The Fifth Gospel(215)

            The words slip out into the stillness of Lucio’s bedroom.

            “What do we do, Uncle? They want me to testify tomorrow.”

            He lifts himself off the bed and hoists himself up on his cane. He doesn’t put a hand on me. But he comes and stands by my side, unmoving, as if to remind me I’m not alone.

            “Do you still have his cassock?” he says.

            “Yes.”

            “And the gun case?”

            I nod.

            He lets go of the cane. For a moment he stands on his own legs. Peering at the verses of the gospels, he frowns the same way he does when reading the newspaper for its obituaries. These old friends. These memories of happier times.

            “If you bring those items here,” he says, “I can arrange to have the garbage trucks come at dawn.”

            “He killed Ugo! How can you not care?”

            “He took a fish to feed a multitude. You think he should sacrifice his entire future for that?”

            I jab my finger at the photo of the Diatessaron page. “He killed Ugo to hide what we were giving the Orthodox!”

            Lucio cocks his head and says nothing.

            “Does the Holy Father know?” I ask.

            “Of course not.”

            “Does Archbishop Nowak?”

            “No.”

            The air is still. Nothing moves except a red dot on one of the medical machines, racing forward, forward.

            “Did your mother ever tell you,” he says finally, “that your great-grand uncle led the voting after the eighth ballot in the conclave of 1922? He almost became pope.” Lucio smiles foggily into the air. “And that man was nothing compared to Simon.”

            “Don’t, Uncle.”

            “He could wear the white someday.”

            “Not anymore.”

            Lucio raises an eyebrow, as if I’m missing the point.

            “I don’t see that you have a choice,” he says.

            I stare at him. Maybe he’s right. He has put words to this powerless feeling. Nothing remains but different ways to reconcile ourselves to what must come next.

            “We’ll give them what they want,” Lucio says. He points to the Diatessaron page. “We’ll explain that they made a terrible mistake by giving the Shroud to the Orthodox. And when they ask us to keep quiet, we’ll agree. As long as Simon isn’t punished.”

            I shake my head.

            “Alexander, even without the cassock and gun case, they have enough evidence to convict him. There’s no alternative.”

            “He killed for this. Ugo died for this. Simon would rather be convicted than let a reunion   with the Orthodox fail.”

            Lucio sniffs. “It would be naïve to assume the Holy Father will tell the Orthodox just because we tell him. The Orthodox don’t even read the Bible the same way we do. To them, it’s all factual.”

            I glare at him. “The Shroud is a fake! He’s not going to give them a fake.”

            Lucio pats me on the back. “Bring me the cassock and the gun case. I’ll take care of everything.”

            I stare over his shoulder at one of the photos on the wall. Simon, at about Peter’s age. He is sitting in our father’s lap, looking up at him. In his eyes is a perfect admiration. Beside them is our mother, who peers into the camera and smiles. There is something indefinable in her eyes, mischief and wisdom and peace, as if she knows something no one else does. Her hands are covering the slightest bump in her belly.