Chapter Fifteen: Two Masters
[From the Willow manuscript, Part 5.]
No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.
Matthew 6:24
It had been three years from the time of Argo’s furtive meeting that evening when he told me that he still loved me, but aside from Christmas cards with short notes, neither my parents nor I had heard from him. The Legion did not pay for his airfare to visit family, so visits were out. But there were phones in California, and he had had enough money for stamps. Why he virtually cut us off seemed clear; he needed to make a break, possibly even to anger me so that I would get on with my life without him. And that is what I did.
As often happens to people who have had painfuil relationships, their work becomes a retreat, a natural narcartic that eliminates pain, and most of their pleasure. The work becomes a compulsion, a sublimation by which the painful memories and empty longing cannot penetrate the conscious. If one is fortunate enough to reap rewards for this neurosis, either through peer esteem or monetary compensation, so much the better. And in this I suppose I was fortunate.
My total and relentless effort as a junior associate made me successful, and with that success, esteem in my father’s eyes and the eyes of the partners grew, as did my billings. I was trusted more and more with major clients who appreciated my efforts and accomplishments on their behalf. At Sunday dinner with my family, a tradition I had grown to treasure, I felt a pride that I had never before known, a quiet sense that I had approached my father’s level. I had validated his faith in me and made my mother’s eyes light up when she saw me. Even Karen and Eileen were proud of their older sister whose path in life would be different from their own. Their strengths, aside from their common sense, were based on charm and physical beauty; in that they were like their mother. I, however, was like my father: bookish, inelegant, and bent on success.
But now Argo was back in New York, and the armor of my career had been penetrated. His being in California had allowed me the space I had needed to live my life without thinking about him incessantly. There was Marty Barko and there was my work, but now there was Argo, and I was simply unable to go on as I had.
Of course I considered not speaking to him the day after Marty and I had been intimate, but the truth was that I knew Marty was never going to be the man for me, especially since an hour did not go by that evening either at the dance or when we were alone that I did not think of Argo’s return. And to make matters worse, when the phone rang the next day and it was Argo, my heart beat wildly giving the lie to my icy tone when I answered the phone..
I have no idea how much sexuality drives the human spirit, but I suspect it is incalculable, for some more than for others no doubt. Laymen call it romance, but whatever the term, its toll is significant. It seems clear why all major religions of the world have sought to control sexuality by limiting it to husband and wife; any other combination can be lethal. The primordial driving impulse causes priests to break their vows and girls to forsake their families. And here was Argo on the phone with his onetime girlfriend whose heart was racing just hearing his voice.
Perhaps women never completely lose a place in their heart for the man to whom they first willingly give themselves. Perhaps that is also true of men though I would think certainly less so. In any event, Argo was for some reason trying to get back into my life, and that reason was sexual.
“Otherwise you would have kept in touch for the past three years. A few Christmas and birthday cards; you could hardly have done less!” I said none too pleasantly. It was a bright September morning, sunlight streaming into my bedroom window, but little into my voice.
“I did not keep in touch because I was unsure I would ever be able to return to the metropolitan area,” he explained in defense. “Had I been assigned to the States, it was likely going to be at Notre Dame. It was fortunate that I was assigned my first choice, and that only after an uncomfortable interview with Cardinal McElhone. He was not happy about the prospect of investing in my tenure with the likelihood that I would be conscripted after two years or so by the Legion --- to set up their university in Connecticut.”
“And now that you’re here, you thought you’d pick up with me again,” I remarked, the anger and frustration rushing from my lips like Niagara Falls --- in a thimble.
“I’m here because of you,” he said softly. “If you don’t know that, then you don’t know me.”
But I did know him. He was beautiful and loving, gifted and almost frighteningly strong and in control.
“And you’re a priest,” I managed.
“And a man.”
“And you chose the priesthood over me.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive … a husband can be a father.”
“Interesting choice of words,” I remarked.
“It was intended.”
There was silence, and I was thinking four things at once while I watched the long shadows thrown by the figurines on my dresser. Their colors were so much richer in the sunlight than when lit by the lights in my room. It must have been a full minute before I spoke again.
“And what about my parents?”
“What about them?” he said, then paused. “If you want to try marriage again, if you want children, then …” He didn’t finish, and there was another long silence.
