1966
It was late November. Michigan’s trees had flaunted their colors and now were pretty much bare. A strong, frigid wind raced over the Detroit River. It whistled through the nearly deserted canyons of downtown Detroit. One could fire cannons down Jefferson, Gratiot, Woodward, or Fort Street with impunity.
Though a short avenue, Washington Boulevard was not sheltered from this preview of winter. Actually, with its angle to the river, it was one of the colder thoroughfares.
The boulevard boasted one of downtown’s more noteworthy addresses: 1234 housed St. Aloysius Church and rectory and, possibly even more important, the archbishop’s office, the chancery, the tribunal, and other headquarters of ecclesial business.
Today, everyone had shown up for work except the priest-secretary to Archbishop Mark Boyle. Monsignor Shanahan had come down with an early and virulent cold.
Perhaps it was fate.
Shanahan had no backup. And since this archdiocese was-with an occasional exception-wed to seniority, it was a simple case of finding the low man on the totem pole.
Enter Father Vincent Delvecchio.
An outsider would have been amazed at how positions were filled in the Church. The answer was seniority, or, more exactly, chronology.
Another standard method of filling priestly positions was the educated guess. Since this option had little to do with qualification, the Peter Principle ran rampant.
In the seminary there seemed no rhyme or reason in designating an infirmarian; it was pure accident if the student-infirmarian knew anything at all about maladies, medication, or therapy. Such a situation could be dangerous.
With less fraught possibilities were other assignments made. Take, for instance, the appointment of teachers in the diocesan seminary. Students who got good grades were tapped for teaching. Of course if they had wanted to teach, they could have joined a teaching order such as the Basilians, Sulpicians, or Jesuits. It mattered not that they had chosen a school that graduated parish priests; they earned high grades, therefore they became teachers. By fiat of the bishop.
Father Vince Delvecchio had barely learned his way around the chancery when Monsignor Shanahan called in sick. Lacking the seniority to remain fixed in his fledgling position, Delvecchio was up for grabs.
He had been at work less than an hour today when he was called to the chancellor’s office.
“Vince,” Monsignor Jake Donovan said in his typically brisk manner, “Shanahan threw a shoe. Laid up. We’re short on the boss’s floor. Think you can handle it? Fine!” Donovan never waited for an answer when issuing a rhetorical command. “Go on down there and do a shallow dive. You’ll catch on before you know what’s happening.” Oblivious of the Irish bull, Donovan pressed on. “Anyway, Shanahan should be back in no time; how long does it take to beat a cold anyway?” He didn’t wait for answers to rhetorical questions either. “There’s a good man.”
Thus was Delvecchio dismissed to learn another trade.
He took no tools with him as he left the fifth floor. He had no idea what he’d need. As he entered the elevator, he noticed his name on the list of those the operator was allowed to deposit on the second floor. He reflected that he had received this assignment only seconds ago and already his name was in the Book of Life. Sometimes the mills of the Church did grind swiftly.
The foyer of “the boss’s floor” was a long rectangle with some doubtful art on the walls. At the far end of the foyer, in a partially enclosed work space, was the receptionist. Delvecchio knew her name. Jan Olivier. That was about the extent of his familiarity with the sacred second floor.
Beyond Jan’s station was an office. Mine, he thought. Temporarily, he hoped.
At the left of his office, the foyer turned a ninety-degree angle leading to the archbishop’s office. He couldn’t see that portion of the foyer, but he’d visited Boyle in his office more than once.
Hands jammed in trouser pockets, Delvecchio made his way along the carpeted floor. Reaching the receptionist’s station he turned to face her.
She smiled. “We’ve been expecting you, Father.”
His expression was grim. “I didn’t expect to see me down here.”
She laughed lightly. “We don’t bite. The archbishop wanted to see you when you arrived. I’ll tell him you’re here. Go right in.”
As he turned to enter Boyle’s office, Delvecchio heard Jan, in a low tone, announce his arrival.
He knocked; a firm voice with soft brogue overtones invited him in.
Delvecchio entered the spacious office with its broad windows overlooking Washington Boulevard. Boyle rose and extended his hand as he circled his desk.
Delvecchio took the proffered hand and began to genuflect as he leaned forward to kiss the episcopal ring. Gently, Boyle pulled him erect.
