No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  That’s what Father Koesler told me. And it makes sense.

  Except that if I must be at peace with myself I’ve got a long way to go.

  Twenty-two

  March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Or it comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion. Or any of the other variables. Michigan’s March weather is unpredictable even by those whose job is to predict the weather.

  This day, near the end of March, featured February-like weather. It was overcast, cold, and blustery, plunging the windchill factor to barely ten degrees above zero.

  Nevertheless, Deacon Bill Page had been briskly walking around the fenced-in seminary grounds. On his final turn he picked up the pace. He could hardly wait to get back into the warmth of the building.

  He pushed his way through the door and thanked whatever powers might be for heat.

  He went directly to his room, where he turned his radiator on full and removed and hung up his outer clothing. He almost bonded with the iron pipes until he felt the chill start to depart from his bones.

  He sat at his desk and pulled from the shelf the weighty Coriden, Green, and Heintschel edition of The Code of Canon Law, A Text and Commentary. He paged through the text until he came to the marriage laws, Canons 1055 to 1165. One hundred and ten laws to complicate the lives of those who wanted to get married, were married, or wanted to get out of marriage. All with or without benefit of Catholic clergy.

  And that wasn’t all. Later, in Canons 1671 to 1716, there were the procedures for granting or withholding decrees of nullity. Forty-five additional laws. And he had to know the content of all of them,

  Why?

  He wasn’t going to use any of them. He was an unmarried deacon and soon-to-be priest. So he would never be allowed to marry. Or, rather, to be more precise, he could attempt marriage, but the Church had gotten there first and ruled all such attempts to be illicit and invalid.

  Be that as it may. It mattered little. With the number of women he’d been involved with in the past, he could have married any number of times. And now he knew all the rules for marriage in the Church. As long as the prospective partner was free to marry and the happy couple exchanged consent in the presence of a duly authorized priest and the required witnesses, the two would be husband and wife—validly married. If the partner was—as was Page—baptized, it would be termed a sacramental marriage. Then, the easiest part, when they consummated the marriage, it would be about as unbreakable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

  That would be that unless one or the other harbored some impediment such as serious and hopeless immaturity.

  He shut the canonical textbook. He knew the stuff well enough. Besides, the final exam before priestly ordination would be oral. And Page considered himself one of the more suasive talkers of all time.

  And don’t bring up that business about not cutting it in the advertising game. He would have made it had not the other sales reps been jealous of his sexual successes. And well should they be—especially those with whose wives he had frolicked.

  Just thinking these thoughts was warming him. But not enough. Some steaming coffee might help.

  The snack room was otherwise unoccupied. But the coffee was steaming hot. He wrapped both hands around the Styrofoam cup and let the warmth penetrate his fingers.

  To entertain himself while dispersing the chill, he called up a memory. There were so many to choose from but this had always been his favorite.

  It happened during his junior year in high school. At his present age, with the wealth of experience he had built up over the years, it was hard for him to imagine how he had managed to remain a straight arrow all those early years.

  He attributed it now, in a vague sense, to those hellfire and brim stone sermons with which the Catholic clergy had threatened him and everybody else. But everything has to begin sometime.

  For him it began seriously on a chilly January evening after a sock hop.

  Mary Lou.

  He could not remember a time when he had not been fascinated by girls. Why did they wear dresses and he wear pants? Short pants, but pants.

  Sometime during the first or second grade, a developing brazen hussy had lifted her skirt and dropped her panties. He was dumb founded. She didn’t have anything! He began to feel proud and superior at having a penis.

  Still, there was something mysteriously attractive about girls. They smelled different. Their hair was different. Their, eyes were different. Their voices were different. They played differently. They related to each other differently than they did to boys. They were different.

  At that tender age he had not yet heard the French phrase Vive la différence. Later it would become his motto.

  But back to Mary Lou and that sock hop.

  She was the first girl about whom he was serious. He was seriously interested in scoring with Mary Lou. And then all those lies he kept telling his buddies would finally be true.

  Trouble was, he had been pursuing the girl for a matter of months. He had nothing to show for it except periodic cramps in his groin. Mary Lou was a tease.

  A typical get-together at this time consisted of a double date featuring a guy who had a license and the use of a car. The destination: a drive-in movie. The goal: as much groping as circumstances allowed.

  Funny how many movies he attended and afterward had no recollection of what they were about. His attention had not been on the big screen but on Mary Lou.

  Years later, when one of those movies was on TV, it would be as if he’d never even heard of it.

  One night, his buddy with the car drove to a lovers’ lane. He told Bill and Mary Lou to get in the front seat, while he and his date used the backseat. Page felt awkward having the other two in back. It was as if he and Mary Lou were expected to perform for a couple of voyeurs who would be able to watch them fumble through a series of practiced but unsatisfactory maneuvers.

  After some time, when Mary Lou turned her head to avoid another one of his kisses, Bill turned around to see what the couple in back were doing.

