Loss of Heaven, Pains of Hell: A Novel

By Mary Ann Sorrentino

Loss of Heaven, Pains of Hell tells the story of
One determined newspaper writer who
takes on the challenges of a local
Roman Catholic diocese and the parishioners and clergy
in it struggling with today’s difficult and even criminal realities.

It is a human tale that Catholics, non-Catholics, and non-
believers alike will find all-too familiar and
one which many headlines across the nation and around the
world reference all too often.

This is a book that deals less with drama and more with the
troubling reality of human weaknesses, temptations, and day-to-
day tragedies with which we are all too familiar,

The author’s greatest hope is that it will not only remind us of daily
challenges we may all face—directly or through our loved ones’
experiences—but will also offer us hope that, with determination
and courage we can have a role in righting the wrongs that have
been covered up for too many centuries

In the end, the characters encourage all of us to find the courage
to do the right thing, however many barriers, threats, and,
difficulties stand between us and justice.

All of these story lines will be familiar to readers who, hopefully,
will find in this novel the understanding, compassion, and
camaraderie we all need to overcome spiritual and truly human crises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669857662

Mary Ann Sorrentino

Mary Ann Sorrentino has been writing commentaries for newspapers across the country for more than a quarter of a century. She has been a syndicated columnist and continues to write for the Providence Journal on a regular schedule, as well as for other national newspapers on a freelance basis including the Boston Globe, the Hartford Courant, and others. A graduate of Elmira College and the University of Florence, Italy, she has also lectured widely on campuses including the Harvard School of Public Health, University of Bologna, Italy School of Medicine, Boston College, Northeastern University, University of Wisconsin, and many more. She is the author of the book Abortion, the A Word (Gadd Books) available on amazon.com and other websites as well as in bookstores. She contributed a chapter on outpatient female sterilization for the University of Bologna book Sterilizzazione Maschile e Femminile. Finally, she has been interviewed on TODAY, CNN, Donahue, and numerous national and local TV stations. Articles on her life and work have appeared in the NY Times, TIME magazine, Boston Globe, Miami Herald, and dozens of major national newspapers. She was also featured in the Emmy Award–winning documentary “Taking On the Kennedys” (by Josh Seftel). She was a regular contributor to Yahoo Voices for three years until its closing in 2014. Sorrentino writes on a wide range of topics including social issues, health matters, travel, women’s concerns, and global as well as domestic political discussions. She is also a lecturer on the Lifelong Learning faculty of Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, Florida. Her blogs appear on maryannsorrentino.blogspot.com.

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CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1    Walking In The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death

Chapter 2    Saints And Sinners

Chapter 3    The Reluctant Prince

Chapter 4    Doing God’s Work

Chapter 5    The Decision Makers

Chapter 6    Telling It On A Mountain

Chapter 7    The Roman Guard

Chapter 8    Jericho

Chapter 9    Hunger And Thirst For Justice

Chapter 10  Gethsemane

Chapter 11  Justice

Chapter 12  Photo Finish

Chapter 13  In The Beginning Was The Word

Chapter 14  Visiting The Imprisoned

Chapter 15  The Right Not To Remain Silent

Chapter 16  Lord, I Am Not Worthy . . .

Chapter 17  The Coronation

Chapter 18  Inquisition In Progress

Chapter 19  Fit To Print

Chapter 20  Requiem

Chapter 21  Senatus Popolusoue Romanum

Chapter 22  The Appointment

Chapter 23  Heart Of The Matter

Chapter 24  Acts Of Charity: Acts Of Love

Chapter 25  Pax Tecum

Chapter 26  Vengeance Is Mine, Saith The Lord

Chapter 27  Cardinal Sins

Chapter 28  Justice Prevails

Chapter 29  Free, At Last

Chapter 30  For The People Of Rome

Chapter 31  Urbis Et Orbis

Chapter 32  Deadline

Chapter 33  Going To Press

Chapter 34  March 4, 1987 – Epilogue

ATA

PREFACE

Spring 2019

I wrote this story in 1988 when I was still reeling from my public excommunication by the Diocese of Providence because of my work since 1977 as the executive director of Planned Parenthood of Rhode Island, including the state’s first freestanding abortion clinic.

I retired from PPRI in 1987, volunteered as a trained AIDS Buddy for RI Project AIDS, and worked in talk radio for twelve years, winning four Associated Press Awards.

I wrote a nationally syndicated newspaper column and continued to be involved with the social and legislative human rights and equity issues we are still struggling with a quarter of a century later. Despite great strides having been made, there is always endless toil in the vineyards of equality and humanity.