“So we live a secret life … a double life, like people having an illicit affair.”
“No, like people in love in a world that doesn’t allow for it.” Again there was a long silence. “We each have our careers … they help define us…they’re what we have worked for. Do we have to give them up to be together?”
I thought before answering. “Probably so, if we want to have a normal relationship…if we don’t want to live our lives skulking around.”
“Put that way, I guess you’re right. But I’d prefer to say that our relationship is private, not skulking. It requires no sanctions from anyone, no definition, no pigeonholing.”
“It goes to values,” I finally said with some conviction. “Either we value our careers more than any relationship that we might nurture, or we don’t. It appears you value yours more, and I can never be happy with that.”
“Well, I don’t,” he objected. “But I understand what you’ve said. I do.” There was another long silence. “I am wrong for having called you … for offering you a less than a satisfactory choice. I suspect it was groundless pride … stupid ego to believe that part of me would be enough … that that could ever make you happy. I’m sorry, Willow, and I won’t bother you anymore. Please forgive me,” he said and hung up.
I was crying before I could put the phone down. I had just convinced the man I loved more than anyone else that there was no way he could ever make me happy. And I had forced him to choose his vocation over me. I was sobbing into my pillow, and next to me lay Bailey, obliviously unconcerned. I grabbed for him and squeezed him in my arms. I shared my bed with a dog and relied on him to provide the love I craved.
As I leaned over the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The vanity had double sinks, obviously for two to use at the same time, but for my purposes it was useless and probably always would be. Even the coffee maker I used required a special button for making fewer than two cups.
It was early September, and from my kitchen table I watched the hummingbirds at my feeder frenetically loading up for their long migration back to Mexico. Their ruby throats and iridescent feathers had always provided joy, but on this day I was saddened by the fact that they would soon be gone and it would be winter again, cold and empty.
Though what I had told him on the phone was true, it was incomplete. I had marshaled all the arguments I could have made against seeing Argo again, and they were valid. But I failed to express my need to hold a man, not a pet, close to me, to feel his heart against mine, to smell his skin, and to express from the deepest part of me my need to be whole. In Argo’s arms I had felt as I had with no other, and without him I feared I would never again feel the same way. It may well have been driven by sexual desire, but it seemed more about love than instinct, and despite its cost, it was something I did not want to live without. Fortunately, neither did Argo.
I pressed return call on my phone and told him I wanted to see him, and Argo was with me that night, in my bed, in my arms, and once again after so long, in the deepest part of my being.
l
Argo had been given a small grant to pursue his research on stem cells. He was also given two undergraduate and a graduate class to teach. The two undergraduate courses were large lecture classes and he had graduate assistants to help in the labs, but the work load was still demanding, and we had less time together than we had thought we might, given that I worked ten and twelve hour days in Newark. Still we managed to see each other twice a week, and those times were always worth waiting for.
That first year was the happiest of my life, and I am sure my parents knew that I was seeing someone special despite my denials. Argo came to family dinner a few times, and both of us being Academy Award caliber actors were able to return to our teenage brother and sister roles. How much longer the charade would last neither of us knew, but it didn’t matter. We were in love, and neither marriage, nor my family, nor the Church could destroy what we had.
Argo’s first publication on stem cells won him acclaim not only among fellow microbiologists but the media as well. Popular among his students and faculty, Argo’s popularity grew as a result of an article that appeared in The New York Times’ science section. Having worked with a line of embryonic stem cells in lab mice and showing how it was possible to use the cells effectively to adapt to and repair damaged limb tissue, Argo’s research was promising for human tissue as well. That a Catholic priest was in the forefront of such research had implications beyond the scientific and beyond the medical. It had religious implications as well.
Almost overnight, Argo became the source of news stories in both the secular and religious press. It was not long before he made his first television appearance, and it was clear that he was on a collision course with the Church. In Argo, the secular media had a brilliant, good-looking priest whose work, paid for by the Church, seemed to be at odds with its teachings. If embryonic stem cells, which were serving no purpose, could be used to help the severely injured, why would the Church oppose their use? But Argo never addressed the morality of the issue; he was writing purely as a scientist. That he was a member of a religious order seemed only to him irrelevant.
