No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  “You were never in it?” She seemed surprised.

  He held up his hand, measuring barely half an inch between his thumb and forefinger. “About this close. When you’re fresh out of Notre Dame a lot of things open up for you. But the door that opens can close pretty fast.

  “Anyway, it looks like you and I have our immediate future pretty well set.”

  “Our immediate future?” She winked.

  He was taken aback. Why the wink?

  “Up till now,” she said, “I thought we were talking several months ahead. After graduation … after ordination. That’s not my idea of immediate.”

  For a lingering moment Page was back in junior high school. And Andrea was Mary Lou.

  He’d been down this road before. He knew the path and he was sure he knew the signs. “W-e-1-1”—he drew out the word—“if this isn’t immediate, what is?”

  “You’re sort of the man of the world,” she said winsomely. “I thought you’d know.”

  Whoosh! he said to himself. Remember Mary Lou.

  And he did remember. Mary Lou had acted the innocent virgin. Page had been cast as the hormone-happy sex maniac. As long as both were faithful to their roles, nothing had changed.

  It had been one of the most frustrating times of his life. She would tease and he would respond. Then when he would reach the point of total loss of control, she would apply the brakes.

  The naked couple in the car’s backseat: She hadn’t wanted Page to see what they were doing. That sort of thing Mary Lou was saving for the indeterminate future—if ever.

  So she’d managed to turn his head and smother him with kisses. With that he’d lost interest even in the torrid and unconventional adventure going on in back.

  He’d thought for one brief, shining moment that she finally was actively involved. But his every effort to duplicate what the couple in back were enjoying was parried.

  Gradually, Mary Lou trained Page to be a good boy. Somehow she kept up his interest even though he never got beyond French kisses and clumsy groping of a well-clothed maiden. By the time of that sock hop, he was a well-disciplined young man.

  Once she had established control, it was time to get serious.

  So he had learned. The first conquest was not his, it was hers. It didn’t matter. In fact, with very few exceptions, it was better to be cool and let the lady lead.

  If what was happening now had happened without a Mary Lou in his history, Page would’ve been all over Andrea. She would have fought him off. Or at least put up enough of a battle to leave him achingly frustrated and wildly unhappy.

  “So,” he said, “you believe the immediate future is, like, now?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Somehow, the snack room doesn’t seem to be the place to develop this idea to its fullest. Maybe we could adjourn this conversation to my place—such as it is.”

  “Sounds like a capital idea.”

  They dumped the remainder of their coffee and left the snack room.

  Together they headed down the corridor, anticipating no problem. Unless there was a summons to classes or chapel or something of that nature, hardly ever was anyone in the hallways.

  Besides, this institution bore little resemblance to the seminaries of the past within whose walls females had no place. Now there were nearly as many female students as males. And since many of the courses were coed, there was nothing untoward about a mixed couple walking together. Indeed, many of them studied together.

  When they reached his room, he opened and held the door for her.

  She sat in the only chair in the room. There was no other place for him to sit but the bed. So he did. The mere fact that he was occupying the bed in any manner kept the fires going.

  “You’re sure,” Page checked, “this is where you want to be—I mean, I don’t want you to think that I planned this—ending up here in my room, I mean.”

  “So far, you seem to have read the signals correctly. How, I wonder, do you see me? What do you think of me?”

  “You’re intelligent, competent, and beautiful.” He listed the qualities he genuinely perceived, in the order, he felt, she would prefer. “And, fair is fair: What do you think of me?”

  She regarded him thoughtfully, as if seeing him for the first time. “I’d say you are in control of your fate, very good-looking, and”—she smiled—“soon to be off the market.”

  So, he thought, she buys this bit about celibacy and chastity. All the better. She probably feels that coupling with me would be akin to throwing a life preserver to a drowning man. All the better, indeed.

  He stretched out on the bed. She could tell he was aroused. “Not so fast,” she said.

  He sat up.

  “What do you want to do?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It seemed as though we were headed for bed. I just sort of thought that if eventually we found each other in the nude, somehow something would occur to us.”

  “That’s all well and good. But I’m a virgin!”

  She’s a virgin! If he’d had to guess he would have been correct. There was something about virgins—like uncharted territory—that gave him double the pleasure. “So, you’re a virgin. I’m not sure what that means to you.”

  “Among other things, I’m not sure what to expect. But I have my fantasies. I’ve read a romance or two.”

  “I don’t mind being honest with you, Andrea. I’m definitely not a virgin. But I assure you I would be as concerned about your orgasm—or orgasms—as I would about my own.”

  This was ludicrous! She’d never thought she would be talking like this with a man who in a short while would be a priest. “I appreciate your concern for me, but …”

  “But what?” He was so near to closing this deal. And he wanted a woman so badly. This on-again, off-again was driving him mad. He wanted more than anything to jump her bones. But the memory of Mary Lou kept intruding on his libido.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy!” she protested.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Even think I it’s silly.…”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I can’t even bring myself to tell you.”

  “Try!” He was about to forget Mary Lou.

  “I want you to write it out. Tell me what you plan to do to … with me.”