That’s right, thought Delvecchio, Boyle represented the new breed that was changing the changeless Church, even down to innocent conventions such as reverencing the ring.
Delvecchio didn’t learn much from Boyle about the duties of secretary to the archbishop. Except that the receptionist would help him. But not to depend on her too much; she had her own duties to attend to.
So, Delvecchio concluded as he left the archbishop’s office, it was he, a simple priest, and Jan Olivier against the world. He didn’t like the odds.
In fact, if anyone wanted to know-but apparently no one did-he was not happy about this entire adventure. It was grossly unfair to thrust him into this new position with no briefing, let alone training.
It didn’t matter. When Delvecchio was ordained, the bishop had enclosed the young priest’s hands in his own and said solemnly, Promitis mihi et successoribus meis reverentiam et obedientiam? (“Do you promise to me and my successors reverence and obedience?”) And the new priest had replied, Promito.
This was going to test that promise.
He returned to the foyer. There seemed little point in going into his office; he didn’t know what to do there.
Jan was on the phone. She raised a finger, indicating she would be with him in a moment. And she was. “I’m supposed to teach you everything you need to do this job”-she smiled understandingly-“… right?”
He nodded.
“The problem with that,” she said, “is time: I haven’t got the time you need. And you’re wondering what to do right now, aren’t you?”
Again he nodded.
“Well, here’s what I think maybe a help …” She led the way into his office, where she picked up a small pile of phone messages from his desk. “This,” she said, “is the most urgent business. These are requests for … varying things. Most of them are calls from priests. Most of them want an appointment with the archbishop. Some of them have scheduled confirmation services at their parishes.. Of course each pastor wants the archbishop himself to conduct his service at his parish-”
“That’s impossible, right?” Even though Delvecchio had never been a pastor, it was patently obvious that if Boyle personally conducted confirmations at all the parishes that wanted him, that would take up just about all his evenings throughout the year.
Also, Delvecchio had been exposed to enough parish politics to know that it was not reverence, respect, or love of Boyle that motivated nearly everyone to want him for confirmation. No, they all just wanted to be known as important enough to rate the supreme arch-diocesan boss.
“Yes, that’s impossible,” Jan agreed. “So, when you return this type of call, you need to assure the pastors that late next month the schedule of which bishops go where for confirmations will be drawn up. ‘Every effort will be made at that time’”-her delivery made it obvious that this was the appropriate jargon-“‘to have the archbishop come to your parish.’”
“What,” he asked, “will that accomplish?”
“Buy time. It’s the best we can do now. The bit about drawing up the schedule in late December is for real.”
Delvecchio fingered through the phone messages. By no means were all or even most messages concerning who would come to confirm. “What about all the rest of these?”
Jan shook her head. “I’ve gone over them with Archbishop Boyle. I have little marks next to the phone numbers. All of those little marks mean something …” She shook her head as he started to ask. “… but it’s too complicated to go into right now.” She looked at him pointedly. “You may not think so, but just returning the confirmation queries will pretty much fill the rest of the day.”
“Really?” He found that hard to believe.
“You don’t know how tenacious some of these pastors can be. Some of them feel that having an auxiliary bishop is a negative commentary on their parochial work. They’ll chew your ear off to get some sort of special consideration.”
Maybe, thought Delvecchio. But I don’t think they’ll get much chance to chew these ears. “When do I learn what your shorthand stands for on the other messages?”
Jan bit her lower lip. “That’s a good question. There just isn’t time during office hours. How about this evening?”
“I’ve got a couple of appointments. But I can postpone them. How about if we meet at my residence? I have an office in the rectory.”
“You could be interrupted by phone calls,” Jan reminded.
He winced and nodded.
“How about dinner out?” she suggested.
“I’ve never been able to stick to business in a restaurant. Taking notes while eating seems incompatible.”
Jan shrugged. “Then it’s got to be my place. I’ve got a first-floor apartment in a large complex in Warren.”
Delvecchio hesitated. This was solus cum sola-one on one. The only time thus far he’d been alone with a woman was in a safe situation … under correct, even if not chaperoned, circumstances. Except when he was bringing Communion to a shut-in he’d never been alone with a woman in her apartment.
But this seemed safe enough. Strictly business.
He agreed; he would pick up Chinese takeout on the way over. She gave him the address and directions.
