“Exactly,” Koesler affirmed. “And don’t you see: It goes back to Vince’s uncle and his suicide.”
“The way Delvecchio sees it, his uncle is responsible for his aunt’s living in the state of mortal sin,” Tully mused. “They are not canonically married. And it’s his uncle’s fault. He’s the one who was previously married. So it’s ’his fault.’ And when he ‘contaminates’ the condition by not getting an annulment …”
“He commits suicide,” Koesler concluded. “So Delvecchio has history repeating itself. In fact or in fiction … depending, that is, on whether the story is fact or fiction.”
“Then …” Tally’s brow knitted. “… how does he twist this so it pertains to me?”
“Hmmm.” Koesler pondered. “Well, look at it this way,” he said finally. “If you could creep into Delvecchio’s mind—”
“I’d rather not.”
“If you were to creep into Delvecchio’s way of thinking,” Koesler plowed on, “this Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity is essential to the Catholic faith—”
“How could they be essential? They’re not part of the deposit of faith. My God, if that were the case, Paul, arguably the greatest and most influential of the Apostles, would not be part of the infant Church. Far from taking an oath of fidelity to the Pope, Paul corrected Peter, the first Pope!”
“I know, I know, Zachary …” Koesler was not happy with the interruption. “But we’re dealing with what has become the mind-set of a fundamentalist. And as such, Vince would believe that anyone who would not or could not make that profession or swear that oath could not be Catholic … could not be a member of the Catholic Church.
“Then, we move into an a fortiori. If a lay Catholic is expected to prove his sincerity through the Profession and Oath, what does a person like Vince expect of a priest?”
There was a pause. Evidently Koesler did not intend this question to be rhetorical.
“Well,” Tully said after a moment, “obviously he’d expect a priest to be out in front leading a congregation to live out this fealty to the Pope.”
“And,” Koesler drove home his point, “if the priest himself would not live out this papal fidelity?”
Tully shook his head. “I suppose to the bishop the priest could not call himself Catholic. He’d be … what? … a heretic!”
“He’d be in serious sin—at least as far as Delvecchio is concerned. And Vince knows from brutal experience that sin contaminates. His uncle Frank ‘lived in sin’ and contaminated his relationship with his aunt Martha.
“The same with Greg Thompson. His state of sin contaminated Mary Lou and then spread to include his parents and sister. And look at the price everyone had to pay for that contamination.”
“So that …” Tully said slowly, “if I refuse to swear, I am in serious sin and I contaminate an entire parish!” He shook his head with a pained expression. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe so, but that’s the way Delvecchio thinks. That’s why he demands that you not only make the Profession and take the Oath but that you do so publicly—in a liturgical setting.”
“And if I don’t, does the bishop expect me to commit suicide like Frank and Greg?”
Koesler’s response was midway between a snort and a chuckle. “I doubt that!”
“Well, this puts me in a tight fix. Having just given me permission to become a Detroit diocesan priest, the Josephites wouldn’t look too kindly on my knocking at their door again, I’m sure.
“Of course,” Tully reflected, “I don’t necessarily have to be the pastor of this parish. I could be an assistant at some other parish. I don’t have to live in my brother’s backyard. Just about any place in this archdiocese would be handy to get together with my small family … and maybe I could escape the Profession and Oath …”
“There’s plenty of precedent for that,” Koesler admitted.
“Because of the Oath?” Tully was incredulous.
Koesler smiled. “No, but the result was about the same even though the reason was different.
“Like so many things that caused upheaval in the Church, this was a consequence of Vatican II. I was only in my mid-thirties then, but especially since I was editor of our paper at the time, it was sort of easy for me to adjust to and even be enthusiastic about the changes the Council brought.
“It wasn’t that easy at all for the older guys. A lot of them were overwhelmed by what looked to them like a brand-new Catholic Church. And these guys were mostly pastors. That was a position they had waited for with some impatience. They had achieved all they’d ever dreamed of. They were confident they’d be in charge until death did them part.
“They hadn’t counted on the Council. Many of them fell behind on what became current. Disgust and depression ensued. They were supposed to have members of the laity as consultors. But most of the pastors made it clear they wanted consenters rather than consultors.
“Then came the parish councils and for a long time it was up for grabs as to who was really running the parish. That plus all the other changes that swept through the Church. But”—Koesler smiled—“you were aware of what was going on.”
“Sure,” Tully agreed, “but more as a bystander. The Josephites were working with the poor. Our parishioners were not about to challenge us. But I could see what this was doing to you guys.”
Koesler nodded. “That’s how come we developed retirement.”
“‘Achieving Senior Priest status,’” Tully corrected mockingly.
