At ten-fifteen Art got in his car and drove to Lake Street.
Chapter 5
It takes nearly an hour to drive from Grantham to Brighton, where the Boston Archdiocese was then headquartered. Art traveled west on Commonwealth Avenue, the road climbing and dipping through the suburbs of Brookline and Allston. What was he thinking as he drove? He told me later that he’d had no idea why he’d been summoned, which seems incredible. For months the entire city had been reading about the scandal, priests from all over the Archdiocese accused, reprimanded, exposed.
“Okay, I had an idea,” he admitted when I pressed him. “But my idea was completely wrong.”
To make sense of this, I’ve had to think about what it was like to be a priest in Boston that spring, when anyone in a collar was suspect. “Maybe we were paranoid,” Father Fleury told me later, “but it seemed that the whole world suddenly looked at us sideways.” One after another reputations were destroyed, careers ended, lives ruined. Among the first to fall was the Street Priest who’d walked the Combat Zone: at his apartment on Beacon Street, he’d apparently offered more than a weekly Mass. Amazingly, no one suspected it at the time. No one gave a thought to those lost children sitting cross-legged on his floor, the Street Priest looking down on them from a great height as they received the Eucharist from his hands.
To Art, one allegation was even more shocking. Ray Cousins, his old cellmate, had been accused of molesting a boy. Ray was a gentle soul—“the last guy you’d ever suspect”—but the Archdiocese was making an example of him. The Cardinal had been widely vilified for covering up such allegations, so now he made a great show—just for appearances, Art insisted, pro forma tantum—of taking every accusation seriously. Anyone who’d ever known Ray was being interrogated. Naturally Art’s name would be on the list.
So as my brother drove the final hill into Brighton, it was Ray Cousins he considered: could it possibly be true?
At the bottom of the hill he slammed on the brakes. Comm Ave. was clogged with traffic, vans and trucks parked on both sides of the road, some with engines idling, satellite dishes attached to their roofs. Well, of course: nearly every night the local news featured a dispatch from Lake Street, the Cardinal’s response—or usually, his silence—at each new allegation of abuse. For these segments the Chancery was always the backdrop, a reporter standing before the building as though at any minute His Eminence might emerge.
Art drove past the news vans and took the long way around, through the back entrance. He parked behind the Chancery, where Church business was conducted. After the death of the great O’Connell, his successor—my mother’s hero, Cardinal Cushing—had made this addition to the campus. The Chancery is a square brick bunker, of a utilitarian ugliness so incongruous that it seems intentional, as though Cushing—a local boy, a famous populist—had been making a point.
As promised, Art’s official escort was waiting at the rear door. Gary Moriconi stood with his back to the building—coatless, smoking, his cassock flapping in the wind. “Of all people,” Art fumed to me later. I have since met Father Gary, a short, stocky man with a barrel chest and a memorable voice, nasal and high-pitched, that doesn’t match his body. He was Art’s age, fifty-one, yet his dark hair was suspiciously free of gray.
The two greeted each other with a wariness that went back many years. At seminary they’d been classmates, but not friends. Art saw at a glance that Gary knew exactly why he’d been summoned, which was not surprising. He had always been privy to secrets.
“They’re waiting for you,” Gary said archly. He took a final drag and butted his cigarette—a large ash can had been placed at the door for this purpose. But instead of leading Art into the Chancery, he turned and started up the hill.
“I didn’t understand, at first, where we were going,” Art explained to me later. But as he followed Gary up the wet footpath, the grass soaking his wingtips, it dawned on him that he would be seeing the Cardinal at home—in the mansion referred to, with audible capitals, as The Residence.
He was alarmed then, but only for a moment—because as they climbed the hill, he saw that the change of venue had nothing to do with him. The Cardinal couldn’t take any meeting in the Chancery. On the sidewalk below, a crowd had gathered: men and women milling about, drinking coffee, talking on cell phones. His Eminence wanted to avoid the long unprotected walk across the lawn, in full view of the TV cameras. “The perp walk,” Art told me later, with a wincing smile.
Vigor in Arduis.
“Vultures,” said Gary. “They’re here every day.”
They entered The Residence through a porte cochere and headed down a long passageway, their wet shoes squeaking on the marble floors.
“I’ve never been inside before,” Art admitted.
“Never?” Gary sounded incredulous. “It’s a pity you couldn’t see it in nicer weather. In summer the gardens are spectacular.”
“So I’ve heard.” Art knew—everyone did—about the Cardinal’s annual Garden Party, where his favorite priests mingled with politicians and millionaires, the benefactors of Catholic Boston. Of course Gary Moriconi would be invited. It was just the sort of gathering he’d enjoy.
“Down the hall is the chapel, where they film the TV Mass on Sundays. Upstairs are meeting rooms and the Cardinal’s quarters.” Gary seemed to enjoy playing tour guide. Certainly he knew his subject. He’d spent twenty-five years, his entire career, crisscrossing these grassy lawns. After ordination he’d stayed on at St. John’s, in an administrative post created especially for him. He’d remained an amanuensis to the powerful, an eager mouthpiece.
“Have a seat.” Upholstered settees had been placed here and there against the walls. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He continued down the corridor and knocked lightly at a closed door. Alone, Art paced the long hallway. On both walls, hung at ten-foot intervals, were portraits of the current Cardinal. Some were skillful; others might have been made by children. One in particular caught Art’s eye: His Eminence as a young priest, rendered in oils. It reminded him of an old colorized photograph, the young man with a high flush in his cheeks, as though they’d been smeared with rouge.
A moment later Gary reappeared. “This way.” He led Art into a large anteroom with more couches, backed against the walls as if to clear the floor for dancing. The thin gray carpeting could have used a cleaning. The walls were bare. The Residence, impressive as it was, lacked a single piece of art that did not depict the Cardinal. There was not even a nice reproduction of a Giotto. Art sat, watching a set of double doors.
In a moment the doors opened. “Arthur.” Bishop John Gilman, the Vicar General, crossed the floor briskly, a small, spry man in a black suit. He gave Art’s hand a cursory shake. The gold pectoral cross was hidden in his jacket pocket. Only its chain was visible, looped across his black rabat.
“Come in, come in. His Eminence has another appointment at noon.”
Art followed him into an inner office, a high, shadowy room crowded with furniture. The Cardinal sat at a hulking wooden desk, his back to a window. His face was familiar as a relative’s: the shock of silver hair, the meaty jowls. His hooded eyes were furtive and intelligent, his heavy brows like eaves covered with snow.
He rose—a big man, hunched and imposing in his black cassock—and took Art’s hand in both of his. It was a trademark of sorts, like the cassock’s red piping and matching buttons: the Cardinal’s famous two-handed shake.
“Arthur, thank you for coming,” he said, as though they were old friends. As though, in the Cardinal’s eighteen years in Boston, they had ever exchanged a word.
Art followed him to a round table at the other end of the room. The Cardinal sat heavily. On the table was a single sheet of paper. He laid his hand upon it, as if to show off his massive gold