The Child
As the only child of wealthy industrialist Forbes M. Willingford, a Jerome Willingford was born into a world of privilege and luxury. Unfortunately, it was also one of loneliness for the little boy. His mother devoted her time to her many social obligations and charitable organizations, and his father dedicated his life to his business and political interests.
Young Jerome was left in the care of a governess and later sent away to a prestigious preparatory school in New England. He rarely spent time with his family even during school holidays and summer vacations. Upon completion of prep school, he attended Harvard University, in keeping with the career path his father had mapped out for him, one that was meant to begin with law school and end with Jerome sitting in the oval office of the White House.
It was during his second year of pre-law that young Willingford met the only person he would ever truly love.
Heather McAvoy's background was nothing at all like Jerome's. The daughter of a Boston public bus driver, Heather grew up in Puritan Falls, roughly half an hour's drive north of the city. She attended public school and graduated from Puritan Falls High School before getting a job as a barista at a Cambridge Starbucks.
When Jerome walked into the coffee shop one chilly October morning, he had not expected to fall in love. In fact, he never believed in such foolishness as love at first sight. When the young beauty with the angel's face asked to take his order, however, he was instantly smitten.
It's just a simple case of infatuation, he tried to convince himself.
He had been physically attracted to women before. It wasn't as though he was still a virgin. He had his share of conquests both at Harvard and at prep school. But the physical desire he'd felt for other women in no way compared to the overwhelming yearning he felt for Heather McAvoy. The feeling was so strong, so unique, that Jerome did not immediately press his suit, fearful he might scare her off. Instead, he moved slowly, settling for simple friendship until he could earn Heather's trust.
By the beginning of December, Jerome knew what he felt was genuine love. He decided even before asking for that all-important first date, he would one day make the beautiful young woman his wife. It never occurred to him that there were doors the Willingford name and fortune could not open.
Two weeks before Christmas Jerome walked into Starbucks, deliberately timing his visit to coincide with Heather's work schedule.
"Hi, Jerome," Heather greeted him with her usual captivating smile. "Will it be the usual today?"
"No. I feel adventurous. I think I'll be daring and have a hot chocolate."
"Coming right up."
Thankfully, there were no other customers waiting on line behind him, so Jerome was able to engage Heather in conversation.
"It's hard to believe Christmas is just around the corner," he said.
"Not for me. I didn't think the holidays would ever get here!" the girl exclaimed.
"Oh? Do you have something special planned?"
"My boyfriend will be coming home then. He's attending Penn State, and I haven't seen him since August."
A boyfriend! Jerome felt as though an unseen fist had punched him in the solar plexus.
Be cool, he told himself. It's not as though she has a husband or even a fiancé. Girls break up with boyfriends all the time.
Immediately he made an early New Year's resolution that come January he would declare his love and try to win her from the Penn State student.
When he returned to Starbucks in after the first of the year, however, he learned that Heather had quit her job and moved to Pennsylvania to be with her boyfriend. Jerome was crushed and would never fully recover from the blow.
* * *
"What do you mean you're not going to go to law school?" Forbes Willingford barked when his son informed him of his change in classes.
"I don't want to become a lawyer or a politician," Jerome explained.
Forbes checked his temper since he did not want to alienate his only son.
"All right. So you don't want to study law. Medicine is a noble profession."
"I'm not going to be a doctor either. I want to become a priest."
If the sun rose purple in the sky, Forbes could not have been any more surprised.
"A priest? In God's name, why?"
"Because I received a calling."
Although Forbes tried to dissuade his son from following what he considered a foolish course of action, Jerome was resolute.
Once decided upon his path, Jerome pursued his goal with a determination his father grudgingly admired. Given his excellent academic performance (and his family's connections), he received an appointment to the Vatican after being ordained. While serving at the Roman Curia, he eventually rose to the position of bishop and became one of the Pope's most trusted aides.
When Jerome had announced his intentions of becoming a priest, his parents wrongly assumed that their son had no ambition. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, he had greater ambition than both his industrialist father and his socially conscious mother. His aspirations were so great that the presidency was not enough for him. An American chief executive could hope for eight years, at best, before fading into the realm of former presidents. The Catholic Church, however, offered him power no secular position could match. Why settle for being president, he figured, when you could be a supreme pontiff? For that was where Jerome Willingford's ambition was pointing him: he wanted to be the first American-born Pope.
The young bishop never told anyone of his lofty goal, not even his own parents, and no one ever guessed his true motivation. On the surface, he was a humble, hard-working bishop, unselfishly devoted to his calling and willing to do anything his superiors asked of him.
It was his reputation as a "company man" that made Father Jerome invaluable to the Pope. During his tenure at the Vatican, he had been called upon to handle several delicate matters that might have resulted in disastrous scandals that would have made the Boston pedophilic priests look like boy scouts. The American bishop dispatched such matters with tactful skill unparalleled in either the religious or secular world.
When Jerome was summoned by the papal secretary one October morning, he supposed another potentially damaging situation was in the making. With little doubt that he was up to the task, he confidently strolled past the Swiss Guard and into the Papal Apartments.
