Chapter Ten: Holy Orders
Argo left for the Legion of Christ seminary in Cheshire, Connecticut as soon as he graduated from Rutgers. Located just north of Bridgeport on the Long Island Sound, the 98-acre seminary was once the estate of Morgan Oldfield, a late 19th Century shipping magnate whose grandson donated the verdant property to the Bridgeport Dioceses. The three original red brick buildings sat on a knoll overlooking the inlet. There was the main house with twenty-one rooms, a guesthouse with four bedrooms and two baths, and the stables with a wing for the servants. The stables became a garage in 1929. A four-foot stone wall separated the property on the north, east, and west from woods of ancient English oaks and brilliant sugar maples. On the south side was a six-foot wrought iron fence abutting the stone walls on the sides. The large, intricate ironwork front gate with guardhouse was manned 24 hours a day by novitiates and always kept locked. The stone walls and acres of iron fencing ensured the seminary its obvious desire for separation from the world, and, as he passed through the huge gate for the first time, Argo sensed the irony of an order of priests dedicated to reaching all the peoples of the world isolating themselves as they had.
When the Church took over the property in 1954, it became a seminary for Vincentian priests, but in 1989, with dwindling vocations, the Vincentians consolidated, and the Legion of Christ took over the campus. An addition of ten dormitory rooms opposite from the servant’s wing was attached to the garage, which had been converted to the chapel. All told, the seminary was home to 41 men, many of them college educated, with three of them having come from careers in business. Only Argo had a degree from non-Catholic college.
Fresh from the open New Brunswick Rutgers campus with city streets teeming with cars crisscrossing the university grounds, Argo felt the cloistered beauty all the more remote. Even after his second year there, he never quite became used to separation from the world he anxiously waited to meet. However, it took only a few months for him to understand why the Legion of Christ had insisted upon that separation.
The Legionary priesthood is a breed apart from all other orders. They are seen by the Regnum Christi, the conservative laity group, as holier than other priests, and certainly holier than the laity. The adored Pope John Paul II was particularly fond of the order and fixed their base in Rome, establishing them as a true force in the Church.[1] Argo’s class in four years was scheduled to be the first ordained in Rome by Pope John Paul II himself.
Even before Argo had a chance to unpack his two suitcases he had been summoned to the office of the Very Reverend Father Alfred Catalanado, missionary rector of the seminary. Grossly overweight with a neck so flabby that it obscured his collar, Father Catalanado had a round face and grotesquely wide mouth with large teeth. Argo came to call him, to himself only, the Cheshire Cat. He was in his sixties with a full head of gray hair lying limp and uncombed on his massive head. His desk chair, which rocked back as if to defy gravity, sat in front of a window through which Argo could see a large, immaculately cared for lawn and four seminarians tossing a baseball. Argo stood in front of the desk that held only a cup of coffee and a single file folder. Painted pale institutional green, the room was completely unadorned except for a crucifix hanging on the left wall and a picture of Pope John Paul II on the right.
“Welcome to the Legion of Christ,” said the priest eyeing his young charge as if to draw some special information from the way he looked.
“Thank you, Father.”
“Argo Malle,” said the priest looking down at the file. “What kind of name is that?” He looked up above his glasses at Argo.
“It’s part French and part Greek, Father. My mother named me after her uncle.”
Catalanado nodded. “I’ve read your file, Mister Malle, and I have to say that I was impressed. B.S. in biology --- graduated summa cum laude --- Rutgers University. But tell me this, why a public school?” He removed his glasses and dropped them on the open file.
“It was free, Father.”
“But with 1600 on the SAT surely you could have gotten a scholarship to St. John’s or Fordham.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Frederic, the family that took me in when my mother died, lived close to Rutgers. They arranged things for me.”
“So it was propincuant,” he said with the widest of grins.
“Yes, Father.”
“That’s an SAT word for you.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you know what it means?” asked the priest, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, Father.”
There was a long pause.
“Tell me, Mr. Malle,” the rector dared him.
“Close, in proximity. Convenient.”
“Good,” Catalanado said grinning from ear to ear, his large teeth yellow and twisted. Now let me ask you if you know this word: charism.”
“No, Father --- probably a form of charity or love.”
“It is probably the most important word for any Legionary,” Catalanado said with a nod. Charism refers to a divine spiritual gift, to individuals or to groups, for the good of the community. For example, teaching or healing, even administration,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Also generosity,” he added, “as you suggested. Nonetheless, love is the greatest of all. Legionaries must learn to love, unselfishly, most of all. We love God, purely and without reservation, and that love is the very foundation of charism. Without the love of the Divine, we cannot properly work for the Legion. There can be no charism. Do you understand?”
“I believe so, Father.”
“Of course, one can love God, totally and completely, and yet not achieve charism. And then he could not be a Legionary. “Do you see?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, even if you don’t, you will.” Catalanado clasped his pudgy hands and placed them heavily on the edge of his desk as if in prayer. “Now let me ask you some important questions. First, why do you want to join the Legion?”
Argo had expected that question, and the words flew from his lips. “I heard Fr. Kearns at Seton Hall. He said that the Legion of Christ wanted talented priests who could help lead the Church, and one of the goals of their mission was education. I thought that perhaps my academic skills could be put to good use toward that end.”
Catalanado nodded. “And what makes you think you have a vocation?”
“I don’t know for sure, Father. I pray that I have.”
“Of course,” said Catalanado. “Your time here will help you know for sure. You will learn whether you have been given the grace to withstand the rigors of being a priest, and of being a Legionary. Good. Now let me ask you this, what do you expect to learn here at the seminary, aside from whether you have a vocation?” He straightened up his chair and swiveled it around toward the window, his back to Argo.
“Charism,” replied Argo.
“Indeed, yes!” said Catalanado immediately swinging his chair back to face Argo, his Cheshire smile wide and toothy. “You are a quick study, for sure. In all my years, Mr. Malle, you are the only novitiate to answer that question correctly. Charism is the answer. You listened and you learned. Good for you.”
Argo was sent to his room to unpack.
However, learning charism was not so simple as defining the term, at least not at a Legion seminary, and it was not long before Argo understood why the property had been walled off from the world around it. It was ten months before Argo was allowed to set foot off the grounds, and that was to travel to Bridgeport with a few others and under the direction of a priest to shop for clothes. Argo spent Christmas praying and singing in the chapel with the other novitiates and for the first time did not see either of his adopted families. Communication with family and friends was discouraged, and while one could write letters or take emergency phone calls, all such contact was screened. There were no televisions or newspapers, and seminarians were aware of current events only tangentially through the filter of Catholic magazines.
In that first ten months, two of the 41 left the order; one of the few eighteen-year-olds was ill and, after his stay in the hospital, went home with his parents. He had been suffering from what he described as stomach pain, but he was told that it would probably pass and that he should offer the pain up to God. His condition worsened, and a day later when he was finally taken to the hospital it was learned that his appendix had burst. The young man’s parents blamed the order for failing to act quickly enough.
The other person to quit, despite the efforts of the faculty, simply hopped over the wall one day and was heard of no more. For him, the discipline and isolation was just too daunting, as it was for most of the others; but they, perhaps because of their greater fortitude, were able to keep going. One of the priests in the many homilies to the novitiates likened the Legion experience to basic training in the Marine Corps. Much was expected of the recruits, but the prize at the end made the sacrifice worthwhile. It was pointed out further that while Marines serve the country, Legionaries serve God, and their sacrifices, therefore, would perforce be greater.
Argo kept to himself the notion that basic training for Marines is six weeks, not four years, and the rigorous discipline in the Marines has a physical component; they have to be tough. Why such draconian discipline was exerted on the novitiates was unclear. Why, for example, were they required to kneel on wooden benches for hours at a time? Why were they expected, for example, to memorize in order the names of each pope from Peter? Or to memorize the order of each letter to the apostles? How would any of that help once they were ordained and out in the world that had been off limits to them for four years? Discipline for its own sake seemed more masochistic than mandatory.
Argo had resigned himself to say as little as possible in class and out. He saw how those who did offer objections or criticisms to the routines were thought to be in need of further “training,” and that meant even greater discipline in terms of more prayer or extra assignments. Argo answered questions from teachers not from his own mind but from theirs. He was quickly able to ascertain what they wanted to hear, and he gave it to them. He was at a great advantage having already studied Latin at the collegiate level, and his academic prowess, put to the test by close study of the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas, served him in good stead. He was a favorite of the teachers because of his intelligence and because of his propensity for silence.
Argo knew that in order to develop the tough-minded leadership required of Legionaries, there had to be absolute dedication to it. Those who wanted to express themselves according to their notion of what it meant to serve God and his people were better suited to other orders, or in the Legion’s view, none at all. The way had been laid out by the Legion and there were no side paths or shortcuts. However, Argo could not accept all that was told him, even if it had been finely reasoned and sensible. He believed it wise not to share his doubts, for that would surely diminish his status among his peers and the perception of the priests regarding his fitness for the order.
It was in the area of sexuality with which Argo had the greatest difficulty. Any sexuality was an evil not tolerated in the Legion. Those men who found chastity too great a challenge were encouraged to flagellate themselves, and some were told to wear barbed belts on their upper thighs to keep from suffering undesirable urgings. These urgings, the men were told, were means by which the devil could lure men from the priesthood. Sexuality drew men from God; it focused them onto the base and was ultimately an act of selfishness. Angels, Argo learned, were the closest to God by virtue of their lack of physical or material essence. The more physical the man, the further from God.