  The couple in back were, for all intents and purposes, naked.

  Bill gasped.

  Attention attracted, Mary Lou followed Page’s gaze. Quickly she turned his head back to her. She rewarded his renewed attention by kissing him passionately, voraciously. This impelled him to try diligently to remove at least some of her clothing, but to no avail. Somehow she managed to keep everything in place, if somewhat rumpled.

  And he had missed the show in the back.

  Gradually but eventually, Page realized he was doomed to repeated wrestling matches with Mary Lou, every one of which would end in a draw.

  It was kismet. He would not and could not abandon this object of his desire. It was chemistry. It was fate. It was probably not God’s will.

  As time progressed, Page settled for the kisses that were his. He no longer groped into inevitable frustration.

  Then came the sock hop.

  Afterward he walked her home. She invited him in. That was not entirely out of the ordinary. Sometimes they would sit with her parents, watching TV and eating popcorn, which her mother made by the bucket.

  One of the reasons her parents trusted Page so was his ease at being with them. Their theory had it that any boy who is not ill at ease with the girl’s parents is probably not out to deflower their little darling. Even as a lad, Page put up a good front.

  However, this time the progression of events was definitely out of the ordinary.

  There were no house lights visible. Perhaps her parents had gone to bed. Even the possibility of the old folks slumbering did not stir Page, so well conditioned had he become.

  He followed her docilely into the darkened house. Oddly, she led him up the stairs. This definitely was not part of the drill.

  They entered a room that was dimly lit by the beam of a streetlight. Mary Lou immediately pulled down the window shade, leaving the room in total darkness.

  Even when she turned on a small reading lamp on a
night table, most of the room was still in shadow.

  She took off her jacket and dropped it on the floor.

  In a studied manner she unbuttoned the neck of her dress, pulled it up over her head, and tossed it on a nearby chair.

  She kicked off her shoes.

  “Wh … where are your parents?” Page stammered.

  “Out of town. They left this afternoon. They won’t be back until late tomorrow.” Her voice took on a seductive huskiness. “Now, Billy, all you’ve got to do is call your folks and make up some excuse why you won’t be home tonight.”

  “Wh … what?”

  “Tell them anything. Ask one of your closest friends to cover for you if your parents check up.”

  She pushed her half-slip down over her full hips and let it fall to the floor, then nudged it away with her toe.

  She now wore only a bra, panties, and knee stockings.

  She sat on the bed and removed her stockings.

  He had seen her on the beach clad only in a bikini, considerably less clothing than now covered her. But this was different. This really was different.

  Once again, in that husky voice, she spoke. “Don’t you feel a bit overdressed?”

  He began to fumble with his trousers as she reached behind her to unhook her bra.

  Rats!

  Somebody had entered the snack room. Just when he was about to reach the heart of this, his favorite memory—albeit embellished with a few fanciful details!

  Bill Page had learned more about women during that long, immortal night than he had—now, wait a minute. His education had continued over a span of time. Although it had ground to a screeching halt over the past few years in the seminary.

  The rewarding thing about this memory that he’d just milked was that it had warmed him thoroughly.

  The irritating thing, of course, was that he’d been interrupted just as he came to the story’s climax—in more ways than one.

  The intruder was Andrea Zawalich.

  “Well,” Andrea said, “if it isn’t the Reverend Mr. Page. How’s it going, William?”

  “Hi, Zawalich,” he murmured. Things had been going quite well until he was interrupted, he thought.

  She slid a coin into the coffee machine as she studied Page. He had the most peculiar look on his face. Almost a pained expression. “Are you really all right?” she inquired.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He tossed off her solicitous question.

  She took her coffee from the machine and gestured toward the chair across the table from him. “Do you mind?”

  He merely shrugged.

  She took the chair.

  They were not more than a couple of feet apart.

  A feeling of hostility was beginning to bubble inside Page. It was visceral much more than intellectual. And he wondered why. Especially in light of all he’d been preoccupied with just moments ago.

  Why did the presence of this young woman upset him so?

  He looked at her more closely.

  She did have a certain measure of attractiveness. Indeed, one could make a case for her being stacked. She was friendly much of the time. Considering the sort of treatment she got from him, from most of the male students, particularly the seminarians, all in all she was more than affable.

  She was a woman. He liked women. Had since he was in short pants—when of course he had pitied them for their lack—or so he had thought—of sex organs. Even so, he had enjoyed all the differences he could find between boys and girls.

  He liked them boundlessly when he discovered that hot only did they have sexual organs after all, but those organs were destined to blend perfectly with male counterparts. He had dedicated and devoted much of his energies to the exploration of pleasure between the sexes. To that end he had invested more effort than a combined Lewis and Clark.

  He liked women.

  So why this inner hostility now?

  He looked at Andrea.

  She smiled at him. The total picture she presented was what the English call comely and the Scots bonny.

