Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  Sally’s social life in many ways mirrored his. Asked, she would have no answer as to the propriety of a gift. But she accepted the wine graciously.

  At first their conversation was stilted, marked by long and awkward silences. In attempts to fill the dead air, each was guilty of inane attempts to find a fruitful topic.

  Finally, they stumbled onto the obvious common denominator—music, specifically Church music. She loved it and dabbled in it. He was an expert. She had a spinet. After their meal, she asked him to play it. He was pleased that it was in tune and that all the keys worked.

  She sat next to him on the small bench. He inhaled her delicate perfume.

  After he finished playing, she turned on the CD player. Show tunes mostly, then ballads from Broadway shows.

  They sat together on the couch. After a while, they held hands. They leaned closer. They kissed.

  Nothing happened hastily. But slowly, as if carried by an alien force, they drifted into a quiet passion. He picked her up in his arms. It was as if she had no weight at all.

  Very slowly, and with genuine affection, they made love. Sally was so relaxed that in a very short time she fell asleep.

  This left him alone to think.

  Had he blundered in his lengthy and encompassing grief for his late wife? He had shut himself away from any personal involvement, at least at any intimate level.

  He too was so relaxed. He could hear—could feel—Sally’s deep, regular breathing in a quiet slumber.

  Easily, this could be his life now. It could have been his life for many years. He had set up the barrier.

  He thought of all the women who had passed through and around his life. He was a fool—wasn’t he?—not to have been sensitive to these good women and their honest interest in him.

  He thought of Sally. He had been blind. As he remembered her special attention to him, he recalled the knowing smiles of others in his choir. Everybody knew. Everybody but him knew that Sally was his for the asking.

  Tonight he had asked. Tonight she had given.

  Why couldn’t he build on this?

  The question answered itself. All of his fearful emotions that revolved around his wife’s death. He could not build a new life with Sally or any other woman.

  He had not buried his wife.

  Abigail—the martyr to a hierarchy’s stubbornness. A pope had offered them a choice between a sterile, unnatural relationship and a dangerous and losing game of Vatican roulette.

  A pope—any pope—could end this lunacy any time any one of them put a pen to paper. None of them did. None of them would.

  One would pay for this unscrupulous malfeasance. This pope would pay before he had the opportunity to raise the stakes.

  If this decision to block the pope eventually devolved upon him, so be it. He would not shrink from his responsibility.

  He thought of how close he would be to the pope. He remembered pacing off the distance between his podium and the pope’s pulpit. He could make it. Particularly if the security guards were induced somehow to back away from a tight encirclement.

  There was a way.

  Gently, carefully, he slid his arm from beneath Sally’s head. Quietly, he dressed. Without disturbing her in any way, he let himself out of the apartment.

  The night was dark. His breath was visible as he cursed the pope.

  25

  Seventy years ago, Bishop Michael J. Gallagher supervised the building of Sacred Heart Seminary on what were then vacant fields on the outskirts of Detroit. Today the area lies in the heart of the central city. It is bordered by Chicago Boulevard, Joy Road, Linwood, and Lawton. In 1967 it marked the northwest border of a deadly and costly riot that saw the mobilization of the National Guard and, eventually, the summoning of U.S. Army troops.

  Tonight the building was quiet. Or, as quiet as old buildings get. Over the years, buildings stretch and sag and shift and speak their special and unique language. So it was tonight, with no sounds but the squeaks and moans of wood and brick.

  The current crop of students, those few who lost themselves in buildings meant to house hundreds more young men, were out on Christmas break Only caretaker personnel, security guards, and those in the entourage of the papal visitation now inhabited the vast, otherwise-empty corridors and rooms.

  Clarence McAdoo, one of the security guards, walked his isolated rounds as he had so many times in the past. What made this evening different from all others was his nervousness.

  Though he could not deny he felt jumpy, he would argue that it wasn’t his fault; it was all this talk by everyone else.

  At meals taken together, almost everyone on the staff exchanged rumors and gossip about the coming papal visit. Why was everyone taking on so? McAdoo had been around long enough to remember the previous papal visit. There was beefed-up security then, sure; that was only natural. Nor was it unique. Presidents and foreign leaders had been here. Always they drew huge crowds. They got plenty of security. That was expected.

  And who could forget John Kennedy? Even with all that security, somebody reached him.

  As McAdoo knew, and tried to convince the others, a pope is a chief of state—even if it is the smallest state in the world. So he automatically falls heir to all the protection the federal, state, county, and city agencies can provide.

  But that’s where the comparison ended. True, there was that incident in St. Peter’s Square when the pope took a bullet. But that was, in modern times at least, unique. McAdoo was certain that the security that was trotted out for the pope was a mere formality. There wasn’t going to be any trouble.

  Then came all those worrywarts. According to them, this papal trip was not going to be any showcase wherein the pontiff would mouth pious platitudes—war was evil, so was abortion, so was premarital sex, so was euthanasia, so was divorce, and so on.

  This time, according to them, he had a message that would have an effect on world population and definitely wasn’t intended to hold down its growth. A message that would trouble the consciences of the world’s Catholics.