Argo accepted none of it. Despite his study and frequent lectures and sermons, he was certain that since unlike angels man was created with a body, sexuality was clearly part of his nature. To deny that part of one’s nature was in effect to deny God’s creation. Had God wanted man to be asexual, he would not have given him a sexual nature. Not all sexuality was acceptable, of course; however, sexuality that expressed itself in a loving relationship could not be sinful. Forcing priests into an unnatural celibacy was, for Argo, a perversion. Preventing all priests from the expression of human love may have been godly for some but for most others it was inhuman. Argo could not or would not accept that the love of God would of necessity be assuaged by the love of a woman.
Argo understood that the modern clergy had offered their abstinence to God as a gift, just as he knew that the earliest priests had married. Jesus never proscribed sexuality, and no pope had written ex cathedra that sexuality in the priesthood was forever to be banned. In fact, there are those cardinals who would consider changing the Church’s position on the issue. Nevertheless, Argo never confessed to having a “doubting conscience” on the issue or that he had ever had sexual relationships in the past.
Despite his position on the matter, it bothered Argo that he could not accept all of the values of the Legion, for he very much wanted to be the best of the best. He was comfortable with his vow of poverty and took to heart Christ’s warning that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the gates of heaven. He had seen the evil that comes from the material world, and was content to have none of it. His vow of chastity, however, required a mental reservation. Just as a married man can live a chaste life by being true to his wife, a priest could be chaste if he limited his sexuality to one loving relationship. As a married man would be unchaste who committed adultery, Argo would be unchaste if he allowed himself to philander. It was love that was the critical distinction between chaste and unchaste sexuality. However, that kind of love was not included in the definition of charism.
Perhaps it was hubris keeping him from accepting the Church’s current definition of chastity. Did he think himself smarter than the Church fathers? Did God infuse him with understanding denied his superiors? And if by chance the answer were yes, why would God have done so, and how would Argo know He had?
In his confessions, Argo continually expressed regret for his false pride. It was, he said and had been told, his greatest flaw. Only prayer and meditation could relieve him of that sin, and Argo prayed assiduously. However, whatever hubris Argo may have had, the Legion of Christ seemed complicit. By design, the Legion was an elite corps. Legionaries were unlike other priests, in some ways better because of their closeness to and treatment by Pope John Paul. To be a Legionary was something to be proud of, and that charm could easily arouse the snake of hubris. In Argo’s case, despite his confessions and countless hours of prayer and meditation, the snake bit him hard.
Among the novitiates was Heywood Pappas, one of the three who entered the seminary from the business world. Pappas, a native of Connecticut who graduated with a degree in engineering from St. John’s University, had been married with two children. They died when his wife skidded off an icy road taking the children to school. Pappas, who was a successful salesman for Sikorski helicopters, fell into depression, lost his job, and turned to the Church for help. Of all of the other seminarians, Argo liked him best. Still in the clutches of depression, Pappas was often morose, always reserved, yet kindly with a certain generosity of nature that made him approachable despite his affliction. His psychiatrist had medicated him, but his priests prescribed prayer over Prozac, and Pappas dutifully tossed the remaining pills in Fr. Catanalado’s wastebasket.
Having taken a vow of poverty, each Legionary is asked to donate to the order any possessions that he might have. In most cases, the Legion received nothing, but from Pappas they received the accumulated wealth of a forty-year-old top wage earner who received a large insurance settlement on the deaths of his wife and children. Not only did he donate the equity from a rather large house in Stratford, he donated his car and 30’ sailboat and slip on Long Island Sound. The house sold almost immediately, but not so the boat. As Pappas owned the slip outright, it would be a source of income through rental once the bold was sold, and the Order thought it might be worth keeping until they could get its market value of $110,000. However, the boat, only a few years old, attracted no buyers. While that was of consternation to the Legionary financial administration, it was a happy situation for Pappas and Argo.
Pappas had asked for and received permission to care for the boat until it was sold, and while he was at the marina, he would be allowed to sail it for a few hours. When asked whom he would want to accompany him on the days at the marina, he named Argo, who had expressed more than passing interest in Pappas’ boat.
“My friend’s father keeps a boat in Brooklyn, and I’ve had some experience handling it, but I never took it out by myself,” said Argo as he and Pappas shared their common love of the ocean in the cafetorium.
“What kind of boat was it?” asked Pappas. His eyes were narrow slits in a swarthy, rugged face, and he looked to Argo less like a salesman than the Marlboro Man. Tall and well built, his large hands wrapped almost totally around his water glass.
“A Bayliner, 40 foot.”
“Oh, a power boat,” he exclaimed with a hint of disappointment.
“It has twin screws and a bow thruster,” said Argo with a smile.
“They come in handy trying to dock one of those,” said Pappas absently.
“I thought I’d impress you with my nautical knowledge,” Argo said with a wide smile looking boyishly above his coffee cup.
Pappas laughed, and his thick eyebrows furrowed, “Actually, if you’re a power boater you have no nautical knowledge.”
And Argo learned that on his first day aboard The Magus, a 30’ sloop that Pappas had helped design in the Florida Com-Pac factory. It was a sunny day in late September, warm and breezy, and Argo felt free for the first time in over a year. Hearing the gulls and smelling the salt air returned him to Sheepshead Bay and New York Harbor and the wonderful times he had at the shore with the Machiarolla’s, and of course his time with Willow.
Pappas explained that a sloop is a sailboat with a single mast and two sails, one called the mainsail the other a jib. From the corners of the sails to the cockpit run a series of ropes, called lines, each of which have differing functions and names. The lines, which run through a series of pulleys called blocks, are wrapped around winches which aid the pilot in moving the sails according to need. Other lines, called halyards, were wrapped around winches that help raise and lower the sails. Argo counted twenty lines, each of which had names that Pappas rattled off as easily as one would name kitchen appliances.
However it was under sail that Argo was truly impressed by the expertise needed to sail such a boat. Pappas, by deft handling of the lines which changed the angles of the sails, could catch the 12 mph wind such that the sloop could travel at 7 knots within a range of 90 degrees. By a maneuver called tacking, he was able to sail his boat into the wind. When they came upon a buoy, he used the lines to swing the jib to the other side of the boat and made a u-turn.
Argo was enthralled. Here one man could move a 30’ yacht in any direction simply by harnessing the wind. There was no engine leaking oil and making a racket as with the Machiarolla’s boat. Sailing was as silent as sitting in an empty church, and only the water lapping easily against the hull and the wind whispering in the sails reminded Argo that he was in a sloop knifing effortlessly through the water.
Maximum speed for a 30’ boat is 7.2 knots or about 8 mph, but depending on the direction of the boat relative to the wind, called point of sail, it felt like 50 mph, and when the boat pointed closer to the direction of the wind and the boat leaned over, called heeling, such that the water almost reached the top of the deck, it seemed like 70 mph.
A new world had opened for Argo whose talent for self-expression was reduced to, “Wow!” Pappas laughed as The Magus heeled and Argo squealed. “How does the boat keep from falling over?” he said, holding tightly onto the stern rail to keep from falling out.
“The keel,” said Pappas. “It’s the fin under the hull. The weight of the water on the side of the keel offsets the force of the wind on the mainsail. It’s a marvel of engineering.” With that, Pappas let go of the wheel, and the boat, at heel, sailed itself.
Argo reached down with one hand and felt the cold water rush through his fingers as a child might hold his hand out of a car window as it sped across the highway. The wind blew steadily through his hair, and even though he was out in the hot, humid sun, Argo felt cool.
When the wind died down, Pappas changed the positions of the sails and the boat righted itself.
“Want to try it?” asked Pappas with a smile as he moved away from the steering wheel. Argo stood directly behind the wheel at the helm, legs wide apart and both hands wrapped tightly around the large stainless steel wheel. “The trick with piloting a sailboat is to keep the wind in the sails. That’s your power. If you let the wind spill out, you can’t do anything.”
There were a few tricks Pappas showed Argo, and there were names for everything, including the little ribbons, called telltales, which hung midway up the sails. As Argo aimed the boat, Pappas would change the tension on this or that line to increase the effect of the wind, which Argo realized for the first time was not steady. What would be imperceptible changes in wind speed and direction to a power boater were significant to a sailor, and certain maneuvers were necessary to compensate for those changes. Aside from having to learn a new lexicon of sailing terms, Argo would need hours in the cockpit to learn even the rudiments of sailing a 30 footer.
“You never can master it,” said Pappas of sailing. “Every day is different --- so many options --- you never know if you’ve done all you can. I’ve been sailing since I was a boy, and I still never know if I could’ve done something differently or better --- you know --- to catch the wind to the fullest.”
Argo looked at the knot meter. “But we’re only going 5.2 knots, and the most we can go is only two more knots. Speed seems hardly the issue.”
“Well, that’s true, I guess. We’re not in a Porsche,” said Pappas. “But the trick, at least for me, is to maximize the efficiency of the rig. Watch,” he said as he released the line controlling the jib. “I’m letting out the jib sheet a bit. Watch the knot meter.”
In a few seconds Argo saw the knot reading move to 5.3 then 5.4, where it remained. “What did we pick up, a quarter of a knot?” asked Pappas looking up at the sails.
