Sleeping With The Bishop

By Andy LePage

Sleeping with The Bishop takes place in the bayous of Louisiana and in New Orleans, a city steeped in secrets — its voodoo, its rhythms, its music—all played out behind its Mardi Gras masks. Side action takes the reader to California’s spas, San Francisco’s baths, Provincetown’s Fantasy Fair, Sydney’s Circular Quay, and Rotorua’s Maori feasts.

Conspiracy, clerical deviancy, financial aberrancy, homosexuality, and pedophilia resonate in this tale of inspiring vows made under a canopy of public pageantry, broken later behind the doors of the archdiocese’s stylish French Provincial seminary. Candle-lit rituals spring more from Caligula than from the rubrics of the Roman Missal. Seduction of the powerful against the powerless is always in full swing.

With psychotic pastors, deviant clerics, a very sexual bishop, an asexual chancellor, and pent-up seminarians, Sleeping with The Bishop has something for everyone. As the powerful scheme to be the proper face of a pious religion, a pro bono lawyer who always gets justice for her causes, becomes a difficult cog in the church’s wheels.

Mafia loans, the super-secret Opus Dei Society, laundered money, lust, and unbridled power, add to the intrigue. Sleeping with The Bishop ends with the murder of three good men and the rise of a demented soul who believes he has finally won the lottery. Sleeping with The Bishop delivers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy LePage
• Release date: Nov 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463606278

Book preview

Chapter 1

At the last meeting of priests that Bishop Fergus M. O’Grady addressed, he overheard Carstairs say, Screw the Bishop. I’ve had it with his crap.

O’Grady had had it with Carstairs too. Everyone knew that one day Carstairs would lose his cool, and Fergus O’Grady would cut off Carstairs’ head. The Bishop wanted to cut off his balls but he would never let himself say that.

O’Grady’s priests were becoming a feisty group. Some refused to read his two-and three-page letters that were a weekly staple of every pulpit in his diocese. Some wore street clothes to diocesan meetings, and, on more formal occasions some dressed in shirts and ties. When O’Grady tried to correct these abuses, many of his priests paid him lip service. And sometimes they even sneered at him.

In the old days—pre Vatican II—obedience and respect were the watchwords. Now O’Grady was unsure of his priests’ obedience to him, and respect was on the fast train out of town. Why couldn’t the Church stay where it was? he thought. What good can come from this new thinking? O’Grady even wondered why he allowed himself to become a bishop.

Ordained a priest in 1946, in no time at all he was selected to be a monsignor, and just three years later, in 1951, he became one of the youngest bishops in the country. Youngest and dumbest, his brother priests said behind his back. He went to lead the flock of a sleepy Southern diocese.

All during the fifties Fergus felt at home in his diocese. As long as he was firmly entrenched in the dogma of the pre-Vatican II Church when God and the hierarchy were in charge, Most Reverend Fergus Matthew O’Grady was fine. The Most Reverend felt most comfortable when churchgoers questioned nothing, could be threatened with going to hell, and generally held the bishop in high esteem. What upset him though, what gave him headaches, and what he didn’t count on at all was what happened in the sixties. O’Grady was totally out of touch with the questioning, the searching, and the yearning of that decade.

When it finally hit him, when the sixties and the Council finally cut through his walled-off mind, O’Grady felt like he awoke from a sleep during which his whole world changed. The faithful were discussing theology, his seminary was full of questioning young men, and the thinking of the seminary Rector challenged him. The Rector wanted to negotiate with seminarians. He talked about creating win-win situations. He made participation at daily mass optional. You have to change, you can’t just issue an edict anymore, the Rector said. O’Grady thought about replacing him, but oddly enough, no one wanted the job.

O’Grady was beginning to feel frustrated. The earlier years were easier; now it was tough. So when he heard Carstairs say Screw the Bishop, he decided to clamp down. At the next diocesan-wide meeting he told his priests, You better remember what your vocations signify. You better realize you’re giving false witness to the faithful. You better reflect on the precious gift of priesthood, and get right with God.

As he was saying these things he could hear some snickering, coming mostly from his younger priests. But, as he surveyed the room, he saw something he never noticed before. Some of his established pastors were snickering too. He was getting angry, so he told them to Shape up or else.

It was Carstairs—young, tall, intelligent, quick, and frequently belligerent—who said, Bishop, what’s the ‘or else.’

