Forbidden Fruit Read Online Free PDF

was marked. Eamonn’s face seemed made of pieces of brightly colored glass; Ian’s was of a
     single grayish hue. Eamonn spoke in a rainbow stream of words, combined with broad heartfelt gestures; Ian’s utterances were
     spare and dry as desert sand and came from no further than his lips.
    Another thing: Whereas Eamonn addressed him as “Ian,” the Scot never dared call Eamonn anything but “My Lord.” No equality
     here. Ian was not descended from the Apostles.
    They spoke of financial help to the deprived areas of Kerry. Tens of thousands of pounds sterling were mentioned. Eamonn guaranteed
     everything. Occasionally, with his right index finger, he banged on the fingers of his left hand one by one with the force
     of a hammer to make his points.
    For a couple of hours after lunch I was left alone in his study. On his desk was a photograph album, surely for me to examine.
     It contained newspaper clippings and pictures of his ordination as a bishop in late 1969.
    One picture showed Eamonn with the Primate, Cardinal Conway, President de Valera, Cardinal Heenan of Westminster, and the
     papal Nuncio. Eamonn, looking truly magnificent in his episcopal robes, was referred to as, at age forty-two, the youngest
     member of the Irish hierarchy.
    Cardinal Heenan preached the sermon. “Bishop Eamonn is a friend and father of the poor, he sought shelter for the homeless.”
     There were pictures of Eamonn’s ring—a hundred years old—of Eamonn smiling under his tall miter, and standing on an open
     bus while waving to the crowds.
    Was Eamonn challenging me? Was he saying, “Here is a mountain, Annie. Do you have the strength and stamina to climb it?” Or
     —far more likely—was this all in my imagination?
    He liked the best, and how could I be described as good, let alone the best? Did I mistake a show of power for an invitation
     to love? To topple such a man would be like burning down a cathedral. I had no wish to do any such thing. Did I?
    Memories stirred in me. I was twelve years old when my elder brother, John, came rushing into our house in Redding, Connecticut.
     He was white with anger and my father asked him what was the matter. John blurted out that he had just caught a visiting monsignor
     from Toronto in the garage with his secretary from Montreal. “Doing what, for heaven’s sake?” my father asked. “He was… making
     love to her,” John said. Mommy stepped forward and struck him across the face. “Can’t you see Annie’s here?” she roared. I
     was stunned, but my elder sister, Mary, went into hysterics at the thought of a holy priest having sex. Such things did not
     happen in Connecticut. “Who,” she gasped, “is going to forgive him his sins?”
    Next, I was a teenage waitress at the Avon Inn in New Jersey. I often saw men who had checked in in priestly garb dressed
     as laymen and taking women out for the night—and taking them in. One priest in particular annoyed me because he was so preachy
     by day and so damned promiscuous by night.
Heavens
, I thought,
and these pious hypocrites give us poor mortals such a hard time of it
.
    This was a major reason for my leaving the Church, that and the feeling that Catholics put a sin-tag on every thought, word,
     deed, and omission. I didn’t want to reduce my Eamonn to the level of clerics who lead double lives. There was surely no danger
     of that since it was his strength not his frailty that overwhelmed me. With great generosity, his one thought was to resurrect
     a girl whom my father had told him was dead and buried.
    It was this generosity that attracted me to him and made me want to get as close to him as I dared.

Chapter Four
    H E DROVE ME HOME THAT AFTERNOON in a quiet mood. He had a kind of puzzled look on his face as if he were grappling with a problem
     with which he could not cope.
    I had seen enough to know that this masterful man hated to be led. He had so much more to lose than I: honor, prestige, power.
     What could I