“Yes, Father,” Xavier quickly responded. “But not now. Later when we get more money.”
Morgan shook his head sadly. “Well, we will talk more about that later.” He extended his hand to the collection envelopes and gave the box its third trip across the desk.
Xavier was perplexed. “Father,” he said, “we got no money. I just told you. We got no money.”
Once again, was Morgan smiling or grimacing? Xavier couldn’t tell.
“These envelopes,” the priest explained, “are good for more than one use. Those who can contribute should use them for a donation. We must remember that God has been good to us. We must be generous with God. But, realistically, not everybody can give anything. I am willing to take your word that you are indigent.”
“Father?”
“Poor.”
“Oh.” Xavier did not argue the point. Nor was he embarrassed. He was poor. There was no argument there.
“But,” Morgan continued, “these envelopes serve more than one purpose.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. They tell us about your attendance.”
“Attendance?”
“Yes. We check not only how much a parishioner contributes, but the fact that the parishioner was there. If an envelope contains money, we record that. If the envelope is empty, we record that. If the envelope is not there, we conclude that the parishioner was not there either. So, take the box. When you can contribute, fine. At least we can record you are here.”
In his mind, Xavier saw that box of envelopes in his father’s closet. Xavier imagined the prototype of this present meeting. If his father had not accepted those envelopes, Xavier might never have been baptized. Further, his dad might also have been told to record his presence in church by at least turning it in empty.
Probably his father had promised everything, anything—without the slightest intention of following through. Suddenly Xavier thought much less of his dad. It wasn’t right. Lying wasn’t right. His father—but mostly his mother—had taught him that. “Father,” Xavier said, “I don’t wanna bull—I don’t wanna tell you any lies. We don’t plan on all of a sudden changing the way we live. We ain’t gonna be going to church. Maybe later Maybe when we have kids. But even that is maybe.”
“Havie,” Maria said, “maybe I will go to church. Maybe that will be enough.”
Xavier shrugged. “Come on, Maria, you know how it’s always been with us. Remember Christmas Eve? We were all set to go to church. Then we both fell asleep watching TV.
“Father”—Xavier turned toward Morgan—“we work hard. We don’t get paid much. But we work hard. When we get the chance, we sleep instead of goin’ to Mass. What happens, Father—what happens if we don’t take them envelopes?”
Morgan did not respond for a few long moments. Then, “Why do you really want a Catholic ceremony? You are not serious about the Church. You don’t even put the Mass ahead of some shut-eye. You seem an honest young man, Havier. So, why?”
It was Xavier’s turn to hesitate before answering. “It would make our parents very happy. All our relatives, on both sides—at least almost all our relatives—got married in church. It would really piss off everybody if we didn’t get married in church.”
Morgan pushed himself away from the desk. “I thought as much. Well, listen, my young people. The holy, Catholic Church was established by Jesus Christ, Our Lord. He did not die on the cross so that you could avoid ‘pissing off’ your relatives.
“Get married as best you can. A minister. A judge. You can even shop around for another parish where some misguided Catholic priest will witness your marriage. But it’s not going to happen here. You are not my parishioners. You never have been. You’re not now. And, from all you’ve said, you never will be.
“You spoke the truth, I’ll give you that, Xavier. Maybe—just maybe—you might consider going to church regularly. Maybe later, when you deign to come for the sake of the children.
“And what about those children? What would you say when, in the Catholic marriage ritual, the priest asks if you will accept the children God entrusts to you? Then, will you tell God, ‘maybe’? Or when you get better jobs? Where is your faith, Xavier … Maria? Where in God’s great heaven is your faith?” Father Morgan uttered a sound that was halfway between a growl and a sigh. “I’m afraid this matter is concluded. You may leave. And don’t ever return unless your ‘maybe’ is ‘now.’”
Wordlessly, the young couple left the rectory. Maria was in tears. Xavier was angry. The old priest could have let them down more gently given he was not going to marry them after all that.
All Xavier had to do was take the damn envelopes. They could have gotten married at the Mission. Everybody would have been festive. Then he could have put the box of envelopes in an unlooked-at hidey-hole and let them molder.
Well, the hell with this priest and the hell with his Church. He and Maria would make it on their own.
That was last night. Father Harry Morgan still felt he had done the right thing. He seldom, if ever, second-guessed himself.
Over the years he had set two standards for himself. One of those had been the example of Father Angelico of happy memory. The other, the method of operation of his classmate Father Robert Koesler.
Morgan had never cared for Koesler.
They were among the charter members of the class of ’42, high school freshman. The vast majority of that class would leave before ordination in 1954. Others, particularly discharged World War II veterans, would replace those who left. But even they would suffer a drastic dropout rate.
Bob Koesler and Harry Morgan got to know each other very well in the twelve years they shared in the seminary.
They had little in common. Koesler was a jock, Morgan was not. Morgan was a serious scholar. Koesler was not—not until the final four years of theology.
Not that there was any enmity between them. But they traveled in different circles. Aside from the burning desire to be a priest, they had no other common interests. Yet that goal of ordination was so strong that they got along fairly well.
