Delaney. Part XXIV

Mr. Pankow lifts the manila envelope from the mail cart. It is tied shut by a string wound about grommets, one on the lip and another on the body. He pulls Cosgrove’s will from the packet and scans it quickly, then slips it back in and delivers it to the filing office where a thick woman wearing thick glasses grunts and points to a thick tray labeled “to be filed.” It is a mountain of envelopes upon which he must balance the new entry.

Mr. Pankow leaves the building for one of his two ten-minute breaks which punctuate his shift. He pulls a packet of tobacco from his shirt pocket and drops a pinch of it into a pipe which he lifts from a pocket in his jacket. He lights the bowl with the flick of thumbnail against match and pulls a generous drag from the stem. He closes his eyes as he releases a plume of smoke like a dragon.

The gravel of the Murder Factor driveway crunches under foot as he casually makes his way over to the light blue Cutlass Supreme convertible fixed upon a carriage frame. He knows better than to lean against Mr. Cosgrove’s prize possession, so he looks at it as if admiring the contraption. Sitting in the carriage driver’s seat is Lord Pan’s companion, Mr. Vadik, who sits at attention staring straight ahead.

“Mr. Vadik.” He says as he walks around to stroke the nose of one of the horses.

“Lord Pan.” Vadik replies, but he does not look at the man. He keeps his eyes glued straight ahead as though he is one of the Beefeaters which stand resolute outside Guildhall like a statue.

“You will call a council of the Grove tomorrow night. The time draws near to see our goddess come into her destiny. I believe there are actions we must undertake which will serve to cultivate this fate.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Vadik says with eyes fixed ahead, body steadfast and frozen, he has hardly even blinked in the entire exchange.

Mr. Pankow taps the ashes from his pipe onto his palm then brushes them onto the driveway. The ten-minute break is too quickly done to enter into the sweet spot of his pipe ritual, but this respite may hold him over to the end of his shift. Smoking is permitted in the Murder Factory but inconvenient for a man who spends most of the day rushing from one end of the facility to the other, not nearly the sort of condition one prefers to enjoy a slow, contemplative smoke. Especially on receiving such good news.

****

“You know, one thousand years ago nearly all Irish professed the Christian faith.” Mr. Cosgrove says to his wife who sits before a vanity mirror applying make-up. He says it with authority, like teaching a history class, as he wraps his tie into a double Windsor.

“So you’ve told me dear, multiple times.”

“Then, near the end of the 20^th century, just before the Struggles,” he continues as though he did not catch the meaning of Mrs. Cosgrove’s reminder that she has heard him deliver this particular lecture many times over the years. He did indeed understand her, but the opportunity for such a lecture is too great not to give it once more.

“…nearly all of Ireland had become secular. Not only had the continent of Europe long abandoned the superstitions of Christianity, but the devout Catholics of Ireland began to realize how morally bankrupt the clergy, whom they esteemed so greatly, really were. That, and the fact that Catholics and Protestants were petty tribes, warring by tossing bombs into each other’s houses of worship.

“Yes dear.” She says to suggest she’s listening, tough only with a sliver of her attention as they prepare to attend church for the first time in their married life.

“And then the Struggles arrived. Oh, how a crisis drives the lower orders of humanity back into the bosom of their false religions. Fifty years ago, hardly anyone was Christian in Ireland, and within ten years the entire nation came crawling back to the church. As well as the druids to their groves and the Muslims to their Mosques. I tell you, Brigid, the Dark Ages are a gift to the church.”

“Dear, I know you would rather not attend St. Mary’s today.” She consoles.

“Damned right.” And then Cosgrove smiles at his inadvertent cleverness. “And I do mean ‘damned,’ since everyone there knows that we are unchurched and consider us damned.”

“But our daughter wishes to see her friend make his first sermon. And Brother Frank is such a kindly young man.”

“Never used to be, as I recall.”

“And so, you see,” she says turning toward her husband who looks past his wife and into her mirror to straighten his tie. “There may be some value to the faith if it turns a rascal like Frank Monahan into a respectable man of the cloth.”

“I dare say he learned more from the back of a ruler than he did from that so-called holy book.”

“Still. Frank is a good friend to Delaney and I’m proud that she wants us all to come to support him in giving his first sermon.”

Mr. Cosgrove pulls out his pocket watch.

“I suppose, but let’s get this over with.” And he picks up his cane and lifts it in the air. “Onward, my dear.”

The Rourks are already seated as the church begins to fill. They have sat themselves near the back and Adrienne is using her crutches as an implement to preserve three seats for Mr. Cosgrove, Mrs. Cosgrove and Delaney. She has been in a constant state of motion, twisting around every few seconds to see if they have come through the beautiful doors of the church, and on account of the fact that this is the first time in her life to visit a church. When she sees Delaney enter with her parents, she waves her hand and smiles radiantly. Delaney scurries to the pew and slides right next to her with her parents trailing behind.

This is the first time in ten years Mr. Cosgrove has laid eyes upon the architects of the great ruse as well as the escapees. Still, he smiles and nods to the Rourks in courtesy and they do so in return. Ash whispers something to Magdalene and she places a hand on his knee.

