Chapter 16

“Father Ryan. Please, come in.”  The friendly voice of Edward Ellerby pushed back some of the daytime darkness of the Bishop’s study. Nevertheless, Matthew Stephen Ryan hesitated at the threshold of the room, his raised eyebrows elicited the instruction, “Yes, please, close the door.”

To any number of the older parish priests in Philadelphia, Edward  Ellerby’s study was the physical manifestation of success in the service of the Lord. The room was a symphony of carved-wood, expensive leather and exquisitely crafted leaded glass. One wall held a fireplace, bracketed by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The mantle was stone, elaborately carved and shouted of power and wealth. Two wing-backed leather chairs faced the broad hearth. Between them, a low table on which two glasses and a cut glass decanter waited. The Bishop’s desk was directly opposite the door, behind it, a bay window that looked out over the city; the white-painted, quintessential tower of City Hall dominated the view. In front of the desk, a pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs, clearly designed to inspire brevity. Stephen crossed the oriental carpet and chided himself for thinking that the cost of either the rug in front of the fireplace or cushioning the Bishop’s desk would have easily funded the daycare program at St. Agatha-James for more than a year.

Sitting, Father Matthew managed a smile that he hoped projected the blessed fraternity of the priesthood. He hoped for confident, but would settle for competent; his discomfort at being summoned, without explanation, to the Bishop’s office gave lie to his outwardly calm demeanor.

Edward Ellerby seemed in no hurry to get to the point of the meeting and chatted amiably. Father Matthew Ryan was impressed despite himself as the Bishop demonstrated a depth of knowledge of St. Agatha-James’s that exceeded any profile in an HR file. He asked about the rectory’s housekeeper by name and even knew that one of Violet McKenna’s grandchildren had just been accepted at the Naval Academy. Given that this particular information became available at the end of the school year, 6 weeks prior, Matthew found himself liking the man sitting across the yard or so of carved-wood desk.

Finally, the Bishop stood up and said, ‘This feels too much like a job interview or..”

“…being called to the Principle’s office?” Matthew said with an optimistic grin.

The Bishop looked at the young priest, laughter gave voice to his surprise, “Why yes, almost exactly like that! Let’s go sit somewhere a little less formal, shall we?” He stepped around the desk and walked to the fireplace, Matthew followed and was relieved to see that there was no fire in the hearth. Even with air conditioning, a roaring fire in a fireplace during high-summer in Philadelphia would be a bit much. He waited for the older man to sit first.

“Stephen, you know that passage from Matthew 22:21? ‘Render unto God the things that are God’s,…'”

“…and render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s”  Stephen finished.

“Well, as much as it pains me to have to ask, I need a favor.” Edward Ellerby turned in his chair and leaned slightly towards Matthew Stephen.  “Your sister is a novitiate at St Dominique’s, yes?”

Father Matthew Stephen Ryan nodded.

“A very intelligent, resourceful young woman. She’ll be an asset to the Church. I’m hearing very good things about her teaching, ‘gifted’ was one of the words used. From what I’ve been told, she’s already been of considerable service, in a rather delicate situation.” Seemingly captivated by the mood his words brought the conversation, the Bishop of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia failed to notice the puzzled look on the other priest’s face. His failure to understand the relationship between Sister Margaret Ryan and her brother, Father Matthew Ryan, would eventually exact a cost far in excess of the seemingly simple misunderstanding. “Her handling of that unfortunate matter of the priest in Chicago.” Oblivious to the lack of comprehension on the other man’s face, the Bishop continued, “It’s her exceptional talent for… ‘problem solving’ that has created a delicate situation, one that I need your help in resolving.”

“I agree. And she is, in fact, my sister. But if there’s something you need from Sister Margaret, surely you have more direct channels of communications?” Matthew smiled inwardly at his own choice of words. He made a mental note to add a prayer to his daily devotions that he would someday acquire conversational skills such as were demonstrated by his superior.

“Well, you’re quite correct, Father Ryan. There is a protocol for communications with the sisters at St. Dominique’s. Their Mother Superior is a remarkable woman by the name of Sister Bernadine Ellison. However, she is not always the most amenable woman in the Church, especially when she fails to properly appreciate the importance of matters that are beyond the four walls of her convent.”

“I heard she has a temper.”