It was especially not irrelevant to the press, which found in Argo a true man bites dog story. And because it was not irrelevant to the press, it could no longer be irrelevant to the Church. Fearing scandal, the Church was forced to act, and Argo was called to the office of Cardinal McElhone, bishop of the New York archdiocese and ultimate head of the university. He was told that he was to stop all appearances in the media, to give no interviews, and to limit his work to lab animals.
Now while Argo was employed by St. John’s and his work was under the auspices of the Archbishop, he was a member of the Legion of Christ and as such did not fall under the purview of the Cardinal. As a Legionary, Argo’s primary concern was centered in Rome from which his duties originated. However, when Argo ignored the Cardinal’s direction, he was quietly removed of his professorship at St. John’s and sent back to Rome.
I called him every night, and every night for two weeks he said he would be returning soon, but without a position in New York, there was no reason to be sent back. The director of the Legion, Michel Cardinal Abruzzi, offered him a choice. He could stay in Rome and direct the Legion’s higher education unit or return to St. John’s to continue his research as outlined by Cardinal McElhone, after an apology. Argo chose the latter to be with me.
Our second year was special, and if the first was a delight in discovery, the second was a celebration of our growing love. I suspect people who are happily married cannot understand how a relationship such as ours, hidden and recognized by no one but ourselves, could be fulfilling, but what it lacked in a complete sharing of our everyday lives, it made up for in anticipation and excitement. We both admitted that the highlight of our week was the day or two that we shared together. Though it never seemed that we had enough time together, it made the time we did have all the more anticipated and special. Living in a megalopolis, of course, made it possible to go where we wanted and do what we wanted without fear of being seen, though once I noticed Willis Davenport from my office sitting in front of us in a Manhattan theater. However, even if we had been noticed, his not knowing Argo would have caused little problem. My family and his Brooklyn people were the only people who knew both of us, and the chances of our running into them were more than remote.
What I had discovered that second year was being with Argo made me a better person. I was not only able to express my deepest feelings to a sensitive man who understood and respected them, I learned how generosity was rewarded by replication and reciprocity. In Argo I had a man who gave of himself without expectation of return, a man who cherished me for what I was, not for what he wanted me to be. Lovers lie, of course, and what they say means little when compared to what they do. And while Argo’s gift with words was remarkable, his generosity of spirit was equally so. I loved him more than I ever thought I was capable of loving anyone, especially myself.
It was mid-January, snow had begun to pile up, and I had come down with a new strain of the Asian flu that my medicine did little to assuage. I was suffering badly and told him to stay away to avoid infection. Somehow in the storm and through a series of trains and buses, Argo got to my condo. He held my head as I threw up for the third time that evening and held me in his arms, wiping my head as we lay by the toilet bowl. I could hardly sit on the bowl as diarrhea struck with a vengeance. I was so sick that I became afraid that I would not die. When I sobbed uncontrollably in his arms, Argo kissed my tears and cried too.
The City had ground to a halt under 16 inches of snow, and Argo stayed until just before my mother and Eileen could get to me by car. It took three hours for him to get back to his apartment, and when I sent my mother and sister away the next day, he managed to get back and spend the day tending to me. A week later he got the same bug, and while I wanted to be there for him, I couldn’t.
Argo’s research had not gotten as far as he had hoped it would. It seemed he had reached a series of blocks he lacked the resources to remove. But the Cardinal allowed Argo to speak to the press as long as he did so as a supporter of the Catholic policy: the destruction of any human embryonic stem cell regardless of the good that may be derived was an evil that could not be tolerated.
Early one Sunday morning after Argo had spent the night and had gone to be interviewed on Meet the Press, he left his Bible on the kitchen table. A slip of paper sticking out of middle said, “Read Matthew 6:24.”
It dawned on me after I thought about it for a time that the passage meant more than the dichotomy between his science and his religion, and that gave me hope.
l
[From the Willow manuscript, Part 5.]
No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.
Matthew 6:24
It had been three years from the time of Argo’s furtive meeting that evening when he told me that he still loved me, but aside from Christmas cards with short notes, neither my parents nor I had heard from him. The Legion did not pay for his airfare to visit family, so visits were out. But there were phones in California, and he had had enough money for stamps. Why he virtually cut us off seemed clear; he needed to make a break, possibly even to anger me so that I would get on with my life without him. And that is what I did.