So while I have gone forward with my life, broadening my areas of concern and tailoring my arguments to accommodate new technologies, new medical facts, successful court challenges, and the impact of change on resolved issues that used to be massive problems, I note with dismay and some anger that Rome is still making the same excuses for ignoring sexual abuse by its clergy, the inequity of women Catholics, and the general disconnect—centuries old—between the church and the compassion and love it should feel for a flock struggling with personal realities such as sexual orientation and preferences, marriage struggles, unintended pregnancies and the prevention of such, and many more issues that have plagued a rigid Catholic church since the Dark Ages.

Yet, while the laity has become more loving and forgiving of its hierarchy and its earthly neighbors of all faiths (or no faith), the church still embraces feudal views, laws, and traditions in public, while daily headlines around the globe in the past two decades have exposed a secret Roman Catholic clergy and hierarchy not only breaking all the rules but also rising in sin to the highest level of church governance while doing so. It is this hypocrisy that has decimated the number of Catholics in the pews and in the seminaries/convents. The faithful have lost faith.

My manuscript of this book sat in a box for thirty years. Now, after reading yet one more news story of child sexual abuse by priests, unpunished and still serving, I was spirited to open the box, pull out the manuscript, and edit the book.

I hope to inspire observers to challenge ecclesiastical indifference and demand answers to ignored injustices, especially crimes against too many children and their families, by a clergy stifling justice while increasing its power and influence—while committing obvious crimes and avoiding prosecution.

Most Catholics love their faith but lack a committed and just clergy to love them.

Survivor may see—in this novel—ghosts, or even identical twins of those whose crimes still haunt survivors, even those in the winter of their lives.

Their brave sharing of nightmares that never die makes telling these stories possible. May the tales of their pain spirit a greater rally to their cause, and the justice they and we seek and deserve. Humbled by the trust so many have placed in me. I struggle to be their voice—without saying who they are, who they fear, and who, ultimately, should fear them and the truths their stories expose.

O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,

and I detest all my sins, because I dread

The loss of heaven and the pains of hell . . .

—Pre-Vatican II Act of Contrition

CHAPTER 1

WALKING IN THE VALLEY OF

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

Labor Day was a major holiday in Madison, a city with a strong union tradition and deep blue-collar roots. Many of its more affluent residents fled for one last weekend at the lakes or in the mountains to the west of the city, seeking a final unwinding before the fall routine of school and work set the stage for another long, brutal winter.

Roland Greystone looked out over the city from the half-mile-high window of his mountain retreat in the village of Black Ridge. He surveyed the misty vista below him, framed by the graceful pines and speckled birch trees of this, his birthplace barely stateside of the Canadian border.

His family had lived in the Black Ridge for generations, but his mining relatives would never have imagined his eventual rise to power and wealth.

Roland’s mother, an immigrant Roman Catholic convert with Welsh ties to the Methodist church, had been especially proud of her son’s catapult to the upper ranks of her adopted church’s hierarchy. Greystone had loved her deeply, and her death only two weeks before his consecration as bishop of Madison had been a blow from which he had never fully recovered.

Patriarch Maurice Greystone, only one year later, followed his beloved wife Victoria to their shared grave. Like his Native American father, he had fought the black lung long and valiantly, but in the end, it had been the winner. His bishop son had been by his bedside at the end, and the old man had noticed that, even then, they had little to say to each other that would be of any comfort to either of them.

The land on which Bishop Greystone’s chalet retreat now stood had been left to him, the only child, as his inheritance. The property represented his mother’s sacrifices to try, in the face of many tough years when Maurice’s pay was lean and scattered, to build a future her son, at least, could enjoy.

Roland Greystone trembled as he sipped his brandy-laced coffee, his fourth cup that morning. He was anxiously awaiting the phone call he knew would come, any moment, from Cardinal Kreen’s residence.

Roland had been up most of the night. He had done his weeping. He had been sick to his stomach, something that occurred with greater frequency these days, and he had cringed in the bed, shivering with the night sweats he attributed to his own guilt and terror.

Suddenly, as if a clue had been given, he turned from the window and walked quickly to the radio, tuning in to the local station in Briarsborough. He looked at his watch—9:57, only three minutes to go before the morning newscast. He took a long swallow of the drugged brew and waited as the commercial jingle rang annoyingly in his ears.

And now the news for Black Ridge County, the announcer began at ten sharp.

Last night, county police picked up . . .

Roland Greystone froze. He put his head in his hands and pulled at his hair with his fingertips, waiting.

. . . two armed suspects in the vicinity of Martine’s Department Store, which was robbed earlier in the evening . . .

Greystone looked up, slightly relieved. He leaned toward the radio and reached out to turn up the volume.

In another incident, police arrested a couple on Highway 19 when their car . . .

A traffic accident that had resulted in a drunk driving charge. Roland Greystone stood up now.

