“No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I’m kind of embarrassed to admit it, but something in me still hungers for Papa’s approval.”
Danny nodded and confessed in a whisper, “I understand. That makes two of us.” Suddenly self-conscious, he glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“I don’t have one,” she replied.
“Oh yes you do.” He took her arm as they left the café.
Deborah sensed extravagance in the air. “No,” she pleaded, “not another of your block-long limos.”
Danny smiled. “I only wish it were. But I don’t want them to know that we’re even seeing each other. That would create too much tension at home. So I’ve made a compromise. He’s called Moe.”
“What?”
From afar she could see a yellow cab parked near the corner, with its corpulent driver, in a flat leather cap, leaning against it.
“Getta move on, youse guys. We’re gonna hit all the traffic at the tunnel.”
“Who’s that?” Deborah inquired.
“That’s Moe, your friendly driver—and believe me I interviewed plenty before I chose him. He’ll pick you up after school every day and take you home—so you don’t have to hang from a strap, and you can either study or rest.”
Deborah was touched. “Danny, you don’t have to spoil me.”
“But I’m dying to do something for you, Deb. At least let me give you Moe.”
Deborah hugged her brother affectionately and whispered, “Thank you, Dan.”
“Hey, c’mon,” Moe urged. “Another five minutes, we’ll need a helicopter.”
He held the door open and tipped his hat. As Deborah stepped inside, she thought to herself, If Danny had only heard Dean Ashkenazy’s speech, he’d know that he was acting as a paragon himself—of goodness, generosity, and love.
Deborah would think about her brother standing alone on his balcony, watching the carnival of activities in Central Park—lovers sitting on the grassy meadows, old people strolling, young people jogging, middle-aged people moving at a gait somewhere between the two—and being a part of none of them.
Why was he so lonely? she wondered. Surely, a boy—she could not think of him as a full-grown man—who had once had such joie de vivre could have found friends if he really wanted to. Why had he exiled himself from normal life?
44
Daniel
As wise as he is, even my father cannot make history repeat itself.
For two years I had been pleading with Deborah to live on her own in Manhattan. During this time I had made a number of lucky calls in the market, predicting the devaluation of the dollar in ’73 and the rise in orange juice futures in ’74, and I was now so wretchedly rich that I had a twelve-room duplex to house my loneliness.
I had even proposed to Deborah that I divide my apartment so that we could be at once close but independent. Still, she stubbornly chose to remain in Brooklyn and commute to HUC each day.
But an incident one Sunday finally forced her to confront the conflicts she felt about living as a grown woman in her parents’ home.
She had been upstairs working on a term paper and was on her way to retrieve a book from Papa’s immense Talmudic library, when just outside his study she heard the sound of a young boy reciting, “In Ershten hut Got gemacht Himmel un Erd.”
It was my father teaching his grandson the immortal words of Genesis in the medieval language of Yiddish.
Deborah peeked in, at once touched and dismayed to see her own son seated on Papa’s knees—as I had once been—learning Torah.
For a moment she was gratified that her son was enjoying a privilege that she had never had. Then she suddenly realized that our father was obsessed with having Eli relive Papa’s experience with me.
The moment Papa left for his usual Sunday tour of the yeshiva classes and she was sure she could not be overheard, Deborah called me to say she would be moving into my place that, night—at least until she could find something of her own.
She was more gratified than surprised when I told her that—out of folly, or more likely optimism—I had already requested permission for the construction work that would create apartment 1505-A from the “rib” of my own place.
Since, I informed her happily, she would no longer have the assistance of my mother as cook and babysitter (something I subsequently made her see as yet another prolonged adolescent attachment), she was pleased to learn that I had also found her a suitable housekeeper. The matronly Mrs. Lucille Lamont, though a native of Birmingham, Alabama, had been cooking kosher for nearly forty years. From a gastronomic point of view, Eli would endure no cultural shock.
As she told it to me that night, both Papa and Mama were upset at her sudden decision to leave and took small consolation in her promise to spend as many Sabbaths with them as she could.
The sadness in my father’s eyes had evoked a feeling of guilt that almost broke her resolve. In the end, thank Heaven, my sister’s instinct for survival buttressed her will. At three P.M. Moe arrived with his taxi to help her move out lock, stock, and tricycle.
A surprising thing occurred as Deborah was packing her last textbooks. Mama appeared, ostensibly to help, but, as it turned out, to support her decision.
“Believe me, my child,” she said. “No one will miss little Eli more than I. But this is the right thing for you. How else are you ever going to—” She hesitated.
“Going to … what, Mama?” Deborah demanded.
“You know,” my mother stammered, flustered and embarrassed, “live a normal life.”
“And what I’m living now isn’t normal?”
“No,” she answered. “You’re not married.”
Although my father had stubbornly refused to ask her where she was going, both of them knew full well. Mama even gave Deborah a message for me.
“Be sure Danny wears a warm coat.”
PART IV
45
Timothy
The men, twenty-six of them, lay prostrate on the cold stone floor of St. John Lateran. Dressed identically in snow white albs, they looked from above like a cluster of linen cocoons. Though they were on a carpet, the stones beneath still afforded some palliative for their burning cheeks, which had been heated by the Roman summer and stoked by the ardor of the crowds.