In addition, the seminary of that day mirrored the Church of that day. The seminary and the Church of that day were not kind to inquisitive minds. One did not question theology; one learned it.
So, there was no disagreement between Bob and Harry concerning the “official” teachings which they were to use in instructing the faithful. There was no difference in substance. There was, however, a wide expanse—miles—of disparity between their method of dispensing these teachings.
The pivotal blow to their relationship was struck when Koesler was awakened by the Vatican Council while Morgan was cloned by Father Angelico.
Once their separate courses were set, Koesler became a very approachable, popular symbol of a happy, fulfilled priest. And Morgan withdrew inside himself, content to be there, yet bitter that so few consulted him. Koesler became a leader. Morgan was not.
Morgan had just finished the noon Mass. He settled in for a little brunch before his only appointment this afternoon. No one had a problem with the scheduling of Masses at the Mission of the Pietà; Mass was at noon every day, weekdays and weekends.
In this age, when popular belief held that hellfire was not the lot of the Catholics who skipped Sunday Mass, it didn’t help to needlessly confuse the faithful. No one who belonged to the Mission could claim that he or she forgot what time Mass was. Noon. Every day. Every season. Every year. Except, of course, for Good Friday.
Mass was offered in Latin. Not the Tridentine form that had been proscribed by Pope Paul VI. The form that had replaced the ancient Tridentine was first experienced in Latin, then translated into the various vernaculars.
Elsewhere throughout the Detroit archdiocese, Mass was offered in the new English form. Morgan offered it in Latin. A better case might have been made for using Spanish, the vernacular of most of the Mission’s neighborhood.
Father Morgan placed the plate containing his carefully prepared toasted chees
e sandwich on the kitchen table. This was another of his invariables. Normally a few vegetables accompanied the sandwich. Today, he cut back, mindful of the party tonight. On an occasion such as that, he was wont to eat more than he was accustomed to.
He was trim, to the point of being too thin. It was another lesson he had gratefully learned from Father Angelico. Mens sana in corpore sano, as the Latin had it, a healthy mind in a healthy body.
The thought of cutting back at lunch reminded him again of tonight’s party. He never looked forward to the periodic Ursula get-together with any sort of joy.
He certainly qualified for membership. He had served his time under the watchful eye of the pastor. Yet he was unique in having enjoyed it. It had been the signature event of his life.
He attended the get-togethers mainly to defend Father Angelico’s reputation and methods. With this in mind, such occasions kept him busy. At times, it was as if his entire body were riddled with buckshot. He would spend the evening figuratively pulling out pieces of the charges against the ancient pastor.
But it had been eleven years now since the priest had passed on. Time, as it often does, had bestowed a healing process. In recent years, parochial problems and the taking of sides in theological debate had gradually replaced Father Angelico and his barbaric behavior as topics.
Morgan felt that the Ursula crew was on its last legs. Not only had Father Angelico been dead these many years but the crowd was thinning out. Morgan had given consideration to not attending this year. It would be his first absence. There was less and less reason for him to be there.
If Bob Koesler had not volunteered once more to be the host, Morgan probably would have called it quits. But Morgan enjoyed baiting his classmate. This year, the subject of his taunting would be the retirement issue. Of course, other considerations might arise as the evening progressed. But retirement would do for openers.
Koesler had retired and was beginning his second year as a “Senior” Priest. Morgan had not retired. And there was the rub.
Morgan could cite their own generation. Priests, before The Changes, did not retire. Either they died in harness or they had been put on the shelf. Priests had a corner on the market of wearing out rather than rusting out.
So Koesler had put himself on the shelf while Morgan remained—on the job. He would have the upper hand. If truth be known, he needed the upper hand. Koesler was blithely unaware of it, but Morgan felt compelled to measure himself against his classmate in a most peculiar way.
Last evening, for example, Morgan had refused a sacrament to a couple who had every legal right to it. The decision was his and he’d made it. Then, as if he needed justification, he wondered what Koesler would have done under the same circumstances.
Koesler had a reputation of being free and easy with rules and regulations. Not when it came to himself, but as applied to others. At first guess, the presumption was that Koesler would have performed the wedding. Had Morgan gone that route, then, by some weird inverted logic, Morgan would have felt he himself had made the wrong decision—because Koesler’s decision would, of course, have been wrong.
But last night’s case was a close call. It could have gone either way. He could imagine even Bob Koesler refusing a couple who were only misusing, manipulating the Church. He would have told them to “make a statement”—tell the precious relatives that this is the way it’s going to be. Don’t expect us to live as practicing Catholics; we don’t believe in it, and we’re not going to be hypocritical about it.
Undoubtedly Koesler would have let them down more compassionately than Morgan had. But the bottom line might well have been the same. And that’s what troubled Father Morgan.
Maybe tonight at the party the subject of marrying the unchurched would come up. If he saw the opportunity, he certainly would introduce it. Then he could find out what Koesler would do in a situation like that. If, by chance, Koesler would have performed the ceremony, Morgan’s decision not to marry them would be justified.