“Yes, up two tenths,” said Argo.
“It’s fine tuning,” Pappas said as he tightened another line. “Of course, sailing allows you to take it easy. A lot of people are content to set the sails well enough to catch the wind and, you know, let it do it’s own thing. It’s just great to be on the water.” He paused a moment then added more to himself than to Argo, “Well, it used to be.”
For a short time before a sail-sized pall of depression settled over him, Pappas had come alive, more so than Argo had ever seen him. Sailing brought him to life, and so it did for Argo. The natural beauty of sailing silently across the water using nothing but the wind was exhilarating, and Argo was captivated.
On their return to shore, Pappas came from below with a copy of Chapman’s Piloting, a tome which he called his second Bible. He was going to leave it on board for the new owner but told Argo to keep it as no one who would buy The Magus had not read that book.
Before leaving they polished the brass fittings and scrubbed the boat clean. It was hurricane season, and Pappas left extra dock lines, knotted neatly in the cockpit, for the dockmaster should a storm hit.
They were back at the seminary well before dinner, but the short ride home was silent.
l
At the conclusion of Argo’s second year, Fr. Catalanado called a meeting at the cafetorium. The rector sat at the head of the table which was covered by thick alabaster lacquer that got sticky in the summer humidity. There was no air conditioning. In front of Catalanado was an open letter, and he started the meeting even before the last teacher took his seat.
“This is from Fr. Sorokis,” said the rector referring to the chief administrator of the Legion headquarters in Rome. “He’s asking that each seminary select one or two top candidates from the diaconate for special leadership classes to be held in Rome --- starting this fall.” He picked up the letter and scanned it before going on. “It’s slated for a year’s program, but could be two, in which case the candidates will not return and be ordained there --- by the pope, I presume, as that was the original plan. We can pick one or two deacons who show special promise, and special promise is a direct quote. Or we can select no one.” He held up he letter. “As is typical of letters from Fr. Sorokis, it is verbose bordering on the cryptic, so special promise is not defined. He does refer to the leadership classes as a “cadre of the elect,” which sounds to me rather like a Puritan sect.” His wide gap-toothed grin spread across his round face. There were some smiles and titters. “So, let’s send them someone,” he added clasping his hands on the letter and looking at the six men around the table.
“Well there’s Argo Malle, of course,” said Henry DiSalvo, the Church history teacher. There were nods. “He’s the best I have, probably ever.”
“He’s the best I’ve ever had,” agreed the philosophy instructor, Amos Didion.
“Yes,” said Catalanado, “he’s our best student, no question --- we all agree. But is he our best candidate for the Legion? The cadre was defined as a leadership program.”
There was silence, finally broken by John Friel, the moral theology teacher and eldest member of the faculty. “He’s a loner,” he offered in a full baritone. “They don’t typically make good leaders.”
“He is a private young man,” said Amos Didion, directing his speech to the rector. “However, on a number of occasions I have seen others go to him for help, and he seemed most willing and able. Apparently they didn’t feel he was so much a loner that he was unapproachable.”
“I’ve seen that, too,” added Robert Tilley, the apologetics teacher.
“But that’s academics, again,” said Friel. “We’re talking leadership. He’s always alone, never joins the others in any activities. They have to drag him onto the ball field to get enough players.”
“Of course, he does go sailing with Pappas,” said Henry DiSalvo.
Catalanado nodded. “And his piety? How has he exhibited his devotion --- his faith?”
“I believe he has,” answered Amos Didion. “Twice I’ve seen him after hours making the Stations of the Cross.”
“Yes,” agreed Friel. “I’ve seen him at night in the chapel. Alone, of course, but I have no qualms about his faith.”
“But you have qualms,” said Catalanado.
Friel thought a long moment before admitting, “Yes, I think I do.” He paused before adding, “It’s not that I don’t think he will make it as a priest, or scientist, or a Legionary. He has the ability to do whatever he wants, to be whatever he wants. The boy is brilliant, smarter than I ever was. I do, however, have some concerns.” He looked up as he tried to find the right words. “It’s hard to express; it’s internal. For example, never once in two years in my class has he ever questioned or expressed any doubt about any of the tenets of any moral position. He never volunteers in any discussion --- only if I ask him a direct question does he respond.”
“And how are his responses?” asked the rector.
“Textbook. Always precise, always correct. But when I push him, if the answer is not suggested by the text, he says he is unsure or does not know. There’s a certain dishonesty in that.”
“Or fear of being wrong or being judged,” suggested Didion.
“Perhaps,” admitted Friel. “But that’s not the feeling I get.”
“And what feeling do you get, John?” asked Catalanado.
“The feeling I get is that he holds himself above discussing his opinions, which he is sure are correct and knows, also, that I would not be able to accept, either by virtue of my position as teacher of the tenets or by virtue of my inability to grasp his insight.”
“Well at metanoia,” added Catalanado referring to the monthly group sessions he runs with all the novitiates wherein there is exchange of individual fears and weaknesses, “he admits to hubris. He may very well feel superior.”
“Hubris is often a concomitant of intellectual prowess,” Didion put in. “I warrant that each of us in this room has that demon to some degree.”
“I agree, Amos,” said Friel. “But as you said, it’s a question of degree.”
After a short pause, Catalanado asked Friel, “So you don’t think Malle is a candidate for the cadre.”
“No, I really don’t. It’s not that I don’t think he would be successful in the program. He would excel, I’m sure. It’s as a Legionary that I think there might be a problem. He lacks the honesty and, how can I say, the generosity or openness of spirit.”
“Is there another candidate you might nominate?”
There was a pause. “Not given the parameters we’ve been given.” Then he added, “Look, I might be wrong about Malle. I just have misgivings about him.”
“No, not at all, John” said the rector. “I thank you for your --- we all thank you for your input and your honesty.” He picked up the letter and asked, “In a sense, we’re being asked to predict the future, and none us has taken Oracle 101.” His grin spread pumpkin-like across his face. “So, do we have anyone else we could consider?”
There was silence.
“Okay, then it’s only young Deacon Malle?” asked the rector.
“Well, from my point of view,” offered Didion, “he’s the best prospect I could imagine.”
“And you, Henry, Robert?” he asked looking at each man who nodded in agreement. “And Paul? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m in agreement with the others,” said the Latin instructor in whose class Argo was an assistant because of his having already taken Latin at Rutgers.
“Well, if there are no other questions or comments…” Catalanado said clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “While it is true that Deacon Malle is a private sort, one might say a loner,” he looked over to DiSalvo with a grin, “he plans to be a research scientist, and in that area, being a cruise director or Mary Poppins is not a prerequisite. The Legion needs scientists, especially when we build our university. It is almost certain that Deacon Malle will be a leader in his field. We all agree that he is a pious young man with a gifted intellect, and that will be evident anywhere he goes, be it Rome or Timbuktu. Now, in the cadre, however many they have in it, our young man will distinguish himself academically. Does anyone believe there will be a better student there?” He paused a second, “So he will top that group academically. If it turns out that for some reason he disappoints them, they will send him back. Simple. We were asked to send our best prospect, and that we will do. It will be their job to determine if that prospect will make it to the major leagues.”
The next morning, Argo was summoned to the office of the Very Reverend Fr. Catalanado.
“Deacon Malle, how are you this lovely morning?” asked the Cheshire Cat.
“Fine, and you, Father?” Argo tried to read his expression to learn why he had been summoned to the principal’s office.
“Fair to middling, fair to middling. I saw you playing ball. It’s good to see you enjoying yourself with the others.” The Cat grinned.
“They call me when they need a warm body, and that’s about all they get,” said Argo returning the smile.
“Well, even you are not gifted in everything. However, I called you in today not because of your baseball talent, or lack thereof, but because of your other gifts.” He clasped his hands on the edge of the desk. “From the first day you walked into this office I knew you were special, and I prayed for you. I prayed that your obvious talent would translate into…that you would become a good Legionary prospect. And that, Deacon Malle, you have. You are our brightest, which I have no doubt you already know, but you are also our best.”
Argo looked down, his heart beginning to beat faster.
“No, don’t put your…hold your head up. There is no need to be modest.”
Argo looked up at the rector.
“You have been selected to be a leader, a leader of leaders, if you will. We at Cheshire were fortunate to have you, and we will miss you here. You have been a leader, quiet and resolute, and we have seen how others naturally follow you.” He paused to let the words sink in. “So, you have been selected by the entire faculty to spend the next year in Rome with a cadre of others who will be given special instruction during your diaconate year. It’s called the cadre of the elect.”
Argo was expressionless.
“You look as if you’ve been given a death sentence,” said the Cat, vaguely perplexed.
“No, Father. I’m honored.”
“As you should be. Now the plan is that you will return after one year, but that may change depending on a number of things there. This is uncharted territory, so flexibility is key. This is truly a great honor.”
“I understand.”
“Now you should know that the classes are in Italian. You’re part Italian, right?”
“French, Father. And Greek.”
“Do you know any Italian?”
“Not really, Father,” Argo said suppressing a smile. The Italian he knew was unlikely to crop up in a Vatican seminary.
“In any event, you’re being sent to Rome now. That will give you a good three months to pick it up,” explained the rector. “Do you know Spanish?”
“Only high school, Father.”
