"In Massachusetts, sir," I stammered, politely.

But it wouldn't wash. Then the inevitable question: "Where, B.C.?"

Visions of spending eternity in a Steven Dedalus-like hell flashed through my brain, reinforced by Joyce's smile on the wall.

"No, H--," I began, preparing for the worst.

"Holy Cross! A fine school, but the team hasn't been the same since Cousy graduated. Now, Jack Foley, he was a ballplayer of course but not tall enough to make it in the pros..."

"No sir. I go to Harvard. In Cambridge." The truth was out.

Conversation ceased, Tommy rolled over to listen, even Joyce's smile seemed to fade. I felt like I had just told Pope Gregory I didn't want to go on the second Crusade. And I was standing in the Vatican.

"Now what did you want to go and do that for? What do they teach you there? I hear it's all a bunch of rich boobs runnin' around goin' to parties and gettin' drunk all the time. Are you all Irish?" And then the bone-cruncher: "When was the last time you went to Mass?"

I go every week, I tried to tell them, which is more or less true, but no one would listen. "I betcha got them Commie priests up there, the ones that run around tryin' to get themselves married on the sly. And the Cardinal--why, he's just a Portugee, he don't even count," the drunk hollered.

I felt the urge to define Cardinal Medeiros's ecclesiastic integrity, but one look at the bartender told me not to risk it. Tommy had assumed the pained but determined air of a nun who must deal with a wayward child without brooking any resistance. Protestations of innocence were no good anymore, and although physical violence did not seem likely, I thought it best not to remain in such a plainly hostile environment. The subway ride home was more than humiliating; every derelict in the "F" train looked like he was about to approach me with a papal bull of excommunication.

The next day I returned to my old high school, and of course the first person I ran into was Ignatius. "How's Haaaahhhvahd?" he asked.

I cringed. The cast was off, and his kicking foot looked in terrifyingly good shape. I knew he would be listening to my every word, hoping for traces of a broad Harvard "a" that would testify to my slide into spiritual degeneracy.

"Uh, pretty good, y'know Bruddah. How about yerself?" I replied in the best imitation of Rodney Dangerfield's Brooklyn accent I could muster.

"Okay. Been to Mass lately?"

I knew I had him now--I could have recited the Agnus Dei, Confiteor, Kyrie Elaison and the entire 23rd Psalm if he asked. My faith was like a rock, as the bishop always used to tell us it had to be, and I was even going to confession in another month or so for spring cleaning. I didn't have a note from my pastor, but I still felt confident.

"Sure thing, Bruddah. Every week. How's the foot?"

Ignatius mumbled something and started to brush past me, then stopped and turned around. "Jesus Christ," he said, only not as loud as he usually said it, and a good deal more reverently. "Jesus Christ, first you have that damn ecumenical council and you start getting soft on those people, and then you start shoving your kids off to places like Haaaahhhvad, for the love of St. Peter, where they don't even know what's going on in the world of the soul, by God. Jesus Christ. Yeah, my foot hurts."

I was about to say something about how I didn't think the Holy Father would care to hear Ignatius's views on ecumenism and Church reform, but canned the speech. Hell, I had won--he was the one who was talking heresy now, real burn-'em-at-the-stake stuff if the Knights of the Inquistion ever got the word back to Rome. The quality of mercy is not strained and all that, I thought, so I just nodded and walked away.

Besides, the Church had learned to live with Berrigan and planned parenthood, even if it was an uneasy truce, so it could probably learn to live with old-line heretics like Ignatius. No sweat--it might even learn to live with Harvard, which isn't easy. Everybody living with everyone else in peace and truth and veritas! It sounded like either the Sermon on the Mount of something from the Gazette. I couldn't figure out which. But it didn't really matter.