“It’s not that,” Tully insisted. “It’s just that I’ve tried to familiarize myself, particularly with the guys who are my senior. I really should have recognized Morgan. Even if I didn’t know much about him, I should have recalled the name.”
“Don’t feel bad. Harry has given new meaning to the phrase ‘keeping a low profile.’”
“He’s retired?”
“No. He’s administrator of a tiny mission called the Pietà.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a job. He’s not a pastor. And the mission isn’t a parish.”
“All true. But Harry is dedicated to a quest …”
Tully smiled, “Like Don Quixote de la Mancha.”
“Something like that. Except that Quixote found the gold in dross. He found Dulcinea in Aldonza. Harry more likely would see Aldonza in Dulcinea.”
“He sounds interesting.”
“He’s fascinating in many ways. I had—gratefully—moved out of Ursula’s several years before Harry was sent there as an assistant. Of all the priests who served under Angelico, Harry was the only one who clearly enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed?”
“Hard to imagine after all you’ve heard about the place, isn’t it?”
“I should say.”
“Lots of priests tried to prepare Harry for what he was about to suffer there. Really, in all Christian charity, they tried to soften the experience. Even I briefed him and, in fact, urged him to confront the pastor early on. And he seemed affected by all this concern.
“Then he moved in and got acquainted for himself. In a couple of words, he loved it.”
“No!”
“Uh-huh. It was as if somebody had cloned Angelico and got Harry Morgan. In fact, he outdid Angelico; he was more stern and strict than the pastor ever dreamed of being. In time, Angelico built up enough confidence in Harry that he was allowed to roam free. On his own initiative, Harry took the damned census for several hours every day.
“Voluntarily he quarantined himself in his upstairs room. They say that Angelico actually invited Harry to use the sacred living room as often as he wished. And, why not: For Angelico, having Harry around was like looking into a flattering mirror.”
“That’s almost spooky.”
“Really! It was weird. Harry still looked like Harry Morgan. But there were expressions—facial expressions—that were uncannily reminiscent of Angelico. For instance, it was hard to tell when Harry was smiling—which was not often—and when he was furious. His lips were always drawn tightly across his teeth—something altogether new for Harry.
“And it changed his life. We thought that maybe when Harry left Ursula’s, he would return to his own personality. Give him a few months, a year at best, and he would be the Harry Morgan we’d known for all those years in the seminary.
“But it was not to be. Angelico had, in a sense, taken possession of him. Harry was never the same again.”
“Incredible,” Tully exclaimed. “What’s happened to him?”
“I think it would be fair to call his ministry undistinguished. He was an assistant in several parishes. He was pastor of a couple of parishes in the boondocks. Actually, he was one of the last—as a matter of fact, the very last—in our class to get his own parish. In fact, if the priest supply had held up and there hadn’t been a priest shortage, he might never have become a pastor.”
“You make it sound as if he should never have been ordained.”
Koesler pulled his jacket tightly around his neck. There was no need for the restaurant’s air conditioning to be turned on, but it had been. With the noon crowd having thinned out, he was beginning to feel the chill. “In 1954 when we were ordained, to go by the book was to steer a safe course. And a safe course was to take no risks. When we delivered practice sermons, a critique of being ‘bookish’ was the equivalent of a passing grade. So, being strict and stern and rigid and ‘bookish’ by no means disqualified a seminarian from ordination.
“Besides, most of the narrow-minded among us mellowed in time. Who knows; Harry might have turned out entirely different if it hadn’t been for Angelico.
“But Harry did become a new edition of the old man. Much to the detriment, I think, of souls. He might have become more forgiving; instead he gained a reputation as a harsh confessor who confused mercy with vengeance. And if you were in the pew, and he was hearing confessions, you might hear Harry shout, ‘You did what?!’”
They both laughed even though they knew the reality of that example was anything but funny.
“I’d say” Tully observed, “that we have quite a cast of characters for this evening. Before we had this talk, I must admit I didn’t anticipate much interest in the party. But now …”
“But now, “Koesler supplied, “you can see that there may be an interesting interplay among the guests—if not fireworks.”
“And I’m dying to meet the clone of Father Angelico.”
Twelve
They stopped at a Holiday Inn for lunch.
Pressed as to why he had chosen this motel for a meal, he would have confessed it was their slogan, “No Surprises.”
Indeed, Tom Becker did not enjoy surprises. His life was ruled by set goals, not happenstance.
He had entered the seminary with the goal of discovering whether or not he had a vocation to the priesthood. His goal was not to become a priest but to learn what God had in store for him.
It took almost ten years, but he achieved his goal. When he finally made up his mind to leave, there wasn’t a single doubt in his decision. Both the seminary faculty and student body had plenty of doubts concerning that choice. The consensus was that he would have made an excellent priest. Still he himself had no doubt whatever. One morning he was there for meditation; the next morning he was gone.