“Then you’re half way there. Much of it will be in Latin, anyway. Aside from Thomas there will be the encyclicals and the letters; they’re all in the original --- it will be easy, for you. You know what won’t be?” he added. “The spelling. Italian is impossible to spell. When you write your essays. That’s when it will be tough.” He thought a moment. “But they have computers now with spell checkers. The Legion office in Rome has them; maybe they’ll let the cadre use them. I’ve been notified that a shipment of them have been sent to us. Personally, I can wait.”
Argo smiled.
“I bet you’d love one,” he said with his enormous smile. “It’s a function of age, of course. The young always want what’s new, and the old want to preserve what’s old. Still, if half of what I have read about them is true, computers will make our work quicker and more efficient, after the initial leaning phase.”
“I believe they will, Father.”
“By the way, I think it would be best if you took a break from the biochemistry when you’re there. At first, we were not happy about it here. Your correspondence with your professor and the books she sent you were thought to be --- we thought they would be a distraction. However, when we saw that it didn’t interfere with your work, we allowed it to continue. There is a need for scientists in the Legion, and we support your efforts, of course. However, the Italians may see it a bit differently, you’re being an American with spotty Italian. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father. Thank you.”
Catalanado nodded then struggled out of his chair. “You’re a good man, Argo Malle, and you will be even better, with the grace of God.” He waddled around the table and offered his hand. It was wide and soft but the grip was firm and sincere. “We will pray for you, and we know you will make us here in Cheshire proud.”
l
Argo was to leave the day after next and was told to take one suitcase only. His books and other belongings were to be packed in cardboard boxes which would be stored for him until his return. He would be delivered to La Guardia two hours before take-off, which was scheduled for 12:12 PM. Along with his ticket, he was given five dollars, a dollar of which was in coins in case the unexpected arose and he had to call Fr. Catalanado’s office. On the back of the airline ticket folder was the name and telephone number of the cadre leader who was to meet him at the airport. He was told that he could change his dollars for lire at the airport if he needed to, but in any case, the five dollars or its remainder should be given to the cadre leader upon their meeting.
Argo was given permission to telephone family of his leaving the country, and his first call was to the Frederic’s. It was nine o’clock on Friday night, and Mrs. Frederic said they would try to be there Sunday to see him off.
“Willow is out right now,” said Carolee Frederic, “so I don’t know if she’ll be able to make it. She’s working on a paper. But we sure will try. We’ve all missed you so much.”
She did not say that Willow was on a date, but Argo assumed she was, and his heart sank. He knew it was best for her, but love is part selfish, and her happiness, as much as he wished for it, did little to assuage his own sense of loss. Argo waited until after evening prayers before going to the chapel waiting for the few others to leave so he could have it to himself. Kneeling in the last pew saying prayers did little that night to get him close to God, and as he usually did on those occasions, Argo made the Stations of the Cross. By the time he had reached the crucifixion, he could feel the pain of the Lord, and his own pain began to wane. He sat in a pew for two hours until he was tired enough to return to his bed and try to sleep.
Heywood Pappas, one of the few who had a driver’s license, was given the assignment to drive Argo to the airport. They talked about what he could expect in Rome, what the special cadre was, and whether the study would be measurably different from the study at Cheshire. However, Argo’s private thoughts were on Willow. It was as if he were a prisoner whose life’s highlight was to have the opportunity simply to gaze on a loved one’s face. However there was the fear that even this would be denied him. And that fear grew the closer they came to the airport. He was certain, as the car followed the signs to the departure lane, that she would not be there.
Suitcase in one hand and his ticket in the other, Argo walked to the American Airlines counter with the dread of a convict on his way to solitary confinement.
“Just one suitcase today, Father?” asked the cheerful representative as she tagged the handle.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve assigned you a seat by the window, stapled your luggage tag to your folder, and you’re all set. You’re on Flight 108, Gate 12. Follow the signs to the left.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a good flight.”
Argo put the ticket in his breast pocket and followed the signs to Gate 12. It was only a few minutes past 10 o’clock, and he was certain the Frederic’s would not be there that early. He spent one of his dollars on a cup of coffee and took a seat facing the walkway.
As the time crept, Argo grew more anxious. Carolee had sounded as if she thought she would be able to make it, but it did not sound as if Willow would. He began to think that perhaps that would be best. His not being with her for such long periods at Cheshire was eased by his not seeing her. The few minutes at the airport might serve only to make his stay at Rome more difficult. “Out of sight, out of mind” seemed more accurate than “absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Yet Argo wanted very much to see her, crazily even if that would make their separation more painful. He looked again at the clock over the desk. It was only 10:38. If they were in fact going to come, it probably would not be until after 11. There was a section of the day’s newspaper someone had left behind, and Argo picked it up. He had not read a newspaper in two years, and scanning the headlines did little to make him believe he had missed much. It was 10:40. He walked to the newsstand and looked at the magazines, which seemed grotesque in their unabashed titillation. Men with cartoon-like muscles, women posing stupidly in décolletage outfits, and screaming headlines announcing the preposterous were splashed in gaudy colors on their covers. Before the seminary he had been inured to coarseness and glitter, and rejoining this world would take some getting used to.
Argo picked a copy of Sport magazine with Mike Schmidt on the cover. It was before the steroid scandals, and in baseball, Argo felt again the beauty of its unchanged symmetry and order. The great game was something he realized he had missed. Had it not been so expensive, Argo might have bought the magazine, but he put it down and walked to window to watch the planes taxi in the morning light.
“Argo!” called Carolee Frederic, and he turned and saw the whole family. He looked to catch Willow’s eyes, but they were sad. Carolee hugged and kissed him as if he were her own, and Donald Frederic’s handshake was hearty and electric. Argo exchanged kisses on the cheek with the girls, but Willow moved her hand away from his when he tried to take it.
“Thank you so much for coming,” said Argo. “I know getting here was a chore.”
“We went to an early Mass,” said Donald.
“We couldn’t let you go without seeing you off,” said Carolee with her characteristic warm smile. “I made you something for the flight.” She handed him a baggie with chocolate chip cookies.
“She kept saying how thin you were at Christmas,” said Donald. “I think she wants to fatten you up.”
“These will do it,” said Argo. “Thank you; that was kind of you.”
“We all had some last night, out of the oven,” Eileen said proudly.
“I didn’t,” Willow corrected her sister.
“Right, Willow didn’t. She’s on a perpetual diet,” said Donald.
“How’s school?” Argo asked her. She was wearing a white open blouse over a red sweater, jeans, and sandals. Her lipstick matched the sweater and her hair was in a ponytail tied back by a white ribbon.
“Fine, and the seminary?” she asked avoiding eye contact.
“Fine, though they’ve sent me packing.”
They stood in a circle in front of the window where Argo explained that he was being sent to a seminary in Rome for a year for special Legion training, that he would have to learn Italian, and that his ordination in two years would by conducted by the Pope. After that, he was hoping that they would send him to graduate school for degrees in biochemistry.
“The Legion has expressed a need for science teachers and researchers. They are expecting to build their own university in Connecticut, I believe,” added Argo, “but that’s not for a few years at least.”
“So will you be going back to Cheshire after this year?” asked Willow.
“That’s the plan, but I’m told I may be kept in Rome. I think it depends on the Pope. This seminary in Rome is under the auspices of the Curia, and they answer directly to him.”
There was silence.
“I believe, however, that I will be able to visit even more than I have been,” he lied.
“Well, we certainly hope so,” said Carolee. “It seems the Legion of Christ doesn’t want to share you.”
“That’s just the seminary. Their attempt is to focus the novitiate on study, to eliminate as much as possible any distractions. They liken it to basic training --- if you can get through the training…”
“Obviously you’re doing very well or they wouldn’t be sending you to the Vatican,” said Donald.
“Or they just wanted to get rid of him,” said Willow with a wry smile. Karen let out a laugh, obviously enjoying her big sister’s wit. Mr. and Mrs. Frederic smiled, and Eileen was not paying attention. Argo also smiled, but he sensed the anger behind it. Willow, he was sure, was lost to him.
The flight to Rome was long and tedious, and it was raining in Rome when Argo got into the car that was late in arriving to take him to his new home in Vatican City.
[1] The Legion of Christ from its inception had been special. The once obscure religious order, founded in 1946 in the basement of a Mexico City town house, ranks as the world's fastest-growing branch of Roman Catholicism. The legion's ultra-orthodox influence reached into the highest echelons of Mexico's business and political elites. While some Catholic orders such as the Jesuits have distinguished themselves by helping the poor, the legion under Marcial Maciel served the more privileged constituencies of Roman Catholicism at the same time. The Catholic President Vicente Fox sent his children to be educated by the Legion’s schools, and the children of the others like a Who's Who of the Mexican private sector. By the 1990’s the Legion owned a network of 10 universities and 154 mostly upscale private schools - prompting some in the Mexico City press corps to dub the order the Millionaires of Christ. In a country with the second largest Catholic flock worldwide, that has ensured the Legion’s influence far beyond its numbers for many years to come.
However, its conservative teachings and strict discipline struck a chord with millions of Latin American parents - not just the affluent. The legion reached out at the time to run 17 Mano Amiga (Spanish for "friendly hand") schools dedicated to the education of indigent children - nearly 11,000 in total, scattered across Mexico, Colombia, Chile, Argentina, El Salvador and Venezuela. Also known as the Legionaries of Christ, it functions today in 20 countries, with more than 480 priests and 2,500 seminarians.
