Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  “But I felt somebody had to know … that I had to tell somebody.”

  Smith cradled his downturned head in his hands. “Bob … such a mess. I’ve made such a mess of my life. And not only my life. Moira and Dermot and Dan Hanson and Bill Palmer. And, God help me, Father Ward. And I’m supposed to be a priest! With all this baggage, I’ve got to face God, in just a little while.” He paused. “If you have anything to say about it, see if you can get an epitaph that says ‘Coward.’”

  “Paul, do you believe anything you’ve been saying over the past forty-five years?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve told people how Jesus came for sinners, not only the just. The story of the Good Shepherd. He has a hundred sheep. But at day’s end he has ninety-nine in the fold. So he goes out searching till he finds the one that’s strayed. The poor woman who loses a coin and cleans everywhere till she finds it. Always, it is a source of joy when a penitent sinner comes home.

  “So, okay, you could have been—you should have been more responsible. Moira should never have been incarcerated in the Magdalen program. Dermot should not have had to grow up as an abused orphan. Our two priests needn’t have died. Father Ward needn’t have died. Dermot needn’t have died. It all seems overwhelming when you pile it up in one indictment.

  “The opposite of a devil’s advocate could make a pretty good case for the defense. To have taken the opposite course from the one you chose would have called for an almost heroic decision.

  “I know what it’s like wanting the priesthood more than anything. I can imagine how you felt when you stood to lose it due to an irresponsible affair. But neither you nor Moira knew—could have known—what she was getting into by being an unwed mother.

  “But, I agree with you on this: Now is no time for rationalization and excuses. Now is a good time to shoulder responsibility and come with sorrow and contrition to our God.”

  “I … I don’t know if I can.”

  “Of course you can. What you think is that you’re unworthy. But you’ve spent forty-five years telling sinners like us that none of us is worthy, yet God welcomes us anyway. Can’t you believe for yourself what you’ve consoled others with over these many years? There will be more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner than over ninety-nine just.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to ask you whether you’re sorry for all the mistakes you’ve made, the blunders, the selfish decisions, the cowardice.”

  Smith shook his bowed head as he wiped away tears.

  “You’ve told me everything,” Koesler said. “Why don’t we make what you’ve told me your confession.”

  Abruptly, Smith raised his head and met Koesler’s gaze.

  “No, not again!” Smith said, almost defiantly. “I make this my confession and I seal your lips forever. One more act of cowardice. I can’t do that again! I wish to God I’d never done it. But I can’t do it again.”

  “You don’t have to, Paul. Let me give you absolution. Let me give you the forgiveness of Jesus. And then let me make an appointment for you with my friend, Inspector Koznicki.

  “You can open up to him, Paul. You can help the police. It’s what a brave person would do.”

  Smith relaxed and smiled genuinely for the first time. He nodded solemnly. “It is,” he said, “isn’t it? What a brave person would do.”

  35

  He was confused. He shook his head. That hurt.

  Imagine! After all these years—his first hangover. Lucky he had asked John Andrews to cover for him in the parish this morning. John was retired, but he was a top-notch organist and choir director, and always willing to help out.

  It was so quiet and dark and warm, especially warm. He hadn’t thought about turning down the heat or opening a window. Which was why, on this morning of January 1, he was overwarm even though his only covering was a sheet.

  He lay motionless. Then he moved his head slowly, very slowly, from side to side. His clothing lay in a pile on the chair.

  Dave Wallace slid out of bed and into his clothes. His mouth tasted like a parade of prelates had been marching through it. He could only guess at how bad his mouth smelled.

  He sat in the chair and lit a cigarette. It had been years since he’d smoked. As it happened, he’d picked up a pack at last night’s party. It had been years since he’d drunk this much. And God knew how long it had been since he and Abigail had made love.

