The Cousin’s Return
by Elizabeth Kelly

Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001, held the promise of a perfect day.  Pristine clouds caressed the towers like tipsy halos. I had said the eight o’clock mass and was heading back to the rectory hoping to avoid the oatmeal. A plane flying low over the river caught my attention. I followed its progress and saw the beginning of the end of my world happen at 9:10 A.M.. That was the day New Yorkers accepted death as inevitable, unexpected and not an option. The cool cleansing winds from the north river cannot purify my city. The acrid smell of death is now imbedded in her concrete soul.
	In the midst of this emotional turmoil the visitation occurred and it will be for you to decide if this was a true event or an aberration brought on by the turmoil of the time in which we found ourselves. In spite of my clerical garb and the roman collar which keeps my chin up I am not one given to beatific visions. Those are reserved for saints and mystics. Non saints achieve hallucinations from the trance inducing drugs available in college dorms. Yes, I did inhale but that was in my other life as an undergrad at Yale. As a troublesome twig on the   Episcopalian branch of the family tree, I never expected to have an encounter with the dead. As a convert to Catholicism I walk an objective path void of superstition. Yet, I often wonder if the horror and noise of that Tuesday morning literally woke the dead. Actually it did.
	When the visitation occurred I was not alone. All of the inhabitants of St. Peter’s witnessed the intrusion and will give testimony to the turmoil we endured. 
	St. Peter’s was built in 1785 when the British finally left New York. It stands within walking distance of Trinity Church where my ancestors do not rest in quiet Protestant peace. I live in the rectory at St. Peter’s where I share cracked walls, indifferent heating, noisy plumbing and the desperate offerings from the kitchen of our housekeeper Mrs. Fuentes with my two fellow priests.
	Monsignor Murphy is our boss. He is a man of few talents and great faith. He has total trust God and the nutritional value of oatmeal. This glutinous mass is served every morning. Monsignor’s taste in music is limited to maudlin Irish dirgesand his unusual affection for his “Sainted Mother” is my own personal mystery. My relationship with my own mother is reserved. She has an Episcopalian ambivalence as to my state in life. There are worse things I might have done. I could have married a Jewess, become a Democrat or come out of the closet and moved to San Francisco.  I am neither gay nor given to an interest in little boys. I have always liked women and while I have never had a great love I have had a great lust but I will not go there now. Sorry but when I have these thoughts my collar seems much tighter and it is a powerful distraction.
	Fr. Edward Cameron, the tall giant who is my house mate has Caribbean roots.  He left his home at seventeen to attend Villanova where he had a track scholarship. The soft lilt of the Caribbean islands still flows in speech. He signs himself as Fr. Ed thus he has become known in the Parish as Fred.  Msgr., Fred and I follow the commitment to our pastoral life working in the shelters, sharing the hospital rounds at St. Luke’s and when asked by families we visit the local stationhouse to bail out recalcitrant teenagers. We testify to their potential and value as future citizens and taxpayers. Sometimes I lie. Our lives are spent coping with life in a hard place.  Gangs, prostitution, and drugs rip at the seams of the neighborhood and the reservoirs of out own emotional strength. 
	The work of a serious parish priest is at times totally exhausting. The only well rested member of the household is Cat. She is a beautiful orange tabby who followed Monsignor home from Food Emporium where he purchases the monthly supply of McCann’s Irish Oatmeal. Cat does not have a soul ergo she is not Baptized and has no need of a name. She is simply Cat. She is a needy animal and more than a bit neurotic. She lurks in corners waiting for one of us to sit. She then pounces on to the vacant lap expecting to be scratched and petted. Cat cannot sit and purr as would a normal cat. No, she rotates back and forth in a manner that would confound any Vet. If I believed in reincarnation I could accept that Cat was a lap dancer in another life. However I do not believe in reincarnation. This is our one and only shot at salvation and if I hang around with Cat I will never make it. It was Cat who sounded the alarm as to the invasion of the dead ancestor.
	It all began on Sunday afternoon when I joined my mother and sister for dinner at LeCirque. We dine at five in deference to mother’s delicate digestion. My sister Midge lives in Connecticut with her normal husband Tom and their two children. She is a wonderful mother. This quality she did not inherit from our mother. My sister has modeled herself on our nanny, the no nonsense, loving and funny presence in our young lives. She was with us until we left for boarding school. Our mother speaks through clenched teeth even when she is neither suffering from pain or anger. 