  Oval face; arching eyebrows neither heavy nor absent; bright, lively eyes under lush lashes. Her nose was perky, her chin small but determined. Her lips were full, but not overly so.

  Elegant neck, delicate shoulders, graceful arms, shapely legs. While veiled by her clothing, the promise of ample breasts was evident above a narrow waist, curvaceous hips, and firm thighs that hinted at something more than merely connecting her knees to her pelvis.

  In short, all the things Page most prized in life besides money.

  So, why wasn’t he attracted?

  Was it a by-product of this chaste life he’d been living in the seminary? Was he ignoring the maxim, Use it or lose it? Did he feel threatened by intelligent women? Was he getting prematurely senile?

  Was it all of the above? Part of the above?

  He was in a near panic with the hint of that dreaded state called impotence.

  Admittedly he could still be aroused by erotic thoughts. He had been just a few minutes ago.

  Until—and here, a small light seemed to go on over his head—the fantasy was extinguished by the arrival of a real, live woman.

  Was it possible he had lost it—his virility?

  One thing seemed clear: He had better establish live communication. No reason he couldn’t begin with this one. “So, Andrea, how are you?”

  “Fine. If spring would get here for keeps, I’d be just about perfect.”

  “Well, you know what they say about Michigan weather …”

  “If you don’t like it,” both chorused, “just wait a few minutes and it will change.” They laughed.

  There’s no doubt about it, Page thought, with very little effort I can be charming. “You’re going to graduate this June, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. And you’ll be ordained.”

  “Right. Got anything lined up for gainful employment?”

  “Bill,” she said in a shocked tone, “you know as well as I that employment by the Roman Catholic Church can seldom be called gainful.”

  “Right!” He smiled disarmingly.

  “Actually,” she continued, “I’ve got something lined up and just waiting for me and my diploma.” She looked at him for a moment, then said confidingly, “I’ll be pastoral minister at St. George’s.”

  Page thought that over. “George’s in Southfield?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Who’s the pastor there …?”

  “Father Manor.”

  “Of course. Bennie.” Page felt mildly embarrassed for a moment. He prided himself on knowing who was where in almost all the suburban parishes. He had no interest in the core city parishes.

  “He does like to be called Bennie, doesn’t he?” she said.

  “Yeah. But … but isn’t he scheduled to retire soon?”

  “Uh-huh. But I put a little of the fear of the Curia in him.”

  “No kidding.” Page found himself genuinely interested. “What did you do?”

  She explained factually and in detail her surveying of likely parishes until she’d homed in on St. George’s.

  Page listened avidly. “What was that about putting the fear of the Curia in him?” He was soaking up useful information. One could never have too much preparation for a spot of blackmail—all in a good cause, of course.

  “You see,” Andrea explained, “Bennie was drifting. He had a big parish, a good percentage of whose members were ready for action. And that competed with his plan of floating into retirement. So I went about convincing him that I was capable of taking that ball and running with it.”

  “Even so,” Page asked, “why would he bother with you?”

  “That’s where the fear of the Curia comes in.”

  “Yes.” This was the part that most interested Page.

  “I hinted that when it came time to assume Senior Priest Status …” They both snickered at the euphemistic phrase.

  “When he was ready to retire”—she reverted to plain speech—“the Cu
ria might well look at the parish he was leaving behind and think that he might have left it in better shape. They might think that he should get things moving before he was permitted to leave.”

  Page was dumbfounded. “They don’t do that! At least not in Detroit. I mean, I’ve studied this business pretty carefully. I can’t think of a single incident when they’ve refused a request for retirement. There are some who get an earlier medical leave. But not this!”

  “Remember, Bill, I hinted. I suggested.” She smiled conspiratorially. “I didn’t imply they would … just that they might.”

  “And he bought it. I’ll be damned.”

  “It was part of my investigation. He’s not the type to gamble on long odds. Plus, he’s really been counting on that retirement.” She smiled again. “And, yes, he bought it. I’ve been working with some pretty dedicated people getting these leaders primed. They’re in good shape now. So, once I graduate, I’ll just hop over to St. George’s and get the various programs going.”

  “And”—Page had been swept up in the mood—“Bennie will be able to relax. No nasty bogeyman will fool with his retirement.” He chuckled.

  “Some people,” she observed, “like to wear a belt and suspenders.”

  At the mention of clothing; he was momentarily distracted. Mary Lou had been removing her bra and Page fumbling with his belt when Andrea had burst the bubble of his remembrance. He almost drifted back.

  “How about you?” Andrea once more cut into his erotic fantasy. “After you’re ordained, got any plans?”

  The direct question pulled Page back to the present. “You bet. I did some internship at St. Waldo of the Hills. That’s where I’m headed.”

  “Waldo’s …” She whistled softly. “Très posh. Not a bad way to start.”

  He smiled. “No, not bad at all. Do you have any idea how many movers and shakers live in that parish?”

  “I’ve never counted heads.”

  “You might run out of numbers. I’m banking on them to introduce me to the fast lane.”