O’Grady was livid. He wondered why Carstairs even became a priest. What was he trying to do, ruin the Church? O’Grady felt the blood rising but quickly got hold of himself. He didn’t want to lose it in front of his priests, so he forced a half smile on his constrained face, and through lips tightly stretched, coaxed his message up out of his throat and into Carstairs’ and everyone else’s ears. I’ll disregard your remark, Father Carstairs, but just for now.

Carstairs had always been a problem, but O’Grady thought that after ordination he would settle down—follow orders, do his work, show respect. But Carstairs did none of these things. He called himself a co-pastor, telling parishioners that Vatican II changed things. There aren’t assistants any more, he said. All priests assigned to a parish are co-pastors. And Collegiality means bishops, priests, and parishioners work together as equals.

O’Grady wished he had been firmer in insisting that Carstairs leave the diocese while still a seminarian. But the priest shortage and the pleas of the seminary Rector kept O’Grady from throwing him out.

Carstairs had written a blistering letter to the editor of the diocesan newspaper, and O’Grady was furious when he read the letter to his consultor’s. He had the guts to question an article about the joys of celibacy that a Jesuit wrote, for God’s sake. Imagine this guy taking on a Jesuit. And just months before ordination. Where are his brains?

At that time, O’Grady felt torn. He wanted Carstairs out, but he didn’t want the flak that might come if Carstairs made a big deal of leaving. So, feeling damned no matter what he did, he called a brother bishop and explained the sad state of affairs.

O’Grady’s brother bishop said he would accept Carstairs in his diocese. Perhaps out here in the desert, your man will have less opportunity to carp and complain, Bishop Florez said. Here in the Southwest the seminarians are still working at the seminary ranch in addition to putting in full time on their studies. He’d have no time to challenge anything.

O’Grady thanked Bishop Florez and told him he’d get back to him. Then he asked Mrs. Walsh, his gracious and efficient secretary, to have Carstairs see him Tuesday afternoon at three.

O’Grady kept Carstairs waiting twenty-five minutes before bringing him into his well-appointed office. When he opened his office door, Carstairs stood up and immediately started carping about being kept waiting so long. You can bet I’ll never do this when I’m a priest. People are important. They ought not to be kept waiting, Carstairs said.

Come into the office, O’Grady said as he took the upper hand. Sit down, Rev. Carstairs. As Carstairs sat in the highback chair, O’Grady launched into the statement he had rehearsed in his mind. I called you in to discuss the letter you sent to the Catholic paper. Not only is it critical of the article written by a Jesuit, it is also critical of me. Your letter questions my authority. Furthermore, it questions your faith. I will not have you doing any more damage to this diocese—or to yourself for that matter.

Carstairs opened his mouth to speak, but O’Grady waived his hand to shut up.

I’ve discussed your case with the diocesan consultor’s, and we agree you must leave the diocese. However, seeing you are so close to ordination, I have called another diocese and made arrangements for you to finish your work there. I want you to pack your things and leave in the morning. Is that understood?

Bishop, the nervy Carstairs said, I’ve been at your major seminary for over three years, and before that I spent four years at the diocesan college. Of all of my classes I liked logic the best because it gave me a way to refute much of the nonsense that the Church teaches. If I’m good enough for another diocese, then I’m good enough to remain in this one. If I’m not good enough for this one, then I wouldn’t be good enough for any other one. Making arrangements to get me into another diocese means that I’m good enough to be there. And that being true, then I’m good enough to be in this one. So here is where I’ll stay. With that, Carstairs turned on his heels and left the Bishop’s office.

O’Grady was seething. If he were a violent man, he would have gone after Carstairs and killed him at that moment. Instead, he went over to the window and stared out, waiting for steady breathing to return.

Not only is Carstairs disrespectful, O’Grady thought, he’s quick in his mind and right in his logic. In fact, he’s smarter than I thought he was. In the old days I could have had a car waiting to take him away, now, I’ll have to think of something else. Damn this Vatican II.

With a sigh, he decided to go to his residence across from the chancery office, have a stiff Johnny Walker Black, and read the paper. I’ll think of something later. Perhaps meet with the seminary Rector. Let him come up with a win-win strategy, O’Grady mumbled to himself as he climbed the stairs to his second floor inner sanctum.

