"FATHER BAPTIST," I HUFFED as I hobbled up the brick

walkway to the shaded, mossy spot between the church and the

rectory where he liked to meditate after morning Mass. I huff

and hobble everywhere because I walk with a pronounced

limp-well, more like a reeling lurch followed by a teetering

pause during which equilibrium is tentatively restored until the

ungainly perambulatory cycle repeats. It's quite a sight, scary

really, and amazing that I manage to get anywhere. For me,

just going from one end of the garden to the other is a major

production, and I had just returned from a trek all the way to

the corner for a morning newspaper. "Father Baptist, you

won't believe this-"

He was seated in his neat but somewhat threadbare cassock

on the wooden bench facing the statue of Saint Therese the

Little Flower, a moldy old book spread open on his lap. He

looked up at me with those unnerving eyes that seemed to

whisper, tired yet patiently, "Considering all that I do believe,

Martin, do you really think you could come up with something

that is beyond me?" Exhaling slowly, he rolled the

flimsy cover of the book closed and folded his hands on top.

"Hm? "

"What I mean is-" I was lowering myself onto the edge

of the cement birdbath, taking care not to knock the rigid, porous

bird perched on the pockmarked rim with the handle of

my cane. The stony little fellow had been broken off before

and poorly repaired. "-that is-"

"If you're talking about Bishop Brassorie," said Father, " I

received word just before Mass. A special messenger from the

Chancery Office."

"Messenger?"

"You were busy lighting the altar candles. He came

through the side door into the sacristy." Father began pulling

a note from the pocket of his cassock, thought better of it, and

shoved it back in. "Wry-looking fellow, probably a seminarian.

Didn't stay for Mass."

"Why would they notify you about Brassorie?" I was

shifting myself around, trying to find a comfortable position.

No chance. Nasty critter, arthritis, especially of the spine. A

grouchy companion even on warm summer mornings. "And

by special messenger, yet."

Father Baptist shifted his shoulders, that disconcerting shrug

that seemed to whisper, exhausted but bravely, "Considering

all the crap"-no, he wouldn't have said "crap," not even in

a whisper, "crap" is my word-"Considering all the nasty

and dubious directives that have come to me from the Chancery

Office in the last three years, what's one more?" But all

he actually said was, "Hm." Then he reconsidered and

added, "Whatever it is, they want me to come at once. 'They'

meaning the archbishop."

"At once?" My cane, which I'd leaned against the rim of

the birdbath, began to slide away from me. As I grabbed for

it with my right hand, the newspaper wedged under my left

arm slipped and fell to the ground. It landed face down on

the mossy bricks between us. Great. With a back like mine, a

stoop and a reach is an awesome undertaking. "You mean as

in 'right now'?"

"I believe that's what 'at once' means."

"But you're persona non grata. In fact, you're the most

non grata persona in the archdiocese as far as

they're-he's-concerned. Why would they-he-send for

you?"

Hating royal plurals-in application, not concept-I heaved

myself off the birdbath and began descending slowly, back

straight, knees doing all the hydraulic work, just as my physical

therapist had advised. The good Father didn't do the obviously

charitable thing and retrieve the paper for me because

we had made an agreement long ago that I was not an invalid

and was perfectly capable of picking up after myself. Besides,

I'm lazy, and if I don't keep my swollen joints moving I'll

freeze up like a department store mannequin. Therefore, the

truly charitable thing for Father to do was to look on unhelpfully

and dispassionately while I grunted and groaned my way

onto my haunches and scooped up the morning news. It was

a long way down, but it was even a longer way back up.

By the time I'd hoisted myself back onto the rim of the

birdbath, I'd forgotten what we'd been talking about. A

glance at the newspaper in my hand brought it all back.

Wednesday, June seventh. There was a picture in the lower left

corner of the front page, rather small and not very flattering,

taken during a speech Bishop Brassorie had made at some

high school commencement a year or so before. His mouth

was open and his eyes bulged-normal, for him. Underneath

was a caption in bold letters: AUX BISHOP BRASSORIE

FOUND DEAD; MURDERED, SAY POLICE.

GARDENING TIPS : For those of you who aren't Catholic

or for modern Catholics who don't appreciate

authority figures, auxiliary bishops are the assistant

bishops under an archbishop who govern assigned

regions of a large archdiocese. Bishop

Brassorie was, or had been, one of four in our

city. And, as you'll see, one closely connected

to St. Philomena's Church.

--M.F.

"Old Brassiere," I mumbled, synopsizing the brief article in

my own, somewhat biased style, "croaked while conducting a

'sunset liturgy' alone in his private chapel. No real specifics,

there never are." I handed the paper to Father. "Can't say

I'm moved."

"We haven't the privilege not to be," he countered, raising

his eyebrows as he scanned the page. He did not appreciate

my word-play with respect to the late auxiliary bishop's name.

"The man had an eternal soul, after all. Still, there was a time

when the death of a bishop would demand a headline. Now

it's a tiny article in the lower left corner, three inches in one

column. Shows you how far the stature of the Church has diminished.

We should be grateful it made the front page at

all."

I nodded sadly, knowingly, and silently while he read.

When he looked up from the article I ventured, "You still haven't

told me why."

"Hm? "

"Why do they want you?" I decided not to buck the royal

plural. Too much effort.

He folded the paper and handed it back to me. "Not to

give me Brassiere-Brassorie's job, I assure you."

I contorted my lips in what I thought was an expression of

cautious thought, a failed attempt at hiding a smirk. "Don't

be so certain. Maybe they think you'd follow suit."

"You mean I might have the good grace to get myself murdered,

too?"

"Uh-huh. It would sure make their lives easier."

"Anything's possible, I suppose, especially these days. But

a promotion, no, not conceivable. Not me, not this archbishop,

not this century. I wouldn't want it anyway, even in a saner era."

"The message said 'at once'?"

He nodded. "The nerve. The wording smells of that new

monsignor, whatsizname, Goolgol. The archbishop's new

lackey. One opinion too many, one principle too few."

"Are you going?"

"Certainly," he said, a secretive smile forming on his lips.

"You mean you're not going."

"No, I mean I am going." The smile remained. "No choice."

"Well." I positioned my cane to start the awesome commotion

of rising to my feet. "We haven't had breakfast. We

haven't even had our morning coffee. But duty calls, so I'll

bring the car around front."

"No. I will go alone."

For a moment I teetered between elation at not having to get

up, and devastation at feeling left out. "But you never go

anywhere without me."

"This time, yes."

"But I'm your chauffeur, your valet, your right-hand man,

your cook when Millie's away, your-"

"According to parish records, you're my gardener; and

these roses around St. Therese appear to be wilting."

Roses? As in work? He knew darn well I hadn't tended the

garden for over a year, not since several grateful but impoverished

parishioners started donating their time in lieu of

cash in the plate. The very thought of getting down on my

hands and knees, never to get up again; why it sent shivers

down my already traumatized spine. And my hips-ah, what

arthritis does to hips! "But-"

"This errand is not for you. It shouldn't even be for me,

but I will do what I can to set that straight."

"I don't understand."

"And I don't want you to. Please." He was rising. "Tend

St. Therese's roses, will you? And don't forget to water the

gardenias around St. Joseph."