“Be that as it may. I need you to ask your sister to cool the rhetoric on her campaign.”

“Campaign?”

“You weren’t aware of it? She is quite the social media provocateur, that one.” Stephen saw an expression of what might have to be called, ‘an amused fondness and interest’ when the Bishop spoke about his sister. He felt increasingly uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation, somehow drifting from professional to collegial, with the best of the former being replaced by the worst of the latter. He said a prayer for patient understanding and turned to face the other man more directly, “I’m sorry Bishop Ellerby, my sister and I do not currently enjoy a relationship that involves all that much communication. I confess that I know little about what it is you’re referring to, for that matter, I knowing about what she did in Chicago. The embarrassing fact of the matter is that I only learned that she’d joined the Order this summer.”

Bishop Ellerby smiled and appeared to relax. Father Ryan began to feel the opposite, tension grew with the dawning realization that his superior had been on his guard since turning the conversation to matters concerning his sister. He felt an ember of resentment flare up; that he was unable to identify the source of irritation added to his growing anger. His first thought, that his admission to knowing less about his sister’s activities than did the Bishop seemed reasonable cause. Less understandable was his reaction to the man’s too-familiar attitude. Without thinking, he said, “However I do know of Sister Bernadine Ellison. Talk about your impressive women, I for one, would not want to have to force anything on her. If even half the stories are a quarter true…” Matthew Ryan was rewarded with signs of change in the Bishops expression. The older man’s self-assurance eroded, replaced by something that he couldn’t immediately put a name to, although the word, ‘peeved’ came to mind and he had to catch himself to avoid laughing out loud.

Trying to mimic the confident, one-professional-to-another-professional tone, Father Ryan said, “Even in the seminary, when the topic of the Church’s relationship and responsibility to the religious Orders came up, there was always a story about a young nun and a priest who tried to put her on the spot during a synod. I forget his name, but everyone laughed in sympathy.”

“Lets get back to your Sister Ryan. If you have any influence with her, I need you to do your best to convince her that the Church has a responsibility to the community. A much larger community than a nun, a novitiate nun, is qualified to appreciate. Her current efforts to bring attention to the plight of a woman in Crisfield who is caught in a financial bind are not appropriate. That sort of problem is for the parish priest to determine the best course of action. Not a nun and certainly not in the arena of the so-called social media.” The Bishop stood abruptly.

“Can I count on your help, Father Matthew?”

Standing, Matthew Ryan faced the older man and nodded, “I will do whatever I can for the Church.”

Bishop Ellerby held out his hand and the young priest bent, kissed the proffered ring and tried not to think about Francis Ford Coppola’s Academy Award winning movie from the 1970s.

Advertisements

Chapter 15

If Spring is a demonstration of birth and the beginnings of life, then Summer is surely the domain of adolescence and the approach of adulthood. The life brought forth by the months of Spring cannot be restrained as they grow into their inherent potential. During the longest days of the year, skills for the coming lifetime are practiced, bonds are formed (and broken) and beneath all, the primal drive to leave a mark on the earth, or failing that, to reproduce.

If a child, (of any species), spends his or her Spring learning to walk, Summer is the time they discover the joy of running. While undeniable that running is a capability meant to aid survival as well as propagation, it could be argued that running is the most sublime form of mobility.

Crisfield, Maryland came to life during the Summer months. Provided, of course, one defines life as an increase in activity and the initiation of processes that lead to greater numbers in subsequent Summers. The population of the handful of small towns along the coastal edges of the Delmarva peninsula increased by a factor of five at the beginning of July and remained, so elevated, until September. Then, with the call of the school year, it slowly decreased, like a minute pinhole leak in an inner tube, until the end of the month and the onset of Autumn.