  This time there would be people disturbed enough that there well could be violence. And anybody—innocent bystanders, or, more likely, security personnel—could be in harm’s way.

  If there had been only one or two people acting like nervous Nellies, that would be one thing. But just about everyone had a rumor or slice of gossip that contributed to this doomsday feeling.

  So, as he walked his dark and scary rounds listening to the familiar, but now foreboding, sounds of unease and ponderous movement, McAdoo’s senses were overly acute.

  Ordinarily he never called for or wanted company on his late-night rounds. Normally he liked being on his own, alone. Tonight he would have welcomed another presence. He wanted to talk. Right now, he felt, if only he could express his fears and misgivings to someone—anyone—they would go away.

  Anyone would do—except that creep last night who wanted to know all about the routines and then gave him gratuitous hell over the security provided. McAdoo could survive without that guy.

  He checked his watch. Almost midnight. Right on time for a tour of the building’s second story, southeast corner. Take that, creep!

  As he opened the door to the staircase, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew. He hadn’t yet seen anything untoward. Was it an odor? Something!

  He swung his powerful flashlight in a wide arc. Then he saw it. A body. Lying in a corner at the base of the staircase’s first landing.

  For an instant he thought it was last night’s critic; how serendipitous that the priest would be rescued by the security about which he had complained so much.

  But as he hurried down the steps, he knew it was not yesterday’s busybody. Nor could anyone, security person or otherwise, be of any help.

  The man appeared to be dead. McAdoo found no pulse. He shone his light first on the victim, then on the staircase.

  There was supposed to be a light on at the top of this staircase. It was
not lit. Probably burned out. By the shape the body was in, the man must’ve missed the first step in the darkness and hit just about every railing and stair on the way down.

  McAdoo hurried to call the police. As he ran down the remaining stairs to the nearest phone, the thought occurred that at least this was an accident.

  It would not be further fuel for the rumormongers.

  At least it was an accident.

  For thirty-some years they had lived with the phone. That was the principal reason Wanda Koznicki so valued their occasional vacation. If they were out of town, preferably out of the country, they were beyond the ordinary reach of the phone.

  But now, as was true most of the time, they were not out of town. They were home. It was almost Christmas. And the phone was ringing.

  Walter Koznicki had been asleep on his side facing the phone in their bedroom. On the first ring he snatched it up. He waited a moment to adjust to the real world, then he spoke, as quietly as possible, trying not to rouse his wife, although he knew she was awake.

  He mumbled and listened for some time, then hung up. He did not need to turn on a light to get dressed. His long-standing habit was to place his clothes where he could reach and slip into them in the darkness.

  All these were useless precautions in his attempts not to disturb Wanda. She never missed hearing the phone ring. His efforts were pro forma but he followed the routine faithfully. If nothing else, it made him feel better.

  Wanda propped herself on one elbow. “What is it?” Her eyes were accustomed to the dark, yet she could barely see her husband.

  “Trouble at the seminary.” He stepped into his trousers.

  “Someone hurt? At the seminary?” She was surprised. According to the dinner conversation Sunday night, there wasn’t much concern for those billeted at Sacred Heart Seminary. Major security was concentrating on the pope and those closest to him.

  “Someone is dead. But you should not worry, It seems to have been an accident.”

  “Then why? Why are you going out? It’s the middle of the night.” She picked up the clock on the nightstand and brought it close to her eyes. “Just after midnight! Can’t this wait till tomorrow? After all, it’s just an accident.”

  “You know how these things work, dear. We cannot take any chances. Not with the Holy Father coming in just a day. It is routine, but necessary. Try to get back to sleep, dear. Everything will be all right. There is no cause for worry.”

  She heard the mechanical sounds as he strapped his shoulder holster on. “Be careful now.” Reluctantly she lay back down. It was unlikely she would get back to sleep. If her husband had to miss a night’s sleep, then so would she. It was not a conscious decision, just something she knew from experience was going to happen.

  Koznicki went from the bedroom directly into the study where he phoned Lieutenant Tully.

  Anne Marie Tully by no means had become accustomed to the ubiquitous ringing phone, day or night. This particular ringing phone she ascribed to part of a nightmare. She groaned and turned over.

  Tully recognized Koznicki’s voice immediately and asked him to hold while Tully took the call on the kitchen phone.

  “What?” Tully knew this was business, and their business was brutal.

  “At the seminary.” Koznicki, On his part, would be as direct as possible. “A security guard found a priest at the bottom of a staircase, dead. The staircase light was not working. So far the presumption is accidental death”

  “You getting Moellmann in?”

  “I shall call him immediately”

  They were about to hang up when Tully said, “Walt, I think I’ll try to raise Father Koesler. It may be a shortcut. And we’ll want to wrap this up as quickly as possible.”

  After a moment, Koznicki said, “Good. We will meet at the morgue.”

  Tully found St. Joe’s number and dialed, waking Koesler, who agreed to accompany Tully.

  Since Tully lived so close to St. Joseph’s rectory, Koesler had only a few minutes to get ready. As he dressed, he reflected briefly on all the emergency sick calls he’d responded to over the years.