Argo left for the Legion of Christ seminary in Cheshire, Connecticut as soon as he graduated from Rutgers. Located just north of Bridgeport on the Long Island Sound, the 98-acre seminary was once the estate of Morgan Oldfield, a late 19th Century shipping magnate whose grandson donated the verdant property to the Bridgeport Dioceses. The three original red brick buildings sat on a knoll overlooking the inlet. There was the main house with twenty-one rooms, a guesthouse with four bedrooms and two baths, and the stables with a wing for the servants. The stables became a garage in 1929. A four-foot stone wall separated the property on the north, east, and west from woods of ancient English oaks and brilliant sugar maples. On the south side was a six-foot wrought iron fence abutting the stone walls on the sides. The large, intricate ironwork front gate with guardhouse was manned 24 hours a day by novitiates and always kept locked. The stone walls and acres of iron fencing ensured the seminary its obvious desire for separation from the world, and, as he passed through the huge gate for the first time, Argo sensed the irony of an order of priests dedicated to reaching all the peoples of the world isolating themselves as they had.
When the Church took over the property in 1954, it became a seminary for Vincentian priests, but in 1989, with dwindling vocations, the Vincentians consolidated, and the Legion of Christ took over the campus. An addition of ten dormitory rooms opposite from the servant’s wing was attached to the garage, which had been converted to the chapel. All told, the seminary was home to 41 men, many of them college educated, with three of them having come from careers in business. Only Argo had a degree from non-Catholic college.
Fresh from the open New Brunswick Rutgers campus with city streets teeming with cars crisscrossing the university grounds, Argo felt the cloistered beauty all the more remote. Even after his second year there, he never quite became used to separation from the world he anxiously waited to meet. However, it took only a few months for him to understand why the Legion of Christ had insisted upon that separation.
The Legionary priesthood is a breed apart from all other orders. They are seen by the Regnum Christi, the conservative laity group, as holier than other priests, and certainly holier than the laity. The adored Pope John Paul II was particularly fond of the order and fixed their base in Rome, establishing them as a true force in the Church.[1] Argo’s class in four years was scheduled to be the first ordained in Rome by Pope John Paul II himself.
Even before Argo had a chance to unpack his two suitcases he had been summoned to the office of the Very Reverend Father Alfred Catalanado, missionary rector of the seminary. Grossly overweight with a neck so flabby that it obscured his collar, Father Catalanado had a round face and grotesquely wide mouth with large teeth. Argo came to call him, to himself only, the Cheshire Cat. He was in his sixties with a full head of gray hair lying limp and uncombed on his massive head. His desk chair, which rocked back as if to defy gravity, sat in front of a window through which Argo could see a large, immaculately cared for lawn and four seminarians tossing a baseball. Argo stood in front of the desk that held only a cup of coffee and a single file folder. Painted pale institutional green, the room was completely unadorned except for a crucifix hanging on the left wall and a picture of Pope John Paul II on the right.
“Welcome to the Legion of Christ,” said the priest eyeing his young charge as if to draw some special information from the way he looked.
“Thank you, Father.”
“Argo Malle,” said the priest looking down at the file. “What kind of name is that?” He looked up above his glasses at Argo.
“It’s part French and part Greek, Father. My mother named me after her uncle.”
Catalanado nodded. “I’ve read your file, Mister Malle, and I have to say that I was impressed. B.S. in biology --- graduated summa cum laude --- Rutgers University. But tell me this, why a public school?” He removed his glasses and dropped them on the open file.
“It was free, Father.”
“But with 1600 on the SAT surely you could have gotten a scholarship to St. John’s or Fordham.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Frederic, the family that took me in when my mother died, lived close to Rutgers. They arranged things for me.”
“So it was propincuant,” he said with the widest of grins.
“Yes, Father.”
“That’s an SAT word for you.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you know what it means?” asked the priest, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, Father.”
There was a long pause.
“Tell me, Mr. Malle,” the rector dared him.
“Close, in proximity. Convenient.”
“Good,” Catalanado said grinning from ear to ear, his large teeth yellow and twisted. Now let me ask you if you know this word: charism.”
“No, Father --- probably a form of charity or love.”
“It is probably the most important word for any Legionary,” Catalanado said with a nod. Charism refers to a divine spiritual gift, to individuals or to groups, for the good of the community. For example, teaching or healing, even administration,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Also generosity,” he added, “as you suggested. Nonetheless, love is the greatest of all. Legionaries must learn to love, unselfishly, most of all. We love God, purely and without reservation, and that love is the very foundation of charism. Without the love of the Divine, we cannot properly work for the Legion. There can be no charism. Do you understand?”
“I believe so, Father.”
“Of course, one can love God, totally and completely, and yet not achieve charism. And then he could not be a Legionary. “Do you see?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, even if you don’t, you will.” Catalanado clasped his pudgy hands and placed them heavily on the edge of his desk as if in prayer. “Now let me ask you some important questions. First, why do you want to join the Legion?”
Argo had expected that question, and the words flew from his lips. “I heard Fr. Kearns at Seton Hall. He said that the Legion of Christ wanted talented priests who could help lead the Church, and one of the goals of their mission was education. I thought that perhaps my academic skills could be put to good use toward that end.”
Catalanado nodded. “And what makes you think you have a vocation?”
“I don’t know for sure, Father. I pray that I have.”
“Of course,” said Catalanado. “Your time here will help you know for sure. You will learn whether you have been given the grace to withstand the rigors of being a priest, and of being a Legionary. Good. Now let me ask you this, what do you expect to learn here at the seminary, aside from whether you have a vocation?” He straightened up his chair and swiveled it around toward the window, his back to Argo.
“Charism,” replied Argo.
“Indeed, yes!” said Catalanado immediately swinging his chair back to face Argo, his Cheshire smile wide and toothy. “You are a quick study, for sure. In all my years, Mr. Malle, you are the only novitiate to answer that question correctly. Charism is the answer. You listened and you learned. Good for you.”
Argo was sent to his room to unpack.
However, learning charism was not so simple as defining the term, at least not at a Legion seminary, and it was not long before Argo understood why the property had been walled off from the world around it. It was ten months before Argo was allowed to set foot off the grounds, and that was to travel to Bridgeport with a few others and under the direction of a priest to shop for clothes. Argo spent Christmas praying and singing in the chapel with the other novitiates and for the first time did not see either of his adopted families. Communication with family and friends was discouraged, and while one could write letters or take emergency phone calls, all such contact was screened. There were no televisions or newspapers, and seminarians were aware of current events only tangentially through the filter of Catholic magazines.
In that first ten months, two of the 41 left the order; one of the few eighteen-year-olds was ill and, after his stay in the hospital, went home with his parents. He had been suffering from what he described as stomach pain, but he was told that it would probably pass and that he should offer the pain up to God. His condition worsened, and a day later when he was finally taken to the hospital it was learned that his appendix had burst. The young man’s parents blamed the order for failing to act quickly enough.
The other person to quit, despite the efforts of the faculty, simply hopped over the wall one day and was heard of no more. For him, the discipline and isolation was just too daunting, as it was for most of the others; but they, perhaps because of their greater fortitude, were able to keep going. One of the priests in the many homilies to the novitiates likened the Legion experience to basic training in the Marine Corps. Much was expected of the recruits, but the prize at the end made the sacrifice worthwhile. It was pointed out further that while Marines serve the country, Legionaries serve God, and their sacrifices, therefore, would perforce be greater.
Argo kept to himself the notion that basic training for Marines is six weeks, not four years, and the rigorous discipline in the Marines has a physical component; they have to be tough. Why such draconian discipline was exerted on the novitiates was unclear. Why, for example, were they required to kneel on wooden benches for hours at a time? Why were they expected, for example, to memorize in order the names of each pope from Peter? Or to memorize the order of each letter to the apostles? How would any of that help once they were ordained and out in the world that had been off limits to them for four years? Discipline for its own sake seemed more masochistic than mandatory.
Argo had resigned himself to say as little as possible in class and out. He saw how those who did offer objections or criticisms to the routines were thought to be in need of further “training,” and that meant even greater discipline in terms of more prayer or extra assignments. Argo answered questions from teachers not from his own mind but from theirs. He was quickly able to ascertain what they wanted to hear, and he gave it to them. He was at a great advantage having already studied Latin at the collegiate level, and his academic prowess, put to the test by close study of the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas, served him in good stead. He was a favorite of the teachers because of his intelligence and because of his propensity for silence.
Argo knew that in order to develop the tough-minded leadership required of Legionaries, there had to be absolute dedication to it. Those who wanted to express themselves according to their notion of what it meant to serve God and his people were better suited to other orders, or in the Legion’s view, none at all. The way had been laid out by the Legion and there were no side paths or shortcuts. However, Argo could not accept all that was told him, even if it had been finely reasoned and sensible. He believed it wise not to share his doubts, for that would surely diminish his status among his peers and the perception of the priests regarding his fitness for the order.
It was in the area of sexuality with which Argo had the greatest difficulty. Any sexuality was an evil not tolerated in the Legion. Those men who found chastity too great a challenge were encouraged to flagellate themselves, and some were told to wear barbed belts on their upper thighs to keep from suffering undesirable urgings. These urgings, the men were told, were means by which the devil could lure men from the priesthood. Sexuality drew men from God; it focused them onto the base and was ultimately an act of selfishness. Angels, Argo learned, were the closest to God by virtue of their lack of physical or material essence. The more physical the man, the further from God.
