Eventually, the Catholic bishops of the United States became satisfied that the rumors of these Boston shenanigans were true. Already, Cardinal O'Connell's size of frame, style, and spirit left few indifferent to him. His enemies roused themselves and began a concerted effort to dethrone His Eminence. A new opportunity was approaching. A hierarchy conference was to take place in September 1922.
Before that, while Robert Shannon was walking his Irish river, most of the American Catholic hierarchy went on vacation. Sevovicz himself had embarked upon a walking tour of Chesapeake Bay with an old Jesuit friend from New York. They stayed in inns and ate oysters and played poker after dinner each night. By day they discussed the likelihood of the North American bishops overthrowing Cardinal O'Connell and forcing Rome to sideline him.
His friend warned that His Eminence must not be underestimated. In March, a report had appeared in The New York Times of O'Connell's meeting with the new pope, Pius XI, for an hour of what was described as “intimate conversation.” The Holy Father was also quoted as singing his praises: “America is truly wonderful and full of hope and promise.” O'Connell, it emerged, spoke in English, Italian, and German, to which Sevovicz's friend concluded, “If it was an intimate conversation, a private audience, who released all this information?”
Sevovicz wondered— without saying so— whether he should get involved and, if so, how? He had been working on a theory: If, while he was waiting for Robert to recover, he could become a behind-the-scenes facilitator for both sides of the hierarchy dispute, he might be left holding a pretty ring. If a pact could be negotiated rather than enforced, both sides would trust him.
He could then tell Rome, with the confirmation of all parties, of his own effectiveness. He felt sure that crumbs would fall; indeed, he hoped for a substantial loaf. Supposing O'Connell toppled, who would get the Archdiocese of Boston? It would have to be an archbishop, wouldn't it, at least for a while? As a caretaker?
He and his wise friend rehearsed the issue over and over again. How would O'Connell's enemies fare? Could Archbishop Walsh of St. Louis bring down His Eminence? Both men agreed that O'Connell's combination of aggression and shrewd Irish politics would carry him through.
Sevovicz's friend enumerated the stratagems that O'Connell was known to have employed to acquire and then keep power. Much of it came from image making. Deep in his episcopacy for example, he wrote— and had leather-bound— a series of “thoughtful” letters that he predated by some thirty-five years. Written in 1914–15, they were dressed to look as though he had begun them as early as 1876. Thus he gave the impression that he had had mature insights when he was much younger.
Like Sevovicz, His Eminence enjoyed the trappings of power. He believed that a leader should be seen to live the life of a leader. To this end he traveled richly, widely, and often (hence the nickname “Gangplank Bill”) and entertained lavishly when at home, where he kept an excellent cellar and a superb humidor.
Then Sevovicz discovered something that he hadn't known. Of the marriage scandals he had heard every detail: the nephew, Monsignor O'Connell, and the administrator-priest, Father Toomey In fact he had heard so much about them he saw no reason to learn any more; Rome had found out that His Eminence had lied to Pope Benedict about the two men, but that pope was now dead.
“Of course, there's always scandal,” said Sevovicz's friend.
“That's all closed, surely?” queried Sevovicz.
“When God closes one door, He opens another,” said Sevovicz's friend, and chuckled at his own joke. He elaborated; O'Connell's own “intimate preferences,” as he called them, must surely come to the attention of Rome one day.
“Meaning?” asked Sevovicz, miffed at his own ignorance.
“He thinks himself a gentleman and he likes gentlemen.”
Sevovicz kicked at a stone on their rocky beach and swore. “Do you think—?”
He paused, and the friend supplied the rest. “Do I think he has made inappropriate approaches to that young friend and ward of yours?”
Sevovicz said, “Has he?”
To which the friend replied, “I don't know.”
Neither man used the word homosexual or any of its euphemisms.
Not that night, or for many nights after, did Sevovicz get to sleep easily, as he replayed over and over the life, as he had seen it, of Robert Shannon. In particular he replayed the day of the Confession: how shattered Robert had been and how all their good progress seemed to have been undone when Robert emerged from his cloister with the cardinal. And yet— and yet, for a reason he could not grasp, Sevovicz refused to accept what others might have thought obvious. But at the same time, why did the cardinal send Robert to Ireland?
Robert felt no need to wait for the dawn's best light. He stepped out from his woodland sanctuary and resumed his riverside course. With the Shannon on his left, the friendly woods on the right gave way to farmland. On high ground a distant tree line ran along the crest of a field so cleanly that Robert thought of Abe Lincoln's beard— a tailored shape around a perimeter. Across the river, a ruined tower stood alone like a forgotten sentry with nothing to guard anymore.
Here the Shannon swirled fast and free, a current reaching fully to each bank; in high spate it would flood these fields. Not a cloud in the skies, not a breeze in the trees, not a beast in the fields; he stopped for a moment in the empty lands, fancying he could feel the planet turn beneath his feet.
He had forgotten to wind his watch; he reckoned the time at around six in the morning: Should I go and ask for breakfast somewhere? Why do I feel so good? I am— not afraid. Am I afraid? No. But I slept in the wild. I slept in the open air. I slept rough! Am I all right? A little damp. And some bones ache. But I'm all right!