On the national scene, the president told a meeting of union leaders that this holiday should remind Americans . . .

Hearing no mention of the story he prayed would never become public, Greystone went to the pantry to refill his glass mug and returned, quickly, as the newsman was wrapping up his newscast.

Greystone looked again at his watch: 10:08 a.m. And now, the weather and traffic reports for all of you holiday travelers out there . . .

As Roland Greystone reached down to turn off the radio, he was startled by the ringing of the telephone. He jumped, spilling coffee on the gray carpet beneath his feet. Ignoring that, he ran to answer the call he knew could determine his future.

Taking a deep breath and another swig of the brandied coffee, the bishop picked up the receiver.

Hello, he said, quietly and meekly.

Roland, Cardinal Kreen . . .

Greystone could tell from the tone in his superior’s voice that the cardinal was beyond the stage of patient understanding of what he had so often referred to with Roland as "your very delicate problem, which must be controlled."

Bishop . . . and I do wish you would understand the implications of that title instead of dragging it through the mud, I have spent the better part of the night and this morning trying to save your career . . . and, more importantly, protecting the glory of your church . . .

Cardinal, please let me explain . . . Greystone offered hesitantly.

Explain nothing! Kreen shouted. Bishop Greystone, let me make a few things very clear to you, once and for the final time.

Greystone could picture the fat, round face of Cardinal Frederick Kreen as he screamed into the telephone. The bishop of Madison sat down on the couch as he listened, his knuckles white from the force with which he held on to the receiver at his ear.

Last night . . . last night’s disgusting incident is the last straw, Bishop. The police in this county are on to you, and they are even more disgusted with you than I am. Do you hear me, Bishop? They are disgusted . . . and they are right to be disgusted!

Roland Greystone’s mind was spinning as the images of flashing police car lights and the gleaming badge under the flashlight beam whirled before him. He remembered bolting upright in the front seat of his rented car as soon as he had been aware of the blue glow spinning behind him at the rest stop off the highway. His hangover blurring his recollections, he vaguely recalled the face of the arresting officer and his vile tone as he said, "Okay, you lovebirds, get out of the car, slowly, and put your hands on the roof of this vehicle . . . Jesus Christ . . . you guys make me sick."

Roland Greystone was only remotely aware, now, of Cardinal Kreen’s ranting as the nightmare of remembrance continued.

Stunned, Roland Greystone had reached for the handle of the car door on the driver’s side and opened it, very slowly. His eyes were still riveted on the young man to his right, a seventeen-year-old with wide eyes, now flooded with tears, as he struggled to pull up his jeans and zip up the fly, all along murmuring, Holy shit. Christ . . . we’re in deep shit now . . . Christ . . . we’re gonna get our asses kicked by this motherfucker . . .

As Roland Greystone stepped into the flashlight’s rays, he turned to the police officer and said weakly, Officer, please allow me to explain. May I reach into my pocket and get my license . . . I am . . .

"Just get those hands on the roof of that vehicle, you faggot! I don’t care if you’re the Speaker of the House right now. Just do as I say!"

Greystone turned back and did as he was told. He looked across the roof of the car and saw the tightly curled head emerge from the passenger side, and then he watched as his companion turned quickly to face him. He was still beautiful, Greystone thought, even at that moment. The terror in the huge black eyes fascinated even then, and the flashing blue light reflected eerily off the shiny skin on the strong, classic face of the black youth.

Greystone looked away, ashamed, and suddenly aware of the taste in his mouth—the bittersweet taste of men loving men. He swallowed hard and felt as if he might be sick.

Spread ’em, the officer was saying as he hit Greystone’s thighs with the handle of his revolver then started to frisk him.

"Now don’t get too excited when I do this, you queer bastard. This is nothing personal, believe me, strictly business. Jesus, you make me sick!"

In the background, Greystone could hear the police radio calls, interrupted by static and high-pitched beeps between messages.

The policeman walked brusquely to the passenger side now and started to work over the young man.

Officer . . . Officer . . . I don’t know nothin’ about this guy . . . I mean, I was just . . .

Shut up, kid. You were in there I’ a blow job, weren’t you? Now I don’t care if this guy’s your Dutch uncle or a complete stranger. You make me sick, and what was goin’ on here just now is against the law in this county. Now just spread ’em and shut up.

Car 16, come in, please. Officer Blanding, please give your location, the male voice on the police radio repeated amid the static and the beeps. Charlie, where are you for Christ’s sake?

Officer Blanding completed his search of the minor and then walked toward his car, saying, Don’t either of you pansies move. Just stand still, right there.

Greystone heard the gravel crunch under the policeman’s feet as he walked past him, opened the car door, and took out his radio mic.

