humor.
Father Thomas’ eyes went wide as he thought back over the tale he’d just told. Gladys Multinerry’s words about the Bishop flashed through his thoughts, and he started apologize. The Bishop cut him off.
“I don’t know about you, Father Prescott, but I’ve heard about enough of this nonsense for a lifetime. It is not my habit to allow myself to be spoken of as if I’m not present, and I don’t believe that I must sit here and be insulted.”
“Excellency,” Thomas began contritely, “I . . .”
Father Prescott rose and held up both hands for silence. His features were a mask of controlled emotion, as smooth and unfathomable as the slick surface of the ocean before a storm. Only his eyes gave away his intensity, and they flashed dangerously between frustration and anger.
“This is not the time to air personal grievances,” he said softly. “Father Thomas, I thank you for your time. You may go, for now. I will be speaking to you again soon – probably several times. I’ll also be speaking with members of the parish, and the deacons, if they are available. You may go with the assurance that, whatever they may be, and however this may work out – we will find your answers for you.”
Father Thomas rose and met Father Prescott’s gaze. Both of them ignored the Bishop, for the moment. The screen behind Father Prescott was silent, and pushed aside as well. Something passed between them, some understanding beyond words, and a modicum of the tension in Father Thomas’ shoulders eased. His shoulders straightened, just a bit, and he nodded slowly.
He turned without another word and bowed to the Bishop. Without waiting for acknowledgement, he spun again and walked steadily to the door. He slipped through and into the outer room, where the pool of light from Martha Shengle’s desk lamp still leaked in, lurking and waiting like a furtive spy tucked around the corner. She looked up as Father Thomas entered the outer office, and frowned slightly as he closed the door to the Bishop’s office behind him with a loud, echoing Click!
* * *
On the other side of the door, Father Prescott’s temper finally broke. He turned on the Bishop with a scowl, and stared hard into the older man’s impassive, almost petulant smirk.
“Tony,” Father Prescott said, skipping all formalities, “I am going to have to ask you, respectfully, to allow me to conduct my own investigation here, and to do so on my own terms.”
The Bishop’s features darken, matching Father Prescott’s scowl.
“But surely, Donovan, you can . . .”
Father Prescott raised a hand, palm facing the Bishop and lowered his gaze to the floor. His lips pressed tightly together for a moment, and he didn’t lift his gaze until the room was deadly silent.
“I already know how you feel on the subject of Father Thomas and the Stigmata,” he said in a quiet level voice. “You made your own observations and conclusions very clear when you called Cardinal O’Brien. I have no problem with you holding your opinions, Tony, but you have to understand something from the start here.
“I haven’t been sent here to vindicate your opinions. I am here because I have special training, and special dispensation, to seek the truth in matters that fall outside the realm of day-to-day worship. I am here to find the truth, Tony – you have to believe that if we are to work together at all.”
Bishop Michaels rose slowly and turned away. He walked to the window and slowly worked the mechanism that opened his blinds. Bright, late afternoon sunlight striped his features, and the
Father Thomas’ eyes went wide as he thought back over the tale he’d just told. Gladys Multinerry’s words about the Bishop flashed through his thoughts, and he started apologize. The Bishop cut him off.
“I don’t know about you, Father Prescott, but I’ve heard about enough of this nonsense for a lifetime. It is not my habit to allow myself to be spoken of as if I’m not present, and I don’t believe that I must sit here and be insulted.”
“Excellency,” Thomas began contritely, “I . . .”
Father Prescott rose and held up both hands for silence. His features were a mask of controlled emotion, as smooth and unfathomable as the slick surface of the ocean before a storm. Only his eyes gave away his intensity, and they flashed dangerously between frustration and anger.
“This is not the time to air personal grievances,” he said softly. “Father Thomas, I thank you for your time. You may go, for now. I will be speaking to you again soon – probably several times. I’ll also be speaking with members of the parish, and the deacons, if they are available. You may go with the assurance that, whatever they may be, and however this may work out – we will find your answers for you.”
Father Thomas rose and met Father Prescott’s gaze. Both of them ignored the Bishop, for the moment. The screen behind Father Prescott was silent, and pushed aside as well. Something passed between them, some understanding beyond words, and a modicum of the tension in Father Thomas’ shoulders eased. His shoulders straightened, just a bit, and he nodded slowly.
He turned without another word and bowed to the Bishop. Without waiting for acknowledgement, he spun again and walked steadily to the door. He slipped through and into the outer room, where the pool of light from Martha Shengle’s desk lamp still leaked in, lurking and waiting like a furtive spy tucked around the corner. She looked up as Father Thomas entered the outer office, and frowned slightly as he closed the door to the Bishop’s office behind him with a loud, echoing Click!
* * *
On the other side of the door, Father Prescott’s temper finally broke. He turned on the Bishop with a scowl, and stared hard into the older man’s impassive, almost petulant smirk.
“Tony,” Father Prescott said, skipping all formalities, “I am going to have to ask you, respectfully, to allow me to conduct my own investigation here, and to do so on my own terms.”
The Bishop’s features darken, matching Father Prescott’s scowl.
“But surely, Donovan, you can . . .”
Father Prescott raised a hand, palm facing the Bishop and lowered his gaze to the floor. His lips pressed tightly together for a moment, and he didn’t lift his gaze until the room was deadly silent.
“I already know how you feel on the subject of Father Thomas and the Stigmata,” he said in a quiet level voice. “You made your own observations and conclusions very clear when you called Cardinal O’Brien. I have no problem with you holding your opinions, Tony, but you have to understand something from the start here.
“I haven’t been sent here to vindicate your opinions. I am here because I have special training, and special dispensation, to seek the truth in matters that fall outside the realm of day-to-day worship. I am here to find the truth, Tony – you have to believe that if we are to work together at all.”
Bishop Michaels rose slowly and turned away. He walked to the window and slowly worked the mechanism that opened his blinds. Bright, late afternoon sunlight striped his features, and the
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