In his booklined study, O’Grady poured a Scotch on the rocks. He stopped thinking about Carstairs, but some larger questions and comments streamed into his mind. Why the hell couldn’t there be a Rector who could keep the men in line? What was happening to the Church? Was John XXIII a socialist or worse, a communist? What happened after Pius XII? He was the last real pope.

O’Grady hated thinking this way. He didn’t want to be disrespectful to the office of the papacy, but clearly John XXIII was wrong for the job. Now it would take years for the Church to get refocused. O’Grady knew that Paul VI tried to steer the Church in a conservative direction. But the liberals battled so effectively, he thought, it might take a whole generation to get it back to normal.

He finished a second Scotch and went downstairs for dinner. Sr. Clothilde, his cook, fixed crayfish pie and stewed okra, some of his favorite food. Sometimes he had dinner guests, but frequently he ate alone. Tonight was such a time. He read the paper while he ate, and saw that he wasn’t the only CEO who had trouble within his ranks. University presidents were being questioned by dissident faculty and students, the free speech movement was sweeping the country, politicians were lining up against Lyndon Johnson and the war effort. Thank God I only have a few dissidents, he thought.

Finishing his dinner, he thanked Sr. Clothilde and went back to his study to gather papers for a special evening meeting of the consultor’s. After the meeting I’ll talk with Davison about Carstairs, he thought. Davison knows how to treat ungrateful seminarians.

Monsignor Alvin J. Davison was O’Grady’s faithful chancellor and head of the consultor’s. A robust man with a balding head and a smile on his face, he always kept his cool in difficult situations.

O’Grady liked Davison, liked the attention Davison paid him. Davison was reverential toward him, called him Excellency, and he could trust him. O’Grady thought him the perfect assistant, and he hoped one day Davison would become his co-adjutor bishop, the auxiliary next in line to succeed him.

O’Grady also liked the fact that Davison never questioned things. He was usually available, worked without grumbling, and wasn’t too keen on the changes wrought by Vatican II. And Davison worked well with O’Grady. The Bishop wished there were more of his kind in the diocese.

The consultor’s meeting was over early, and O’Grady asked Davison if he could spare some time. Yes, Excellency, of course.

O’Grady told Davison about the Carstairs incident and Davison suggested that they meet with the Rector of the seminary.

The Rector’s nickname was Negotiating Al, a name earned over the years because it typified his compassionate approach to all that he did. Some saw him as wishy-washy, but truly he was compassionate. He believed that with sufficient listening and enough time, any problem could be solved. But both in substance and in form, he was one-hundred-eighty degrees apart from Monsignor Davison, so O’Grady was surprised that Davison brought up meeting with the Rector.

Their discord began some years ago, just moments after Negotiating Al and Davison were introduced. The Rector said something about the importance of psychology in the seminary, and Davison concluded that Negotiating Al had flaws in both his psychology and theology. Davison never asked the Rector his views on either subject, but from the beginning, he felt negatively toward the man and his beliefs.

Davison knew that psychology—no matter how good and helpful it was—wasn’t theology. It wasn’t even near theology. Davison was convinced that Negotiating Al thought that psychology and theology were one and the same. How wrong could he be? Davison used to ask.

Theology—the sacred study of God—was around since time began. The early Jews proclaimed it. Jesus taught it. The Church Fathers of the first and second centuries clarified it. Augustine in the third century systematized it. Men in different historical epochs further organized it. Mendicant religious orders, the Benedictines, Aquinas and the Dominicans, Francis, Bonaventure, and the Franciscans, and the Jesuits——all helped to refine it. Davison included the Jesuits in his thinking although they were not mendicants, they didn’t beg for alms, and many thought the Jesuits didn’t do a lot for the theology of the Church, either. And of course, Councils throughout the Church’s history explained God and condemned cultural wrongs. Theology was theology, for God’s sake. Not some kind of drivel that the culture thought sounded good today but anyone in their right mind knew would be gone tomorrow. Theology—theology was eternal, Davison said to the consultor’s on several occasions.

Over the years, Davison and the Rector became more estranged as each clung determinedly to his viewpoint.

But, at 10 PM this night, mild mannered Negotiating Al welcomed Davison and the Bishop to the seminary. Bishop, Monsignor. Come in. Sit down. Can I get you coffee?