	When I arrived the gourmet groupies were fully engaged in savoring the offerings of the newest chef. The host directed me toward the waving hand of my sister who for some reason is always glad to see me. Mother’s attention was focused on the menu and she proceeded to apprise us of the offerings as our ability to read has escaped her notice. 
	“Good to see you, Jon. We have so much to catch up on.”
	“Good to see you too, Midge.” and I leaned over to give this amazing sister a hug. I nodded to my mother as public displays of affection are not in good taste. Mother has raised nodding to an art form. As she continued to detail the offerings of the menu I enquired about my niece and nephew.
	“They are both well and busy at school but Jon I have a special favor to ask of you for Alli.” 
	“Sure, whatever.”  I agreed realizing I had no idea as to what Alli needed but how taxing could a fifth grade project be?
	“Great, she needs a rubbing from the head stone of Alexander Hamilton’s grave. Alli is doing a report for her history class and she chose to do hers on the ancestor.”  I glanced at mother, who appeared to be memorizing the menu. 	
	“Mother did you have anything to do with Allie’s choice?”
	The menu lowered and I stared into the clear blue of my mother’s deceitful eyes. “Now why would I influence my granddaughter on an insignificant class project, Jon Hamilton Stanton?”
	“I have no idea where the thought came from but I will go and secure a rubbing from the bastard’s grave this week if not sooner.”
	“John, such language. I’m appalled. You must not speak ill of the dead.” Mother is a strong believer in revisionist history. She refuses to be connected to an ancestor of questionable birth.
	“I stand corrected,” as I sat with my eyes firmly fixed on the appetizer mother had ordered which I was unable to identify having blocked out her recitation of the menu.
	“Are you smirking, Jon?”
	“Of course not mother, I’m puzzling.”
	“About what, Jon?”
	“About what I’m eating?”
 	“It’s delicious, isn’t it Jon?” interjected my sister the peacemaker.
	“Yes, totally.” I replied, still focusing on the assortment of not quite dead bits of seafood. Oh where is Cat when I need her? 
	Dinner was abysmal, three foie gras stuffed ravioli over a bitter cabbage. With relief it was over by six and as we rose to take our leave Midge pressed a roll of paper for the rubbing into my hands and I promised to call.
	My hopes of finding a hot dog stand and the mildness of the evening carried me on my journey. I was soon in the world of the working poor, so many families and so much hardship. Hell’s kitchen is aptly named.
	The flood lights from ground zero illuminated Trinity church yard. I was able to locate the grave without a problem and make the rubbing. As it was still early I decided to walk over to the scene of carnage. I was never alone on my nocturnal visits to the site, so many came to bear witness. The acrid smell was stronger here and a young nurse offered me a mask. It seemed like a good idea. 
	“What has happened to my country?” a voice at my elbow whispered.
	I focused on the bulldozers and the trucks carrying broken concrete with the remains of dead to Staten Island landfills. I didn’t look at the stranger who had spoken; I didn’t want to see his pain. Sometimes the grief I felt was overwhelming. The Franciscan priest who was the first to die was carried by the firemen to St. Peter’s. His body was followed by others and the church quickly became a morgue. The bodies are gone now and tomorrow I would say another requiem mass and offer consolation. In my heart I wanted revenge but on who? My emotions always so calculated and controlled were in ferment. Forgiveness was the code I had chosen to live by and now I was being tested. I prayed now for help in my well of grief and fury. The voice of the stranger beside me spoke, “Prayer helps.” I hadn’t spoken but he knew my thoughts. Shocked, I quickly turned but the street was deserted.
	I passed a fitful night. They said that shock comes unexpectedly and in unusual forms. I know myself and this was not a feeling I could relate to. My mother would say I was fretting. “Oh Lord, am I getting into the Irish thing of mother worship?” I prayed for an answer. It came soon enough.
	I said the first mass and on my way back to the rectory focusing on my new plan for oatmeal avoidance I heard the screams of Mrs. Fuentes and the howling of Cat. I charged through the side entrance into absolute mayhem. Monsignor was roaring at a visitor in my office and the kitchen was on fire. I checked out the kitchen first. Mrs. Fuentes was in the hall sobbing and Fred was in the kitchen opening the windows in an effort to clear the smoke. He had managed to extinguish the fire on the range and then closed the kitchen door to contain the smoke. We pulled our cook along the hall. 
