1 Kings 13:3
Saturday 27 October: Trish Hartnett rarely attended OLPH on Sumner these days. Instead she attended mass at St Michael's on the Quadrangle, the massive nineteenth century pile next to the bishop's house that the inhabitants of Springfield called the cathedral.
Warm and bordering on the ornate, the cathedral has a distinctly retro feel to its painted interior. A grand, pastel blue, gold roofed alcove in the Eastern tradition dominates the place. There sits the bishop, robed this time of year in purple, red and gold, watching as his priest delivers the sermon for the separate Spanish mass. Off to the right all the fires of Pentecost explode in a mosaic behind a baptistery built like a castle in the background to a pre-Renaissance world. Off to the left, in front of a safe place for the adoration of the host, wait the assorted drums, guitars and songsters of the vibrant music group. And boy they can sing. The noise fills the place, resounding from wall to wall of this cavernous palace to God, which is by now hot enough, whether from the Holy Spirit or some less sacred cause, to strip the coat off your back. And above it all the resurrected Christ, a star-burst to rival the sun in blazing gold at his back, shadowed by an alpha omega cross feint enough to give the Lord dominion, transcends the very heart of the cathedral, suspended in space and offering that peace we all yearn for but rarely find, in the welcome embrace of his once crucified open arms.
But Trish Hartnett wasn't looking up. She was looking down at the floor, which was less spectacular, covered wall to wall with tacky grey linoleum. And here she prayed with the best of them but pointedly refrained from taking communion. And this day as always in recent weeks, she sat in the front row where the bishop could be sure to see her. And when she wasn't praying she lifted her green-grey eyes to stare at the bishop.
Bishop Patrick O'Malley had come to dread the 4 p.m. Saturday mass, when sure as eggs are eggs, the sensual woman who once ruled the roost at Springfield High would shroud her rich auburn hair in a resplendent Italian silk headscarf and watch him, nobody but him, from start to finish.
Unlike his more affable second in command, Monseigneur Rodriguez, our Bishop Patrick, wasn't given to the practice of pressing the flesh with the faithful after the service. Afterwards he liked to escape like some deus ex machina in reverse, disappearing into the cloisters and thence to his adjoining home. But not this time. This time she was ready. She had figured out his routine. As he stepped from the side door of the vestry, Bishop Patrick found her barring his path. It was raining and she was standing there, getting soaked.
"I want to talk with you."
"Later would be best."
"Not later. Now."
The bishop shrugged. He was not the kind of man to put off going to the dentist. Nor would he put this off. It was his character to deal with his problems head on. He led her back into the vestry. He had more than a shrewd suspicion that this meeting would leave him feeling violated, and he'd rather it not take place in his home.
The vestry held the basics for making coffee and he went through the motions, knowing the gesture would be futile.
"No." Her monosyllabic refusal was the prelude to the inevitable question. "You have the money?"
Patrick O'Malley realised this was a game he could never win. His reply was both sullen and defiant, and equally monosyllabic. "No," he said.
"Why?" she asked, her curiosity seemingly genuine.
"I can't raise that kind of sum. I have tried. It is not possible."
"You leave me no alternative."
"You are not seriously suggesting you will expose me, with all the consequent gossip."
"Yes. Unless that is, you retire from your position. Leave Springfield. Return to where you came from. Do whatever ex-bishops do. Go to Rome on retreat or something."
And, as if a great rod were lifted from his back, he heard himself say, "No."
"You realise I don't have to go public on this. I can just write to the cardinal in Boston and there'll be a private investigation - and you'll be finished."
Bishop O'Malley smiled like a child at Christmas, the relief palpable as he found the strength within himself not to mind. "I realise that. The answer is still no."
And pretty Trish Hartnett's beauty queen face crinkled, her eyes narrow with the spite she felt at the foul thing this man had done to her Sean. Her words, when they came, were measured, the emphasis strong on the first word of the sentence. "You will be sorry," she said. And she turned and left the room.
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