Sister Margaret Ryan spent the summer season earning credits towards her Masters degree in Elementary Education. She discovered that the University of Maryland was a leader in online education. Enrolling as a nun living in a convent, Sister Margaret Ryan’s application was immediately flagged and she received a call from the assistant Dean of the University’s new ‘At-a-Distance’ program. The young man was excited about ‘her story’ and went on at lengths to convey how much UMUC would love to make her a part of their efforts to promote and publicize the newly created department. Sounding very much like an eighteen year old boy trying to convince a girl to go on a second date, he told the increasingly amused nun that, being a young woman in a setting that ‘spoke to’ those who might feel less a part of the mainstream, she was ‘perfect for the part’. He told her that, once he had the approval of the Dean, he would come to Crisfield and interview her and do a ‘complete work-up’. Sister Margaret smiled to herself and promised the eager young man that she would get back to him after she spoke to her Mother Superior. There was an abrupt silence, she thought she heard an intake of breath and, the man burst into excitement, “No way! You have a Mother Superior? Your story, the modern online student just writes itself! My god! Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you, not that I don’t believe in God, I went to catholic school once…”

Laughing, Margaret Ryan assured Alex Dumas that she was in no way offended and would be happy to help him in any way possible. She told him that the Order had policies regarding publicity, especially when involving novitiates, and that she was going to do nothing to go against the Order. He sounded relieved and at the same time even more enthusiastic about meeting with her.

Sister Margret  promised to call him, hung up the phone and immediately enrolled herself in the schools Elementary Ed Graduate program. Finding a system backdoor, she transferred as many credits from her time at Radcliffe as possible, without drawing undue attention. When she was done with the school computer system, all that remained for her to be awarded a degree were three core courses and a Practicum requirement. She took the core course as would any student attending the graduate school online and ended up with a 3.89 GPA. She thought she saw a loophole in the way the college accounted for a student’s practicum work. She planned on receiving her degree before Thanksgiving.

Each July, the seven convents in the Order would exchange three nuns,  one professed and two novitiates. The program helped broaden the experience for the new nuns by increasing their interaction with the women in other convents. One Sunday evening in mid-July, while clearing the dinner table, Sister Imelda, a young novitiate from the convent in suburban Chicago, asked Sister Margaret why she left Radcliffe only three semesters from graduation.

Sister Margaret was taken aback at the question. Her background and life before standing on the doorsteps of St. Dominique’s with only a single suitcase, was not something she shared with strangers from outside the convent. She was spared having to respond by Sister Cletus. The old nun, standing at the sink, washing dishes, managed to capture the young Sister Imelda by nothing more than the tone of her voice and the reflection of her very intense eyes in the window over the sink. She said in a quiet, patient voice, “Most of us are here in the Order because we seek a better life. Some of us view this as an extension of childhood, a natural and eagerly taken next step in life. Others have had to fight to get here. And, a very small number of women here among us, are required to pay a price for membership that you can barely imagine, much less be willing to pay. The Order cherishes all and is grateful for some.”

***

“Hey, Dru, did you see the write-up about the Bernebau Company in the Washington Post? They’re kinda piling on our client.” Arlen Mayhew walked into Drusilla Renaude’s office, a newspaper in one hand. The principle broker of Renaude and Associates looked at the tall, slightly dis-shelved man and smiled distractedly. Two open laptops on the desk in front of her were vying for attention, like the men that were still leaning against the bar at last call. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was grateful for his interruption. She’d been in the office since six that morning. The very early hours in the office allowed her to focus on the demands of her newest client, the Bernebau Company. The solitude enhanced her ability to focus on problems, at least until nine o’clock, when the routine distractions of running a real estate brokerage became impossible to ignore.

“This reporter, some guy named Andrew Lassiter, pretends he’s doing a business article about the company’s growth. But he spends nine out of ten column inches focused on the recent spike in foreclosures. According to him, the lending division of Bernebau is the leader there too.” Arlen sat in the nearest of the two leather and chrome chairs. “It’s all focused on Vérszívás Lending and Mortgage. How their growth paralleled the market recovery. But he really gets into the pain and personal tragedy of foreclosures. Worse, he mentions us!”

Drusilla looked startled and defensive, never a good combination, at least for the whoever or whatever elicited that response.  The exponential rate of growth of her (formerly) small brokerage did nothing for what little sleep she normally allowed herself.  She was one of those exceptional people who were able to relax more when presented with a problem than she would confronted with idle time. As Arlen, sitting opposite her in her office, described a potential marketing problem, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. She swiveled her legs around, the three-inch heels stopping her motion like a pencil thrown into an acoustic tile ceiling. “What do you mean us? ‘Renaude and Associates’, us or ‘Crisfield’, us?”