He entered the Pope's private study, where two men sat speaking gravely to each other in hushed voices. One was the Holy Father himself; the other was a man unknown to Jerome. The second man was of an age so great that he made the Pope look like a school boy.
Jerome bowed before the pontiff, kissed his ring and uttered, "Your Holiness."
"This," the Pope said, turning toward the elderly priest, "is Father Maletta. He is here on exceedingly urgent business."
"His Holiness tells me that of all his bishops, you are the one most qualified to assist me," Father Maletta said.
"I will do my best," Jerome replied, thinking the elderly man probably didn't need a priest as much as he did a good public relations man.
"A child was born last night," the Pope began.
"He is the Antichrist," Father Maletta added.
"The Antichrist?"
Jerome was flabbergasted. He had anticipated a case of sexual misconduct or financial malfeasance, not the work of the devil. Surely no one believed that Satan's offspring could be anything more than a character out of Rosemary's Baby or The Omen. The very idea was medieval.
"I am a member of a very old and special order," Father Maletta continued. "Its sole purpose has been to keep watch for the signs that would herald the arrival of the dark child. During the past year every one of these portents has come to pass."
"I'm sorry," Jerome said, shaking his head. "I just find it hard to believe ...."
"Father Maletta is correct," the Pope insisted, silencing any further objections from his bishop. "The Antichrist has been born. It is up to you to find him and eliminate him."
"Do you think your faith is strong enough for such a task?" the elderly priest asked. "Are you capable of destroying a child?"
"I believe I am, if I were certain the child was the Antichrist. But how am I to find him?"
"We know he is a Caucasian male child. We also know the exact time at which he was born. Worldwide, there were eighty-seven white, male babies born at that precise moment," Maletta replied.
"Still, you don't expect me to play Herod and massacre eighty-six innocent children in the process of destroying the one evil one?"
"No. You are to seek out the children, one by one until you find him. You will know the Antichrist when you see him."
"How?"
"Not by any physical means. You will instead be given insight."
"If I do find him and am able to determine beyond the shadow of a doubt that he is the devil's child, how am I to kill him?"
"Although he is the progeny of Satan, he was born to a mortal woman, so there are any number of ways you can destroy him: drown him in a bathtub, smother him with a pillow, strangle him with your bare hands."
This was the most surreal moment in Jerome Willingford's life. Here he was in the Vatican, in the presence of the Pope, the head of a religion that was against abortion and birth control, calmly discussing the murder of a newborn baby.
"I know you must be conflicted, my son," the Pope said. "It is a lot to ask of anyone. You must have the faith to believe and the courage and dedication to God to carry out the deed. Of all the men I know, you are my greatest hope."
"I am touched by your confidence in me, Your Holiness," Jerome declared.
"Then will you do as we ask?"
"Always, Your Holiness."
* * *
Jerome Willingford began his investigation with the closest child, one born just outside Rome. Not wanting to call attention to himself, he dressed in a simple black shirt and clerical collar. Paying calls to the sick was a common practice of priests, so no one questioned his presence at the hospital. When he saw the tiny infant in the maternity ward's nursery, it seemed no different from thousands of other babies he'd seen over the years.
What if this is the one? he asked himself. How can I tell?
Father Maletta had assured him there would be no outward sign: no "666" birthmark on his scalp, no tiny horns protruding from his forehead, no cloven hoof. For nearly twenty minutes, Jerome stared at the baby but could discern nothing out of the ordinary about him.
"He's obviously not the one," the bishop told himself and then quickly exited the hospital.
After drawing the same conclusion about the remaining two children in Italy, the priest proceeded to make his way through Western Europe. After seeing the forty-sixth child in the outskirts of Belfast, he boarded a transatlantic flight and headed home to America. The two boys born in New York and the one born in New Jersey brought the total to forty-nine infants he had observed. Not one of them struck him as being anything other than an ordinary human child.
It would help if I knew what I was searching for, he thought as he checked into a Marriott Hotel late one evening.
The bishop was looking forward to a good night's sleep before heading north to New England where he would see three more children on his list: one in Massachusetts, one in Vermont, and one in Maine. Before he turned off the bedside lamp, he glanced at the locations remaining on his list. There were eleven more states and Canada, after which he would have to cross the Pacific. He suddenly felt like Phileas Fogg having to circle the globe. Only his journey would, of necessity, take fewer than eighty days.
Early the next morning Father Jerome took a shuttle flight from New York to Boston where he rented a car and drove to Marblehead. The onboard navigator led him to a modest two-story colonial on Pleasant Street.
Jerome looked for the names of the child's parents: Mrs. Morrissey, mother; father deceased. He turned off his car and took a folder from the briefcase on the back seat. Inside were helpful hints for new parents, information concerning medical care and feeding and coupons for baby items.
The Pope's secret emissary knocked on the door, prepared to introduce himself as a priest affiliated with the local parish, who was making a routine call to a new mother. When the woman of the house opened the door, however, Jerome forgot his carefully rehearsed speech.
