"Same-sex?" O’Malley recoils slightly, clutching his rosary. "But Catherine... the rules. Leviticus. The old memos. I can't marry two chaps in the big room. The Bishop will have a fit."
"The Bishop is dead, Patrick," Mother snaps. "And have you not checked your email in the last year?"
"I don't have email," O’Malley says proudly. "I have a pigeon."
"The Pope!" Mother shouts, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "The new Pope! From the Conclave! The one from theSacred Heartsedict!"
"Oh!" O’Malley’s face lights up with sudden recognition. "You mean the new young fella? The Italian? Pope... what’s-his-face? The handsome one who likes the gays so much he shacked up with one?"
"Yes!" Mother says. "He sanctified it! It is allowed! It is encouraged! We are progressive now, Father! Get with the program!"
"Ah, yes," O’Malley chuckles, leaning back against the altar. "I remember now. Radical fellow. Said love is love. Got caught in a sex scandal with the Italian Prime Minister. I like him, though I thought I was just watching a daytime television drama. He hasexcellent taste in shoes. Very well! Jackson! Maxwell! The Pope says it’s a go, so who am I to argue?"
"He forgot the Pope changed the rules," Preston murmurs. "The man is operating on Windows 95."
"Just read the vows!" Mother shrieks. "Page forty-two!"
O’Malley finds page forty-two.
"Do you, Maxwell," O’Malley reads, "take this man, Jackson... to have and to hold... in sickness and in...squints... wealth. Massive wealth."
"HEALTH!" Mother screams. "In sickness and in HEALTH!"
"It says wealth," O’Malley argues. "Or maybe that’s a stain. Looks like gravy. But wealth is better, Catherine. Have you seen the heating bill for this place? We need the wealth."
"This is a disaster," Mother says, throwing her hands up. "The groom is waddling. The priest thinks we are still in the Dark Ages. And where is the Best Man? Where is Luke?"
We all look around. The spot next to Preston is empty.
"He was here a minute ago," Preston says. "He said something about his blood sugar crashing."
The heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral burst open with a bang that sounds like a cannon shot.
"I’M HERE!"
Luke runs down the three-mile aisle. He is wearing his scrubs, having come straight from a shift at the ER, and he is holding a soft pretzel the size of a steering wheel.
"Sorry!" Luke yells, his voice booming in the sacred space. "I found a cart on 5th! I haven't eaten since 4 AM! I was going hypoglycemic!"
He runs past the stations of the cross, spraying crumbs. He skids to a halt next to Preston, breathing hard. He is clutching the pretzel like a holy relic. There is a smear of bright yellow mustard on his chin.
"You are eating... a pretzel," Mother says. Her voice has gone dangerously quiet. "In St. Patrick’s Cathedral."
"It’s unsalted!" Luke offers, realizing his mistake. "Well, mostly. I shook some of it off in the narthex."
"In the narthex," Mother repeats. "You shook salt... onto the floor where Cardinals have walked."
"It was artisanal salt?" Luke tries.
"You are desecrating the venue!" Mother roars. "Luke Silva! Put that carbohydrate away immediately! This is the Body of Christ, not the Body of Auntie Anne!"
"I’ll hold it," Preston offers, taking the pretzel with a look of extreme distaste. He holds it between two fingers, as far away from his silk suit as possible. "I feel like I’m holding a biological weapon."
"It’s delicious," Luke whispers. "Don't drop it. It’s holy now."
"Enough!" Mother shouts. She throws her clipboard onto the floor. It clatters loudly on the marble, startling O’Malley, who jumps and nearly knocks over the chalice.
"Who shot?" O’Malley yells, ducking behind the altar. "Is it the Protestants? I told them I surrender!"