Argo accepted none of it. Despite his study and frequent lectures and sermons, he was certain that since unlike angels man was created with a body, sexuality was clearly part of his nature. To deny that part of one’s nature was in effect to deny God’s creation. Had God wanted man to be asexual, he would not have given him a sexual nature. Not all sexuality was acceptable, of course; however, sexuality that expressed itself in a loving relationship could not be sinful. Forcing priests into an unnatural celibacy was, for Argo, a perversion. Preventing all priests from the expression of human love may have been godly for some but for most others it was inhuman. Argo could not or would not accept that the love of God would of necessity be assuaged by the love of a woman.
Argo understood that the modern clergy had offered their abstinence to God as a gift, just as he knew that the earliest priests had married. Jesus never proscribed sexuality, and no pope had written ex cathedra that sexuality in the priesthood was forever to be banned. In fact, there are those cardinals who would consider changing the Church’s position on the issue. Nevertheless, Argo never confessed to having a “doubting conscience” on the issue or that he had ever had sexual relationships in the past.
Despite his position on the matter, it bothered Argo that he could not accept all of the values of the Legion, for he very much wanted to be the best of the best. He was comfortable with his vow of poverty and took to heart Christ’s warning that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the gates of heaven. He had seen the evil that comes from the material world, and was content to have none of it. His vow of chastity, however, required a mental reservation. Just as a married man can live a chaste life by being true to his wife, a priest could be chaste if he limited his sexuality to one loving relationship. As a married man would be unchaste who committed adultery, Argo would be unchaste if he allowed himself to philander. It was love that was the critical distinction between chaste and unchaste sexuality. However, that kind of love was not included in the definition of charism.
Perhaps it was hubris keeping him from accepting the Church’s current definition of chastity. Did he think himself smarter than the Church fathers? Did God infuse him with understanding denied his superiors? And if by chance the answer were yes, why would God have done so, and how would Argo know He had?
In his confessions, Argo continually expressed regret for his false pride. It was, he said and had been told, his greatest flaw. Only prayer and meditation could relieve him of that sin, and Argo prayed assiduously. However, whatever hubris Argo may have had, the Legion of Christ seemed complicit. By design, the Legion was an elite corps. Legionaries were unlike other priests, in some ways better because of their closeness to and treatment by Pope John Paul. To be a Legionary was something to be proud of, and that charm could easily arouse the snake of hubris. In Argo’s case, despite his confessions and countless hours of prayer and meditation, the snake bit him hard.
Among the novitiates was Heywood Pappas, one of the three who entered the seminary from the business world. Pappas, a native of Connecticut who graduated with a degree in engineering from St. John’s University, had been married with two children. They died when his wife skidded off an icy road taking the children to school. Pappas, who was a successful salesman for Sikorski helicopters, fell into depression, lost his job, and turned to the Church for help. Of all of the other seminarians, Argo liked him best. Still in the clutches of depression, Pappas was often morose, always reserved, yet kindly with a certain generosity of nature that made him approachable despite his affliction. His psychiatrist had medicated him, but his priests prescribed prayer over Prozac, and Pappas dutifully tossed the remaining pills in Fr. Catanalado’s wastebasket.
Having taken a vow of poverty, each Legionary is asked to donate to the order any possessions that he might have. In most cases, the Legion received nothing, but from Pappas they received the accumulated wealth of a forty-year-old top wage earner who received a large insurance settlement on the deaths of his wife and children. Not only did he donate the equity from a rather large house in Stratford, he donated his car and 30’ sailboat and slip on Long Island Sound. The house sold almost immediately, but not so the boat. As Pappas owned the slip outright, it would be a source of income through rental once the bold was sold, and the Order thought it might be worth keeping until they could get its market value of $110,000. However, the boat, only a few years old, attracted no buyers. While that was of consternation to the Legionary financial administration, it was a happy situation for Pappas and Argo.
Pappas had asked for and received permission to care for the boat until it was sold, and while he was at the marina, he would be allowed to sail it for a few hours. When asked whom he would want to accompany him on the days at the marina, he named Argo, who had expressed more than passing interest in Pappas’ boat.
“My friend’s father keeps a boat in Brooklyn, and I’ve had some experience handling it, but I never took it out by myself,” said Argo as he and Pappas shared their common love of the ocean in the cafetorium.
“What kind of boat was it?” asked Pappas. His eyes were narrow slits in a swarthy, rugged face, and he looked to Argo less like a salesman than the Marlboro Man. Tall and well built, his large hands wrapped almost totally around his water glass.
“A Bayliner, 40 foot.”
“Oh, a power boat,” he exclaimed with a hint of disappointment.
“It has twin screws and a bow thruster,” said Argo with a smile.
“They come in handy trying to dock one of those,” said Pappas absently.
“I thought I’d impress you with my nautical knowledge,” Argo said with a wide smile looking boyishly above his coffee cup.
Pappas laughed, and his thick eyebrows furrowed, “Actually, if you’re a power boater you have no nautical knowledge.”
And Argo learned that on his first day aboard The Magus, a 30’ sloop that Pappas had helped design in the Florida Com-Pac factory. It was a sunny day in late September, warm and breezy, and Argo felt free for the first time in over a year. Hearing the gulls and smelling the salt air returned him to Sheepshead Bay and New York Harbor and the wonderful times he had at the shore with the Machiarolla’s, and of course his time with Willow.
Pappas explained that a sloop is a sailboat with a single mast and two sails, one called the mainsail the other a jib. From the corners of the sails to the cockpit run a series of ropes, called lines, each of which have differing functions and names. The lines, which run through a series of pulleys called blocks, are wrapped around winches which aid the pilot in moving the sails according to need. Other lines, called halyards, were wrapped around winches that help raise and lower the sails. Argo counted twenty lines, each of which had names that Pappas rattled off as easily as one would name kitchen appliances.
However it was under sail that Argo was truly impressed by the expertise needed to sail such a boat. Pappas, by deft handling of the lines which changed the angles of the sails, could catch the 12 mph wind such that the sloop could travel at 7 knots within a range of 90 degrees. By a maneuver called tacking, he was able to sail his boat into the wind. When they came upon a buoy, he used the lines to swing the jib to the other side of the boat and made a u-turn.
Argo was enthralled. Here one man could move a 30’ yacht in any direction simply by harnessing the wind. There was no engine leaking oil and making a racket as with the Machiarolla’s boat. Sailing was as silent as sitting in an empty church, and only the water lapping easily against the hull and the wind whispering in the sails reminded Argo that he was in a sloop knifing effortlessly through the water.
Maximum speed for a 30’ boat is 7.2 knots or about 8 mph, but depending on the direction of the boat relative to the wind, called point of sail, it felt like 50 mph, and when the boat pointed closer to the direction of the wind and the boat leaned over, called heeling, such that the water almost reached the top of the deck, it seemed like 70 mph.
A new world had opened for Argo whose talent for self-expression was reduced to, “Wow!” Pappas laughed as The Magus heeled and Argo squealed. “How does the boat keep from falling over?” he said, holding tightly onto the stern rail to keep from falling out.
“The keel,” said Pappas. “It’s the fin under the hull. The weight of the water on the side of the keel offsets the force of the wind on the mainsail. It’s a marvel of engineering.” With that, Pappas let go of the wheel, and the boat, at heel, sailed itself.
Argo reached down with one hand and felt the cold water rush through his fingers as a child might hold his hand out of a car window as it sped across the highway. The wind blew steadily through his hair, and even though he was out in the hot, humid sun, Argo felt cool.
When the wind died down, Pappas changed the positions of the sails and the boat righted itself.
“Want to try it?” asked Pappas with a smile as he moved away from the steering wheel. Argo stood directly behind the wheel at the helm, legs wide apart and both hands wrapped tightly around the large stainless steel wheel. “The trick with piloting a sailboat is to keep the wind in the sails. That’s your power. If you let the wind spill out, you can’t do anything.”
There were a few tricks Pappas showed Argo, and there were names for everything, including the little ribbons, called telltales, which hung midway up the sails. As Argo aimed the boat, Pappas would change the tension on this or that line to increase the effect of the wind, which Argo realized for the first time was not steady. What would be imperceptible changes in wind speed and direction to a power boater were significant to a sailor, and certain maneuvers were necessary to compensate for those changes. Aside from having to learn a new lexicon of sailing terms, Argo would need hours in the cockpit to learn even the rudiments of sailing a 30 footer.
“You never can master it,” said Pappas of sailing. “Every day is different --- so many options --- you never know if you’ve done all you can. I’ve been sailing since I was a boy, and I still never know if I could’ve done something differently or better --- you know --- to catch the wind to the fullest.”
Argo looked at the knot meter. “But we’re only going 5.2 knots, and the most we can go is only two more knots. Speed seems hardly the issue.”
“Well, that’s true, I guess. We’re not in a Porsche,” said Pappas. “But the trick, at least for me, is to maximize the efficiency of the rig. Watch,” he said as he released the line controlling the jib. “I’m letting out the jib sheet a bit. Watch the knot meter.”
In a few seconds Argo saw the knot reading move to 5.3 then 5.4, where it remained. “What did we pick up, a quarter of a knot?” asked Pappas looking up at the sails.