Arlen slouched back into the chair, his broker’s complete attention now secured, he could relax. Experience taught him that although getting the woman’s attention was difficult, once she focused on an issue, there was no turning back. Drusilla Renaude did not like problems, she lived for them. While it might be argued that women, at least in the current culture, were more inclined to use fashion to enhance their attractiveness, when fully engaged in problem solving, Drusilla wouldn’t have been more alluring had the lights suddenly dimmed and her tailored suit replaced by a negligee.

“Go on, what exactly do they say about us?” The look in her eyes made his bringing the  newspaper article to her attention a higher stakes bet than Arlen had originally calculated.

Picking up the newspaper as a priest might pick up his bible, not for the information it held, but for its power as a symbol of authority, Arlen continued, “Bernebau’s mortgage division, this Vérszívás Mortgage company, is under investigation by both the DOJ and the CFPB. Their focus is on questionable loan origination practices and suspiciously selective record keeping on foreclosure.”  Seeing a slight glazing to her expression, Arlen Mayhew hastened to add, “But, I know, what else is new? Wells Fargo and Chase are the pioneers in the profit at any cost business model.  And, sure, this reporter decided to get all up close and personal with the ‘real life’ examples. He gives us a blow-by-blow on the foreclosure of a house here in Crisfield where they served papers on a woman whose husband died, like the same week!”

Arlen watched as the expression on Dru’s face began to resemble that of a fisherman, fighting a pole-bending fish for thirty minutes only to see a minnow-sized prize come up over the side of the boat. “But that’s not the only local connection this Lassiter fellow makes in his story. The second human interest element to the article is about a little old lady in the Fishkill section of Philly. She’s losing her house because her deceased and, apparently heavy-drinking husband, used the equity in the house like an ATM for his buddies at the local bar. But that’s not the good part. The good part is that our little widow has two children, one a priest and the other a nun. Wait for it. A nun stationed, or whatever they call it, at St Dominque’s out on Hammock Point Rd.”

“No. Way.” Drusilla smiled a smile that almost always causes adult men to suddenly remember a pressing appointment elsewhere and women of all ages to smile in envious acknowledgement.

“But that’s not the best part.” Arlen felt stronger, an almost pre-limbic response to the avidness blossoming in Dru Renaude’s face. It was the beginnings of the transition from very attractive to irresistible. “It seems that the daughter, the nun, has started a social media campaign against the Bernebau Company, aka, our client. She’s remarkably skilled, for a nun. I don’t have to tell you that this is not a helpful development.”

“Shit.” A flash of pain in her left shoulder reminded Dru that she wasn’t feeling all that well. Lately, her nights were as restful as sleeping on a mattress full of mice. She hadn’t felt well for the last four weeks, since they’d returned from the meeting in Miami. She passed it off to the stress and excitement of getting the Hunting Meadows development off the ground and on the market. The speed with which the full resources of the Bernebau Company was able to go from planning to operational was somewhat breath-taking.

Within six weeks of their meeting in Miami, the sales office at the entrance to Phase 1 was open and the model home was almost complete. A multi-phase residential community, Hunting Meadows was scoring with the first home buyers and the Senior buyers demographic. It was, as she recalled hearing Cyrus call it, ‘the first cradle to grave housing development’. The local papers referred to it as, ‘a 21st Century lifeline to a small seasonal community’ and went to lengths to quote the marketing information provided by the Bernebau Company.

“Well, lets keep an eye on the nun angle. Not that anyone reads the papers anymore, but I don’t want to lose a single sale to whatever it is she’s trying to do. Grassroots campaigns have been known to do considerable damage to the most bullet-proof, sure-thing marketing. The first sign of this,” Drusilla leaned across the desk, picked up the newspaper and said, “Sister Margaret Ryan person showing up in any of our market sampling, I want to know. I didn’t… ” she sat back in her chair, “go to all this… trouble, to have a nun fuck it up on me.”

Arlen felt the hair on his neck start to do some light stretching exercise. There was a look in Drusilla Renaude’s eyes that made him want to go back to teaching privileged children in private schools.

“Got it, boss lady” Arlen put his tablet on the desk top and said, “Early stats are telling me this project is going to be a home run. Hey, that’s a good line! Hold on, I’ll send it down to our marketing department. Ought to do well on the Fall advertising cycle, World Series and all. So, here’s the new schedule for the staffing at the Sales Center. Gonna have to do some agent recruiting. The Buyers are there, all we have to do is not screw this up.”