Some who left the seminary before ordination made a production of their decision. Days if not weeks were used to tell as many as possible that this young man was departing. Sometimes there was a not too subtle message in this dramatic leave-taking. That occasional message was, “Here I am, a decent enough man. I’m leaving because I don’t consider myself worthy of this calling. And what makes you think you’re better than I. Why don’t you do the honorable thing and quit?”
The majority who left did so as Tom Becker had: silently slipping away.
It didn’t seem to matter what course a departing student took. Most seminarians were convinced that, on the one hand, the vocation to which they aspired was sublime, and, on the other hand, that they were not perfect enough to dare attempting it.
Through years of prayer, study, thought, and direction, Becker became convinced he was not suited for the priestly life. He would not become a priest. But he had achieved his personal goal: He was convinced his resignation was God’s will.
His next logical step was to inform his parents, the rector, and his spiritual director of his decision to leave.
The general feeling of everyone who was affected was that an excellent candidate had resigned spontaneously. A lot of consciences were searched. A lot of agonizing was sustained. In the end, and after a suitable time for mourning, Tom Becker was forgotten throughout the hallowed halls. And life went on.
For Tom, after that most important of all goals was reached, the rest was easy. The ensuing objectives were: to rehabilitate homes for the poor; marry; gain academic degrees; succeed as an architect; retire; own and operate a landscape business. The goals followed like dominoes.
For all of this he was grateful. And, unlike some, his gratitude expressed itself in generosity. He responded to many of the seemingly infinite requests. Come Christmas, he hunkered at his desk writing checks for those charities nearest and dearest his heart.
In the early years of their marriage, Peggy Becker routinely would respond to the question, “Do you work?” with, “No. I’m a housewife.” It did not take much thought—but it did take a lot of time—for that brief response to change to, “I’m a homemaker.” Most recently, lots of women had acknowledge
d that being a mother, a cook, a wife, a psychologist, an accountant, a disciplinarian, a peacemaker, and more was, indeed, work. But now, women joined the workforce just like men. But for less pay and with a ceiling on their promotions.
In the face of all this, Peggy remained a housewife. And did so with pride.
Those who knew the Beckers, even intimately, considered their marriage near perfect. They were close physically. They were comfortable financially. Rarely was heard a discouraging word. Both were very spiritual. They were committed Catholics. Their children were exemplary. Everyone knew nothing could be this perfect. But if there was anything wrong, it was buried and hidden.
So, everyone would be surprised that at this moment Tom and Peggy were suffering through one of their rare arguments. It concerned tonight’s party with the Ursula crowd. They were studying their menus in sullen silence.
“Look, dear,” Tom motioned, “they’ve got your favorite, Caesar salad.” This time around it was his turn to try being the peacemaker.
She scanned the menu until she found the listing. She considered it. “It’s more than I want now. Maybe the chef’s salad.” She could not be angry with him. At most she was impatient.
The waitress came. Tom ordered the chef’s salad for his wife and soup and a sandwich for himself. The waitress asked if he wanted a beverage. He felt like having a glass of wine. But … he knew water would be fine.
They didn’t speak for a few moments. Even after all these years, the protocol was not clear as to which one should take the initiative.
“You know you didn’t have to come this evening,” Tom opened. “We’re not too far from home to turn back. You can have some time to yourself while I run off to this dinner meeting.”
“I thought of that.” She delicately broke off the end of a breadstick and nibbled. “But you’d probably try to return late tonight.”
“Either with or without you, I might try.”
“Exactly! I don’t want you driving alone that late. If you insist on coming straight back. I can be with you and be company for you.”
“Okay. Come along. I’d like your company.”
“Even if I’m grouchy? She met his eyes with a mixture of love and snappishness.
“I understand. It’s just that I can live with tonight’s cast of characters and you’ve got a problem with some of them.”
“‘Some of them,’” she repeated. “That’s entirely true. But you know a couple of rotten apples can be contagious.”
“Maybe part of my problem,” Tom said, “is that I’m not completely clear which of tonight’s guests is on your list. I seriously doubt that either of our hosts causes you a problem. Father Koesler? Father Tully?”
“No, of course not. Father Tully is a dear. And Father Koesler has a long track record. He is everything a priest should be.”
“The policeman and his wife?”
“Oh, come on. We’ve never even met them.”
“You don’t mind meeting them for the first time in this setting?”
She thought a moment. “I don’t think so. Time will tell. But I’m not anticipating any problem there.”
“How about the young woman, the principal?”
“Ms.”—she emphasized the modern pronunciation of the identification—”Niedermier? You are going at this process in concentric circles, aren’t you?” She smiled. “You do intend to get down to the problem area eventually, don’t you?”
He returned her smile. “Can’t take anything for granted. Let’s take them one at a time. Ms.” he mimicked his wife, “Neidermier?”
“No. If anything, I feel sorry for her. She certainly is eligible, isn’t she? Such a pretty girl. I wonder why no one has scooped her up.”
The waitress brought their orders, asked if anything was wanting, then left to service her other tables.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said. “Lillian is a very attractive woman. But we don’t know how many proposals she may have had. In any event, you have no problem with Lil?”
“None.”