Bundled up against the cold, he arrived at her door a couple of minutes before seven. As she took his coat, hat, and scarf to hang up, she was mildly surprised to see that he wore not clericals, but a flannel shirt, chinos, and a sweater.
He noted her puzzlement. “Anyone sees me come or go, they won’t think I’m a priest.”
“Just a date.” She was sorry the moment the words left her mouth. This was to be business; there should be no hint, no overtone of anything else.
She had set out a series of papers on the coffee table. They sat together on the couch and ate as she explained the cryptic symbols-her shorthand transcribing the reactions of His Excellency to each message.
Along the way, they discovered that they both knew how to use chopsticks.
From time to time, her nearness distracted him. She really was a most attractive young woman. Her dress was so “Marylike” he could only guess at her figure. Though she was slender, he presumed she was curvy.
There was a delicate scent of just the right perfume. Her dark hair fell well below her shoulders. The corners of her extremely expressive eyes crinkled with humor.
Occasionally, she brushed against him as she reached for food or to turn a page. He found that somewhat stimulating.
Jan had long been aware of Vincent Delvecchio.
His name, of course, had become well known when he’d suffered the breakdown, recovered, and then been sent to Rome. What to do with this talented yet perhaps flawed young man had been a periodic topic in the chancery for sometime. As a secretary in the archbishop’s office, Jan was privy to much of the gossip.
Eventually, he had arrived at the chancery, his appointment after ordination.
While he did not seem to notice her, she was acutely aware of him: He was tall, dark, and handsome. She fantasized about him.
And now, here he was. In her apartment. Alone. Without making it seem intentional, she brushed up against him. She was aroused. But she did not let on.
They finished the Chinese dinner. She made coffee, chattering on about the symbols she’d devised to capture the thoughts and disposition of the archbishop.
They drank a lot of coffee while Delvecchio committed her hieroglyphics … or at least most of them … to memory.
By the time Delvecchio glanced at his watch, it was almost eleven. “Holy cow! Look at the time! And I’ve got early Mass tomorrow morning.” He stood. “I’d better get going.”
She handed him his scarf and stood holding his coat. “You’re a quick study,” she observed. After all she’d heard about him, she’d expected him to be sharp; still, his acumen surprised her.
“But not quite quick enough. There’s still a lot for me to absorb before I can be confident that I’m really filling in for Shanahan. Would you do what you did this morning? I mean, bring in the messages and record the archbishop’s reaction to them? Then I’ll go over them with you and see if I’ve got this all down. One more day will probably do it-that is, as long as we can put in another evening on this crash course.”
“Sure. I think I can swing that.” She helped him on with his coat. “Just remember that lots of people want to see the archbishop. But only a few will make it. The thing is that most of this business can be handled by lower-echelon personnel. We-well, you-have to steer these people to an auxiliary, or a monsignor, or a priest-or even someone like me. Mostly you’ll be a filter protecting the archbishop from having to deal with problems and questions that others can take care of.
“That sounds simple enough,” he said as she handed him his hat.
“Maybe because I’m oversimplifying it.”
“Maybe.” Ready to face November’s cold, he reached for the doorknob.
“Oh-”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to bring dinner. I’ll make it. Tomorrow’s Friday. You want to eat meat?”
Earlier in the month, the Vatican had announced that there would no longer be a law obliging Catholics to abstain from meat on Fridays. The announcement had triggered some simplistic humor. Such as, What is God going to do with all those people who are in hell because they ate meat on Friday?
It also caused a furor among traditional Catholics who looked on as yet another ancient tradition went down the drain.
Delvecchio glanced at her sharply. “Certainly not! Besides, the decree doesn’t become effective until December second.”
She tried to cover a blush. “Just kidding.”
“Okay. Well, see you at the office tomorrow, and here tomorrow evening.”
There was little traffic; it took him only half an hour to drive home.
She cleaned up in record time. They had spooned out portions from the cardboard cartons, so there were only the coffee cups to be washed. And since they had used chopsticks, aside of the serving pieces, there was no flatware to be washed.
Neither got much sleep that night.
He felt much like a teenager after his first awkward date. By contemporary standards it was extremely odd that this was his first date. He found his reaction curious.
He lay in bed thinking of her. He imagined he could still smell her delicate perfume. He figured her to be roughly his age, perhaps a little older. He found her beautiful and intelligent. He remembered his reaction each time she’d touched him … inadvertently, of course, but touch him she had. And he had reacted … involuntarily, of course, but react he had.