It was June 29, 1974, the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, one of the holiest on the ecclesiastical calendar. Henceforth, it would have an additional significance for all of them. This was the awesome day on which they would distance themselves from earth-bound mortals and wed their souls to the eternal Church.
Among the twenty-six were four of the five Irish-American candidates (George Cavanagh had been ordained the previous year). Relatives had traveled from as near as Naples and as far as the Philippines to see this ceremony. Yet among the large contingent of American families gathered to bask in their sons’ and nephews’ glory, there was no one present to take personal pride in Tim.
In a way, he preferred to experience this moment on his own. For that was how he would face the rest of his life. Publicly his bride would be the Church. Privately he would know her by her true name: loneliness.
All in red, on a throne three steps above them, sat the principal celebrant, Emilio Cardinal Auletta, Prefect of the Congregation for Catholic Education. It was a special honor for these young men, one which signaled that they were especially cherished by the aristocracy of the Holy See.
After the Gospel of the Ordination Mass, the candidates were presented to the cardinal and for the final time were asked about their dedication and readiness.
Then they knelt, heads bowed, as in gravelly, stentorian tones Father John Hennessy, rector of the North American College and today’s Cerimoniere—Master of Ceremonies—read out their names, and turned to His Eminence. “Holy Mother Church asks you to ordain these men, our brothers, for service as priests.”
“Do you judge them to be worthy?” the cardinal asked.
&nb
sp; “After inquiry among the people of Christ and upon recommendation of those concerned with their training, I testify that they have been found worthy.”
As Tim knelt, the cardinal placed his hands gently upon his head. In the ensuing silence, something deep inside him began to stir, and gradually to crescendo, as each of the other officiating priests in turn blessed him with the laying on of hands.
Paradoxically, it was the most physical and the most spiritual moment of the day. Those who had themselves already been touched by the hand of God now passed that sacred honor on to Tim. It was a way of saying, We are all brothers now.
After Cardinal Auletta sang the Prayer of Consecration, the assisting priests quickly vested the candidates with red stoles and chasubles. They who had begun the morning prostrate, white as chrysalises, had risen like newly born butterflies in the crimson of the Church.
Now they were privileged to stand on either side of the cardinal and concelebrate the Mass.
As he walked in the final procession down the central aisle and saw the guests, relatives, and friends all in tears, despite his determination Tim asked himself, Who is crying for me?
If the ceremony had been solemn, the postlude was anything but staid. At the North American College, corks and flashbulbs popped as Asti Spumante poured with such gusto that many a cup ran over.
Among the American prelates who had made a special journey for the ordination was Tim’s patron, Francis Mulroney, the former Bishop of Brooklyn, who had recently been elevated not only to the Archbishopric of Boston but had also been honored with the red hat of a cardinal.
As Tim tried to proffer congratulations, His Eminence replied, “Not a bit of it, my boy. It’s you who deserve the praise. And I’m delighted you’ve decided to move downtown and continue your studies.”
Tim smiled. “I’m sure Your Eminence used a little influence to arrange the generous burse I received.”
“It was the least I could do. You’ll love it at the Gregorian, Tim. I don’t have to tell you that the institution has produced more cardinals and popes than Harvard has senators and presidents. By the way, do you know how our European colleagues refer to the Pontificia Universitas Gregoriana?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. They call it ‘the Pug.’ That’s very amusing to the American ear.”
“Yes,” Mulroney chuckled in assent, “especially the Brooklyn ear.”
“You’re not by any chance referring to my early career as a hoodlum, are you?” Tim joked.
“No, of course not,” the Cardinal responded. “Although Father Hanrahan was wont to speak of your left hook with something bordering perilously on adulation.”
Once again Tim was driven to think, They seem to know everything about me, everything.
The newly ordained Father Timothy Hogan walked out in the gardens of the North American College, high above the Eternal City. And on what should have been the most joyous day of his life, looked to Heaven and asked with an aching heart, O Lord, how long must I serve Thee before I learn the truth of who I really am?
46
Timothy
“Domine Hogan, surge.”
“Adsum,” Timothy responded as he rose to his feet. By now he had become accustomed to the Latin language not only for lectures but for classroom dialogue.
Five mornings a week for the past two years, Tim had climbed the left-hand marble staircase of the main building of the Gregorian to the lecture hall on the primo piano. Here, from 8:30 to 12:30, he and nearly a hundred classmates, all seated at small wooden desks, had attended the required courses for the Licentiate in Canon Law.
A few of his courses dealt with philosophy, theology, and history of Canon Law. But essentially their focus was on a laborious word-by-word, sentence-by-sentence, section-by-section examination of the massive “Textus,” officially known as the Codex Iuris Canonici.
“Domine Hogan.”
Tim looked up at Professor Patrizio di Crescenza, S.J.
“Dic nobis, Domine,” the lecturer continued, “Habenturne impedimenta matrimonii catholicorum cum acatholicis baptizatis in codice nostro?” Does our Code specify any obstacles to the marriage of a Catholic and a baptized non-Catholic?