They sat on overstuffed chairs in the Rector’s large parlor, and sipped the coffee. They talked together and weighed options for an hour-and-a-half. O’Grady made it clear that he didn’t want some seminarian disrespecting his authority. Davison looked toward the Bishop and said, Excellency, that’s the kind of world we’re turning into. The liberals are taking over the Church and we have to ride out the storm. Perhaps they’ll shipwreck soon.

Negotiating Al swallowed hard but let Davison’s remarks pass. Near the end of the meeting, he got O’Grady and Davison to agree that Carstairs could stay in the seminary and get ordained for the diocese. Negotiating Al said to his visitors, There is a great need for priests, and the diocese has already paid much to train Carstairs. Frequently, the laity have a way of helping these young priests get back on track. Let them be the leaven in his life.

The Bishop and Davison both winced at hearing Negotiating Al’s words. Then the Rector reminded them that Carstairs would not go away, and We can no longer carry off a man in the middle of the night, like we used to.

They agreed to have Carstairs take a week off for a period of reflection. Then they would have him write a letter of apology to the Bishop, stating that he was wrong to write the letter critical of the article in the Catholic paper. He would also have to undergo counseling before ordination, and agree not to speak of the incident publicly or privately.

Both O’Grady and Davison left the seminary feeling tired, but happier than when they arrived. This thing was finally getting solved.

O’Grady went home and had another Scotch. Tomorrow, he’d get back with Bishop Florez and tell him Carstairs was going to stay in the diocese. Davison went to St. Leo’s, the parish where he was pastor, and had a bourbon.

The next day, Negotiating Al told Carstairs of the arrangements, but Carstairs wasn’t buying. I’m right and the article is wrong. Anyone can write a letter to the editor of any paper. The editor has two choices, print it or throw it. Why can’t the Bishop see this? What he wants to do is censor me and I’ll fight him every step of the way. Wait till the people hear about this.

Negotiating Al reminded him that one of the provisions in the Bishop’s agreement was that Carstairs wouldn’t tell anyone of the situation. Carstairs thought about it for a few minutes, and knowing that he was in an immediate bind, decided to go along for now. He’d find a way out later. So he said he would take a vacation and write the letter.

Negotiating Al smiled, happy in his knowledge that this was the way to get things done. With a quick sweep of his eyes toward his heavenly fourteen-foot ceiling, he thanked God for Vatican II, thanked Dale Carnegie for his course and book How To Win Friends & Influence People, and thanked Thomas Gordon for the win-win strategies in Parent Effectiveness Training. The Rector was glad to see that his dabbling in non-theological classes paid off.

Carstairs took his week at the beach in Florida. At the end of his R & R, he wrote the Bishop.

Dear Bishop O’Grady:

Thank you for allowing me to remain in the diocese. As you know, I shall always be a tireless worker for what is right and good for all people.

Sincerely yours,

Rev. Reginald Carstairs

After reading Carstairs’ letter, O’Grady felt angry. He rarely cursed, but this time he did. That son-of-a-bitch, he said to the air. How arrogant. Carstairs can’t be saved. He’ll be a thorn in my side forever. O’Grady stormed around his office, then stopped by the window. A few minutes later, staring at nothing in particular, a new thought crept into his mind, gradually causing a smile on his face. There will come a time when he’ll need to dive into the pool, and I’ll make damn sure it’s drained. Then he let the Carstairs situation go. He had other things to do.

Monsignor Davison assumed that Carstairs complied with the conditions. Knowing that O’Grady wanted to be done with the incident, he didn’t bring it up again.

#

Besides running his diocese, O’Grady was Secretary to the Bishops, a job he received as a young priest and would continue to have for the rest of his life. He was happy about that because the bishops’ meetings were always held on the coasts, and this afforded him time out of the diocese. Although he liked being busy, the infernal questioning by his priests and seminarians was beginning to tell on him, and he saw his life becoming tied up in a series of endless meetings where everyone wanted the ear of the Bishop.

The only anonymity he had in his life anymore was when he traveled. He enjoyed going to cafes and taking an hour to have coffee, read the newspaper, and watch the people, whom he found fascinating. At the hotel, Fergus usually took a swim in the pool, and then soaked in the hot tub. Feeling refreshed, he’d return to his room, dress in street clothes, and venture out for a walk around town and a stop for dinner.