Alex Cosgrove has come to accept the loss of income that Magdalene would have provided for many years after her escape, along with other services she may have rendered. Adrienne wouldn’t have been an asset whatever, and the fact that he did not have to spend money on her cleansing and incineration was actually a gift to the Murder Factory. Cosgrove has learned to content himself with the arrangement, though he resents that they continue to employ the harlot who holds her part-time job hostage under threat that her English cousins might foul-up the Care Home’s arrangement with the corporation.

All rise as Father Fitzpatrick enters ceremoniously down the aisle with Brother Frank and a pair of altar boys holding aloft the Bible. Then there is a good deal of standing and sitting and kneeling for Mr. Cosgrove’s liking,

“Damned Catholic calisthenics.” He whispers to his wife.

Finally, Brother Frank takes the lectern after the gospel reading from St. Matthew chapter ten.

“It interests me,” Brother Frank begins, and even with these first few words Delaney feels he speaks with such confidence, his baritone echoing in the lofty space with its stained-glass windows telling stories from the scriptures, gracious stone arches and pillars reaching up to transcendent mosaics on the ceiling.

“It interests me that in the calling of the twelve and the bestowing upon them power and authority, then sending them out into the nearby towns, we see Judas mentioned.” And here he reads from verse 4, “’Simon the Zealot and Judas Iscariot who would betray him.’” Brother Frank adds special emphasis to the last words. Then, as if to drill them into the hearers minds he repeats them slowly, “’…who would betray him.’

“Don’t you find it curious that Jesus Christ, God incarnate, all-knowing, would choose to call and endow with power this man who would betray him?

“I have been considering this notion of calling or of destiny, be it a destiny that brings great good or great evil. Do you have a destiny? Do I? And is this destiny irrevocable? Can we influence it or deny it?”

Alex Cosgrove thinks he may need to take back all his bellyaching about how church homilies are nothing but sleep aids. He sits up and leans into the sermon.

“When I speak of my calling into the Franciscan order, what is it exactly that I mean? As Jesus calls and sends the twelve in the gospel of St. Matthew chapter ten, I believe he does so for each one of us. It is an invitation, not a command. We may accept or decline. But the path we choose to walk out that calling will be many and varied. One pair of apostles may have traveled north, another to the west. He did not dictate their path. They were free to choose, only he gave them power and authority and a few instructions on how to use it. But still, they were free to use that power and authority how they liked.

“I wonder how Judas used his authority and calling? I note that Jesus pairs him with Simon the Zealot, not to be confused with Simon Peter. In those days they used the term Zealot to denote a political radical. One who would have likely opposed Roman rule. This, today, might be like the Irish or Bengali radicals in England who oppose the corporation and have established governments of their own.” A few shift uncomfortably in their seats. The corporation does not generally employ spies, but word of dissent does somehow make its way back to headquarters.

“This radical, Simon, is sent out with Judas. What path did they choose? How might they have used their calling? Did Simon preach against Rome as he traveled with Judas? Did Judas pilfer money from the homes in which they stayed? We are not told.

“You see, I believe we all have destinies. We have callings. Callings which are suited to our gifts and our passions and personality. In fact, I have a friend who can actually discern with her nose a person’s destiny.”

There are elbow jabs from Adrienne and playful looks from Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove cast in Delaney’s direction. She slinks down in her pew.

“But the path we choose, the places we visit, the homes we live in or the manner in which we choose to be employed, these are ours to make.

“I have chosen the Franciscan order. But that’s just it. I chose the order. I might well have fulfilled my destiny in a thousand other ways. I have a gift, or so I believe, for speaking. Some would say a bit too freely.” A ripple of laughter echoes through the church, especially among the other Friars.

“Perhaps I have a gift for humor. Or of consolation and encouragement. I know Brothers in our order who have a terrific gift for learning all manner of things scientific, and some who are wonderful artists. But we are free to pursue these destinies along different paths. And I would guess that many of us are still working out exactly what our destinies are. We are still waiting to see who may be traveling companions on this journey, and whether our paths will bring us together for long or only a moment. But these are the decisions which rest with us. Free will is the burden God gives all creatures.

“You each have gifts, given you by the Creator. You have passions and interests. Explore them. Embrace them. Guard them. But do not fear you have a destiny which points to a specific job, a specific spouse, or even a specific location in which to live out your destiny. You are free. Free to use your destiny for the good of many, and even free to use it to curse others and toward destructive ends. It is the mysterious and wonderful and tragic way in which God has made this world. But I implore you to choose life. To choose joy. To choose service and sacrifice as you live out the many possible directions in which you might fulfill your destiny.”

Delaney, who is not accustomed to the culture within a Catholic church, since this is also her first time there, claps in appreciation at the end of the sermon as Brother Frank dismounts the lectern, but quickly sees that this is not a common practice, so again sinks down into her pew.

Outside after church, Adrienne and Delaney accost Brother Frank with their congratulations and a bit of ribbing regarding his reference to Delaney’s olfactory abilities.

“I’m impressed.” Delaney says finally. And she means it with all her heart.

“Thank you.” He says. And he means it as well.