He wondered about her.
That he’d had no sexual experience was one thing. What with parochial school, the seminary, summer camp, his priesthood, sexual expression had been a forbidden fruit from early childhood on. Not many men in their early thirties were virginly intact.
But what about her?
She was an attractive, available young woman. She must be experienced in sex. The way he’d acted and reacted to her tonight must have seemed foolish and adolescent-if she was aware of it.
What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to behave when he was alone with a beautiful woman?
Well, he knew the answer to that!
The Church demanded that he never marry. And morality demanded that any sexual expression whatsoever be confined within marriage. Chaste! That’s how he was supposed to behave when alone with a beautiful woman-any woman.
He expected tomorrow evening would present the most difficult temptation he had ever faced.
She lay in bed thinking of him. He was so talented, so brilliant, so interesting-and handsome, to boot. She had heard the expression made regarding certain priests, though she herself had never had occasion to use it. Now was that occasion. She thought of his celibate life and said to herself: What a waste!
Then she felt guilty.
She could sense that he had been aroused when she brushed against him.
The first time it was accidental. Thereafter, she certainly had not gone out of her way to avoid touching him.
Was there chemistry between them? She had been interested in this young man when she first heard of him. When he began work in the chancery, she would see him from time to time. For instance, in the elevator. She would smile at him, at least in the beginning. He rarely returned the smile-or even acknowledged her presence.
But that remote, standoffish man was not the same as the overwhelmed priest who needed help with a new job. He was not the same as the young man who had reacted to her innocent touches this evening.
He would be at the office tomorrow, still needing her help. They would work together-at least as much as she was able and time allowed.
Then … he would be back here tomorrow evening.
There was not really all that much work to do. Surely she had little more to teach him. That business about shielding the archbishop from unnecessary appointments by finding others who could handle the various sorts of demands, advice, etc.; that really was at the heart of the position that Vince Delvecchio was filling for the duration of Shanahan’s illness.
Jan Olivier had grown up sheltered by parents who treasured their one and only child. Parochial schools led to Marygrove, a Catholic womens’ college. And that led to a job in the offices of the archdiocese of Detroit.
She had dated. But her dating and her dates had had to pass her parents’ muster-the upshot being that she was still a virgin. Even though she was living through the turbulent sixties. Even though she had her own apartment.
Maybe, just maybe, after tomorrow night, she would no longer be a maiden lady.
It’s a good thing Mother couldn’t know what her fine Catholic daughter was thinking; she would be mortified!
Shortly after assuming jurisdiction over the Detroit archdiocese, Mark Boyle set the tone for diocesan bureaus. Everyone would be assembled and ready for work by 9 A.M. In the beginning he made it his practice to drop in on the various offices-unannounced and seemingly haphazardly-a few minutes before 9.
It did not take long for the bureaucrats to catch on. Boyle set the style and expected everyone else to follow suit. Rather quickly, everyone did.
Among those who followed faithfully were Father Vincent Delvecchio and Miss Jan Olivier. They both arrived within minutes of each other at approximately 8:30.
Delvecchio began by boning up on the rating system Jan had devised. He’d had no time either last night or this morning to study it.
Jan gathered the messages that had accumulated late yesterday afternoon and the few that had trickled in earlier this morning. She brought them in to the archbishop. She began reading them and, where she had some insight, commenting. Boyle gave directions for their distribution. That meant that either he would handle the matter himself or find someone to take care of it.
Actually, the archbishop had expected Father Delvecchio to be handling this by now. Realistically, he knew that was expecting a bit much. So he made no comment. In another day or so the bright young man would master the job.
Jan brought the messages to Delvecchio and looked over his shoulder as he read and interpreted them. He misread only a couple.
He was alert to her scent. He thought he had read somewhere that perfume takes on a different fragrance as it is applied to different skin. He expected he would never forget what Jan’s perfume did for her. Or what she did for it.
As she leaned over, he felt something touch the back of his neck, just above his clerical collar. It must, he thought, be her breast. That set him off on another fantasy. He certainly did not attempt to escape from her touch, or to push her-or himself-away.
Enough, of that. He had work to do.
He began his second day of phoning, or, rather, returning calls that had been directed at Archbishop Boyle.
He was getting into the swing of it. It was a kick phoning pastors, men much older than he, and, in effect, telling them where to go.