“Yes, up two tenths,” said Argo.
“It’s fine tuning,” Pappas said as he tightened another line. “Of course, sailing allows you to take it easy. A lot of people are content to set the sails well enough to catch the wind and, you know, let it do it’s own thing. It’s just great to be on the water.” He paused a moment then added more to himself than to Argo, “Well, it used to be.”
For a short time before a sail-sized pall of depression settled over him, Pappas had come alive, more so than Argo had ever seen him. Sailing brought him to life, and so it did for Argo. The natural beauty of sailing silently across the water using nothing but the wind was exhilarating, and Argo was captivated.
On their return to shore, Pappas came from below with a copy of Chapman’s Piloting, a tome which he called his second Bible. He was going to leave it on board for the new owner but told Argo to keep it as no one who would buy The Magus had not read that book.
Before leaving they polished the brass fittings and scrubbed the boat clean. It was hurricane season, and Pappas left extra dock lines, knotted neatly in the cockpit, for the dockmaster should a storm hit.
They were back at the seminary well before dinner, but the short ride home was silent.
l
At the conclusion of Argo’s second year, Fr. Catalanado called a meeting at the cafetorium. The rector sat at the head of the table which was covered by thick alabaster lacquer that got sticky in the summer humidity. There was no air conditioning. In front of Catalanado was an open letter, and he started the meeting even before the last teacher took his seat.
“This is from Fr. Sorokis,” said the rector referring to the chief administrator of the Legion headquarters in Rome. “He’s asking that each seminary select one or two top candidates from the diaconate for special leadership classes to be held in Rome --- starting this fall.” He picked up the letter and scanned it before going on. “It’s slated for a year’s program, but could be two, in which case the candidates will not return and be ordained there --- by the pope, I presume, as that was the original plan. We can pick one or two deacons who show special promise, and special promise is a direct quote. Or we can select no one.” He held up he letter. “As is typical of letters from Fr. Sorokis, it is verbose bordering on the cryptic, so special promise is not defined. He does refer to the leadership classes as a “cadre of the elect,” which sounds to me rather like a Puritan sect.” His wide gap-toothed grin spread across his round face. There were some smiles and titters. “So, let’s send them someone,” he added clasping his hands on the letter and looking at the six men around the table.
“Well there’s Argo Malle, of course,” said Henry DiSalvo, the Church history teacher. There were nods. “He’s the best I have, probably ever.”
“He’s the best I’ve ever had,” agreed the philosophy instructor, Amos Didion.
“Yes,” said Catalanado, “he’s our best student, no question --- we all agree. But is he our best candidate for the Legion? The cadre was defined as a leadership program.”
There was silence, finally broken by John Friel, the moral theology teacher and eldest member of the faculty. “He’s a loner,” he offered in a full baritone. “They don’t typically make good leaders.”
“He is a private young man,” said Amos Didion, directing his speech to the rector. “However, on a number of occasions I have seen others go to him for help, and he seemed most willing and able. Apparently they didn’t feel he was so much a loner that he was unapproachable.”
“I’ve seen that, too,” added Robert Tilley, the apologetics teacher.
“But that’s academics, again,” said Friel. “We’re talking leadership. He’s always alone, never joins the others in any activities. They have to drag him onto the ball field to get enough players.”
“Of course, he does go sailing with Pappas,” said Henry DiSalvo.
Catalanado nodded. “And his piety? How has he exhibited his devotion --- his faith?”
“I believe he has,” answered Amos Didion. “Twice I’ve seen him after hours making the Stations of the Cross.”
“Yes,” agreed Friel. “I’ve seen him at night in the chapel. Alone, of course, but I have no qualms about his faith.”
“But you have qualms,” said Catalanado.
Friel thought a long moment before admitting, “Yes, I think I do.” He paused before adding, “It’s not that I don’t think he will make it as a priest, or scientist, or a Legionary. He has the ability to do whatever he wants, to be whatever he wants. The boy is brilliant, smarter than I ever was. I do, however, have some concerns.” He looked up as he tried to find the right words. “It’s hard to express; it’s internal. For example, never once in two years in my class has he ever questioned or expressed any doubt about any of the tenets of any moral position. He never volunteers in any discussion --- only if I ask him a direct question does he respond.”
“And how are his responses?” asked the rector.
“Textbook. Always precise, always correct. But when I push him, if the answer is not suggested by the text, he says he is unsure or does not know. There’s a certain dishonesty in that.”
“Or fear of being wrong or being judged,” suggested Didion.
“Perhaps,” admitted Friel. “But that’s not the feeling I get.”
“And what feeling do you get, John?” asked Catalanado.
“The feeling I get is that he holds himself above discussing his opinions, which he is sure are correct and knows, also, that I would not be able to accept, either by virtue of my position as teacher of the tenets or by virtue of my inability to grasp his insight.”
“Well at metanoia,” added Catalanado referring to the monthly group sessions he runs with all the novitiates wherein there is exchange of individual fears and weaknesses, “he admits to hubris. He may very well feel superior.”
“Hubris is often a concomitant of intellectual prowess,” Didion put in. “I warrant that each of us in this room has that demon to some degree.”
“I agree, Amos,” said Friel. “But as you said, it’s a question of degree.”
After a short pause, Catalanado asked Friel, “So you don’t think Malle is a candidate for the cadre.”
“No, I really don’t. It’s not that I don’t think he would be successful in the program. He would excel, I’m sure. It’s as a Legionary that I think there might be a problem. He lacks the honesty and, how can I say, the generosity or openness of spirit.”
“Is there another candidate you might nominate?”
There was a pause. “Not given the parameters we’ve been given.” Then he added, “Look, I might be wrong about Malle. I just have misgivings about him.”
“No, not at all, John” said the rector. “I thank you for your --- we all thank you for your input and your honesty.” He picked up the letter and asked, “In a sense, we’re being asked to predict the future, and none us has taken Oracle 101.” His grin spread pumpkin-like across his face. “So, do we have anyone else we could consider?”
There was silence.
“Okay, then it’s only young Deacon Malle?” asked the rector.
“Well, from my point of view,” offered Didion, “he’s the best prospect I could imagine.”
“And you, Henry, Robert?” he asked looking at each man who nodded in agreement. “And Paul? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m in agreement with the others,” said the Latin instructor in whose class Argo was an assistant because of his having already taken Latin at Rutgers.
“Well, if there are no other questions or comments…” Catalanado said clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “While it is true that Deacon Malle is a private sort, one might say a loner,” he looked over to DiSalvo with a grin, “he plans to be a research scientist, and in that area, being a cruise director or Mary Poppins is not a prerequisite. The Legion needs scientists, especially when we build our university. It is almost certain that Deacon Malle will be a leader in his field. We all agree that he is a pious young man with a gifted intellect, and that will be evident anywhere he goes, be it Rome or Timbuktu. Now, in the cadre, however many they have in it, our young man will distinguish himself academically. Does anyone believe there will be a better student there?” He paused a second, “So he will top that group academically. If it turns out that for some reason he disappoints them, they will send him back. Simple. We were asked to send our best prospect, and that we will do. It will be their job to determine if that prospect will make it to the major leagues.”
The next morning, Argo was summoned to the office of the Very Reverend Fr. Catalanado.
“Deacon Malle, how are you this lovely morning?” asked the Cheshire Cat.
“Fine, and you, Father?” Argo tried to read his expression to learn why he had been summoned to the principal’s office.
“Fair to middling, fair to middling. I saw you playing ball. It’s good to see you enjoying yourself with the others.” The Cat grinned.
“They call me when they need a warm body, and that’s about all they get,” said Argo returning the smile.
“Well, even you are not gifted in everything. However, I called you in today not because of your baseball talent, or lack thereof, but because of your other gifts.” He clasped his hands on the edge of the desk. “From the first day you walked into this office I knew you were special, and I prayed for you. I prayed that your obvious talent would translate into…that you would become a good Legionary prospect. And that, Deacon Malle, you have. You are our brightest, which I have no doubt you already know, but you are also our best.”
Argo looked down, his heart beginning to beat faster.
“No, don’t put your…hold your head up. There is no need to be modest.”
Argo looked up at the rector.
“You have been selected to be a leader, a leader of leaders, if you will. We at Cheshire were fortunate to have you, and we will miss you here. You have been a leader, quiet and resolute, and we have seen how others naturally follow you.” He paused to let the words sink in. “So, you have been selected by the entire faculty to spend the next year in Rome with a cadre of others who will be given special instruction during your diaconate year. It’s called the cadre of the elect.”
Argo was expressionless.
“You look as if you’ve been given a death sentence,” said the Cat, vaguely perplexed.
“No, Father. I’m honored.”
“As you should be. Now the plan is that you will return after one year, but that may change depending on a number of things there. This is uncharted territory, so flexibility is key. This is truly a great honor.”
“I understand.”
“Now you should know that the classes are in Italian. You’re part Italian, right?”
“French, Father. And Greek.”
“Do you know any Italian?”
“Not really, Father,” Argo said suppressing a smile. The Italian he knew was unlikely to crop up in a Vatican seminary.
“In any event, you’re being sent to Rome now. That will give you a good three months to pick it up,” explained the rector. “Do you know Spanish?”
“Only high school, Father.”
