Yet there were “bastard pastors,” as they were known by the clergy, who were far more universally autocratic and nasty than Delvecchio. There were those who would neither understand, forgive, nor tolerate a Sophie.
The nonbenevolent clerical tyrant was rare, but not unique. One such notorious soul, after installing comfortable new pews and kneelers in his church, ran short of money. Unable to outfit the entire church, he then issued an edict directing those attending with children to use the old and visibly tired pews. This was the pastor who had his ushers slash the tires of any automobiles in the church lot that were parked over the yellow line.
Vincent Delvecchio was a long way from that sort of despotism and capricious cruelty. Indeed, he could be downright expansive and generous as long as no rules were being broken or bent.
But there was this hangup as far as the behavior of the clergy was concerned, and, in general, a stiff-necked attitude toward those he perceived as sinners, even when any such person was not conscious of any sin.
However, in the light of his response toward the George Hacketts of this world, what reaction could be expected of Vince Delvecchio in the matter of Father Zack Tully?
On the one hand, it could be argued that Tully was breaking no law. To date, he was on record as being unwilling only to take an oath and profess a faith in a public ceremony. The canonical command insisted only that the pledges be taken by one-among others-who was becoming a pastor. There was no mention of any ceremony. Could there be, Koesler wondered, some way of squeezing through that hole in the law?
The possibility was worth further exploration.
Somehow, this crusade was growing within Father Koesler. If only he could recall more examples from Delvecchio’s past that might cast light on the way the bishop might react to Tully’s plight.
At least it was becoming more clear just what Koesler and Tully were searching for: the presentation or approach that might best elicit a favorable response from Delvecchio.
Whatever it was, it would have to be the opposite of a worst-case scenario: a head-on collision between the bishop’s insistence on a public liturgical event and a flat-out refusal on Tully’s part to have anything to do with such a demand.
But, as in almost any such dispute, the bishop, backed by Church law, held all the cards.
There had to be another way.
Tully’s throat-clearing pulled Koesler back from his reverie. “Yeah,” Tully mused, “if it happened once, it could happen again … couldn’t it?”
“Couldn’t what?”
“Sophie. The housekeeper!” How could Koesler have forgotten what they’d been talking about? It was Koesler’s story after all-and he’d finished it only moments ago.
However, in those moments, Koesler’s memory had raced through the incident involving Delvecchio, McCarthy, and George Hackett. Not only had Koesler replayed the story in fast-forward, he had determined not to cite it as an example of the care and feeding of this auxiliary bishop.
But that was all right. In determining a course of action, it helped to know what one wasn’t going to use because it wouldn’t work. “Oh yes,” Koesler said, “Sophie …”
“I mean,” Tully said, “the thing we could try to get over to the bishop is that this is a part of my background as a Josephite. We weren’t schooled to play out all our cards at once and in public. We had to be flexible for the sake of our parishioners.
“And, as a matter of fact, if parishioners have problems relating to the Pope in the way those documents demand, if my stand is not on public record, I’ll be able to respond to their view. I mean, if I take the Oath and Profession in a public ceremony, people with problems will shy away from me. They’ll assume that my mind is already made up. There’ll be no room for discussion.
“That’s something like Sophie, isn’t it? Delvecchio could understand that … couldn’t he?”
Koesler tilted his head in thought. “I guess so,” he said finally. Then he looked at Tully brightly. “We certainly could try it. But if we can find some other arguments-strong ones-it would help.”
Actually, Koesler doubted that Delvecchio would appreciate a comparison between Sophie’s background-plus-mandate-from-Mama and Tully’s Josephite indoctrination. But it was something. Koesler had introduced Sophie with the intention of indicating that Delvecchio did possess a sympathetic side.
“What time is it getting to be?” Tully asked, as they both glanced at their watches.
“Almost eight o’clock”-Tully answered his own question-“just about an hour till our guests start arriving. I think I’ll look in on the cooks-let ’em know we haven’t forgotten them.”
He headed for the stairs, then turned back. “You know, one of the problems I’ve got with Delvecchio is that he comes across like a knight in shining armor. As far as I can tell, he’s never done anything wrong. You certainly can’t fault him for enlisting your help with his aunt’s marriage problem. He has no responsibility for his uncle’s suicide.
“He had a breakdown when his mother died. Far as I know, there’s no morality in a nervous breakdown. You said a previous auxiliary did pretty much the same thing when his mother died.
“And in all the stories about Bishop Delvecchio, he’s forever conforming to the wishes of Mother Church. He just seems to never do anything wrong …” Tully paused a moment. “God forgive me, but I wish he would slip and be mortal. Just once. Then he might know what it’s like to be human and fail once in a while-like the rest of us.”
Koesler made no response. “Don’t get me wrong, Bob,” Tully said after a moment. “I wouldn’t want to be like him. But,” he said, as he turned back toward the stairs, “I wish he could be a little like me.”
And off he went to bolster the spirits of the cooks.
Alone, Koesler mused. I would have thought that things like the way Vince had treated George Hackett were ‘wrong.’ The compassion, understanding, and forgiveness that Vince was able to extend to a poor soul like Sophie were seemingly lacking in his other relationships. That I would have thought was ‘wrong.’
