THE NARROW GATE

“Come in! Come in!” came a shout from inside the closed office door. With that, John Kelly opened the office door and entered to see his boss, Frank Barry, seated behind his large metal desk. The office was not large and seemed less so because of the overflow of family pictures behind the desk and papers strewn all over the desk. Two chairs were in front of the desk- dark wood frame with dull- brown cloth seats. The office was old and had the odor of cigarette smoke, testimony to Frank’s smoking days, now two years behind him thanks to the nicotine patch. The lack of smoking was only one reason for Frank’s sour demeanor.

“Sit down Sit down,” Frank barked. As editor of a Sunday news magazine for a major metropolitan newspaper, it was his job to assign articles to reporters. So it was that Frank had summoned John to his office.

John sat down and crossed his legs. Frank was in his early fifties although the years and his smoking and drinking had not been kind to him. John was forty-six. He had won the Pulitzer Prize a dozen years earlier with a series of articles about civil rights in the Deep South but had not lived up to his promise since then. Although he was a senior reporter now, he did not command Frank’s respect. Frank was a hail- fellow- well- met kind of guy and a two-fisted drinker. John, on the other hand, was more intellectual, quiet, introverted, and introspective. He confined his drinking to a few glasses of wine. Frank saw him as a milquetoast to the extent he gave him any thought at all.

“I want to do an article on heroes. Remember Senator Joe J., as he was known, who resigned about 10 years ago from the Senate?” John nodded indicating he remembered him. “He’s dying now in an upstate hospital. He was a big liberal back in the day. He had a lot of connections and was an early pro- choice, pro-gay rights champion. Today’s liberals see him as a pioneer.” “ I remember,” John said. Frank continued.” He went through a big scandal and had to resign, but now I hear that people view him as a hero and a saint. Get up there and talk to him. Talk to his supporters and people who knew him. Talk to his enemies. Get me a good piece on how he made this transition and on what is a hero and how this guy fits the mold. Make it a real human- interest story of his comeback.”

“Listen, Frank,” responded John. “Why me? This is a softball piece. Give me something better to sink my teeth into, not an article based on a has-been from ten years ago.”

“Do what I tell you,” barked Frank who was a man not accustomed to being questioned. I need the piece for the edition the Sunday after next. Now get out of here before I send you to Antarctica to do a piece on penguins.”

The look on John’s face was an outward sign of an inward feeling that he did not command respect. He was unhappy in his position, but writing was all he knew- and there were not that many major city newspapers anymore. So he tucked his pride down deep. He needed the job to pay his rent, alimony, and child support for his two daughters.

John went home and packed for a train the next morning. Although he was not much of a drinker, tonight he would break his pattern and get mildly drunk on red wine while he packed. He needed something to take his mind off his bruised ego and what had become a lack of respect for himself.

John caught the 7:50 a.m. train the next day, a Tuesday, and worked on the crossword while the train traveled the four hours for the trip. He went straight to the hospital, and, after determining that the old senator was in the fourth- floor section for heart patients, he rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. The old senator was in room 425, which was at the end of a long hallway about as far from the elevator as possible.

John exited the elevator and followed the room numbers down the hall. He did not want to look into the rooms to see the suffering of those unlucky enough to be in the wing for serious heart patients, but he wound up giving into his curiosity as he traveled down the hall. The site of suffering was both repugnant and compelling. He finally reached room 425 and stood slightly inside the doorway only to see an old man, on oxygen, not awake and hooked up to machines. The room was pale gray with that institutional style paint that was high-gloss and evidenced many coats from prior paintings. The old politician was sicker than John had imagined. He had lost much weight and was clearly close to death.

But something else caught the corner of John`s eye. An old nun, in a black habit was kneeling in the corner of the room behind John’s right shoulder which was possible since the door was in the middle of the room. She quietly prayed the rosary fingering some large black beads as she slowly prayed in a soft voice. It was as if she were an angel praying softly.

“Hello” said John. The old nun stopped momentarily and looked at John. It was as if she looked through him. She only nodded and continued to pray. She was not there to welcome visitors or for small talk. He waited until she finished praying and stood up.

John needed to get to his hotel room and to use his computer to bone up on the old senator’s life as background, but he was struck for a moment. “Are you a member of the senator`s family?” he asked.

“No,” replied the nun.

“A supporter then?”

“No” she responded.

“A friend?”

“Not as you would imagine it,” she replied.

“How is it then you are praying for him on your knees?” he asked.

“How is it that you are not?” she replied

All of a sudden, a thought ran through John’s mind as he took in this scene. Who was the real hero, the senator or this extraordinary nun? There was something about her. His Irish intuition told him there was something great taking place here, although he couldn’t describe it in words- even to himself. There was a lot more to this story than he had anticipated. He thought, So it is that’s seemingly small items can teach large lessons, if only we were attuned to grasp them.

On his way out, John stopped by the nurse`s station and asked a nurse at the desk if she knew the old nun.

“Oh yes. That is Sister Francis.” She comes often and prays for the senator.”

“Who is she?” asked John.

“I don’t know much about her. All I know is that I think they have known each other for a long time. They say she brought him back to the church. That’s all I know about her.”

“Thanks,” said John. He paused for a moment to reflect, and then asked, “Who would know more about her story?”

“I’m sorry,” said the nurse. “That’s all I know.”

John turned and looked back at the room. A late conversion or return to the church? There was a lot more here than he had anticipated. Maybe this would be a story worthy of his efforts. Maybe he could make it such. In any event, he was now curious.

John took the elevator down to the first floor and caught a yellow cab to the local hotel. He had little concern for the room as long as it was clean and had Wi-Fi so he could use the internet. He had a lot of work to do.

John dropped off his bag in his room, and found the phone book, and ordered a pizza. He had work to do and wanted to get started. His curiosity was raging. He was enough of a reporter to sense a story when one existed, and his sixth sense told him there was a one here. What was the story of this old nun, and what was her relationship to the senator that she should visit his deathbed often and pray on her knees on the hard tile floor? The less she said, the more he became intrigued. What was she not revealing?