  Then into his life had come Sally Forbes. Had it really been less than a month ago? The rehearsal for the Papal Mass. Then practically every night thereafter. He had been so relieved that the pope had canceled his visit. With that cancelation all the rumors regarding the ban on artificial contraception died away. Apparently it would remain as Paul VI put it in Humanae Vitae —a noninfallible teaching, still open to question. And while that was not really satisfactory to either left or right wing of the Church, it was vastly preferable to what the liberals feared the present pope would do.

  Wallace looked at the form in bed. Sally slept on her side, back toward him. Her shoulder-length red hair contrasted beautifully with the pillow’s whiteness.

  Then, as if she somehow became conscious of his studying her, she wakened and turned over on her back. She rubbed her eyes, then looked at him. She stretched like a cat. “All dressed up?”

  “Force of habit,” he said.

  She threw the sheet off and stood. She was nude. She walked to the door of the bathroom and took a robe from the hook.

  Once more Wallace was reminded of a conviction he had never really forgotten: The curve that runs from a woman’s waist to her knee is, arguably, the most beautiful line God ever drew.

  She walked directly to him and sat on his lap. “Wasn’t that a nice New Year’s Eve party the choir threw last night?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “You’ll have to fill me in.”

  “But … you were the life of it!”

  “I was?”

  “Oh, yes. You played every tune they suggested. If they could hum it, you could play it. Even transpose it up or down on request.”

  “I did? That’s pretty good.”

  “And just think, we’ve got the Holy Father to thank for it.”

  “Huh?”

  “If he hadn’t scheduled a visit here in the first place, we wouldn’t have gotten that diocesan choir together again. And you wouldn’t have—finally—noticed me.”

  “I suppose that’s true. I was blind, really blind, not to have singled you out ages ago. But now, with no pope on the horizon, I can appreciate you like mad. There’s only one thing.”

  She drew back from him in surprise. “What’s that?”

  “Do you think we could date for a while? I mean, just regular, everyday old dates?”

  She smiled and snuggled against his shoulder. “Of course we can. Mother always used to say that I had a habit of leaving out the middles.”

  “This is the day of football madness,” Joe Cox said, cradling the phone on his shoulder. “So I thought what I’d do is get some carryout chicken from Dad’Z. I’ve got plenty of booze and maybe we could spend a quiet holiday together.”

  “What? No deadlines, no scoops today?” Pat Lennon also cradled the phone as she touched up her nails.

  “No plans for anything like that. But hell, this is Detroit; anything can happen anytime.”

  Her more thoughtful reaction was identical to her initial response to his invitation: She found it depressing. There was nothing attractive there. She was pretty sure he felt the same way, but was reluctant to admit it even to himself.

  “Sort of makes you want to stay close to the phone … just in case something breaks,” she added.

  He sensed her negative reaction. “Pat, you’re not sore about the way I covered the story on the pope, are you?”

  “Why should I be?”

  Actually, she had been relieved when it turned out that he wasn’t intimately involved in the case. “Look, Joe, I know the pressure you’ve been under since you got back
from Chicago.”

  “Wouldn’t you feel the same if you were in my boots?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Joe. I don’t think I’d be quite as intense.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Why go into that again?”

  “You think I steered the story … manipulated it.”

  “That’s what I said. And I’ve got no reason to change my opinion. But, like I said, Joe, I don’t know what I’d’ve done in your place. You had a lot of territory to reclaim.” She sighed mentally. “Why don’t we let it drop? It’s over.”

  “Okay. Then what about my original invitation? You didn’t go either way.”

  Lennon hesitated. “Joe … I could make up lots of dandy excuses. But you’re too good a newshound to fall for any of them. I think you and I are past tense. If we fool around with our relationship—try to give it CPR—we’re going to end up not liking each other very much. And I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “No chance, huh?”

  “If there is, it’s not now.”

  Cox’s inclination was to press. He had trouble believing that any woman—even the redoubtable Pat Lennon—could shrug off his full court press.