On the official meeting days he’d meet with the other bishops and dine with them too. But when it was time to go, he said his goodbyes at the meeting, never at the airport. He got into the habit of taking an extra day to relax before heading back to the diocese. Whenever one of his brother bishops asked when he was going home, he would say he had to stay to see a relative, a former parishioner, or a friend who might be ill. At first he believed that it would be setting a bad example for his priests if word got out that he was taking time just to relax. But it was sometime later that he decided he didn’t want anyone to know about his extra days at all.

#

O’Grady was in one of his whimsical, reminiscing moods. He thought about all the good things that had taken place, and about the power he had as a bishop. His place in the annals of the diocese was assured. With his attorney father’s Washington help and contacts, he had, during the past two years, handled four potentially expensive wrongful-death lawsuits and built three senior residences, two of them high-rises that housed seven hundred seniors each. And in a new office building he centralized various chancery departments that formerly were scattered all over the City. These accomplishments made him feel happy and fulfilled.

But his whimsical, reminiscing mood began to change. Something was bugging him, gnawing at him. Carstairs’ remark, What is the ‘or else?’ triggered it. O’Grady had never encountered such disrespect from a priest before. Clearly, he had to deal with Carstairs. He allowed Carstairs to get away with a lot, and yes, he should have silenced him long ago. But he didn’t. Now he’d have to be careful. Somehow Carstairs learned things about O’Grady—more than O’Grady ever thought anyone would know about him. And Carstairs had a mouth that was a loose cannon. You never knew when it would go off. Never knew what he’d say. During the past two years, Carstairs gave inklings. When he’d ask his damned questions at clergy meetings, he’d drop in a seemingly innocent remark that would register ever so slightly in O’Grady’s mind. Did Carstairs have spies on the chancery boards and commissions? O’Grady began to worry just a bit. He didn’t want to be found out, and at times it looked like Carstairs might know something.

Chapter 2

No one tangled with Monsignor Gordon Redmond. No one had to. Ordained in 1947, schooled in the traditional ways of an authoritative Church, he accepted everything taught him, and never questioned anything. In fact, questioning never entered his mind. Not as a seminarian, not as a young priest, not as a middle-aged priest, and not now, as an older priest. The Church teaches, and we obey, he said so often from his pulpit, that the people, who respected the office of priesthood far more than they respected the person of Monsignor Gordon Redmond, let it in one ear—and ever so quickly—out the other.

Redmond’s first assignment as a priest, albeit a brief one of just two years, cast in bronze the beliefs he formed as he was growing up. Before his ordination, he had applied for and was granted, a place in the Army chaplaincy program. After ordination he became a chaplain to the forces in Greece and Turkey who served under President Truman, there to try to reduce the communist pressures on the Greek and Turkish governments. He spent his time at a military base outside Athens, saying mass for the troops, hearing confessions, and being available to war-weary soldiers. These troops thought they would be going home after the war, but soon learned that they would stay longer in Europe because a new war was developing, something President Truman called the Cold War.

In addition to saying mass and hearing confessions, the newly ordained Father Gordon Redmond taught large convert classes on The Meaning of the True Faith. During and after the war, many soldiers who weren’t sure what they believed about God, became staunch believers in the mainline faiths. The Protestant, Jewish, and Catholic chaplains had full attendance at their respective services, and many soldiers went to inquiry classes that the chaplains taught.

Redmond thrived on these classes. To him, the true faith was the Catholic faith, and There is no discussion that it is not. That’s how Redmond was, a young man sure of himself and sure of his position. Standard fare from this young priest included his favorite line, After all, our Church rests on Jesus Christ and through the infallibility of our Holy Father, the Pope, it cannot err.

During his lectures there were no questions, just hearing, and then nodding, meaning that a soldier agreed with this official position. If a soldier didn’t nod at the appropriate times during a lecture on the meaning of the true faith, Father Gordon Redmond took it to mean that the soldier didn’t agree, and then Redmond would publicly humiliate the soldier and tell him that he was bound for hell. Your immortal soul might be consumed in the eternal fires of hell this very night, should you die non-believing. So none of the soldiers challenged him, partly because 1947 and 1948 were not times that young men challenged authority, and partly because no one would ever think of challenging a priest. Even if someone believed the priest had erred, they’d look for a way around what the priest said, because it not only was impolite to question what Father said, it was also—through theological superstition—a question of conscience in which the questioner could not bring himself to be disobedient. So the likes of Father Gordon Redmond went unchallenged as he honed the Church’s party line and the military’s political line.