  Not anywhere near as many in recent years, what with people dying in hospitals and hospices rather than at home. Plus nowadays there was the prevalence of bestowing the sacrament once called extreme unction, now referred to as anointing the sick, long before imminent danger of death.

  He was dressed, including overcoat and hat, and waiting at the rectory front door before it occurred to him that Lieutenant Tully had not mentioned the name of the dead priest. He wondered who it was.

  Father Koesler sat with his back to the wall in the foyer on the main floor of the Wayne County Morgue. He would have been there alone but for the presence of Father Paul Smith. Koesler had suggested calling Smith, given the pivotal role the elder priest had played in preparing the symposium.

  Although Smith had never attended an autopsy, he would not have minded being downstairs now. He thought he could handle the dissection. Unfortunately, his companion hadn’t the stomach for it. So, rather than leave the poor man alone in this cavernous space, he decided to keep Koesler company. “Sort of brings back the old days, doesn’t it?” Smith mused.

  “How’s that?”

  “Oh, just sitting here. Not so much in a morgue, maybe a hospital. The faithful priest waiting for a doctor to deliver the bad news. Then guess who got to tell the family.”

  Koesler nodded. “You’re right. I can remember times when the family had to be told and, by consensus, everyone would look to me to be the messenger. It doesn’t take much imagination when a priest rings a doorbell at, say 2:00 in the morning, to figure that something’s wrong. Something radical—like, death.”

  “Nowadays the hospital staff pretty well shoulders that responsibility.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Each wishing he still smoked cigarettes.

  “No family to notify now, is there?” Koesler asked.

  Smith snorted. “A priest? At least no one close like a wife or kids. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure his mother and father have passed. I don’t know about sisters or brothers, nieces or nephews, that sort of thing.”

  “Time enough to get on to that a bit later, I suppose,” Koesler noted.

  Another quiet pause.

  “Poor Father Hanson,” said Koesler. “He seemed such a generous person. I just met him today.”

  “That’s right. His conference is scheduled to begin in …” Smith consulted his watch. “… just a few hours.”

  “Good grief! In all the excitement, I lost track of that. The symposium! What will you do to replace him at such short notice? What can you do?”

  Smith frowned in concentration. “I think I’m going to let Monsignor Martin worry about that. It is his ball game, after all.”

  Again silence.

  “You know,” Koesler said, “in all the years that building has been there, I don’t remember a single fatal accident … until now of course.”

  “We were pretty young when we were introduced to Sacred Heart.

  “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened.”

  “I mean,” Smith said, “just about everyone who lived in that building grew up there—even the ones who eventually became teachers there. When we were young we might easily have survived a tumble like Dan Hanson took. After being there a while, we knew how many steps there were in every stairway. We could travel confidently in the dark.”

  “Funny,” Koesler said, “I don’t mean it in any realistic way, but this just about answers Cardinal Schinder’s prayer.”

  “Schinder’s prayer? I don’t …”

  “Oh, that’s right. You left his party early tonight.”

  “Well,” Smith observed, “I was sort of dismissed.”

  Koesler smiled. “Yes, you were. But after you left, Schinder tried his best to influence the arguments of the liberal panelists. I think he’ll be relieved when he learns that Dan Hanson will not be taking part in the symposium. But I’m
sure he’ll be shocked by the reason why”

  Smith nodded. “That will be a blow to the liberal side of the dogma panel. And I don’t see how Martin could possibly come up with someone to replace Hanson. Certainly not with someone of his caliber.Without Dan Hanson, the topic of infallibility will likely retain its status quo.”

  “And,” Koesler added, “if papal infallibility goes unquestioned, the family planning and world population problems are just going to get worse. Especially if the pope protects present Church teaching in the cloak of infallibility.”

  “And that is going to have a spillover effect on the moral issue of birth control.”

  Koesler thought for a few moments. “What a time for the United Nations conference on population to be coming up! The Vatican is applying enormous pressure to keep birth control off the agenda.”

  “And they’re succeeding.”

  “Yeah, a Dutch delegate was quoted in the paper just the other day as saying that a hierarchy of celibate men will continue to control the rest of the world’s access to birth control.”

  “Ouch.” Smith winced. “But I can’t blame the protesters. We haven’t shown much compassion when it comes to people in trouble over birth control ….” He thought for a moment. “Did you ever hear about the Irishwomen they called ‘Magdalens’?”

  Koesler shook his head and leaned back to rest against the wall.

  “It happened,” Smith continued, “around the middle of the nineteenth century and didn’t end until just a few years ago, actually. Thousands of Catholic Irishwomen were made—well, slaves, with the approval of Church, state, and family. Their crime was having an illegitimate child or being orphans or prostitutes, or just being single. The Irish Church bunched them all together and called them ‘Magdalens.’”

  “What! I never heard of such a thing.” Koesler was truly surprised at not knowing about such brutal and unfair—unchristian—treatment.

  “It’s true,” Smith said. “Any woman who was …” He hesitated. “… inconvenient … was carted off to the parish priest. He would find a ‘home’ for her in one or another convent. If she was an unmarried woman, she’d be kept there until she had her baby and then the child would be taken from her and given out for adoption.