  On the other hand, he knew Pat. She didn’t suffer fools gladly. And a fool was somebody who didn’t take her seriously. So before she could close the door permanently, he would back off. Pat Lennon, alone of every woman he knew, could get him to do that.

  “Okay, Pat. I don’t want us not to be friends either. So, although it’s not starting very well for me, Happy New Year.”

  “Same to you, Joe. Enjoy the football.”

  Cox replaced the receiver. He felt very much alone. Well, he thought, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube. If he had to start from scratch in this town—and he did—why not a new woman to go with the territory? The more he considered that, the more attractive this prospect was. On second, or maybe third, thought, playing the field would be just what the doctor ordered.

  Suddenly he was grateful Lennon had backed away. Old love affairs were for old people. And Joe Cox would always be young in spirit. And that was what was most important.

  But he wouldn’t force it. Romance tomorrow. Football today.

  He got a beer from the fridge and popped the top. He turned on the TV. It was some sort of bowl parade. Orange, or Rose, or who cared? For just a second there was a stabbing pain. It was the spot in his heart formerly occupied by Pat Lennon. Then it was gone.

  Or was it?

  Wanda Koznicki served coffee and cake to her husband and their New Year’s guest, Father Koesler.

  “Another marvelous meal, Wanda,” Koesler said.

  “Nothing fancy, Father,” Wanda said. “Just plain food.”

  Koznicki beamed. “Prepared with love.”

  Walt and Wanda smiled at each other. Theirs, Koesler reflected, was a genuine marriage. They have grown in their relationship. It had weathered many a formidable storm. They were closer to each other now than when they began. And that, Koesler thought, was the real proof of a marriage. Not a notation in a book or a collection of documents.

  “Why don’t you fellows go into the living room while I finish clearing the dishes?” Wanda said.

  “How about I help?”

  “Not on your life, Father.” Wanda’s smile said she appreciated the offer but, as previous guests in her house could testify, Wanda wanted no one in her kitchen. “Into the other room with you both!”

  Obediently, the two balanced their dessert and coffee and carefully made their way to comfortable chairs and settled in.

  The holiday decorations were very much still present in the house. In silence the two men let the colored lights sweep over them.

  “Do you hear anything about the Holy Father’s health?” Koznicki asked.

  “Just what I read in the papers—no, wait: There’s always the clergy scuttlebutt—for what that’s worth. It’s all speculation really. The official diagnosis, according to new reports, is that it was a bad case of the flu. And, due to the Holy Father’s age and delicate health, they think it better that he rest … et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “And local opinion disputes that?”

  “Not exactly. But we’re counting in all the violence that prefaced his aborted trip. Specifically, the murder of Cardinal Schinder. The Cardinal was the Holy Father’s right hand. The word is that Schinder tried to talk the pope out of introducing infallibility into the birth control controversy. But, like a loyal soldier, once His Holiness insisted, the Cardinal went to prepare the way. So … the hypothesis is that the pope took Schinder’s murder as an omen. So much so that the pope is content to leave birth control in the status quo.”

  “Remarkable.” Koznicki tasted the coffee which now had cooled to a drinkable temperature. “One is tempted to see God’s hand in this. Yet I cannot think that God condoned, much less caused, this violence and these murders.”

  “Neither can I. I suppose we might think that while God does not condone murder, yet He can draw good from evil.” Koesler was somewhat surprised that Koznicki apparently was opposed to the rumored infallible doctrine. Else why would the inspector think God had a hand in preventing that escalation? Until now, Koesler hadn’t viewed Koznicki as having very many liberal ecclesial bones. But Koesler, of course, had no way of knowing about Koznicki’s son and his near crisis with birth control.

  “Or,” Koesler continued, “perhaps it’s as Dietrich Bonhoeffer told a German soldier as the two watched Allied bombers practically obliterate Berlin. The soldier said, ‘How could a loving father let this happen?’ And Bonhoeffer replied, ‘How could we let this happen to a loving father?’”