But I know what Zack had in mind: Wrong equals sin equals sex. For so many, illicit sex was the sin that carried a strong burden of shame.
It also awakened the prurient in others.
There was the funeral of France’s President Mitterrand. Among the mourners in procession and photographed at his casket were his wife, his mistress, and his illegitimate daughter. Could any such public figure in the United States have pulled that off?
Back to Zack and his whimsical wish that Delvecchio would join the rest of the human race and do something that would cause him embarrassment-read have a sexual encounter with somebody … anybody.
That and the resultant shame might bring him down to earth.
It just so happened that Father Koesler could speak to that question. But he would not do so.
23
1966
It was late November. Michigan’s trees had flaunted their colors and now were pretty much bare. A strong, frigid wind raced over the Detroit River. It whistled through the nearly deserted canyons of downtown Detroit. One could fire cannons down Jefferson, Gratiot, Woodward, or Fort Street with impunity.
Though a short avenue, Washington Boulevard was not sheltered from this preview of winter. Actually, with its angle to the river, it was one of the colder thoroughfares.
The boulevard boasted one of downtown’s more noteworthy addresses: 1234 housed St. Aloysius Church and rectory and, possibly even more important, the archbishop’s office, the chancery, the tribunal, and other headquarters of ecclesial business.
Today, everyone had shown up for work except the priest-secretary to Archbishop Mark Boyle. Monsignor Shanahan had come down with an early and virulent cold.
Perhaps it was fate.
Shanahan had no backup. And since this archdiocese was-with an occasional exception-wed to seniority, it was a simple case of finding the low man on the totem pole.
Enter Father Vincen
t Delvecchio.
An outsider would have been amazed at how positions were filled in the Church. The answer was seniority, or, more exactly, chronology.
Another standard method of filling priestly positions was the educated guess. Since this option had little to do with qualification, the Peter Principle ran rampant.
In the seminary there seemed no rhyme or reason in designating an infirmarian; it was pure accident if the student-infirmarian knew anything at all about maladies, medication, or therapy. Such a situation could be dangerous.
With less fraught possibilities were other assignments made. Take, for instance, the appointment of teachers in the diocesan seminary. Students who got good grades were tapped for teaching. Of course if they had wanted to teach, they could have joined a teaching order such as the Basilians, Sulpicians, or Jesuits. It mattered not that they had chosen a school that graduated parish priests; they earned high grades, therefore they became teachers. By fiat of the bishop.
Father Vince Delvecchio had barely learned his way around the chancery when Monsignor Shanahan called in sick. Lacking the seniority to remain fixed in his fledgling position, Delvecchio was up for grabs.
He had been at work less than an hour today when he was called to the chancellor’s office.
“Vince,” Monsignor Jake Donovan said in his typically brisk manner, “Shanahan threw a shoe. Laid up. We’re short on the boss’s floor. Think you can handle it? Fine!” Donovan never waited for an answer when issuing a rhetorical command. “Go on down there and do a shallow dive. You’ll catch on before you know what’s happening.” Oblivious of the Irish bull, Donovan pressed on. “Anyway, Shanahan should be back in no time; how long does it take to beat a cold anyway?” He didn’t wait for answers to rhetorical questions either. “There’s a good man.”
Thus was Delvecchio dismissed to learn another trade.
He took no tools with him as he left the fifth floor. He had no idea what he’d need. As he entered the elevator, he noticed his name on the list of those the operator was allowed to deposit on the second floor. He reflected that he had received this assignment only seconds ago and already his name was in the Book of Life. Sometimes the mills of the Church did grind swiftly.
The foyer of “the boss’s floor” was a long rectangle with some doubtful art on the walls. At the far end of the foyer, in a partially enclosed work space, was the receptionist. Delvecchio knew her name. Jan Olivier. That was about the extent of his familiarity with the sacred second floor.
Beyond Jan’s station was an office. Mine, he thought. Temporarily, he hoped.
At the left of his office, the foyer turned a ninety-degree angle leading to the archbishop’s office. He couldn’t see that portion of the foyer, but he’d visited Boyle in his office more than once.
Hands jammed in trouser pockets, Delvecchio made his way along the carpeted floor. Reaching the receptionist’s station he turned to face her.
She smiled. “We’ve been expecting you, Father.”
His expression was grim. “I didn’t expect to see me down here.”
She laughed lightly. “We don’t bite. The archbishop wanted to see you when you arrived. I’ll tell him you’re here. Go right in.”
As he turned to enter Boyle’s office, Delvecchio heard Jan, in a low tone, announce his arrival.
He knocked; a firm voice with soft brogue overtones invited him in.
Delvecchio entered the spacious office with its broad windows overlooking Washington Boulevard. Boyle rose and extended his hand as he circled his desk.
Delvecchio took the proffered hand and began to genuflect as he leaned forward to kiss the episcopal ring. Gently, Boyle pulled him erect.
That’s right, thought Delvecchio, Boyle represented the new breed that was changing the changeless Church, even down to innocent conventions such as reverencing the ring.
