THE GOOD SHEPHERD
Richard Cardinal Cushing, longtime friend of John F. Kennedy, visited my parish church in East Somerville when I was ten years old. I no longer remember why the cardinal was there or anything about the Mass he celebrated. I can never forget what happened afterwards.
When the Mass ended, my sister Jennie Lee, who was sixteen months older, pulled me around to the side of St. Benedict Church. The cardinal’s chauffeur, waiting by a black limousine, was the only person there.
Jennie Lee marched up to the cardinal, much to my mortification. I never would have approached him. Unlike my bold sister, I was far too shy.
Why would someone as important as Cardinal Cushing want to meet two girls from a working class family? I begged Jennie Lee not to speak to him, but she ignored me. She intended to get the cardinal’s ear. Thank you very much. Once again I was dragged into one of her plots.
I stood behind my sister when she stopped the cardinal from getting into the limousine. My sister had really done it this time. We’d get in trouble for being impertinent and pestering a cardinal. I stepped back, horrified by Jennie Lee’s audacity. To my surprise, Cardinal Cushing didn’t mind the interruption. Instead, he stood on the sidewalk beside the open car door in no hurry to leave.
Jennie Lee explained that our brother Gasper was sick, blind and bed ridden because of a brain tumor. Would the cardinal come to our home to bless him?
Cardinal Cushing smiled and held out his hand so we could kiss his ring. He leaned closer, giving us his undivided attention. He wanted to know more about Gasper. How old was he? Eight. Where did we live?
“Close,” Jennie Lee said. “We can be there in less than five minutes.”
I’m absolutely convinced the cardinal was ready to come home with us.
The chauffeur’s impatience was palpable, even to a cowering ten year old. I’m positive the driver had witnessed scores of desperate family members begging the cardinal for his prayers. The cardinal and the chauffeur had different ideas of their obligations. For the cardinal, promptness wasn’t a priority. After all, a shepherd tends to his flock no matter where he finds his sheep.
The spell was broken when the chauffeur leaned across the roof of the car to inform the cardinal he was already late for his next appointment. With apologies, the cardinal gave into his driver’s insistence that he keep to the schedule.
I’m sure Cardinal Cushing prayed for Gasper as the limousine pulled away from the curb. My family’s prayers, my prayers, the cardinal’s prayers were not enough. Gasper died the next year.
Looking back, I wonder why Jennie Lee was the only one who wanted Cardinal Cushing’s attention that day. Why had no other parishioners rushed around the corner hoping for a moment with the cardinal? Was everyone else who attended the Mass like me, sure someone as important and famous as Richard Cardinal Cushing would never listen to us?
Was something else involved? More than luck and timing? Something that cannot be explained, that was beyond the chauffeur’s power to keep the cardinal on schedule? Was Jennie Lee’s faith stronger? Or was it something far more mundane? Was it possible only Jennie Lee guessed where the cardinal’s car was parked?
I’m positive the cardinal fingered his rosary beads and prayed for Gasper, our family, Jennie Lee, and me as his limousine drove past us as we headed home down Franklin Street. Cardinal Cushing was a good shepherd. He cared for his flock, even if he had to do it in the back of a car as his chauffeur hurried to the next appointment.
The cardinal, Gasper, and Jennie Lee are long gone, first Gasper, then Cardinal Cushing, and finally Jennie Lee, all taken by cancer. The cardinal was the only one to reach old age. I’ve lived long enough to know that miracles happen, but too often we fail to recognize them. Was there a miracle that day, one I still fail to see?
Maybe there was more than one miracle, and they span time. Gasper lived far longer than the doctor’s predicted. Jennie Lee lived another fifteen years after the initial diagnosis of breast cancer when she was only twenty-seven. And I, the girl too shy to speak to a cardinal, is still here years later to remember my brother and sister and the day Jennie Lee nearly convinced a cardinal to visit our home.
Bio:
Paula Messina writes essays and humorous and historical fiction. Her work has appeared in Wolfsbane: Best New England Crime Stories, THEMA, Ekphrastic Review, and Indelible Literary and Arts Journal. She records audiobooks for Librivox and is writing a mystery novel set in Boston’s North End during 1944.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 