Joseph Morris stood in the “Crying Room” just beyond the Sistine Chapel thinking how the room was aptly named. His teeth were chattering as the cardinals placed the papal garb over him. His arms lifted mechanically to receive the garments. The conclave of cardinals from around the globe who’d traveled to Vatican City to elect the new pontiff gathered nearby. Cardinal Roselli, the epitome of the church’s hierarchy, stood in the distance watching the scenario unfold with envy in his heart.
“Would it be alright if I spoke with Cardinal Roselli for a moment before we proceed?”
The cardinals tending to Joseph Morris bowed respectfully and gestured for him to take his leave.
“I need to speak with you in the confessional.” He whispered to a stunned Cardinal Roselli.
This unusual circumstance filled the cardinal with apprehension. He escorted Joseph Morris away from the conclave and off to a side chapel near the papal apartments. He entered the confessional an old-world type where faces remained unseen. Cardinal Roselli stiffened in his seat. He usually used time in the confessional to catch up on his sleep, but this confessant was atypical, and he didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps the odd request was an overreaction sparked by the anxiety one naturally experienced when they were faced with a sudden life-altering event and this was merely a formality meant to seal the door to the past as the confessant approached elevation to the highest of earthly realms. The cardinal anticipated hearing the usual mundane offenses, what were referred to as “venial sins”: envy, anger, gluttony, even the occasional mention of coveting someone else’s goods, or the rare homosexual fling. The latter, however, went on more than it was ever acknowledged.
Cardinal Roselli leaned into the screen separating him from the confessant.
Joseph Morris recited the rote, “Bless me Father” greeting.
“Please continue Joseph, we don’t have much time.”
Still reeling from the shock of what had transpired over the past few hours, Joseph Morris hesitated and cleared his throat. His nerves were getting the better of him.
“I’ve been living in sin.”
“Go on,” Cardinal Roselli instructed.
“I had an affair with a young woman in Rome. She’s about to give birth to my child. She’s a journalist for Sky Italia.”
Cardinal Roselli stopped listening after hearing Joseph refer to the woman’s profession. He asked her name, gave absolution, and waited for Joseph to exit the confessional.
Joseph rejoined the waiting conclave and they resumed the preparations.
“Remove your shoes, Your Holiness,” Cardinal Giordano, a member of the Vatican Curia instructed.
Joseph removed his scuffed brown shoes; they were an old pair of Gucci loafers his mother had sent from the United States. He remembered laughing at the time. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her she’d essentially sent the shoes back home to their place of origin.
The red shoes, signifying the power bestowed on him as the first American Pope, rested on a small wooden chair. Cardinal Giordano placed the shoes on the floor and Joseph slid his unworthy feet into them.
His mind was elsewhere. He wondered what it would have been like to have a child, be a father, a husband. He’d feared his own father when he was young. But marriage? His parents’ marriage had been mundane, growing more and more so over the fifty years they’d been together until his father died and his mother soon after. There was no glory in marriage. His father, during his regular occurring fits of anger, would rage, “I am the head of this family.” At the time, the words had resonated with Joseph, sending shivers of fear down his spine. But what did it matter now?
Joseph looked around for Cardinal Roselli. He’d hoped the unbearable weight of guilt he’d been shouldering had been lifted by the Holy Spirit working through Cardinal Giulo Roselli in the confessional. This was Joseph’s destiny. Still, he needed the security of Cardinal Roselli’s presence when he ascended to the throne of St. Peter. Cardinal Roselli maintained the status quo and kept the centuries-old conventions intact for the most part. As the first American Pope, Joseph would be held to harsh scrutiny by the unyielding Vatican traditionalists.
Joseph moved towards the drapes. They would soon be pulled back, revealing him to his people for the first time. The roar of the crowd filled him with an unfamiliar, yet overwhelming sense of the power afforded only to those who were revered, those who held undisputable authority. He prayed he was up to the task as Cardinal Giordano placed the pretiosa on his head; it was surprisingly light for something so elaborate. Two Swiss Guards stood in attendance holding back the drapery. Pope Joseph stepped onto the balcony raising his arms over his head, blessing the waiting crowd as they chanted, “Santo Padre.” Joseph was now the father to many, the “Holy Father”; he would bask in this glory and leave all thoughts of his former life behind.
He looked around one last time for Cardinal Roselli. His absence, at this most historic event, was palpable.
Cardinal Roselli rushed towards the papal offices. If he was not beside Pope Joseph when he appeared on the balcony to greet the faithful for the first time as pope, it would arouse suspicion. He’d have to hurry.
“Pronto,” he spoke in Italian to the man on the other end of the line. The instructions he gave were clear, “Travarla-find her.”