  “… what I …?”

  “Years ago, I read a story about a small town where there was a rapist who would send his intended victim a note telling her exactly what he planned on doing to her. The victim was alerted. But she couldn’t be vigilant all the time. When she least expected it, he would strike—am I boring you?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Well, the sheriff of the town decided to use his new and beautiful wife as bait. By herself, she went to movies, restaurants, shopping, all over town. Sure enough, she received a note graphically spelling out what the rapist intended to do to her.

  “So her husband set the trap. He didn’t tell his wife, but he kept her under surveillance. Then, one night, about midnight, the rapist came and tried to enter the sheriff’s house. But before he could get in, the sheriff, who had been waiting outside in the dark, grabbed him and, after a struggle, killed him.

  “Then the sheriff entered his house. He was startled to find the back door unlocked. It was supposed to always be locked. He made his way through the darkened house to the bedroom. He cautiously opened the bedroom door, which squeaked. And in the darkness, from the direction of the bed came his wife’s whispered voice: “Hurry!”

  Page sat looking at her, his mouth hanging open. “That’s your fantasy! You want me to write down exactly what I intend to do, from foreplay to orgasm?”

  She blushed. “I told you you’d think I was crazy … let’s just forget the whole sorry mess.”

  “Wait! Wait!”

  In the silence that followed, bells were ringing furiously in Page’s warning system. Aphorisms were drumming. Do right and fear no man. Don’t write and fear no woman. A
nd suchlike.

  But he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her!

  He put the alternatives on a hypothetical scale. On one side, a naked and compliant Andrea. On the other, a vulnerable and seriously endangered Bill Page. The scale threatened to fluctuate toward the center, favoring neither side. Then he metaphorically pushed the weight to Andrea’s side. So she wanted it in writing. If that’s what would turn her on … well …

  “Okay,” he said at length, “I’ll do it. We can’t fool with this too long. You want it very explicit?”

  “The more the better. I’m counting on your experience and the gentle side of you to make my ‘coming out’ memorable. And”—she winked—“maybe even worthy of reprise.”

  A repeat performance, he thought. Worth every effort he could make. “Okay!”

  “Put it in my mailbox just outside St. William’s Hall tomorrow night at eight. And we’ll go from there.”

  As she left his room she made sure her bottom wiggled fetchingly as she closed the door behind her.

  He left the bed and began pacing the small room. What the hell, he’d never done anything like this before. And he’d thought he’d done just about everything.

  He might just find this stimulating. Although God knows, he didn’t need any help!

  Twenty-three

  It was 4:30 P.M., one half-hour before the Sunday Folk Mass at St. Joseph’s.

  Gathered in the rectory living room were Fathers Zack Tully and Robert Koesler and Monsignor Patrick Rooney None of them was there willingly. Tully should have been readying the church for Mass. Koesler might have been enjoying good music in his room in the seminary. Rooney would be late for his sister and brother-in-law’s wedding anniversary party.

  They had been summoned by William Cody, who demanded a ruling on the legitimacy of the Folk Mass. He was scheduled to meet them here in just a few minutes. Cody was always prompt.

  Tully’s guests had passed on the offer of a drink. They wanted to be cold sober and out of here at the earliest possible moment.

  “You might find this amusing,” Tully said as he handed each of them a sheet of paper. “This,” he continued, “contains the minutes of a meeting that never took place, by a committee that doesn’t exist. After we finished planning this Sunday’s Folk liturgy, the group put this together. I suppose it could be considered their response to the latest meeting of the parish council.”

  Rooney and Koesler began to read.

  AGENDA

  Opening Prayer

  Minutes of the Last Meeting

  Old Business

  New Business

  Worship Commission

  Discussion of a special service to honor the Pope.

  Preparations for the elevation to the episcopacy of Father Zachary Tully

  Administration Commission

  Creation of required dress code for Folk Mass at St. Joe’s

  Presentation of plaque commemorating support given by William Cody

  Plans for map to show children various routes to the church bathroom

  Education Commission

  A class for parish youth: “Is there a traditional Church in your future?”

  Swimming lessons for those to be baptized by immersion

  Christian Service Commission

  A party for those who benefited by the opening of two dozen casinos

  Closing Prayer

  We will need more prayers than ever if this agenda continues any further.

  Monsignor Rooney looked up. “They’re not taking this very seriously, are they?”

  “They’re a laid-back group,” Tully replied. “Besides, they’re pretty confident about the outcome of this investigation.”

  “Please,” Rooney said, “let’s not characterize this procedure as an ‘investigation.’ It’s like the scenario of Wag the Dog, which wasn’t a war; it was a pageant. In this case, this isn’t an investigation; it’s a … a visitation.”

  Their laughter was cut short by the doorbell.

  Father Tully admitted Bill Cody and introduced him to Monsignor Rooney. Cody nodded to Koesler, then glanced at his watch. “It’s just about time,” he announced.

  “Before we go,” Rooney said to Cody, “maybe you’d like to take a look at this.” He held out the agenda. Tully moved to intercept the sheet but Rooney waved him off.