For their part, the pastors hung on his every word, trying to interpret the message within the message-between the lines, as it were.
After talking to Delvecchio, some of them thought: The Arch isn’t going to see me, but I must still be in his good graces-after all, now I’ve got his permission to talk to his senior auxiliary. Maybe that’s enough … maybe I won’t even call that brown-noser after all. Keep ’em guessing. Yeah!
Others thought: Oh, my God! The old man agreed to see me. What the hell, I didn’t expect him to give me an interview. Why is he going to see me personally? What does he know? He can’t know that the guys and I are going to Florida during Advent! Who would have told him! Who would have given us away? I’ll bet it was O’Malley. Sure; that’s why he canceled out on the trip.
In each case, from his listener’s tone, Delvecchio could measure the effect his message was having. He began deliberately changing his speech patterns to create differing pastoral modes.
He enjoyed having and exercising power. It was one of the things he was learning about himself lately.
Around 11:30 he strolled out to Jan’s desk. “Almost lunchtime. Want to go? My treat.” He was smiling, something he seldom did.
She looked up brightly. “Any other day of any other year. I’ve got some catching up to do.”
“My fault, eh? I took your time to teach me my job. Sorry about that. But without your help, I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea of what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“It’s all right. A raincheck … okay?”
“Okay.”
Instead of taking a normal lunch hour, Jan got a carry-out from a nearby drugstore. She also did some judicious shopping in a Woodward Avenue apparel shop. She had no plans for tonight, nor any idea of what would happen. This “date” could lead anywhere; she wanted to be ready for whatever.
It was almost five. The workday was winding down.
Once again, Delvecchio popped up in front of Jan. “Listen, I’ve just got to see someone at the rectory at six-thirty. I figure we’ll be done by seven-thirty. So how ’bout I get to your place about eight?”
The incipient frown that broke out when she’d thought he was canceling their get-together quickly dissipated. “Actually, that’ll be perfect: I need a little time to put dinner together.”
On the way home she stopped at her favorite fish place for some swordfish and at a small bakery for French bread. At home were potatoes, vegetables, and the makings for a tossed salad.
What was it they said in the tribunal? Omnia parata. Everything is ready.
By the time he arrived a minute or two after 8, everything indeed was ready. The table was set, the candles were lit. He handed her a bottle of-light Chardonnay.
As she was putting food on the table, he asked to wash up. Through the door to the bedroom and past the walk-in closet, he was instructed.
He glanced around the bedroom. Typical woman’s room. Lots of frilly things. Lots of white. The bed-queen-size, he conjectured-became the focus of his interest. A bed, in this pagan age, had become the symbol not of sleep and rest, but sex. For just a moment, he imagined himself and Jan together on that bed, naked. It was such a strong image that he had to force his mind to let it go.
He washed his hands and, steadfastly looking away from the bed, returned to the dining room.
The table wasn’t large enough to hold all the serving platters. She kept popping up and down, offering dishes to him, and from time to time dropping dollops on her own plate.
Small talk surrounded how good everything tasted, how easy it had been to make, what had happened at the office today, and the like.
How much this resembled married life, Jan thought. Working couples coming together in the early evening to share the highlights of their day. Even though their conversation was a bit strained, she liked the experience. After all, they had known each other only a couple of days; there was plenty of room to develop.
From the moment he entered her apartment this evening, he had been acutely aware that something was different. That fetching fragrance was the same. The hair was the same. She was wearing a tad more makeup. But her dress: No Marylike creation this.
It was black or possibly a very dark blue. And there wasn’t an extra inch of cloth to it. It met and caressed each and every curve. The neckline was cut so that each time she bent over to serve him, he could see-he couldn’t miss! — more than a hint of full, molded breasts.
Vaguely he had been aware of all this at first glance this evening, but the passing minutes developed the details.
Entree finished, Jan suggested they repair to the living area for coffee and dessert.
She put the tray on the coffee table. She sat where she had last night-on the couch. He could easily have taken the chair across the table from her. But he too sat on the couch. As he sat next to her he recalled her touches last night.
They had dessert and two cups of coffee each. Finally, he passed, claiming he would float if he had any more.
An awkward silence followed.
“Would you like to watch some TV?” she asked tentatively.
He shook his head. “I can watch TV any night.”
