,” Foley said.

“That’s not bad for starters.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Ralph, But I’m worried about Mark. You’ve probably read about these two murders we’ve had here involving people in diocesan administration.”

“Even with all the murder and crime we’ve got in Florida, yes, Michigan murders regularly out-bizarre us. Yes, I know of them. But-”

“They’re not solved. Not even close. And I have this feeling that Mark is on the list … on the killer’s list.”

Higgins was genuinely shocked. “You must be kidding. What ever for? Why would anyone want to harm the Cardinal?”

“I’m afraid it’s not ‘Why would anyone?’; it’s more ‘How many would?’ You must be aware there are a lot of unhappy people out there suffering in one way or another from the effects of the council.”

“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.

He launched into the three psalms and further distractions. Distrations from his distractions.

While Foley’s lips formed the words of the psalms, his mind recalled an old anecdote told by, among many others, Fulton Sheen. It had to do with a monastery in the Middle Ages. A serf was talking to the abbot about the contrast in their conditions. The serf complained about his life of endless hard work while all the monks had to do was pray.

“Praying is not all that easy,” the monk said, “It is almost impossible to pray without distraction. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” the abbot added. “If you can pray the Lord’s Prayer without a single distraction, I’ll give you that beautiful horse over there,”

The abbot had made an offer the serf could not possibly turn down. After all, all he had to do was recite the prayer aloud. He planned to play by the rules and have no distraction. But then who would know whether or not he was successful? And after ward, the horse would be his.

So the serf bowed his head, closed his eyes and began. “Our Father … who art in heaven … hallowed be thy name … thy kingdom come … thy will-by the way, do I get the saddle too?”

Foley chuckled, which disquieted the dog, who began to bark.

The archbishop glanced at the mantel. Eleven exactly. He shook his head. What a body clock!

“All right, John Paul: It’s time. Let’s go.”

The dog bounded from his lap and beelined for the door. Foley went to the closet, struggled into his boots and coat, put on his hat, buckled the collar with its license tag around John Paul’s neck, and out into the winter they went.

As was their custom, they commenced to walk completely around the small compact block. John Paul, as usual, sniffed at everything, paying special attention to trees, streetlights, and the fire hydrant. Foley, watching the dog’s breath emerge as vapor, wondered why they were all still up here in the Winter Wonderland, as the Chamber of Commerce would have it. The dog at least had a coat that seemed to insulate it from the cold. But what of humans? Particularly those with skin that was thin and bones thai were brittle?

He walked slowly, far too deliberately for the little dog, who covered twice the distance by running ahead and then returning, diving into snowbanks and finding his stubby legs too short for reaching the ground as he scrambled out of the drifts.

Foley smiled as he contemplated his dog and lost concern over nearly everything else. Maybe there was something to say for having all the seasons, as Michigan very definitely did.

He was feeling fairly carefree as they turned the final corner heading back to the condo. That was when the dog stopped and began to growl.

“Come now, you vicious puppy,” Foley said in a gentle tone. “It’s too late to go chasing cats.”

That was when he noticed movement behind the large blue spruce. Whatever was back there was far too large to be a cat, or a dog for that matter. The motion continued as a man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing dark clothes, and his hat was pulled low on his head. As he advanced toward Foley the streetlight picked up his features. John Paul, now barking furiously, appeared about to snap at the man’s shins.

“Stop it!” Foley commanded. “Keep quiet! Come here! Sit! Stay!”

The little dog, obediently hushed, came and sat on the sidewalk next to Foley. The archbishop peered into the shadows, “Why … what are you doing here?”

There was no answer. The man continued to gaze at Foley.

Without explanation it became clear to Foley. “You … you’re the one, aren’t you?”

Silence.

“But, why me? Whatever can this mean? What would I-?”

Still, silence. But as the man raised his arm slightly, the glimmer of the streetlight reflected sharply on the gun’s metal surface.

“May I … at least let the dog inside? He’s done nothing.”

The hand continued its steady motion upward.

“Give me a moment, please.” Foley turned his back and knelt on the sidewalk next to his dog, who looked at him wonderingly. The archbishop murmured one of the closing prayers of compline. “Vigilemus cum Christo, et requiescamus in pace-”

The quiet air was shattered by the roar of the gun. Foley pitched forward. He lay motionless. His years speeded the process of dying. It was over before he could reflect on another thought.

The dog, who had sprung straight up in the air at the gun’s blast, barked furiously, then tentatively. Then he began to whimper, stopping only to lick the body of his master, who would never again reach out to comfort the small animal.

Later, much later, a night-owl resident of the condominium spotted the dog sitting near what seemed to be a pile of laundry. After a closer look, the resident raced to phone 911.

In order to remove the body they had to almost peel the dog from its master.

By then, the assassin was long gone.