	Fred’s voice was soft and calming. “Everything is fine now, the fire is out. You didn’t mean to do it. Accidents happen.”
	Mrs. Fuentes inhaled and glared at us. “Me! I do nothing. Your brother,” she said pointing at me, “he come into the kitchen and he scream at me because I reading my paper. He say I a disgrace to bring my Post into the house. He throw the paper onto the stove. He ruin the oatmeal.”
	I was dumbfounded. “He said he was my brother? I don’t have a brother.” 
	“He look like you, but he wear funny clothes.” she said, in a quiet now hesitant voice as she crossed herself.
	“Where is he now?”
	“In your office with Monsignor. Should I make more oatmeal?”
Fred smiled and said not to worry about any more oatmeal. He promised we would straighten out the matter and directed her toward the couch in the music/junk room where she usually took a morning nap. With Fred doing damage control I felt that things might yet return to normal. 
	I knocked on my office door and entered without waiting for an answer. Monsignor stood with clenched fists staring at the other occupant of the room. It was as if I were seeing myself in the garb of the 18th century. 
	“Who are you?” I blurted. “What in God’s name are you doing here setting a fire in the kitchen?”
	He stared back at me with a haughtiness I recognized but could not place. “I am here sir at your invitation. The gravestone rubbing you purloined is the key to my ascension. I burned that newspaper because the paper I started is not fit for Cat’s discharge. The New York Post was a literary giant.”
	“But who are you or who were you?” I persisted even though I feared the answer was obvious.
	“I sir, am Alexander Hamilton, aide to President Washington, Secretary of the Treasury, founder of the New York Post and the Bank of New York to name a few. And you Sir, who are you and what have you done for your country”?
	With my worst fears confirmed I held on to the desk chair Monsignor had folded into. “I haven’t done a damn thing and now I don’t know what to do with you?”
	Fred entered the room with a big smile. “Are we all getting along now?”
	Secretary Hamilton moved across the room and extended his hand to Fred. “I hear in your voice the sounds of my childhood. You are from St. Kitts are you not?”
	Fred nodded still smiling.
	“Are you also a bastard?” The shock on Fred’s face was apparent. 
	“No sir I am not, I am a man of God.”
	“Aren’t we all?” Hamilton replied in a bored voice and then he continued, “You are most fortunate your parents were considerate of their children because the stigma of bastard was too common in the islands and when I came to the colonies, it was the cross I had to carry for my life.”
	“My parents were very good people,” replied a totally confused Fred. “But Sir, if I may say I am struck by the resemblance you bear to Father Jon. It is amazing.”
	“There is nothing amazing about it, he is my descendant.” replied the haughty ancestor and turning to me he said, “I would like to see my bank but I am confused by the change in location. Will you direct me?”
	“Yes he will Mr. Secretary,” interjected Monsignor adding “Get him out of here Jon.”
	Before I left I turned to Fred saying, “Call my brother in law and tell him the whole story. Tell him we’re on our way over and please help me out here.” Fred nodded and pressed his new digital camera into my hands. “Take some pictures or none will believe this.” 
	As the ancestor and I left the rectory, Hamilton took possession of the digital, intrigued by the invention. We crossed Broad Street and proceeded along the streets of lower Manhattan with little interest from the pedestrian traffic. New Yorkers have an “I’ve seen it all attitude.” but they haven’t see this. The walking dead and the soon to be dead as Hamilton moved along oblivious to traffic. We reached the Bank of New York Headquarters and were greeted by the security personal with wands. My brother in law, Tom Reynolds, the banks winded and red faced CFO moved forward to greet us. 
	The security moved aside as Tom shook hands with the ancestor. 
	“Welcome to Bank of New York” he boomed and then in an undertone, “What the hell in going on, Jon?” 
	“I have come to see what you have done with my bank and the people’s money,” interrupted the ancestor as he proceeded along the corridors of commerce. He noted the banks of computer screens and the nest of phones on every desk. This was an acceptable puzzle, it was business and Hamilton understood trade. We followed him through to the trading floors and the giant electronic monitors dictating the ups and downs of the market. 
	“We had chalk boards for this but things move faster now. Do you understand every trade that is made?” he questioned.
	“I don’t but I’m sure the brokers do. It’s their job.” answered Tom.