“You don’t really need teacher anymore, do you?” she said playfully.
He shook his head again. “That’s what you get for being such a good instructor.”
She was aware that during dessert and coffee, he had inched over; their bodies were lightly touching.
“What do you think of the job?” she asked.
“Which job?”
“The archbishop’s secretary.”
He thought for a minute. “It has its moments.”
She smiled. “I heard you today on the phone a few times. You sounded like you were enjoying yourself … sort of throwing your weight around.”
He snorted. “I haven’t got any weight-particularly where those pastors are concerned. It’s the archbishop’s weight that can get thrown about.” As he let his arm fall to his side, his hand landed on hers.
She waited for him to take his hand away. When he made no move to do so, she opened her hand and held his. Both their hands trembled slightly.
After a few moments, she said, “It’s just possible that that job might be opening up.”
“Huh?”
“It’s been noised about in the chancery … Monsignor Shanahan has mentioned it to me. He’s getting tired of the job. He may ask for a change … back to parish work. From the position he’s in now as secretary to the archbishop, he probably could get just about any parish he wanted-provided it was open.”
“No kidding! It never entered my head-I mean, continuing after Shanahan recovers.” He looked thoughtful. “That’s interesting. But”-he shrugged-”I’m there only as a temporary substitute-very short-term. And even that’s only because I’m low man on the totem pole. If they wanted a permanent replacement, they’d look for someone way higher on the ladder …” He looked at her. “… don’t you think?”
“You’re going to have quite a bit of experience by the time Monsignor Shanahan gets back. It’s just as possible that they would favor your experience over chronology.” She smiled. “I have it on good authority that when Monsignor Shanahan gets his annual cold, it usually takes him a good two to three weeks to get over it and go back to work.”
She lifted her hand from his so she could gesture. “What if the rumor that Monsignor Shanahan wants to retire from the chancery is true? And what if someone”-she emphasized the noun-“were to get word to Monsignor that you wouldn’t mind taking over his job?” She smiled again. “I could imagine that Monsignor might extend his sick leave as long as possible to let you get really familiar with the work …
“Maybe,” she added, “along with Monsignor’s request for a transfer, he could recommend you for the job.”
They both allowed a few moments for that thought to take root.
“We could work together … every day!”
“That would be nice,” he mused. “Real nice.”
His thought took a flight of fancy.
It was by no means uncommon that a priest who became a bishop’s secretary eventually became a bishop himself. Not always, but it was one possible path to the office.
A full-time secretary lived in the same mansion with the archbishop. The secretary was also the customary chauffeur. The secretary met with other bishops, regularly. The secretary usually accompanied his bishop on trips, particularly to Rome.
Having studied in Rome was also a consideration in the candidacy for a bishopric. He, Delvecchio, had touched that base already. Not during his basic theology training, but postgrad-after his damned breakdown.
Based on his years of study there, he already had a familiar name in Rome. Being the archbishop’s secretary would only enhance that familiarity.
Then he wouldn’t have to borrow the archbishop’s clout to toss his weight around. Then, Delvecchio would be a force with which to reckon.
He felt the power of the episcopacy. It was just beyond his grasp. As long as he kept his nose clean. He couldn’t afford a stupid mistake. Not with his breakdown being one strike.
Jan leaned forward to stack the dessert and coffee dishes.
Without thinking, he laid his hand on her back. Through the thin dress he felt her bra strap. It was an intimate item of apparel. He felt the intimacy.
So did she. She froze.
Instantly, he realized what he had done. He jerked his hand away.
She left the dishes on the table and sat straight up. She turned slightly to face him. She didn’t know what to say. His face was flushed.
“Did you … do you …” She was stammering. “… want to … to … kiss me?”
He looked deeply into her eyes. “Very much so.”
She put her arms around his neck. He put his around her back.
After a few seconds, he released her. She did not release him. So he put his arms back around her.
He felt her tongue against his lips.
She was lost in the kiss.
He was thinking.
French kissing. He’d first heard of it in moral theology. When entered into willingly and when prolonged, it was a mortal sin. Oh, my God: a mortal sin! Now that he was experiencing it for the first time, he didn’t think it was worth being a mortal sin.
But he was firmly wrapped up in it.
Her arms remained locked around his neck. They had no place else to go.
His arms and hands were free to roam. And they did.