As often happens to people who have had painfuil relationships, their work becomes a retreat, a natural narcartic that eliminates pain, and most of their pleasure. The work becomes a compulsion, a sublimation by which the painful memories and empty longing cannot penetrate the conscious. If one is fortunate enough to reap rewards for this neurosis, either through peer esteem or monetary compensation, so much the better. And in this I suppose I was fortunate.
My total and relentless effort as a junior associate made me successful, and with that success, esteem in my father’s eyes and the eyes of the partners grew, as did my billings. I was trusted more and more with major clients who appreciated my efforts and accomplishments on their behalf. At Sunday dinner with my family, a tradition I had grown to treasure, I felt a pride that I had never before known, a quiet sense that I had approached my father’s level. I had validated his faith in me and made my mother’s eyes light up when she saw me. Even Karen and Eileen were proud of their older sister whose path in life would be different from their own. Their strengths, aside from their common sense, were based on charm and physical beauty; in that they were like their mother. I, however, was like my father: bookish, inelegant, and bent on success.
But now Argo was back in New York, and the armor of my career had been penetrated. His being in California had allowed me the space I had needed to live my life without thinking about him incessantly. There was Marty Barko and there was my work, but now there was Argo, and I was simply unable to go on as I had.
Of course I considered not speaking to him the day after Marty and I had been intimate, but the truth was that I knew Marty was never going to be the man for me, especially since an hour did not go by that evening either at the dance or when we were alone that I did not think of Argo’s return. And to make matters worse, when the phone rang the next day and it was Argo, my heart beat wildly giving the lie to my icy tone when I answered the phone..
I have no idea how much sexuality drives the human spirit, but I suspect it is incalculable, for some more than for others no doubt. Laymen call it romance, but whatever the term, its toll is significant. It seems clear why all major religions of the world have sought to control sexuality by limiting it to husband and wife; any other combination can be lethal. The primordial driving impulse causes priests to break their vows and girls to forsake their families. And here was Argo on the phone with his onetime girlfriend whose heart was racing just hearing his voice.
Perhaps women never completely lose a place in their heart for the man to whom they first willingly give themselves. Perhaps that is also true of men though I would think certainly less so. In any event, Argo was for some reason trying to get back into my life, and that reason was sexual.
“Otherwise you would have kept in touch for the past three years. A few Christmas and birthday cards; you could hardly have done less!” I said none too pleasantly. It was a bright September morning, sunlight streaming into my bedroom window, but little into my voice.
“I did not keep in touch because I was unsure I would ever be able to return to the metropolitan area,” he explained in defense. “Had I been assigned to the States, it was likely going to be at Notre Dame. It was fortunate that I was assigned my first choice, and that only after an uncomfortable interview with Cardinal McElhone. He was not happy about the prospect of investing in my tenure with the likelihood that I would be conscripted after two years or so by the Legion --- to set up their university in Connecticut.”
“And now that you’re here, you thought you’d pick up with me again,” I remarked, the anger and frustration rushing from my lips like Niagara Falls --- in a thimble.
“I’m here because of you,” he said softly. “If you don’t know that, then you don’t know me.”
But I did know him. He was beautiful and loving, gifted and almost frighteningly strong and in control.
“And you’re a priest,” I managed.
“And a man.”
“And you chose the priesthood over me.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive … a husband can be a father.”
“Interesting choice of words,” I remarked.
“It was intended.”
There was silence, and I was thinking four things at once while I watched the long shadows thrown by the figurines on my dresser. Their colors were so much richer in the sunlight than when lit by the lights in my room. It must have been a full minute before I spoke again.
“And what about my parents?”
“What about them?” he said, then paused. “If you want to try marriage again, if you want children, then …” He didn’t finish, and there was another long silence.
“So we live a secret life … a double life, like people having an illicit affair.”
“No, like people in love in a world that doesn’t allow for it.” Again there was a long silence. “We each have our careers … they help define us…they’re what we have worked for. Do we have to give them up to be together?”
I thought before answering. “Probably so, if we want to have a normal relationship…if we don’t want to live our lives skulking around.”
“Put that way, I guess you’re right. But I’d prefer to say that our relationship is private, not skulking. It requires no sanctions from anyone, no definition, no pigeonholing.”