“Then you’re half way there. Much of it will be in Latin, anyway. Aside from Thomas there will be the encyclicals and the letters; they’re all in the original --- it will be easy, for you. You know what won’t be?” he added. “The spelling. Italian is impossible to spell. When you write your essays. That’s when it will be tough.” He thought a moment. “But they have computers now with spell checkers. The Legion office in Rome has them; maybe they’ll let the cadre use them. I’ve been notified that a shipment of them have been sent to us. Personally, I can wait.”
Argo smiled.
“I bet you’d love one,” he said with his enormous smile. “It’s a function of age, of course. The young always want what’s new, and the old want to preserve what’s old. Still, if half of what I have read about them is true, computers will make our work quicker and more efficient, after the initial leaning phase.”
“I believe they will, Father.”
“By the way, I think it would be best if you took a break from the biochemistry when you’re there. At first, we were not happy about it here. Your correspondence with your professor and the books she sent you were thought to be --- we thought they would be a distraction. However, when we saw that it didn’t interfere with your work, we allowed it to continue. There is a need for scientists in the Legion, and we support your efforts, of course. However, the Italians may see it a bit differently, you’re being an American with spotty Italian. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father. Thank you.”
Catalanado nodded then struggled out of his chair. “You’re a good man, Argo Malle, and you will be even better, with the grace of God.” He waddled around the table and offered his hand. It was wide and soft but the grip was firm and sincere. “We will pray for you, and we know you will make us here in Cheshire proud.”
l
Argo was to leave the day after next and was told to take one suitcase only. His books and other belongings were to be packed in cardboard boxes which would be stored for him until his return. He would be delivered to La Guardia two hours before take-off, which was scheduled for 12:12 PM. Along with his ticket, he was given five dollars, a dollar of which was in coins in case the unexpected arose and he had to call Fr. Catalanado’s office. On the back of the airline ticket folder was the name and telephone number of the cadre leader who was to meet him at the airport. He was told that he could change his dollars for lire at the airport if he needed to, but in any case, the five dollars or its remainder should be given to the cadre leader upon their meeting.
Argo was given permission to telephone family of his leaving the country, and his first call was to the Frederic’s. It was nine o’clock on Friday night, and Mrs. Frederic said they would try to be there Sunday to see him off.
“Willow is out right now,” said Carolee Frederic, “so I don’t know if she’ll be able to make it. She’s working on a paper. But we sure will try. We’ve all missed you so much.”
She did not say that Willow was on a date, but Argo assumed she was, and his heart sank. He knew it was best for her, but love is part selfish, and her happiness, as much as he wished for it, did little to assuage his own sense of loss. Argo waited until after evening prayers before going to the chapel waiting for the few others to leave so he could have it to himself. Kneeling in the last pew saying prayers did little that night to get him close to God, and as he usually did on those occasions, Argo made the Stations of the Cross. By the time he had reached the crucifixion, he could feel the pain of the Lord, and his own pain began to wane. He sat in a pew for two hours until he was tired enough to return to his bed and try to sleep.
Heywood Pappas, one of the few who had a driver’s license, was given the assignment to drive Argo to the airport. They talked about what he could expect in Rome, what the special cadre was, and whether the study would be measurably different from the study at Cheshire. However, Argo’s private thoughts were on Willow. It was as if he were a prisoner whose life’s highlight was to have the opportunity simply to gaze on a loved one’s face. However there was the fear that even this would be denied him. And that fear grew the closer they came to the airport. He was certain, as the car followed the signs to the departure lane, that she would not be there.
Suitcase in one hand and his ticket in the other, Argo walked to the American Airlines counter with the dread of a convict on his way to solitary confinement.
“Just one suitcase today, Father?” asked the cheerful representative as she tagged the handle.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve assigned you a seat by the window, stapled your luggage tag to your folder, and you’re all set. You’re on Flight 108, Gate 12. Follow the signs to the left.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a good flight.”
Argo put the ticket in his breast pocket and followed the signs to Gate 12. It was only a few minutes past 10 o’clock, and he was certain the Frederic’s would not be there that early. He spent one of his dollars on a cup of coffee and took a seat facing the walkway.
As the time crept, Argo grew more anxious. Carolee had sounded as if she thought she would be able to make it, but it did not sound as if Willow would. He began to think that perhaps that would be best. His not being with her for such long periods at Cheshire was eased by his not seeing her. The few minutes at the airport might serve only to make his stay at Rome more difficult. “Out of sight, out of mind” seemed more accurate than “absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Yet Argo wanted very much to see her, crazily even if that would make their separation more painful. He looked again at the clock over the desk. It was only 10:38. If they were in fact going to come, it probably would not be until after 11. There was a section of the day’s newspaper someone had left behind, and Argo picked it up. He had not read a newspaper in two years, and scanning the headlines did little to make him believe he had missed much. It was 10:40. He walked to the newsstand and looked at the magazines, which seemed grotesque in their unabashed titillation. Men with cartoon-like muscles, women posing stupidly in décolletage outfits, and screaming headlines announcing the preposterous were splashed in gaudy colors on their covers. Before the seminary he had been inured to coarseness and glitter, and rejoining this world would take some getting used to.
Argo picked a copy of Sport magazine with Mike Schmidt on the cover. It was before the steroid scandals, and in baseball, Argo felt again the beauty of its unchanged symmetry and order. The great game was something he realized he had missed. Had it not been so expensive, Argo might have bought the magazine, but he put it down and walked to window to watch the planes taxi in the morning light.
“Argo!” called Carolee Frederic, and he turned and saw the whole family. He looked to catch Willow’s eyes, but they were sad. Carolee hugged and kissed him as if he were her own, and Donald Frederic’s handshake was hearty and electric. Argo exchanged kisses on the cheek with the girls, but Willow moved her hand away from his when he tried to take it.
“Thank you so much for coming,” said Argo. “I know getting here was a chore.”
“We went to an early Mass,” said Donald.
“We couldn’t let you go without seeing you off,” said Carolee with her characteristic warm smile. “I made you something for the flight.” She handed him a baggie with chocolate chip cookies.
“She kept saying how thin you were at Christmas,” said Donald. “I think she wants to fatten you up.”
“These will do it,” said Argo. “Thank you; that was kind of you.”
“We all had some last night, out of the oven,” Eileen said proudly.
“I didn’t,” Willow corrected her sister.
“Right, Willow didn’t. She’s on a perpetual diet,” said Donald.
“How’s school?” Argo asked her. She was wearing a white open blouse over a red sweater, jeans, and sandals. Her lipstick matched the sweater and her hair was in a ponytail tied back by a white ribbon.
“Fine, and the seminary?” she asked avoiding eye contact.
“Fine, though they’ve sent me packing.”
They stood in a circle in front of the window where Argo explained that he was being sent to a seminary in Rome for a year for special Legion training, that he would have to learn Italian, and that his ordination in two years would by conducted by the Pope. After that, he was hoping that they would send him to graduate school for degrees in biochemistry.
“The Legion has expressed a need for science teachers and researchers. They are expecting to build their own university in Connecticut, I believe,” added Argo, “but that’s not for a few years at least.”
“So will you be going back to Cheshire after this year?” asked Willow.
“That’s the plan, but I’m told I may be kept in Rome. I think it depends on the Pope. This seminary in Rome is under the auspices of the Curia, and they answer directly to him.”
There was silence.
“I believe, however, that I will be able to visit even more than I have been,” he lied.
“Well, we certainly hope so,” said Carolee. “It seems the Legion of Christ doesn’t want to share you.”
“That’s just the seminary. Their attempt is to focus the novitiate on study, to eliminate as much as possible any distractions. They liken it to basic training --- if you can get through the training…”
“Obviously you’re doing very well or they wouldn’t be sending you to the Vatican,” said Donald.
“Or they just wanted to get rid of him,” said Willow with a wry smile. Karen let out a laugh, obviously enjoying her big sister’s wit. Mr. and Mrs. Frederic smiled, and Eileen was not paying attention. Argo also smiled, but he sensed the anger behind it. Willow, he was sure, was lost to him.
The flight to Rome was long and tedious, and it was raining in Rome when Argo got into the car that was late in arriving to take him to his new home in Vatican City.
[1] The Legion of Christ from its inception had been special. The once obscure religious order, founded in 1946 in the basement of a Mexico City town house, ranks as the world's fastest-growing branch of Roman Catholicism. The legion's ultra-orthodox influence reached into the highest echelons of Mexico's business and political elites. While some Catholic orders such as the Jesuits have distinguished themselves by helping the poor, the legion under Marcial Maciel served the more privileged constituencies of Roman Catholicism at the same time. The Catholic President Vicente Fox sent his children to be educated by the Legion’s schools, and the children of the others like a Who's Who of the Mexican private sector. By the 1990’s the Legion owned a network of 10 universities and 154 mostly upscale private schools - prompting some in the Mexico City press corps to dub the order the Millionaires of Christ. In a country with the second largest Catholic flock worldwide, that has ensured the Legion’s influence far beyond its numbers for many years to come.
However, its conservative teachings and strict discipline struck a chord with millions of Latin American parents - not just the affluent. The legion reached out at the time to run 17 Mano Amiga (Spanish for "friendly hand") schools dedicated to the education of indigent children - nearly 11,000 in total, scattered across Mexico, Colombia, Chile, Argentina, El Salvador and Venezuela. Also known as the Legionaries of Christ, it functions today in 20 countries, with more than 480 priests and 2,500 seminarians.
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