  Rooney studied Cody as he scanned the document. At first he seemed bewildered. But as he read, his face took on a knowing look. At one point he even smiled. Rooney was now satisfied that Cody had a sense of humor. It was a better beginning than the liturgist had expected.

  As they walked over to the church Cody explained to Rooney why this investigation had been requested. Rooney did not quibble over the word “investigation.” He did, however, wonder why Cody was carrying a briefcase. Did he intend to tape-record the proceedings?

  Cody, Koesler, and Rooney repaired to the choir loft while Tully began vesting for Mass.

  The crowd was somewhat larger than usual. That, thought Cody, was to be increasingly expected as word of this Mass got around.

  As was typical with a Folk Mass, people freely mingled in a babble of voices. Cody spotted Eileen in animated conversation with a good-looking, middle-aged woman he finally identified as Anne Marie Tully, sister-in-law of the priest. And presumably the wife of the man who stood with them but seemed to be taking no part in the socializing going on around him. That would be Tully’s brother, the Detroit cop.

  The music began. Piano, tambourines, and drums.

  Cody removed a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and began taking notes. So, thought Rooney, it was going to be that way: chapter and verse. The monsignor knew that Cody would be quizzing him about the particulars in this Mass. He had better pay close attention. The musical trio gave him little choice.

  Cody scribbled on his pad.

  Rooney was probably the world’s worst singer. But he was able to recognize “Shall We Gather at the River.” He joined in the refrain. More scribbling by Cody.

  The procession entered from the rear, the narthex of the church. Father Tully wore traditional vestments. No problem there. Those who entered with the priest wore an assortment of outfits of no recognizable group. The only familiar article of attire was the stole, worn in a rainbow of colors.

  When all the costumed people had settled themselves in the sanctuary, the musicians began another spiritual, “Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham.” And from the narthex, a shapely young woman in a snug black leotard began an interpretive dance, writhing down the center aisle in time to the music. Except that at each repeated “Rock my soul,” her movement could better be described as more of a bump than a writhe.

  By this time, Bill Cody was looking up only intermittently. The rest of the time, he was writing furiously.

  Rooney leaned over to speak to Koesler. Due to the decibel level coming from below, the monsignor, head turned to Koesler’s ear, was able to speak without being overheard by Cody.

  “Did you hear the one about the bishop who hated everything about liturgical reform?”

  “I don’t think so,” Koesler said.

  “Well, more than anything, he hated, abhorred, loathed, detested, and despised liturgical dance.”

  “Like what’s going on now.”

  “Exactly. Everybody in this guy’s diocese knew this. Still, one pastor invited the bishop to come for confirmations. So the bishop and the pastor process into the church. Once they’re seated in the sanctuary, this young woman in a leotard comes dancing in.”

  “Like this one.”

  “Exactly. So the bishop sits there frowning and fuming. When she starts dancing up the side aisle, the bishop leans over to the pastor and says, ‘If she wants your head on a platter, she can have it.’”

  Koesler grinned. “Did that really happen?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But it could have.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The Folk Mass at St. Joe’s continued, as did Cody’s notat
ions.

  The hymns and spirituals, most of them seldom if ever heard in traditional Catholic services, were not only sung, but sung with enthusiasm and deep-felt emotion. The term “belted out” came to Koesler’s mind. If each spiritual had not been identified when announced, the trio in the loft would not universally have recognized “Get on Board, Li’l Children,” “Jacob’s Ladder,” and “Everytime I Feel the Spirit.” “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” thought Koesler, recalling one of David’s most beautiful Psalms.

  The congregation’s syncopation on “Roll, Jordan, Roll” gave it a true spiritual sound. The refrain was split between the female voices—“Oh, brother, you ought to be there …”—and the male voices—“Oh, sister, you ought to be there.…” And for the final “Oh, Preacher,” the voices of the entire congregation emphasized the admonition, “you’d better be there.” The concluding “I want to go to heaven when I die,” was sung softly, yet firmly, slowing up on the grace-noted “die.” By the time the female voices soared to the high F for the final “roll,” there was hardly an uninvolved bone in nearly everyone present. Always, of course, excepting Bill Cody, whose pen from time to time almost pierced the paper on which he was feverishly entering God alone knew what.

  Two of the costumed ministers gave the first two readings from Scripture. Nothing much wrong with that, according to Bill Cody—except, of course, for their unwarranted costumes.

  Father Tully preached an interesting and thought-provoking homily. Subdued, to fit the somber nature of the Lenten season.

  At the offertory, all the “ministers” took part in the offertory prayers. That caught Cody’s attention.

  During the preface and into the Canon, or body, of the Mass, the entire congregation left the pews and gathered close in around the altar. Definitely not kosher.

  Then came the greeting of peace.

  In the traditional Mass in traditional settings, after “The Lord’s Prayer,” the priest bids the congregation offer to neighbors “some sign of peace.” Which, in the traditional setting, usually is a perfunctory handshake and the uttering of the single word, “peace.” In this Folk Mass—as in most others—this is a signal to really mingle.