Sullivan - Vatican intervention

Midnight, a few blocks from the Vatican, a city bus idled at the stop below my open window. I tossed and turned, trying to get some sleep at the Casa del Clero. More noise. Someone knocked loud enough to demand my attention, but careful enough to avoid the notice of other hotel room guests.

My roused mind raced to identify the cause of the intrusion. I knew who panted in the corridor. Gelson, you're so predictable! I finally made you jump, at least for damage control. Why did I have to threaten to expose everything to the Vicariate to salvage my emotional health? Stupid! Why did I let anyone know my whereabouts!

Father Sullivan. Father Sullivan!

Yes. What do you want?

It's Father Gelson with your brother, Anthony.

Peeling away the covers, planting my feet on a cold marble floor, I shook my head and massaged my face.

It's not a good time to talk, I yelled. Father Marcus Gelson was the superior of my Catholic religious community. Anthony Sullivan, my younger brother, a twenty-three year community member stood next to him.

Gelson plowed ahead.

Andy, just let us in. It won't take long.

A cornered animal panics. It vacillates between escape or attack, until one mode of survival yields to the other. Terror rushed through my body as I reluctantly moved to the door and reached for the knob.

The door swung inward; Father Gelson looked tired, his handsome New Orleans face strained by impossible responsibilities.

Hello Father Sullivan. How are you? I just learned of your situation, he lied, then embraced me with a strained smile and kiss. The pungent stink of cigarettes enveloped me. Anthony slipped in. I grumbled something and arranged a few chairs. It felt like vultures had landed.

Gelson sat down and faced me.

Since it wasn't possible for Rick to come I thought you wouldn't mind if your brother Anthony came along.

Anthony just sat there, silent. Rick Wolowicz, a pharmacist community member was on my side of the fight.

That's fine, I said.

But it wasn't fine at all, as if I really had a choice in the matter. Why pull Anthony into this? Underneath the pleasantries a power play manipulated the encounter. Rick would defend me. But where was he? Anthony's presence reinforced Gelson's position. My brother accepted innocently the role of a malleable witness to everything Gelson would say. Anthony would back him up and lend credence to each critical statement. I'd been through it all. I knew how to play the game. My blood brother's presence aimed at swaying me and I felt sorry for his exploitation.

The element of surprise also played to their advantage. Why visit me in the middle of the night when my mind fumbled in the dark? Anthony knew that as a morning person I hardly functioned at night.

Andy, you said you might want to record our meeting. Anthony brought a tape recorder if we need it. With a slight nod of the head, Anthony acknowledged the fact, ready to record. But I'd mentioned recording a meeting with Rick present, precisely to document an objective voice of opposition.

No, that's okay. We don't need to record anything.

If Gelson offered to record the meeting, it wouldn't need documenting. I was tired and didn't think straight.

Getting down to business, Father Gelson reached into the breast pocket of his slick suit coat and whipped out a twice-folded sheet of paper. Looking me in the eyes, he handed it to me.

Here, maybe this is the best way to start. Go ahead and read this first. Not missing a beat, he kept talking. We already discussed your needs and don't want you to come back to live in community.

Trying to sound compassionate, he drew out these last words. He repeated them, wrapped them in silence, and hoped for maximum impact.

Cushioned with a sympathetic opening and closing, the core of the letter spelled out Gelson's position. It reassured me of financial support upon the condition that I live with another community member, wherever that may be. Otherwise, I'd be considered illegitimately absent and the community no longer financially responsible for me. Besides, it required that I allow the community to participate in my diagnosis and treatment.

I'd appealed to Father Gelson for material support with a hand delivered letter. His response came from Father Joey Kroll, a general government advisor and friend, I thought. The letter lacked both official letterhead and a signature. It hardly nurtured trust.

After I finished reading, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the floor, anticipating the complementary pitch. Marcus broke the silence.