Delvecchio didn’t learn much from Boyle about the duties of secretary to the archbishop. Except that the receptionist would help him. But not to depend on her too much; she had her own duties to attend to.
So, Delvecchio concluded as he left the archbishop’s office, it was he, a simple priest, and Jan Olivier against the world. He didn’t like the odds.
In fact, if anyone wanted to know-but apparently no one did-he was not happy about this entire adventure. It was grossly unfair to thrust him into this new position with no briefing, let alone training.
It didn’t matter. When Delvecchio was ordained, the bishop had enclosed the young priest’s hands in his own and said solemnly, Promitis mihi et successoribus meis reverentiam et obedientiam? (“Do you promise to me and my successors reverence and obedience?”) And the new priest had replied, Promito.
This was going to test that promise.
He returned to the foyer. There seemed little point in going into his office; he didn’t know what to do there.
Jan was on the phone. She raised a finger, indicating she would be with him in a moment. And she was. “I’m supposed to teach you everything you need to do this job”-she smiled understandingly-“… right?”
He nodded.
“The problem with that,” she said, “is time: I haven’t got the time you need. And you’re wondering what to do right now, aren’t you?”
Again he nodded.
“Well, here’s what I think maybe a help …” She led the way into his office, where she picked up a small pile of phone messages from his desk. “This,” she said, “is the most urgent business. These are requests for … varying things. Most of them are calls from priests. Most of them want an appointment with the archbishop. Some of them have scheduled confirmation services at their parishes.. Of course each pastor wants the archbishop himself to conduct his service at his parish-”
“That’s impossible, right?” Even though Delvecchio had never been a pastor, it was patently obvious that if Boyle personally conducted confirmations at all the parishes that wanted him, that would take up just about all his evenings throughout the year.
Also, Delvecchio had been exposed to enough parish politics to know that it was not reverence, respect, or love of Boyle that motivated nearly everyone to want him for confirmation. No, they all just wanted to be known as important enough to rate the supreme arch-diocesan boss.
“Yes, that’s impossible,” Jan agreed. “So, when you return this type of call, you need to assure the pastors that late next month the schedule of which bishops go where for confirmations will be drawn up. ‘Every effort will be made at that time’”-her delivery made it obvious that this was the appropriate jargon-“‘to have the archbishop come to your parish.’”
“What,” he asked, “will that accomplish?”
“Buy time. It’s the best we can do now. The bit about drawing up the schedule in late December is for real.”
Delvecchio fingered through the phone messages. By no means were all or even most messages concerning who would come to confirm. “What about all the rest of these?”
Jan shook her head. “I’ve gone over them with Archbishop Boyle. I have little marks next to the phone numbers. All of those little marks mean something …” She shook her head as he started to ask. “… but it’s too complicated to go into right now.” She looked at him pointedly. “You may not think so, but just returning the confirmation queries will pretty much fill the rest of the day.”
“Really?” He found that hard to believe.
“You don’t know how tenacious some of these pastors can be. Some of them feel that having an auxiliary bishop is a negative commentary on their parochial work. They’ll chew your ear off to get some sort of special consideration.”
Maybe, thought Delvecchio. But I don’t think they’ll get much chance to chew these ears. “When do I learn what your shorthand stands for on the other messages?”
Jan bit her lower lip. “That’s a good question. There just isn’t time during office hours. How about this evening?”
“I’ve got a couple of appointments. But I can postpone them. How
about if we meet at my residence? I have an office in the rectory.”
“You could be interrupted by phone calls,” Jan reminded.
He winced and nodded.
“How about dinner out?” she suggested.
“I’ve never been able to stick to business in a restaurant. Taking notes while eating seems incompatible.”
Jan shrugged. “Then it’s got to be my place. I’ve got a first-floor apartment in a large complex in Warren.”
Delvecchio hesitated. This was solus cum sola-one on one. The only time thus far he’d been alone with a woman was in a safe situation … under correct, even if not chaperoned, circumstances. Except when he was bringing Communion to a shut-in he’d never been alone with a woman in her apartment.
But this seemed safe enough. Strictly business.
He agreed; he would pick up Chinese takeout on the way over. She gave him the address and directions.
Bundled up against the cold, he arrived at her door a couple of minutes before seven. As she took his coat, hat, and scarf to hang up, she was mildly surprised to see that he wore not clericals, but a flannel shirt, chinos, and a sweater.
He noted her puzzlement. “Anyone sees me come or go, they won’t think I’m a priest.”
“Just a date.” She was sorry the moment the words left her mouth. This was to be business; there should be no hint, no overtone of anything else.
She had set out a series of papers on the coffee table. They sat together on the couch and ate as she explained the cryptic symbols-her shorthand transcribing the reactions of His Excellency to each message.
Along the way, they discovered that they both knew how to use chopsticks.
From time to time, her nearness distracted him. She really was a most attractive young woman. Her dress was so “Marylike” he could only guess at her figure. Though she was slender, he presumed she was curvy.
There was a delicate scent of just the right perfume. Her dark hair fell well below her shoulders. The corners of her extremely expressive eyes crinkled with humor.
Occasionally, she brushed against him as she reached for food or to turn a page. He found that somewhat stimulating.
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