“It goes to values,” I finally said with some conviction. “Either we value our careers more than any relationship that we might nurture, or we don’t. It appears you value yours more, and I can never be happy with that.”
“Well, I don’t,” he objected. “But I understand what you’ve said. I do.” There was another long silence. “I am wrong for having called you … for offering you a less than a satisfactory choice. I suspect it was groundless pride … stupid ego to believe that part of me would be enough … that that could ever make you happy. I’m sorry, Willow, and I won’t bother you anymore. Please forgive me,” he said and hung up.
I was crying before I could put the phone down. I had just convinced the man I loved more than anyone else that there was no way he could ever make me happy. And I had forced him to choose his vocation over me. I was sobbing into my pillow, and next to me lay Bailey, obliviously unconcerned. I grabbed for him and squeezed him in my arms. I shared my bed with a dog and relied on him to provide the love I craved.
As I leaned over the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The vanity had double sinks, obviously for two to use at the same time, but for my purposes it was useless and probably always would be. Even the coffee maker I used required a special button for making fewer than two cups.
It was early September, and from my kitchen table I watched the hummingbirds at my feeder frenetically loading up for their long migration back to Mexico. Their ruby throats and iridescent feathers had always provided joy, but on this day I was saddened by the fact that they would soon be gone and it would be winter again, cold and empty.
Though what I had told him on the phone was true, it was incomplete. I had marshaled all the arguments I could have made against seeing Argo again, and they were valid. But I failed to express my need to hold a man, not a pet, close to me, to feel his heart against mine, to smell his skin, and to express from the deepest part of me my need to be whole. In Argo’s arms I had felt as I had with no other, and without him I feared I would never again feel the same way. It may well have been driven by sexual desire, but it seemed more about love than instinct, and despite its cost, it was something I did not want to live without. Fortunately, neither did Argo.
I pressed return call on my phone and told him I wanted to see him, and Argo was with me that night, in my bed, in my arms, and once again after so long, in the deepest part of my being.
l
Argo had been given a small grant to pursue his research on stem cells. He was also given two undergraduate and a graduate class to teach. The two undergraduate courses were large lecture classes and he had graduate assistants to help in the labs, but the work load was still demanding, and we had less time together than we had thought we might, given that I worked ten and twelve hour days in Newark. Still we managed to see each other twice a week, and those times were always worth waiting for.
That first year was the happiest of my life, and I am sure my parents knew that I was seeing someone special despite my denials. Argo came to family dinner a few times, and both of us being Academy Award caliber actors were able to return to our teenage brother and sister roles. How much longer the charade would last neither of us knew, but it didn’t matter. We were in love, and neither marriage, nor my family, nor the Church could destroy what we had.
Argo’s first publication on stem cells won him acclaim not only among fellow microbiologists but the media as well. Popular among his students and faculty, Argo’s popularity grew as a result of an article that appeared in The New York Times’ science section. Having worked with a line of embryonic stem cells in lab mice and showing how it was possible to use the cells effectively to adapt to and repair damaged limb tissue, Argo’s research was promising for human tissue as well. That a Catholic priest was in the forefront of such research had implications beyond the scientific and beyond the medical. It had religious implications as well.
Almost overnight, Argo became the source of news stories in both the secular and religious press. It was not long before he made his first television appearance, and it was clear that he was on a collision course with the Church. In Argo, the secular media had a brilliant, good-looking priest whose work, paid for by the Church, seemed to be at odds with its teachings. If embryonic stem cells, which were serving no purpose, could be used to help the severely injured, why would the Church oppose their use? But Argo never addressed the morality of the issue; he was writing purely as a scientist. That he was a member of a religious order seemed only to him irrelevant.
It was especially not irrelevant to the press, which found in Argo a true man bites dog story. And because it was not irrelevant to the press, it could no longer be irrelevant to the Church. Fearing scandal, the Church was forced to act, and Argo was called to the office of Cardinal McElhone, bishop of the New York archdiocese and ultimate head of the university. He was told that he was to stop all appearances in the media, to give no interviews, and to limit his work to lab animals.