The doorbell rang. It would have to be the expected appointment. For a change, this meeting had been requested by parishioners, the Oliverios.
Dressed clerically in his cassock, he greeted three members of the Oliverio family: Federico, the father; Louisa, the mother—both in their mid-sixties—and Carmen, the daughter, in her mid-thirties and unmarried.
He greeted them in his best friendly mood reserved for faithful parishioners. In her phone call, Louisa had stated that they wanted to arrange for a funeral. She would not go into any detail. She wanted to discuss the arrangements in a face-to-face meeting.
Morgan got his visitors settled in the dining room. Neither of the two offices was large enough to accommodate a foursome. He then waited expectantly.
“Father,” Louisa began, “my dear brother passed away day before yesterday.”
“Sorry.” He uttered it with the same sincerity as the automated, Have a nice day.
Louisa nodded. “We want to arrange for the funeral, Father.”
“There are a few questions before we get to that.” Morgan shifted in his chair. After a great many years of doing this, boredom had to be suppressed. “The deceased … his name?”
Louisa took a frilly handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes.
Carmen, the daughter, spoke. “My mama is under a lot of strain. She and my uncle were real close. My uncle’s name was Alfredo Salvia.” Clearly, Carmen was going to do the talking. Federico, the father, gave every evidence that this was torture he was being forced to undergo. And Louisa was emotionally overcome.
Morgan turned toward the daughter. “Where did your uncle live?”
“With us.” “Of course” was left unsaid.
“I was just wondering,” Morgan pursued. “I am familiar with you and your mother. But it’s always just the two of you. I see your father, but it’s only Christmas and Easter. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your uncle.”
“Uncle ’Fredo didn’t go to church much. Maybe never.”
Morgan was sizing up Carmen. She should get married, have an army of kids, and rule the roost. She was a natural for the part of matriarch. “Well, if your uncle never went to church, why should we take him there now?”
Carmen shrugged. “Because it would break Mama’s heart if he didn’t have a church funeral.”
Fortunately, Morgan knew exactly how to deal with these people. He had been carefully taught by the master himself, Father Angelico.
Angelico was Italian, of course. He knew their ultimate fear was being denied a church funeral. Morgan literally had heard Angelico’s threat: “And when you die, you will be buried like a dog!” Morgan had seen the “conversions” after that.
“Sometimes,” Morgan said, “hearts have to be broken before worse things happen. Like hellfire!”
Louisa burst into deep sobs. The sound would have melted a flinty heart. But not Morgan’s. Better some pain now than later. “We will not force Alfredo into a place he would not visit if he were alive. As he lived, so shall he die.”
Louisa was near collapse. Carmen had her hands full supporting her mother, assisting the older woman to rise as she herself shouted curses in Italian. Federico was stumbling about. He had knocked over a chair trying to rise and escape this damned place.
“And you!” Morgan extended an arm and pointed like the avenging angel at Federico. “You had better change your life and come to the church as you should. Or you too will be buried like a dog!”
As Carmen, the last of the threesome out the door, turned back to face Morgan, she exclaimed, “You have seen the last of us. You pig-headed jackass!”
Morgan closed the door behind them.
He had done the right thing. Shock them into the faith now rather than watch them sink into hell.
He had done as Father Angelico would have. And he was confident that Koesler would have done just the opposite.
Koesler buries everybody.
Fourteen
The boat was impressive. It was
a Regal Commodore 322. Length 32 feet, dry weight 11,800 pounds, and fuel capacity 172 gallons. Tom Becker insisted that the tank be refilled after each use.
There were three keys. Tom had one. His wife had none. One of the maintenance men had one. Tom had given the third to Rick Casserly.
It was one indication of the trust and friendship Tom had for Rick. The craft cost in excess of one hundred thousand dollars. Although it was fully insured, one did not give carte blanche access to one’s dream boat—literally—unless the trust was complete.
Throughout the morning of this first Wednesday in June, the maintenance man and his crew had given the boat a thorough checkup. They didn’t leave until all was well. But they left in plenty of time for Rick Casserly and Lil Niedermier to board for a leisurely afternoon cruising the Detroit River and Lake St. Clair.
Rick was at the helm, letting the craft virtually idle. He was content just to know the cruiser was capable of better than 50 mph.
Lil was in the galley whipping up a snack that would serve as lunch and hold them over until dinner. She shook her head when she recalled that the word “galley” was often associated with the word “slave.” She certainly didn’t consider herself a galley slave. How could you when culinary facilities on board this boat were better than what she had in her own kitchen?
She looked about her as the hot dogs sizzled in the microwave. Stainless sink, two-burner electric stove, coffeemaker, concealed refrigerator, and Corian countertop set off the open salon. In all, not an inch of space was wasted. It was a happy blend of luxury, utility, and efficiency.
Lil brought the hot dogs on deck. Two for Rick, one for herself. “There’s more,” she announced.
“Lemme get these down and we’ll see.”
The river was so calm and the boat was moving so slowly that Lil climbed upon the forward deck and sat at the tip of the prow like the figurehead on a sailing ship of yore. Or the heroine of the movie Titanic.
Till Death Page 16