Tim answered without hesitation, “Itaque, Domine. Codex noster valet pro omnibus baptizatis et impedimenta matrimonii sunt pluria.” Yes, Father. Our Code applies to everyone who is baptized, and the obstacles to such a marriage are numerous.
“Optime,” Father di Crescenza exclaimed, as he turned his gaze elsewhere to select another student to enumerate some of the specific impediments to the marriage of true minds but differing churches. Tim could not help wondering why the Roman Catholic hierarchy took for granted that it had jurisdiction over all Christians.
None of it was easy going. On more than one occasion, when Tim was memorizing the nuances of an Apostolic Constitution, he thought, Sometimes I wish we had an exciting case like a fox who ate somebody’s chickens. Anything remotely relevant to everyday life.
It reminded him of a long-ago conversation he’d had with Danny Luria, as the two were riding in the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan. The young rabbinical student had offered some examples of the quibbling legislation in certain portions of the Talmud.
The text Tim held in his hand was nearly a thousand pages long, setting forth two thousand four hundred and fourteen Canons—some on the most arcane matters—all of which he would be required to know inside out by the time of his written and oral exams for the Licentiate.
Some were rules that every priest must learn in order to serve a parish. For example, the subject of annulments for nonconsummation of a marriage.
And yet in committing these to memory, Timothy wondered about the hypothetical opposite—consummation without marriage. Or at least without ceremony.
Could God sanctify a marriage consecrated merely by love?
“De impedimentis matrimonii clericorum, ‘On the problem of priestly marriage’—an excellent if dangerous thesis topic, Father Hogan. But if anyone can do it justice, it is a mind like yours,” Professor di Crescenza pronounced, speaking Italian now, since Tim had come to see him during his office hours.
One of the elderly scholar’s greatest satisfactions was that he had been permitted to teach beyond the age of seventy, which meant that he could still enjoy the stimulation of contact with bright young minds—in Tim’s case, he had decided, a brilliant one.
“It’s a territory that, after Vatican II, needs quite a bit of recharting. I know you’ll produce something very valuable, Father Hogan.”
Suddenly, from behind, Tim heard the irascible voice of an antiquated man addressing Father di Crescenza.
“Patrizio, habesne istas aspirinas americanas? Dolet caput mihi terribiliter.”
Tim turned and immediately recognized the wizened face peeking through the doorway. Father Paolo Ascarelli, S.J., was the official Latin Scribe, one of the highest-ranking members of the papal household.
Again the professor answered in Italian. “I’m terribly sorry, Paolo, all I’ve got is the ordinary Italian aspirin. I gave you my last miracle pill on Monday.”
“Oh, the devil’s work,” the old man responded, wincing as he held his aching head. “I have a cerebral agony that only something like Excedrin can cure. Do you think maybe we might call the American Embassy?”
As his professor smiled indulgently, Tim interrupted. “I’ve got some Bufferin, Father, if that’ll help?”
“Ah,” the priest exclaimed, “you have been sent from Heaven, young man. What is your name?”
“Timothy Hogan, Father. Unfortunately, the bottle’s in my room.”
“Where are you lodging?” asked the old man.
“On the Via dell’Umiltà.”
“Ah … ‘the street of humility.’ Well then, if you’re as fit as you look, it probably won’t take you more than a few minutes to hurry there and back. Thank you in advance.”
Father di Crescenza shot a quick glance at his pupil, trying to telegraph the me
ssage: You don’t really have to indulge this hypochondriac.
But Timothy answered, “Of course, Father Ascarelli. I can do it in no time.”
“Splendid, splendid,” God’s suffering servant replied. He called after Tim, who by now was halfway out the door, “And should you perchance come across a bottle of San Pellegrino on the way back …”
Less than ten minutes later, a breathless Timothy Hogan laid a small plastic jar of Bufferin and a large bottle of mineral water on the seminar table.
The professor himself had already left. It was his nightly routine to walk the considerable distance from the Gregorian University to the far periphery of St. Peter’s and number five Borgo Santo Spirito, the Jesuit headquarters.
“Sit down, sit down, Father Hogan,” Father Ascarelli commanded, as he went through the ritual of taking his headache remedy. “I want to know you better. In the short space you were absent, your professor never ceased to sing your praises. I rarely listen to Patrizio—he’s getting on in years, you know—but he stopped chattering long enough to show me some of your written work. It’s outstanding.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Tim, both embarrassed and pleased.
“Of course you’ve got a way to go before you’re a Doctor of Canon Law,” Ascarelli cautioned. “But your Latin is absolutely splendid. I dare say if you hadn’t been trained in America you’d be nearly up to my standard by now. Forgive an old man’s arrogance, but I don’t think you can truly learn the language of Cicero anywhere but within echoing distance of the Roman Forum.”
He sighed histrionically. “What a pity about Vatican II. It all but made my once-honored position obsolete. Thank God they still issue papal bulls, encyclicals, and letters of appointment in Latin, or they’d probably have put me in a home for irregular verbs.”
Timothy smiled.
“Tell me,” the scribe asked with a twinkle in his eye, “do you think Our Savior knew the Latin tongue?”