The military training that Redmond received on top of his seminary training, made him a force to be reckoned with. He spoke so authoritatively, that a man’s only position to one of Redmond’s truisms was Thank you Father. Yes, now I understand. During one of his lectures Redmond said that Holy Mother the Church infallibly teaches that the Pope cannot err. When he teaches about faith and morals, he is the official voice of Christ, and his words are truth.

Normally, this wouldn’t be cause for a discussion, but the Protestant Chaplain had given a strong sermon on the role of scripture alone being God’s inerrant word. It alone, under the divine inspiration of inerrancy, teaches the truth. No man—including the Pope—can claim to be above the Bible.

That Sunday afternoon in the barracks there was more than lively discussion, there was almost a faceoff between the Protestant and the Catholic men. When Redmond heard about it, he beefed up his message during both his classes and his sermons. In fact, his classes and sermons were beginning to merge into one. Redmond never entertained the idea that a class is a place for openness, discussion of ideas, a forum for searching and learning. No. To Redmond, his thrice weekly classes were extensions of his sermons, and when he heard that the Protestant Chaplain was teaching This terrible heresy, he came down hard.

The Protestants go back to the heretic, Martin Luther, who spread his lies during the sixteenth century. The true Church goes back to Jesus Christ. Our blessed savior picked Peter to be the first pope. Martin Luther never was a pope, so therefore, he could never presume to be the official teacher of the truth of the Church. What Martin Luther did, dear men, is sew discord among people who became disobedient just as he was. However, the Council of Trent put Luther in his place. And today we know that this unrepentant man is still burning in the fires of hell.

When the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) formed in 1949 for the collective security of the non-communist European nations, the chaplaincies were reconfigured and the clergy redeployed. God must have smiled upon the men who had been under Father Gordon Redmond, because a new bishop in Redmond’s home diocese asked for his return so that he could fill a post in a large parish that needed a young assistant. Two years to the day that he had set foot in Europe, Father Gordon Redmond became assistant to a pastor who had a nervous twitch and a hearing problem at St. Philips, a newly established church on Metropolitan Street.

After a short honeymoon period, the parishioners of St. Philip’s began to grumble that their old parish was split in two. After all, many of them reasoned in private among themselves, although the parish was getting too large, at least we had priests we could relate to. Now, we have a pastor who can’t hear us and an assistant who sounds like he just got instructions from the Inquisition. A few people began to talk publicly about their newly appointed assistant, and the bishop must have heard. When there was an opening in Outer Bayou, a small parish made up of Cajun people sixty-five miles from the City, Father Gordon Redmond went there as administrator, and stayed.

Chapter 3

The private parts of O’Grady’s out-of-town junkets were truly private and he surely wasn’t going to talk about them. Careful was his watchword. He never went to the same place twice in a row. Nor was he seen, because he always went out in casual dress and only visited these places in cites where he was totally unknown. Nor did he speak of this private part of his life to anyone, ever, including in confession. O’Grady rationalized that he had done so much that was good, he could allow these minor peccadilloes.

Ironically it was Vatican II—which he was so against—that opened up his thinking. The Council stated that meatless Fridays rested only on a rule that came about from people’s ‘piety,’ so it could be changed. O’Grady wept when he got that news at a bishops’ meeting, because he knew communists got a foothold in a country by subtly changing eternal truths. He viewed this development in the church as a treasonous act by a communist Pope. When John XXIII died and Paul VI became pope, he hoped meatless Fridays would return as soon as possible.

But when Paul VI didn’t change the practice of Friday abstinence, other cracks began to show in O’Grady’s formerly closed mind. He began to ponder other questions. How come a Catholic didn’t have to go to confession anymore before he made his Easter Duty? Church practice had always been that confession was part of Easter Duty. Even the old Baltimore Catechism fiercely taught that. It stated that Confession is always necessary in the case of mortal sin, but the Catechism never left any doubt that a sinner was a mortal sinner.

Why were priests—and in some cases bishops—leaving their vows and forsaking priesthood? O’Grady wondered. Why did one of his friends, neighboring Bishop Cornelius Curran, go to jail for DUI? Couldn’t the police handle this sort of thing the right way, quietly? Curran’s picture made page 1 of the newspaper.

