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money and resources. This was a tricky maneuver, because the center quite definitely did abortions (for free) and gave abortion counseling. The official position of the Archdiocese on that was that the Catholics at the center had nothing to do with abortion or birth control in any way and the money the Archdiocese sent was used for a children’s lunch program and the provision of school supplies like pencils and notebooks to children who could not afford their own. As a policy position it left a lot to be desired, as had been pointed out in everything from The National Review to The New Criterion. The Archdiocese was getting away with it because the present Archbishop had the reputation of being a conservative hard-liner. It was difficult to accuse the man of liberalism when he’d just delivered a speech on the evils of R-rated movies and nonprocreational sex. Still, it was a balancing act—and now there was this. The Archbishop had known about this long before the papers had, just as Eamon had. It didn’t make the stories any easier to take.
    Eamon’s office was right across the hall from Michael’s own. Through his open door, Eamon could see Charles van Straadt making calls on Michael’s phone. Eamon didn’t like Charles van Straadt. He thought the man was dangerous. Eamon especially didn’t like the way Charles sent his grandchildren to volunteer at the center. To Eamon, Charles van Straadt’s grandchildren looked very much like spies.
    “We’ve got to start working on some kind of contingency plan,” the Archbishop was saying in Eamon’s ear. “We’ve got to think of a rationale. That is, unless you want us to pull all the nuns out of there, which I don’t.”
    “No, Your Eminence. Of course I don’t.”
    This Archbishop was also a Cardinal. The Archbishop of New York was always a Cardinal. In Eamon’s experience, there was something about making a man a Cardinal that rendered him incapable of making a short phone call. This call had lasted half an hour so far, and it was beginning to look like a real marathon.
    “How’s Michael?” the Archbishop said. “Is he keeping his mind on his work?”
    “I don’t think Michael’s noticed the fuss at all, Your Eminence.”
    “How could he avoid it?”
    “By working.”
    “Well, yes, Eamon, of course, by working, but—it’s all over the place. He couldn’t go to the corner for a cup of coffee without finding a newspaper staring him in the face.”
    “You don’t go to the corner for a cup of coffee in this neighborhood, Your Eminence. At least, you don’t if you’re Anglo. Michael might be able to get away with it just because he’s Michael, but I don’t think he’d count on it.”
    “People must have said things to him. There must have been phone calls.”
    “The phone’s been ringing off the hook all day, Your Eminence. Augie—Sister Augustine has one of those Benedictines that came in from Connecticut answering the calls. She’s very polite and very noncommittal and she doesn’t let anything get through to Michael. There have been a few reporters hanging around, too, of course, but fewer than you’d think. This isn’t a neighborhood up here, Your Eminence. This is a war zone. It’s not safe.”
    “No. No, Eamon, of course, it’s not safe. But what about Michael himself? What about the arraignment? Is there going to be a trial?”
    “Well,” Eamon said drily, “it seems that the New York City Police Department has neglected to file charges—”
    “What?”
    “Michael hasn’t been charged, Your Eminence, and he’s not going to be. Not for something like this.”
    “I see. Yes, Eamon, I see. What about his health? Not just his psychological health. His physical health.”
    “I don’t know,” Eamon Donleavy said.
    There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line. Eamon Donleavy could just imagine what the Archbishop was thinking. It was what Eamon himself thought, when he let himself think, about the medical