Now while Argo was employed by St. John’s and his work was under the auspices of the Archbishop, he was a member of the Legion of Christ and as such did not fall under the purview of the Cardinal. As a Legionary, Argo’s primary concern was centered in Rome from which his duties originated. However, when Argo ignored the Cardinal’s direction, he was quietly removed of his professorship at St. John’s and sent back to Rome.
I called him every night, and every night for two weeks he said he would be returning soon, but without a position in New York, there was no reason to be sent back. The director of the Legion, Michel Cardinal Abruzzi, offered him a choice. He could stay in Rome and direct the Legion’s higher education unit or return to St. John’s to continue his research as outlined by Cardinal McElhone, after an apology. Argo chose the latter to be with me.
Our second year was special, and if the first was a delight in discovery, the second was a celebration of our growing love. I suspect people who are happily married cannot understand how a relationship such as ours, hidden and recognized by no one but ourselves, could be fulfilling, but what it lacked in a complete sharing of our everyday lives, it made up for in anticipation and excitement. We both admitted that the highlight of our week was the day or two that we shared together. Though it never seemed that we had enough time together, it made the time we did have all the more anticipated and special. Living in a megalopolis, of course, made it possible to go where we wanted and do what we wanted without fear of being seen, though once I noticed Willis Davenport from my office sitting in front of us in a Manhattan theater. However, even if we had been noticed, his not knowing Argo would have caused little problem. My family and his Brooklyn people were the only people who knew both of us, and the chances of our running into them were more than remote.
What I had discovered that second year was being with Argo made me a better person. I was not only able to express my deepest feelings to a sensitive man who understood and respected them, I learned how generosity was rewarded by replication and reciprocity. In Argo I had a man who gave of himself without expectation of return, a man who cherished me for what I was, not for what he wanted me to be. Lovers lie, of course, and what they say means little when compared to what they do. And while Argo’s gift with words was remarkable, his generosity of spirit was equally so. I loved him more than I ever thought I was capable of loving anyone, especially myself.
It was mid-January, snow had begun to pile up, and I had come down with a new strain of the Asian flu that my medicine did little to assuage. I was suffering badly and told him to stay away to avoid infection. Somehow in the storm and through a series of trains and buses, Argo got to my condo. He held my head as I threw up for the third time that evening and held me in his arms, wiping my head as we lay by the toilet bowl. I could hardly sit on the bowl as diarrhea struck with a vengeance. I was so sick that I became afraid that I would not die. When I sobbed uncontrollably in his arms, Argo kissed my tears and cried too.
The City had ground to a halt under 16 inches of snow, and Argo stayed until just before my mother and Eileen could get to me by car. It took three hours for him to get back to his apartment, and when I sent my mother and sister away the next day, he managed to get back and spend the day tending to me. A week later he got the same bug, and while I wanted to be there for him, I couldn’t.
Argo’s research had not gotten as far as he had hoped it would. It seemed he had reached a series of blocks he lacked the resources to remove. But the Cardinal allowed Argo to speak to the press as long as he did so as a supporter of the Catholic policy: the destruction of any human embryonic stem cell regardless of the good that may be derived was an evil that could not be tolerated.
Early one Sunday morning after Argo had spent the night and had gone to be interviewed on Meet the Press, he left his Bible on the kitchen table. A slip of paper sticking out of middle said, “Read Matthew 6:24.”
It dawned on me after I thought about it for a time that the passage meant more than the dichotomy between his science and his religion, and that gave me hope.
l
It was not long after Pope John Paul II died when Argo was called back to Rome. He was to meet with Michel Cardinal Abruzzi, but the reason for the meeting was not given. It was during intersession, and while Argo thought it possible he would be back within the week, he held out little hope.
“With my research going nowhere, I’m not sure they will want me to continue,” he said on the way to my parents’ house for a Sunday dinner. I was driving but could sense his edginess and his looking out of the side window rather than out the front, which he always did.
“Or maybe you’ll be getting more grant money,” I suggested as optimistically as I could.
“Right. They’re calling be to Rome to tell me I have more money,” he said morosely, still gazing out the side window.
“So what are you saying?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“What do you think?” I pursued.
“I think it’s not good.”
