Shadow of Death

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“You don’t want to see your bishop go to jail, do you?”

“N—no, Eminence,” Father Maurice Ouellet, the master of ceremonies, stammered. As usual, he had no notion of what his Cardinal-Archibishop had in mind.

“Then, Maury, go find a dime and put it in the parking meter, or my car will be towed away and I’ll be hauled off to jail.”

Father Ouellet’s left hand found the pocket in his trousers through the slit in his cassock. He rummaged through a handful of coins in search of a dime. “Where is your car parked, Eminence?” Ouellet asked, stifling a smile. After all, this was Holy Thursday’s Chrism Mass. It would not do for the Archbishop’s secretary and master of ceremonies to break up in the sanctuary of crowded St. Michael’s Cathedral.

“It’s just out the door there on Church Street. Under the spreading chestnut tree, as luck would have it.”

Ouellet briefly pondered the immediate future. The Mass had just begun. The choir was singing a vernacular version of the Kyrie, which would be followed by a choral rendition of the Gloria. He had plenty of time to safeguard his Archbishop’s car. With that special grace shared by adroit emcees and maître d’s, Ouellet made his departure from the sanctuary appear to be part of the ritual.

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