Free Faith by Jennifer Haigh

summoned, which was not surprising. He had always been privy to secrets.
    â€œThey’re waiting for you,” Gary said archly. He took a final drag and butted his cigarette—a large ash can had been placed at the door for this purpose. But instead of leading Art into the Chancery, he turned and started up the hill.
    â€œI didn’t understand, at first, where we were going,” Art explained to me later. But as he followed Gary up the wet footpath, the grass soaking his wingtips, it dawned on him that he would be seeing the Cardinal at home—in the mansion referred to, with audible capitals, as The Residence.
    He was alarmed then, but only for a moment—because as they climbed the hill, he saw that the change of venue had nothing to do with him. The Cardinal couldn’t take any meeting in the Chancery. On the sidewalk below, a crowd had gathered: men and women milling about, drinking coffee, talking on cell phones. His Eminence wanted to avoid the long unprotected walk across the lawn, in full view of the TV cameras. “The perp walk,” Art told me later, with a wincing smile.
    Vigor in Arduis.
    â€œVultures,” said Gary. “They’re here every day.”
    They entered The Residence through a porte cochere and headed down a long passageway, their wet shoes squeaking on the marble floors.
    â€œI’ve never been inside before,” Art admitted.
    â€œNever?” Gary sounded incredulous. “It’s a pity you couldn’t see it in nicer weather. In summer the gardens are spectacular.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.” Art knew—everyone did—about the Cardinal’s annual Garden Party, where his favorite priests mingled with politicians and millionaires, the benefactors of Catholic Boston. Of course Gary Moriconi would be invited. It was just the sort of gathering he’d enjoy.
    â€œDown the hall is the chapel, where they film the TV Mass on Sundays. Upstairs are meeting rooms and the Cardinal’s quarters.” Gary seemed to enjoy playing tour guide. Certainly he knew his subject. He’d spent twenty-five years, his entire career, crisscrossing these grassy lawns. After ordination he’d stayed on at St. John’s, in an administrative post created especially for him. He’d remained an amanuensis to the powerful, an eager mouthpiece.
    â€œHave a seat.” Upholstered settees had been placed here and there against the walls. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
    He continued down the corridor and knocked lightly at a closed door. Alone, Art paced the long hallway. On both walls, hung at ten-foot intervals, were portraits of the current Cardinal. Some were skillful; others might have been made by children. One in particular caught Art’s eye: His Eminence as a young priest, rendered in oils. It reminded him of an old colorized photograph, the young man with a high flush in his cheeks, as though they’d been smeared with rouge.
    A moment later Gary reappeared. “This way.” He led Art into a large anteroom with more couches, backed against the walls as if to clear the floor for dancing. The thin gray carpeting could have used a cleaning. The walls were bare. The Residence, impressive as it was, lacked a single piece of art that did not depict the Cardinal. There was not even a nice reproduction of a Giotto. Art sat, watching a set of double doors.
    In a moment the doors opened. “Arthur.” Bishop John Gilman, the Vicar General, crossed the floor briskly, a small, spry man in a black suit. He gave Art’s hand a cursory shake. The gold pectoral cross was hidden in his jacket pocket. Only its chain was visible, looped across his black rabat.
    â€œCome in, come in. His Eminence has another appointment at noon.”
    Art followed him into an inner office, a high, shadowy room crowded with furniture. The Cardinal sat at a hulking wooden desk, his back to a window. His face was familiar