O’Grady never let on to his brother bishops about his new questioning, and he certainly would not show this new attitude to his priests. There was enough old school in him to want his priests to do as he said, so he consistently gave out the party line. But as time marched on, he wondered how much of it he believed anymore. In the early years of his ministry, O’Grady held to the party line a lot more closely, but as the years passed, he felt less guilt, especially around his private outings.

Though feeling less guilt, he was still concerned. He used to feel worried, but in his own growing comfortableness with himself, worry gave way, replaced merely by concern. This was an important step for him, because worry and its nemesis guilt, went back to puberty. Like every other adolescent, young Fergus felt troubled because the sexual feelings he was having felt so good, but his Church and society were so against them that he felt guilty for having them. He remembered when he was twelve and he caught a glimpse of his fourteen-year-old sister naked. He felt shocked, like he had done something wrong. She was coming out of the bathroom after taking a shower. On the way to her room down the hall, wrapped in just a towel and trying to hold on to a bag that contained her special shampoo, the face cream with the anti-acne additive, and a large hair brush that was falling from her grip, she lost both the hair brush and her towel just as the future bishop was on his way to the bathroom. Fergus’s sister screamed as though someone was trying to take her life. Although he had fantasized about girls and his sister, seeing her naked made Fergus feel like he had pried into some confidential CIA file and now knew some monumental secret that would be with him the rest of his life.

That night in bed, as Fergus replayed the picture on the screen of his mind, he had to fight his desire to take the scene further. Not that he wanted to have sex with his sister; he didn’t. But observing her naked body made him think of other kids he was beginning to notice. He thought of Miriam McGuire and her developing breasts. He thought of Michelle Pazooka and the taunts that the guys threw at her, Pazooka with the big bazookas. But as he lay there, feeling himself swell, his most vivid memory went back a few months ago to a family outing at Revere Beach, and two guys who stood out for their sizeable equipment. Both were wearing skimpy tight bathing suits, and Fergus remembered dashing into the water as he felt a bulge in his own suit.

That’s the way it was in his adolescence; frankly, that’s the way it was as long as he could remember. In the fourth grade he was interested in body parts, his and other kids. Looking at other boys when he was in the boy’s room, he remembered how he used to steal a look when he was at the urinal, and if he got lucky he’d compare sizes. But he was always afraid of being caught so he tried not to do it too often. When he was thirteen years old at Boy Scout camp, one night in his tent he played with two other guys in his patrol. He was scared at being found out, but when he got over feeling scared, he felt excited. Sexual play with other guys felt so good to him. At fourteen he sucked his best friend Tommy Malone, and that felt great. But as the desire to become a priest tugged at his heart, he began telling his head that these forays into his sexual side had to stop. After all, I have to be pure to be a priest, he thought. But his head didn’t always hear, or perhaps his sex drive—like every other adolescent’s—was in overdrive. So the forays into thinking about sex continued.

Over the years, the theme of sexuality occupied more than one of the recesses of his mind. Many times he sallied forth into mentally experiencing sex, but now thirty years past adolescence, O’Grady wanted to do more. So he began visiting mens’ baths. He felt more than just good on his outings to the baths; he felt alive. It was exhilarating seeing through the shadows, seeing all those men with their glistening bodies. He remembered his first time, it was in San Francisco. God, he loved that place. The culture throbbed—the people, the restaurants, the opera, the theater, Golden Gate Park. He could hike in the mountains and look out over the ocean from Point Reyes during the day, then eat a fine dinner, and do all kinds of things at night. It was in San Francisco that he began his practice of arriving a day early and staying a day late.

In those days, San Francisco was wide open with baths in three different parts of the City. He learned to scout the baths, calling ahead to find out the particulars, like how much it cost and what the hours were.

When he went to these places, he placed his wallet and identification in the glove compartment of his rental car. If the place were ever raided, he didn’t want to be anyone but a John Doe. He took exactly the admission price of the bath or the club with him, as well as a slim new billfold—its identity card claiming that he was John Edwards II, of Drawer F, El Paso, TX. In the unlikely event that he had to produce identification, the bishop was a transient.

The first time in the Castro he didn’t know what to expect. Being mentally sexually active and experiencing this activity now as a bishop were two different things. It’s been a long time since high school, he thought, and even then there were only those few encounters with some guys, and none with girls. And in the seminary, he remembered, I worked overtime to ward off all impure thoughts, though it didn’t always work.