Consumed by the passion of the moment, his hand touched her knee, then slipped beneath the hem of her dress. Soon his hand fondled a firm, smooth thigh.
Suddenly, she stood up. She straightened her dress. She looked at him, inhaled deeply, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Bewildered, he remained seated.
Immediately after thinking that he must at all costs avoid any stupid errors on his road to becoming a bishop, he had blundered.
Thank God it had gone no further.
He stood. He prepared to leave.
His trousers were wrinkled. He had been seriously aroused. But that was gone now.
She reentered.
She had bought two items during her brief shopping expedition. One was the dress she was no longer wearing. The other was the diaphanous robe she was wearing.
In but a few moments, he drank into his memory bank her every bodily feature. She was offering him her very self.
Part of him urged a shout of ecstasy and welcome. Part of him wanted to burn her at the stake. What triumphed was the outraged, Victorian Vincent Delvecchio.
“How-dare-you!” He shouted every drawn-out syllable.
Her shock and embarrassment was such that she grabbed a chair covering and quickly drew it around herself.
“But …”
“We were building what could have been …”
“You kissed me …”
“A platonic …”
They were shouting over one another. Their voices carried into adjacent apartments.
“And your hand …”
“Our friendship could have grown …”
“You were feeling me …”
“Into something beautiful …”
“You made me believe …”
“All of this could have been …”
“You wanted me …”
“You ruined everything …” He slipped into his coat, grabbed his hat, and made for the door.
“What was I to think …?”
“And it’s all your fault!” With that shouted crusher he slammed the door behind him.
She stood sobbing and trembling, then, with a howl, she threw herself on the couch. Tears flowed hot and copious. She couldn’t come close to calm consideration.
How could I have been so wrong? I tried to let things happen naturally. I didn’t try, to force anything.
We’ve known each other just two days. And it’s over now?
The archbishop told me to help him. He asked for my help. I gave it to him. No strings attached. I really did help him. He learned quickly. The way he reacted when I was near him. I thought he was hungry for a woman. Did I think that because I was hungry for a man?
That dress, that robe … I bought them today. Was I trying to force things? Subconsciously?
That kiss! I was the one who started that. I was the one who started the French kiss. I don’t think he even knew what it was.
No! Dammit! It wasn’t the kiss. We could have kept control if it had just been the kiss.
But not when he put his hand on my thigh and started to caress it. That was the message. It was unmistakable. We had to get out of our clothes then. It was our only direction then.
My fault! That’s a laugh.
This was an angry thought that turned almost immediately defensive.
What am I going to do now?
Can I go back to work at the chancery? Just like nothing happened?
He’ll be there! Only one wall between us. One constructed wall. The emotional wall will be much more powerful than one of plaster.
What if he tells the others? Men do that. I’ll be laughed out of the building.
I can’t go back. I simply can’t.
I’ll call in sick tomorrow. Later I’ll send them a noncommittal letter of resignation.
Where will I go?
To another city. Smaller.
I can get a letter of recommendation from Archbishop Boyle.
This part of my life is over. If I’m not careful, I may just wrap my car around a tree. Then all of my life will be over.
He thought:
Damn! I’ve got to get control of myself. I just ran a red light.
What an evening!
Now I know. Now I know why seminarians and priests must separate themselves from females-girls, women.
Suddenly it’s clear that only marriage can contain the lust between men and women. Women are the great temptation.
Admit it! Face it! I came this close to making love to her. Going to bed with her. Sleeping with her. And any other euphemisms they use for sex.
Tonight I came this close to throwing away my entire career. And for what? A moment of pleasure. Intense pleasure-I admit it. But momentary.
That kiss! I was flooded with desire.
Maybe there’s some good in this. I’ve got a much better appreciation of St. Paul. He wished everyone could live in the celibate state like him. But he realized not everyone could resist the seductive wiles of women. He hit it on the head when he wrote that it was better to marry than to burn in hell.
Such was the power of women. Without half trying, they could and did pull men into hell.
Even now, as I drive away from that woman, I can still feel the urge to throw good sense away and plunge into her.
Again, like St. Paul, I can almost hear Jesus tell me that His grace was sufficient for me.
Thank God!
But there’s still something that has to be made right. I’m in mortal sin and I’ve got to say Mass tomorrow morning. I’ve got to get to confession.
What time is it?
Almost ten-thirty.
Who can I go to at this hour? Who would understand?