“That brings us to Father Casserly.”
She shook her head and sighed. “You’re really leaving the problem area till last, aren’t you?”
He smiled broadly. “Got to touch all the bases.”
“How could anyone not like Father Casserly? Superpriest. Athletic, handsome, marvelous sermons, deep thinker, renowned counselor.”
“You sound as if you could be his agent.”
She laid down her fork and gazed out the large window at the dark green grass of a fairway. “Lots of women would consider his celibacy as a waste.”
“Do I have to worry about you?”
She laughed. “ ‘Lots of women’ does not include me.”
“You think they still would find him attractive?”
“Certainly.”
“He’s my age. Sixty. That’s a little long in the tooth, don’t you think?”
“So what? Women find you attractive too.”
He laughed. “You’re too kind. But I love it.”
“It’s true. It’s also not fair. When women age and their skin is not tight, they become ancient, no longer sexually appealing. Men don’t age or grow old; they mature. All I’m saying is that Father Casserly has matured and continues to mature wonderfully.”
“I’ll have to tell him. It may boost his morale.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Strange, Tom thought. Things seemed to be changing, but there was a lot of truth in what Peggy said. Women tend to try to mask the signs of age. Some wear clothing tight enough to threaten asphyxiation. They apply makeup to hide the wrinkles. They’ve forgotten the original color of their hair. It’s not so much that they try to appear young. It is much more that they feel they must remain young.
Men can go to pot, literally, and still feel no need to go to women’s extremes. If thinning hair is a concern, there’s always a rug, or combing over the thin spots. Or, much more simply, just be like Sean Connery—or go totally bald and join forces with Yul Brynner, Telly Savalas, and Patrick Stewart.
Youth seems to be a priority with television newscasters—national, network, cable, or local. People who travel around the country can turn on the local TV news at six and see seemingly the same list of characters from city to city. Males may be young or maturing, but the females must exude youth. Water Cronkite could have anchored CBS News to the absolute end of “That’s the way it was.” His maturation signified reliability, wisdom, and experience. But Lesley Stahl had better be smooth-skinned, slim if not taut, one of the shades of blonde, and have teeth sufficiently sparkling to cause eye damage.
Tom Becker wondered if he would live long enough to witness the inevitable triumph of gender equality.
In the Catholic Church that would mean that for the Third Vatican Council, bishops would bring their wives. And for the Fourth, bishops would bring their husbands.
Tom Becker also wondered whether he had been correct when he had decided not to tell Peggy about the unorthodox living situation of Rick and Lil.
How would Peggy react if she knew? It was anyone’s guess. Tom understood his wife far better than did her closest friends and relatives. His estimate was Peggy would drop the priest like a hot pizza. A beautiful friendship would be destroyed—needlessly, as far as Tom was concerned.
All the attractive attributes would melt away. In Peggy’s eyes, Rick would no longer be a superpriest. He would not be even superman. Just another guy—and one who didn’t even have the courage to stand up publicly for his lifestyle at that. Tom was certain this was the way things would play out.
His decision to keep Peggy in the dark had its repercussions in their own relationship as well.
Long ago, before they were married, Tom and Peggy had agreed that there would be no secrets between them. Tom was sure of two things: One: Peggy had not broken that trust. Two: He had.
He shuddered to think of the meltdown in their ability to share. Life with Peggy without trust w
ould be no life at all. At this stage of the game there was no compromising. Tom had to make sure Peggy never learned about Rick and Lil. And, by extension, of Tom’s breach of trust.
They finished their lunch expeditiously and in silence. By now the ice had been broken and it was a friendly silence.
He always drove unless they had attended some event or program that exhausted him. That was not the case now. Tom slid behind the wheel.
He had been deferring any mention of her attitude toward Jerry Anderson and/or Dora Riccardo. He hoped something unforeseen might happen and the conversation would veer away from the final couple. That hadn’t happened. So clearing this final problem was an event that was going to happen.
They drove in silence for several miles. He swung onto southbound 1-75, the freeway that would lead them into downtown Detroit, then slipped into cruise control and aimed the car at the Motor City. He broke the silence. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Other shoe?”
“Jerry Anderson and Dora Riccardo.”
Peggy didn’t reply.
“They’re the ones you’re having a problem with?”
After a lengthy pause she said, “Yes … you could say so.”
“But you don’t even know them.”
“You do?”
“I know Dora. Well, maybe a little bit.”
“Oh?”
“Sometimes when I’ve visited Rick Casserly in his rectory, Dora has been there. She helps with the catechetical program. She’s quite good at that. She was a nun, you know.”
“I’m painfully aware of that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means …” Peggy turned toward Tom. She knew that unless she chose her words carefully, there’d be another breakdown in communication between them. “It means,” she repeated, “that once upon a time she made vows to God. They were for life, if not eternity.”
“I suppose you have the same problem with Jerry Anderson.”
“I don’t know why you are calling what these two have done my problem. If anything, it’s their problem.”
“Come on, Peg. Their problem? There are circumstances.”
Till Death Page 14