I knew what he was thinking because I was thinking the same thing. He had spent two successful years at the nation’s largest Catholic university, the Church was not going to spend much more money on stem cell research, and it would be two years before the university in Connecticut would be ready to begin to organize. It was a waste of his talent simply to have him teach, so it was likely he would be assigned a position in Rome, perhaps to the position he had been offered the year before.
He was to leave the next day, but I had to be in court and could not drive him to the airport. We said good-bye that night when I dropped him off at his apartment. There was the glimmer of hope, but the parting was sad. He was in the service, and his return, like that of a soldier, was uncertain.
Argo called as soon as he learned that he had been named an assistant to Cardinal Abruzzi, the director of the Legion. As expected, Argo would help found the Legion of Christ University in Connecticut in two years. Until that time, Argo’s address would be Vatican City.
It was a sorry situation for us, but a significant boost for Argo’s career, and the fact that we knew that our separation would be temporary made the wait somehow tolerable. I had not taken a vacation in three years, despite my father’s exhortations, but in two months I was on a non-stop to Rome with a three-week reservation at the Villa Borghese. It was days between visits with Argo, but spending springtime on my first visit to Rome was a delight I had never imagined. Dining al fresco with Argo across the table, his lovely smile and shiny black hair gleaming in the sunlight touched me with quiet beauty and gratitude for my good fortune. A few times when he wore civilian clothes we held hands like lovers on a Roman holiday. Audrey Hepburn had Gregory Peck, but Willow Frederic had her Johnny Depp, and as we threw coins in the Trevy Fountain one delightful evening, we shone as brightly as the lights that lit the plaza.
“I should’ve worn a sweater; I’m chilly,” I said as we walked back to my hotel near the Spanish Steps. Argo put his arm around me, and I was warm inside.
“I think I was able to get that annulment for Joe Machiarolla,” he mentioned as we made our way along the Via del Corso. As I understood it, Argo’s friend Joey had what used to be called a whirlwind courtship and married a woman he had met in Las Vegas. They married at Regina Pacis in Brooklyn, but the marriage apparently had not been made in heaven. It turned out that she had been married before but seems to have forgotten to have mentioned it to Joey. While the uncontested divorce in New York went smoothly, the Church would not recognize it, having been sanctified in a Catholic church. That meant Joey could not marry anyone else, and as it happened, he had become engaged to a young woman from the neighborhood. Despite the support of Regina Pacis by the Machiarolla family, Joey was told that nothing could be done.
“I suspect the family had too high a profile. An exception would have been seen as a quid pro quo, an indulgence for money,” Argo said.
Of course, working in the Curia provided Argo with an inside track to canon lawyers who found that precedence existed for annulment of marriage if the sacrament had been entered into under false pretense. Joey’s wife had kept secret her previous marriage, and that secret, considered a profound omission, were grounds for an annulment.
“But won’t it still be seen as special treatment for a big contributor to the church?” I asked.
“It may,” said Argo, “but as the decision came from the Vatican and not the local church, the monsignor is off the hook. I suppose the word will be spread around that the decision was made in Rome.”
The following year Joey got married, and the year after that, Argo got a sailboat. Joey, so thankful to Argo for his effort on his behalf, bought his friend a specially ordered and fully equipped 36-foot Island Packet at a cost of $250 thousand dollars. It was waiting for him at a slip on Long Island Sound only a few miles from the grounds of the Legion of Christ University in Connecticut where Argo was now living.
Joey, who preferred power boats, he had two, knew that Argo preferred to sail, having learned to do so during his two years in the seminary. The question for Joey was what to give a man who had nothing, wanted nothing, and took a vow to own nothing. By what act of intellectual legerdemain Joey arrived at a quarter million dollar sailboat as the solution to his quandary remains a mystery. However, Joey retained ownership of the yacht and would pay for its moorage and upkeep.
When I first saw it, a cream-colored boat with a single mast, I was taken by its shape. It looked almost old fashioned with a long bowsprit and giant mast. As I neared it I was impressed by its size and the number of lines and pulleys that draped from the mast. How anyone could actually use them all to actually sail the boat was amazing to me. Of course, as I was to learn later, Argo had no trouble. Nor did he have trouble making use of the gift from a Mafioso. It seemed to me that while he may have followed the letter of the law by not owning it, he violated the spirit of the law by using it as if it were.
No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.
And, there was, of course, always me.
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