Car 16 here. Captain, I’m out on the highway, at the rest stop. I just picked up two . . . uh . . . guys here. I’m bringin’ them in on a 95I. One of them’s underage . . .

"Ten-four, Charlie. We were just worried about you. You’ve been pretty quiet tonight. Over."

Well, I ain’t gonna be quiet when I get in there, boss. These guys make me sick, and I intend to book ’em on every charge that applies.

Read ’em their rights, Charlie. See you in a few minutes. Charlie Blanding had been a county policeman for thirty years.

He was a good cop, and he liked his work in this relatively quiet community. A few traffic tickets, an occasional robbery in the village, maybe a rape every five years or so, lots of domestic beefs he tried to stay out of, but otherwise, nothing too troublesome.

But these faggots who came here on vacation to do their disgusting deeds in his town really made his blood boil.

He slammed his car door and walked over to Greystone. Okay, both of you, I’m bringin’ you both in on sodomy charges and whatever else applies here. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to have an attorney . . . Charlie Blanding read them their rights.

Roland Greystone wasn’t listening. His mind was racing back to the chancery office in Madison, to the imagined headlines in the newspaper, to the ring on his finger, which, now, tapped nervously on the roof of the rented car.

Bishop Greystone, Bishop Greystone . . . answer me goddammit. Bishop, are you there? Cardinal Kreen’s shrill yelling brought Roland Greystone back to the reality of his chalet living room and his superior’s tirade.

Yes, Your Eminence . . . yes . . . I’m here.

Now, get your ass back to Madison as soon as possible. Shut down that chalet of yours and don’t go back there until I say so, which may be never. These cops are not at all enthusiastic about burying this thing, and I still have a lot of convincing to do up here. Now I don’t want you and your sickness creating any more problems in Black Ridge. Do you hear me?

Yes, Cardinal . . . yes, I hear you . . . and I want to reassure you . . .

Listen, Greystone, I’ve heard enough reassurances from you over the years to fill every basilica in Rome with hot air. Now let me tell you something, Bishop. I have bailed you out of this kind of thing for the last time. Is that clear? Next time, and there had better not be a next time, you’ll fry along with these kids you pick up. Understand?

Greystone was silent. Suddenly, he remembered his companion of last night and wondered what had become of him. He couldn’t remember.

Cardinal Kreen . . . Cardinal, what happened to the boy?

Just get the hell out of there and get back to Madison. I’ll take care of the rest. That boy is going to have to take the rap for you. Somebody has to take the rap, you understand.? I mean, these cops want blood, preferably your blood. This kid’s only fifteen. He even lied to you about his age . . .

Greystone felt the hot wave of shame wash over him. Now he realized he would have the additional guilt of yet one more young victim to carry. He felt worthless, and Kreen confirmed his feelings in a moment.

You’re no good, Greystone. I never liked you, and I don’t like you now. You should understand that if my own reputation weren’t at stake along with yours, I’d just as soon see you hang for this. Now get the hell out of here and wait to hear from me, or from Rome, in Madison.

The phone on the other end of the line slammed in Greystone’s ear. He sat very still for several seconds before focusing again, hanging up his receiver.

There were no tears. Roland Greystone was beyond crying. There was, however, the cold sweat breaking out all over his body, and the distant twinge of cramping in his gut, a feeling he had come to know well in recent months. As he stood up, the cramps became more severe, and he ran into the bathroom as the diarrhea peaked.

An hour later, Roland Greystone was closing his suitcase and looking around the chalet bedroom to check, haphazardly, for belongings he might have forgotten to pack.

He took the handle of the suitcase into his hand and walked to the living room. Setting down the bag, he approached the front windows and checked their locks, moving in trancelike slow motion.

He entered the pantry and turned off the coffeepot, rinsed it, and placed it in the sink. Then he reached over to lock the small window behind it.

Opening the coat closet near the front door, he pulled out his forest green parka and removed it from its hanger. As he rolled down the sleeve of his plaid flannel shirt before putting on the jacket, his eyes suddenly focused on the small purple spot just above his left wrist.

Oh god, another one, he murmured.

He tried to ignore the echoes of diarrhea cramps in his gut, buttoned his shirt cuff, and pushed his arm into the sleeve of the parka.

In the past several weeks, Roland Greystone had been aware of the tiny purple spots on his legs and chest. He tried to convince himself it was an allergic skin reaction of some kind.

Suitcase in hand again, as he locked the bolt on the chalet door, he thought about those spots again. Terrified, he ran toward the car and threw in his suitcase. Slamming the door behind him, he pushed the key into the ignition and started the powerful engine, racing it in his excitement.

His eyes focused again on his wrist as his hands clutched the wheel, the purple