Whether any of the guys were ever sexual with each other in the seminary, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he had a particular friendship, as that sin was called in those days, toward his friend Paul Escobar.

Paul was one of the guys assigned to help O’Grady get through his courses. He was also the seminary barber, and that allowed Fergus to spend private time with Paul when he got his hair cut. Leaning into him when he cut his hair, Fergus wasn’t sure if it was just Paul’s barbering technique, or if he really was rubbing up against him. Each time it happened, Fergus felt torn. He imagined how good it would feel to probe Paul, but then he’d admonish himself and feel very guilty.

At home when he was younger, he was more willing to accept what he called his weird feelings. But now it was different; now he was in the seminary and he wasn’t supposed to have these kinds of feelings. There were even times he thought something was seriously wrong with him for still having these feelings. He read articles on child development and adolescence and he felt sure that his development was arrested somewhere along the line. He was beginning to wonder if he had mental problems.

After his haircut, he’d make a quick trip to chapel and confess his impure thoughts. Fergus felt thankful for absolution and hoped that God heard his prayers despite a full erection, which made it all but impossible to concentrate.

That first time in the Castro in San Francisco, Bishop Fergus M. O’Grady walked up and down the block that housed the 21st St. Baths. He was nervous, and drops of sweat collected under his arms and leaked from his balls. What if I’m spotted? he thought. Oh my God, my life would be over. But I’m in street clothes! No one knows I’m here. As long as I’m careful. And I’d better be careful.

The baths won this emotional tug of war, probably because a giant erection pushed against his pants. Thank God it’s cool enough in San Francisco to almost always need a jacket or a coat, he thought as he looked to make sure he was covered.

Checking out the street, he looked more ways than his mother ever told him to do as a kid crossing Jamaica Plain, the tree-lined street in front of the family home in Boston. No one was looking at him. People were just walking from one place to another. Some stopped at the little cafes and others went into private residences that fronted 21st St. From time to time a man would go into the baths, but it didn’t seem to be a big deal.

Finally, Fergus went inside. He was surprised to find that some of his apprehension left him, probably because he had phoned ahead. He found out that a half day or three hours in the evening cost $2.00. He also found out that few men stayed that long in the baths, at least during the day. They usually sat for a while in the hot tub or spent some time in the sauna. Waiting time to find someone who was willing to grope you or be groped by you was anywhere from thirty seconds to ten minutes.

Dimly lit cubicles separated by dimly lit halls, provided privacy for couples or threesomes. After you jerked off or someone else jerked you off, or sucked you off, or you gave or received anal intercourse, you usually went to the showers, dressed, and left. Some stayed longer, but that was mostly at night. During the day most of the men spent only about twenty or thirty minutes at the baths. Then they were back on the street, feeling satisfied and happy.

Fergus came to appreciate the power of twenty or thirty minutes at the baths. But later, after he matured in his sexuality, he spent more time savoring the fulfillment of his sexual appetites and desires.

After he paid his money, he got a towel, a numbered basket, and an elastic bracelet with a corresponding numbered metal disk. The bracelet was similar to the kind he wore as a kid at Revere Beach. He undressed, put his clothes in the basket and gave the basket to the attendant behind the counter. There was no rule about wearing a towel, he was free to wear it or not, or put it around his neck like a stole, a symbol of his new-found sexual power.

Even though it was riding high in front, Fergus wore the towel around his waist. Walking around slowly, his whole body seemed to sweat as he drank in these new sights. This is the place to be, he thought. He hoped he would find a guy who reminded him of Paul Escobar. Paul was in his thoughts a lot lately. He remembered when he used to steal quick glances of Paul’s magnificent body as they showered after sports in the afternoons. No one at the baths reminded him of Paul, but he liked the men he saw cruising the halls by the private cubicles, and the two he found sitting close to each other in the hot tub.

After a while, he gathered up his courage and went to the sauna. Dimly lit and very hot, it looked like it might hold ten or so men on its two long benches. A man about Fergus’ age was sitting alone on a towel in the corner. His back leaned against the wall, his knees were drawn up about chest high, and his legs were spread apart at about a twenty-five degree angle. He was gently fingering himself.

Fergus sat on the bench near the man’s feet. A small-watt light bulb allowed him a perfect view of the man, and he eagerly watched as the man stroked himself. Fergus was throbbing so much he though he’d come right there