	Hamilton stared at Tom measuring the man. “My dear sir, it is you who needs to understand every trade and deal that is made. That is your inheritance as a trustee of my bank. If you do not understand it don’t do it. There is a reason a deal is too complicated to understand, the reason is greed and chicanery. Heed my words sir and you will be well served.” and with that he moved forward continuing, “Beware of foreign entanglements. They seek their own profit not yours. I told that to George and he understood. The new leaders are not as wise as they need to be. Foreign powers will screw us to the masts of their trading ships.”	
	The ancestor abruptly turned and moved toward the exit saying, “I’ve seen enough but heed my words Tom or my bank will fold.” 
	We were again walking along Wall Street and then Hamilton saw the statue of Washington outside if the Federal Building. He nodded approval of this. Again he reminded me of someone and I was at a loss.
	“My God, it’s still here” and he bounded across Pearl Street to Fraunces Tavern. “We’ll get a meal here Jon and we’ll be well served. This was our favorite haunt. George and Tom Jefferson praised the ale. It was marvelous.”  
	This was just what I needed, an ossified ghost who was not transparent. I followed the ancestor into the tavern where he proceeded to commandeer a table. He ordered without a menu and what he ordered was not available. It hadn’t been available since 1840. He was thoroughly disappointed and was leaving when my cell phone rang.
	“Father Jon here.”
	“Thank heaven I found you.”
	“What is it Midge, what’s going on?”
	“Well Tom called and told mother what was happening and she is on her way over to the Rectory.”
	“Oh my God.”
	“It gets worse, Tom is coming too and he’s bringing Robert Kelly the new CEO of the bank. Kelly was part of the Mellon merger. He knows the story and wants to meet Hamilton.”
	“This can’t be happening.”
	“I’ll meet you at the rectory as soon as I can.”
	“Good, I owe you one.”
	I signed off and struggled through the mid day crowds to reach Hamilton who was affronted by the throngs and the hustlers selling Kate Spade knock offs. My mind was in turmoil as we walked back to the rectory. How was I going to convince Hamilton that he had to go back to his grave? 
	“What is that gadget you’re talking into Jon?”
	“It’s a phone.”
	“May I see it?”
	When we finally reached the rectory a packed house was waiting for us. Mother and two ladies from the DAR were there to verify the identity of the man who purported to be Alexander Hamilton. They promptly fainted and were carried to the music/storage room. My brother-in-law and Robert Kelly wanted to talk to Hamilton and they adjourned to the parlor. He gave them instructions on how to reach a secret vault in which gold bullion was stored for an emergency. When they returned we had an intervention. Hamilton sat at my desk and we told him he had to return to his grave. He nodded and then I knew. He reminded me of my mother. He had the nod. 
	“I am sure you are right. Everything here is too changed and I have every wish to return but I may not be able to stay because I am buried the wrong way.”
	“The wrong way?” we chorused. 
	“Yes but I’m not sure what the right way is.”
	“I do.” shouted Robert Kelly. “We were in Dublin a few years ago and visited Glasnevin Cemetery where two million are buried. Grave position is important to the Irish.”
	“Position is everything in life,” nodded mother in affirmation.
	“Yes, quite,” continued Kelly, “it seems the feet must be facing the east so that on judgment day when the dead rise up they will see the Almighty in the rising sun. At least that is what the guide told us and all the graves were facing east”
	“Lets try it and I’ll take the gravestone rubbing with me as I don’t want to come back. I’m exhausted.”
	Midge pulled out her cell phone and made a call to the mayor’s office. Monsignor called the Rector at Trinity and arrangements were made to open the grave. Mother called in the living members of the New York chapter of the DAR and Mrs. Fuentes called in the rosary society. Late that afternoon the workers from the world trade center came to reinforce the grave of Hamilton and turn it to the correct position as they had been told it was weakened during the attack. Here was an American hero, a founder of this nation whose grave was desecrated by terrorists. Hamilton’s new best friends gathered at the grave along with the ever present tourists to sing America the Beautiful.
	Fred and I returned to the rectory with Monsignor after the reburial. We were all exhausted and Monsignor broke out the bottle of Glenlevit he had been saving for Christmas. He viewed a “taste of the creature” to be the best tonic for our circumstances. 
	“Jon, do you have my camera?”
	I reached into my pocket. The camera was gone and so was my cell phone.
	“My God he has your camera and my cell phone.” I stared a Fred in bewilderment as the phone on my desk rang.
	“Don’t answer that.” shouted Monsignor.
	And we didn’t.