“Whatever. A lot of those who were pastors had been secure and growing even more secure. They had a long precedent of priests working their parishes as pastors until death. Now suddenly that goal no longer seemed attractive to many of them. They looked at the younger clergy imbued with the spirit of the Council. To them the pastors, in effect, said, ‘Okay, it’s your Church now. You’ve changed it so much it doesn’t look anything like what we grew up in. So, it’s yours.’ Some seniors backed away from their position and became assistants and/or just floated until retirement time.
“Not everyone, mind you, but some.
“And that,” Koesler concluded, “is where the similarity comes in. You are proposing to back down to the role of an assistant rather than take an oath you don’t subscribe to. Some priests, after the Council, did step back to being assistants rather than try to continue playing a familiar game whose rules had been changed.”
“Well,” Tully pondered, “they seemed to make a go of it. Why not me?”
“I don’t know,” Koesler stalled. “I’m not sure how Delvecchio would react to that possibility. But I am concerned about what it might do to you. I’d rather see you make a go of it than retreat.”
Tully smiled broadly. “Somehow be installed canonically as pastor of Old St. Joe’s without taking the Profession or Oath? The perfect solution! But, Bob, life isn’t always like that.”
“I know … I know. But the longer I reflect on the Vincent Delvecchio I’ve known, the more I’m convinced there’s a chink in his armor.”
“You’d think so. After all, bottom line, we’re all priests. You’d think the bonding would mean something. But to me, he seems like a well oiled machine … no sense of compassion.”
“Oh yes,” Koesler responded quickly, “he’s got compassion.”
“Where? When? I haven’t heard any mention of it from anybody.”
21
The pool game long since forgotten, Father Koesler still sat on the edge of the table. Father Tully, audience of one, had seated himself on a chair alongside the table. Now Father Koesler would try to demonstrate that Bishop Delvecchio had a heart. Father Tully was eager to be convinced.
“This happened,” Koesler began, “about the time the Vatican Council ended. I was editor of the diocesan newspaper and Vince was an assistant chancellor.
“There was a priest, Father Fuller, who was pastor of a suburban parish. He was the founding pastor. Now the parish was about eight years old and there was consi
derable pressure to build a school. The pressure was coming from young couples in the parish who had a lot of school-age children.
“But the pastor was running into a brick wall—well, actually two brick walls. One, he couldn’t raise enough money to commit to the buildings—two buildings at least, the school and a convent. Because starting a parochial school without nuns to staff it was another definition of fat chance; no one could hope to pay lay teachers realistic salaries. And the second problem was getting a commitment from one of the teaching orders. There was an overwhelming need and demand for teaching nuns, especially in the suburbs where so many new parishes had been established basically for young couples starting their families.
“Now it may be hard for you to imagine this, but the pressure got to be too much for Father Fuller. He fell ill … very ill.”
“Oh, I’m willing to take your word for it,” Tully said. “Though it is a bit to swallow. The school wasn’t his need. All he had to do was step aside and give the people who wanted the school the chance to take the responsibility of raising the money to build it and staff it.”
“Dandy idea,” Koesler concurred. “But Fuller couldn’t see it that way. Most pastors of that era felt it incumbent to do it themselves.
“So, you can argue that it was a useless worry—silly, even. But Fuller stewed himself into an ulcer and lots of other ailments that might well have been psychosomatic, but still had their effect on Fuller’s precarious health.
“The chancery—seconded by Fuller’s doctor—was convinced that a month’s R and R would get the pastor back in the saddle. The problem was getting someone to take over the bare necessities—daily and weekend Masses, confessions, and being available for consultation.
“Well, the ways of the chancery are strange, to say the least.”
“Amen!”
“I guess,” Koesler said, “they thought two priests part-time equaled one full-time.
“Anyway, neither Delvecchio nor I was assigned to parochial duties at the time. I was at the paper and helped out at various parishes on weekends. Vince had a similar schedule.
“So, we were told to work Fuller’s place for a month, minimum. And those were the days when you went where you were sent.
“Delvecchio and I had lived together only during our Camp Ozanam days. And that could scarcely be called living together—not like rectory life. It was Vince and me and the housekeeper. And there was the rub.”
“The housekeeper?” Tully hazarded.
Koesler nodded and winked. “Exactly. Sophie cooked.”
“That’s it?” Tully asked after a pause.
“That was it. Another woman came in once a week and cleaned. There was a secretary during the day—Monday through Friday.”
“And Sophie?”
“As I said, she cooked—and none too well. For breakfast the first day, I asked for a couple of poached eggs on toast. What I hadn’t counted on was the blistering-hot plate they were served on.”