  “Yes.” Koznicki seemed to want to tuck that away for future meditation.

  “However,” Koesler said, “as far as the media are concerned, the pope’s ‘almost’ visit and the murders are yesterday’s news. And the majority of our fellow citizens are vaguely regretful that the Holy Father didn’t come. But they can empathize when it comes to the flu. So the whole strange story is behind us … except, I suppose, for the murders.”

  The utensils Koznicki used—cup, saucer, plate, and fork—were standard size, but they appeared as children’s toys in his huge hands. “The murder of Cardinal Schinder is both before and ahead of us,” he said. “Everyone in that Golds gang is eager to talk to us despite the urgings of their lawyers. Convictions are pretty much assured, although the court is not my province. Whatever sentences are passed, we can be quite sure of one thing: That young ringleader, Rick, will be spending the rest of his life in prison.”

  “We won’t miss him at all.”

  “Then”—a look of concern crossed Koznicki’s face—“there is Dermot Hanrahan, as we now know him. His death precluded a trial, but we can be certain among ourselves that he murdered Father Ward in Ireland, as well as Fathers Hanson and Palmer here. But, except for a very few people, Hanrahan’s motive will have died with him.” He shook his head. “And Hanrahan would not be dead if he had not been able to procure a weapon.…”

  The statement was left unfinished as the police inspector and the priest pondered the last day of Dermot Hanrahan’s life. How, where did he get the gun … the semiautomatic that he had fired through the door of his seminary room, drawing the answering fusillade of police bullets that killed him?

  Koznicki sensed Koesler’s unspoken question. “Where did he get the gun? Where does anybody get a gun? You know as well as I that all he had to do was walk down any street in almost any part of Detroit with money in his pocket and he would have little or no trouble in buying a weapon, no questions asked.” Koznicki shook his head again. “But a semiautomatic …”

  Again both men were silent, thinking of the many innocent lives that had been taken because of the easy availability of all manner of deadly weapons.

  “Something still puzzles me,” Koesler said finally. “How did Dermot know about Father Ward? And he’d have to know—how did he know which flight
he’d be on?”

  “There again,” Koznicki said, “like his motive, his methods died with him. But we have pieced together what probably happened.

  “We know that Ireland—at least the Republic—is, by anyone’s description, a Catholic country. There was extensive newspaper coverage of the pope’s planned trip. Along the way, the participants in the pilgrimage and the program were identified. Several priests coming from Europe would have touched down in Ireland, particularly if nonstop flights were sold out. Unfortunately for him, this was the case with Father Ward.

  “Probably Hanrahan selected Father Ward because taking his place would require only a brief masquerade on Hanrahan’s part. And undoubtedly he thought he could carry off being an expert in Church music more easily than in the field of theology or church law.”

  “And the flight?”

  “Ah, yes, the flight. The records show that Hanrahan made a phone call to Herdecke. We can only guess—but it is a reasonable supposition—that he learned thereby which flight Father Ward would be taking. He may even have made some arrangement to meet the priest, possibly pretending to be some sort of official—perhaps a Church representative, or a guide, or a reporter or some such.

  “Of course, if Father’s itinerary had not called for a change of planes in Ireland, Dermot would have been forced to try for another participant, or even another plan. Here, his luck was good. Later, it would turn on him.”

  “So,” Koesler said sadly, “there it ends. With a lot of bad luck for everyone … the truly tragic figure being Father Smith.”

  Koznicki nodded. “Father Smith may have been guilty of poor judgment, and perhaps even sin,” he said thoughtfully. “But there was little reason to pursue the matter. That he was guilty of a crime, even technically, could be hotly debated. And when the prosecuting attorney learned of his physical condition, it was clear there was no time for a trial in any case. But”—he looked at Koesler stolidly—“his confession seemed to relieve his conscience.”