After some hundreds of yards, the path swung away from the river and he needed faith to stay with it. The land stayed flat until, up ahead, it climbed to a stand of trees. Near this grove stood a white house with a yellow door.
Robert stopped and looked at the house. The clouds raced across the sky, driven by a wind not felt on the ground. He stared harder at the house and waited as though he expected something to happen. Then he resumed his walk. But a hundred yards on, he stopped and turned back to look at the house again. He and he alone occupied the landscape. He heard no human voice, just the burbling and splashing of the river and sometimes the screech of a bird.
His mind raced but he knew not why. He watched the tall reeds fight back against the fast stream. Then he began to pace— forward and back, forward and back—along the path. His mood had begun to swing between strength and tears, and he knew his surges of energy needed to be controlled. Something— something unknown— had moved in on him.
So he paced again and again, back and forth on that lovely path, trying to grasp and control his feelings, trying to define them. The dawn began to open fully, streaking the eastern sky with blood.
Although the shadows remained, Robert made a decision. He left the pathway and walked east on a small road until he came to the avenue of the house with the yellow door. A dim light shone in an upstairs window. With a deep breath he entered the property. He would— at least— ask for breakfast.
It was clear that somebody tended this place carefully. Somebody efficient clipped the copper beech hedge and tamed the blurts of pampas grass and filled the white jardinières on either side of the front door. The same somebody probably kept the garden benches on the small lawn painted a pristine white; even in this cold wet atmosphere they looked smart.
Robert hovered. He tried to peer in at the bow windows but could see nothing because the rooms were dark and the light from the sky had not yet entered. He pressed gently on the yellow door; it seemed firmly shut. The great brass knob had been polished so brightly it seemed like a lamp in the dawn.
He turned the knob. The door moved as lightly as a feather, and he stalled in fright at his own audacity. Outside the door, on his right, shone another brass artifact: a bellpull. He tugged and heard a distant ringi
ng.
Nobody answered. He entered a dim hallway. In the distance he saw a frill of light around the edges of a closed door. He walked toward this light along a dim long passage hung with pictures. This passageway led into a round lobby from which other corridors radiated. Straight ahead of him now was the door with the escaping light. He knocked and received no answer, but the door, unlatched, yielded to his knock, so he pushed it open— and looked into the glowing welcome of a large kitchen. A fire of wide logs danced in a wide hearth.
Is this a dream? Robert looked all around. Everything he saw spoke the words comfort, peace, and safety. He had never seen a floor of red brick before, red brick laid in a herringbone pattern, red bricks swept clean as a table. High, neat stacks of logs were piled on either side of the fireplace.
The wide hearth also contained two wooden settles of a kind he had only seen in New England. Those who sat on these wide high-backed benches every night would look at each other across the hearth. They must have done so for centuries, because the wood was as polished as gold.
Large food cupboards, painted cream with green trim, stood around the walls. One had chicken wire in the lower half; it had chicken wire because it contained chickens, tiny cheeping creatures, fluffing themselves and stumbling about in their warm little cage.
In the middle of the room stood a long table made of ordinary planks. He had never seen a wood so spotless; this was a timber called white deal, common all over the Irish countryside and capable of being scrubbed clinically clean, as this was. At one end of it stood a husband's large chair, standing slightly back, slightly aside, as if a man had recently eaten and gone out to work. Benches, wooden forms, ran down either side of the table; they gave no sign of recent occupation.
Along a high dresser that ran almost the length of one wall, row after row of gleaming cream-colored plates caught the red-and-orange light of the fire. On the shelf below them rested a long flat basket of eggs, to some of which wisps of straw adhered.
Best of all— and Robert had only read of this, never seen it— magical things hung from the raftered ceiling of the room: two dusty hams, half a dozen slabs of salt bacon, several hanks of voluptuous white onions, and other unidentifiable bundles that might have been herbs.
He stood there transfixed. The warmth of the fire lit his tired face— and then he suddenly realized that he had invaded somebody's home. Embarrassed and not a little fearful, he turned and left the kitchen, drawing the door closed behind him.
As he strode silently down the dark corridor, his eye caught something. He half stopped; he had no time to take it in fully, but it reached into him and laid a finger on his heart. He hurried on, hauled back the heavy front door, and stepped out into the dawn, and when he heard the gentle click! of the door behind him, he almost ran down the short curving avenue, across the little road, and back to the riverside path.
The later teenage years of Vincent Patrick Ryan passed in peace and quiet. He received abundant care and tenderness. A couple in Worcester, Massachusetts, whose own son had died of tuberculosis, took in Vincent and then legally adopted him.
On the first evening at dinner they said, “Every household has rules. But we hope that you'll absorb ours just from observing us.”
Within days they reflected upon their luck. This tall quiet boy responded to every kindness they could offer. He might not say much, but he found ways of showing his appreciation. His help in the house had an eloquence all its own. He kept an immaculate bedroom, took excellent care of his person, and rushed to assist with every domestic task.