"Heather!" he exclaimed.
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Morrissey said. "You have me at a disadvantage. I don't know your name, Father, but there is something familiar about your face."
It was the priest's garb more than the lapse in time that had confused her.
"It's me, Jerome Willingford."
Recognition brightened her pretty face.
"Of course! I remember you now. I was working in Starbucks at the time, and you were attending Harvard."
Jerome could not believe his good fortune. After the years that had passed, here was Heather McAvoy, looking every bit as beautiful as she had when she was seventeen.
"You were going to be a lawyer, if I remember correctly," Heather continued. "I guess you changed your mind."
The mantle of his priesthood seemed, for the first time, to weigh down heavy upon him. As a priest, he had taken a vow of celibacy. True, it was a vow many of his brothers had forsaken, but the Church would never allow a priest to marry.
"I don't suppose you came here to order a Caramel Macchiato or a Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino. So what brings you to Marblehead?"
In the joy of seeing Heather's face at the door, Jerome had forgotten all about his mission on behalf of the Pope. The sudden reminder dampened his good spirits.
"I came here to give you this," he replied, holding out the folder. "It contains useful information on inoculations and childhood diseases as well as coupons on things like diapers, formula, and ...."
Jerome couldn't go on. He didn't want to continue the foolish charade, not with the woman he loved.
"I came to see the baby."
He didn't offer any further explanation, and Heather didn't ask any questions.
"I'll go get him," she simply said.
While the mother was out of the room, the priest thought about his duty. Why was he travelling all over the world, looking at dozens of ordinary children in hopes of finding the Antichrist? Why did the Pope believe the word of Father Maletta, a man well advanced in his years, who might not even be in his right mind?
An Antichrist, indeed! Living on Pleasant Street in Marblehead, Massachusetts?
"Here he is," Heather announced with maternal pride and affection. "My little man."
Jerome turned and felt as though the air had been sucked out of his chest as the infant's eyes seemed to stare into his very soul.
"He's such a good little boy," Heather cooed, blissfully ignorant of her son's true identity. "He hardly ever cries."
"Yes," the priest agreed. "He is a remarkable boy."
"I only wish his father could have lived to see him," the mother said, fighting back her tears.
Jerome knew that he should offer some words of comfort to the widow, but at the moment he was battling with his own demons. He was certain that Heather's baby was the one his Church was seeking: the Antichrist, the child he was sent to destroy.
"Would you like to hold him?" the mother asked and placed the infant into the priest's arms without waiting for a reply.
A physical shock reverberated through Jerome's body. He was holding the son of Satan. He wanted to thrust the child back at Heather, but when he saw her looking down at the infant with love, his heart nearly burst. What if he had been lucky enough to have won her love while he was attending Harvard? What if she had married him instead of the boyfriend from Penn State? Would he have looked upon the child as his own son?
The tiny piercing eyes that had never looked away from the priest's face suddenly softened. The baby yawned and appeared to smile. Bishop Jerome Willingford looked from the child to his mother and knew he would never be able to carry out his assigned task.
I can't kill HER child, he thought desperately. Why, if things had been different, he might have been MY son.
"I think he's asleep," Jerome said and gently gave the infant back to his mother.
"I'll go put him in his crib."
When she returned, Heather Morrissey invited her old friend to stay for dinner.
"I'd love to," he responded, "but I can't. I have to go to Vermont and then on to Maine."
"Maybe some other time then."
"I'd like that. I'd like to keep in touch with you ... and keep an eye on that boy of yours."
* * *
A week later Bishop Willingford returned to Rome. When he was shown into the Pope's study, he placed a death certificate on the table in front of Father Maletta. The infant in question, Jacob Kinney from Seattle, Washington, had been born with multiple birth defects and had not been expected to live long. In hastening the poor child's death, Jerome not only diverted attention from Heather's son, but he had also performed an act of mercy—or so he chose to believe.
"Are you sure this was the one?" Father Maletta asked.
"I'm positive," Jerome lied convincingly.
Both the Pope and the elderly priest sighed with relief.
"Once again you have served Mother Church well," the Pope said. "Perhaps there is something I can do to show my gratitude?"
Jerome's heartbeat quickened. He wanted to ask to be transferred to the Archdiocese of Boston where he could be near Heather and her child, but he wisely vetoed the idea.
"I ask only to remain in your service, Your Holiness."
"You shall," the Pope replied, and with a nod of his head indicated that the audience was over.
* * *
Jerome Willingford continued to serve the Pope to the best of his ability, and within a year was appointed to the College of Cardinals. When the crimson mitre was placed on his head, he felt a momentary rush of pride at being one step closer to becoming the first American Pope. Then he quickly remembered the importance of his appointment, and his pride gave way to humility. He still strived to become the supreme pontiff, but he did so not out of vain ambition but as a way of serving his new master: the baby born to Heather Morrissey, the boy he thought of as his own. For what better way could he show his love for the child than to deliver the Catholic Church into his hands?
Salem likes to dress up as the Antichrist on Halloween. He thinks it intimidates the neighbors into giving him more candy.