“A paragon,” they said. “Such good behavior,” they said. “A model boy.”
Only one cloud passed over— his sisters came to visit. Vincent went into such a decline afterward that the adoptive parents wrote and told them— in careful, tactful terms— never to call again. “For reasons you already know, which we do not— at this moment— need to reconsider, Vincent is trying hard to build a new life.” The threat implicit in the words at this moment sufficed, and he never again heard from a member of his family.
His new life contained massive promise. Vincent excelled at school, in almost every subject. He came out top of the class again and again; he read voraciously, and although he kept to himself he delighted in helping classmates.
At home, he studied into the night, always in consideration of the household's activities. He became as fully a child of his adoptive parents as though they had conceived and borne him. Their life became his life, and within weeks the need for any steering, any corrective touch on the rudder, fell away.
They had always had a good social life: bridge, library volunteers, country club. Vincent fitted in seamlessly. He met their friends, who found him charming if quiet and said to his parents how much they looked forward to his maturity, when those boyish good looks became fixed. And when not at Sunday lunch with his new parents, listening keenly, saying little, they knew he was at home, studying or completing some chores.
Two lacunae materialized: no sport and no social life. For each of these gaps he had an answer, delivered in his quiet way in excellent English.
“My knowledge of my own physical ability is too uncertain. I am happy for the moment to concentrate on studies. When I feel that I can also excel at sport, I shall choose something.” Football? they wondered, given his physique. “Perhaps,” he said.
The priest who had been assigned to look him over now and then believed his avoidance of sport “might have something to do with, you know, the physical abuse, doesn't want his body hurt anymore.”
Vincent's adoptive parents, eager and gracious people, nodded understandingly
As to the second lacuna, Vincent had a reply that charmed them.
“I understand your concern. But I do have a social life; I have my life with you. This is where I want to be in the evenings and at weekends.”
If they speculated as to what he thought about things, they put it away, grateful for the smooth and good presence he supplied. If they wondered why he stared at the wall— when not reading— for such long hours, they put it down to teenage daydreams. If they felt anxious at the length of his solitary walks, they got over it when he returned with a small gift: an unusual stone or branch, a country fruit, flowers, or perhaps a description of something that he had seen.
When he was eighteen, his academic results startled all who knew him. In science he received the top marks in the state of Massachusetts; in mathematics he was in the top 5 percent. Nor could his other scores be faulted; not one was below 90 percent. Which raised the question: What next?
Then came the only major discomfort his new parents experienced in the years they had been raising him. “Vincent Patrick,” as his adoptive mother insisted on calling him, would not—could not—enter into discussions of his future. Not for a moment would he think of what he might do; not for a second would he contemplate a career, a life. They applied no pressure— but they did invite a friend, one of the school principals, to dinner.
It yielded no result; Vincent Patrick would not—could not—focus and the conversation faded. When he had gone to his room after dinner— with, as ever, perfect courtesy to the adults— they discussed his reluctance. The teacher advised that they go back to basics and talk to clergy who knew the original family.
She said, “The word the other students use about him in school is solitary. He mixes little.”
“We know,” said the anxious parents.
“And when other children make that observation about a peer, it usually means that the condition is greater than they're saying.”
“We understand,” said the concerned parents.
“And his reluctance to talk about his future may mean— and I'm only guessing here— that he's fearful of engaging. In the world outside school he'll have to show people who he is.”
“Ah,” said his parents— and wrote next day to the clergy who had kindly stayed in touch all these years.
With good timing, two priests arrived, one of t
hem the man who had overseen the transfer from the Ryan home to this house. Vincent Patrick, regular as a clock, had gone on his long Saturday morning walk. In his absence they listened and they talked and they decided: Perhaps Vincent Patrick should be offered a place in the seminary? The devout parents agreed.
He began his studies for the priesthood that fall, and with it he combined the next level of education. In college, too, he excelled. The “social problem” did not, however, evaporate; he mixed infrequently, and he said little and took no part in sport. There was no fault with his courtesy, though, or his punctuality, or his personal standards, or his seeming devoutness.
For two years he— once again— conducted his life along ideal lines. Even his weekly confessions, obligatory for all students and typically filled with lurid half-baked thoughts, contained nothing but Vincent's mild notions of his own transgressions: carelessness in attention at a lecture, lack of ardor in trying to work harder, forgetting to write home.
His self-effacement intensified. At the age of twenty-one he could be found in the seminary only if searched for; this big, impeccably turned-out young man kept himself to himself so much he often could not be seen.
Also at the age of twenty-one his life altered. As he walked down a corridor one day, a couple of the students teased him about a scarf he was wearing. Vincent Patrick Ryan especially liked this muffler. It had been a birthday gift from his adoptive mother and he had specifically requested it: Black and gray stripes almost merged, separated only by a fine line of pink. He didn't know that it reminded these students of a local school with a poor reputation.
“Hey, Vin, are those your school colors?”
“I didn't know you went there.”
“They're gorillas.”
“That'd figure.”
So ran the banter.