“The eggs kept cooking.”
“Exactly. By the time I got to the second egg, it was hard-boiled. Neither Vince nor I was there for lunch. But dinner? Sophie served dinner in common dishes. I quickly learned to take a taste of everything and then start with what had cooled most and work toward what might hold some of its original heat.
“Also I quickly learned to request cold cereal for breakfast. Fortunately, Sophie didn’t cook that before serving it. Lunch remained trouble-free because I wasn’t there.
“Dinner was nothing but a penance. But I stayed with it.
“However, other things followed, from the given that Sophie cooked and nothing more. Sophie neither answered the door nor the phone. She had her own phone and answered that only.”
“Meaning that you and Delvecchio got the phone and door even during meals.”
Koesler nodded solemnly. “After the secretary left for the day and before she came in the morning, none but a consecrated ear touched the phone. Same thing on weekends.
“Bottom line: Sophie cooked—none too well—and that was it.”
“Didn’t you wonder why Fuller hired her? Or even more of a puzzle, why he didn’t let her go?”
“Absolutely. And at the same time, Vince was exceptionally kind, considerate, and patient with her. Whereas I was barely civil at times.”
“Ah …” Tully sounded as if he comprehended yet still was a mite doubtful. “So Delvecchio could be compassionate. But why? Especially given his reputation, why would he act that way?”
“That’s it!” Koesler said with vigor. “Vince took the time and effort to look into Sophie’s history. He took time to talk with her and with people who knew both Fuller and Sophie.
“It’s a funny thing, Zack: She was just Sophie to me. In reality, and what Vince discovered, was that she was Sophie Fuller.”
For a brief moment, Tully wondered whether this could be a “Mr. and Mrs.” Or, perhaps, a “Father and Mrs.” Then, intuitively he knew: They were brother and sister.
“Left to my own devices I never would’ve tumbled to it,” Koesler said. “But I should have. I should have realized that there had to be an explanation for Sophie’s continued presence in the rectory. The only thing she did—cook—she couldn’t do. But, Zack, I wasn’t perceptive enough to follow through and dig out the whole story. Vince was the compassionate one, Zack.”
Tully pondered that. “Okay, she was the pastor’s sister. Just as a matter of curiosity, what was she doing in the rectory? Except getting in the way … and, I assume, getting a salary?”
“This was Fuller’s third crack at being a pastor,” Koesler explained. “His first pastorate was out in the boondocks. That parish could barely pay his salary. So, his mother took her never-married daughter aside and told her it wasn’t right for their priest to take care of himself. In effect,’ Sophie had to-give up her own, independent life to serve her brother.”
Tully pulled on his lower lip. “To understand is to forgive all,” he said finally.
“The thing is that Vince went the distance. He peeled back the layers of misunderstanding. He finally understood what made her the way she was. She was bad at something she didn’t want to do. That’s not so hard to understand. Vince understood. Then he communicated that understanding to me.”
“Hmmmm,” Tully mused.
“But, see,” Koesler prodded, “all Vince had to do was to appreciate the pressure Sophie was under. Everything was all right then—her deficiencies were accepted without problem.”
“And you think that the same thing could happen with me?”
Koesler raised both hands in a gesture of victory. “Why not? If we could make Vince understand what your conscience dictates …
“Once he saw the difficulties Sophie had as a housekeeper, and once he understood her sincerity in sacrificing her life for the sake of her brother, everything was more than all right. I don’t see why we couldn’t expect a similar … happy ending.”
Tully was wrapped in thought.
Koesler caught himself looking at Tully in much the same way as Kingfish would study Andy in that landmark period piece “Amos and Andy.” Regularly, Kingfish would try—and usually succeed—to sell a bill of goods to a gullible Andy. Then Kingfish would give Andy “that look,” anticipating whatever Andy’s response might be.
Koesler quickly wiped that expression off his face and sat back to await Tully’s reaction. He hoped Tully would be encouraged by the Sophie anecdote. On the one hand, it was a true story. And, on the other, it would help Tully’s case measurably if they could confidently enter into a dialogue with Delvecchio.
Additionally, he hoped Tully would be motivated by the Sophie anecdote because Koesler didn’t have another in his sack; it was the one and only expression of compassionate understanding on Delvecchio’s part that Koesler was aware of personally.
Oh, it was bandied about that Vincent was kind and considerate to those in need. The sick and suffering, the troubled, the deserving poor most often receiv
ed an attentive ear and, where necessary, a generous wallet.
It was said by many that Delvecchio’s day off each week began with a visitation to hospitalized parishioners.
But compassion? Especially toward those considered to be challenging the Church or its traditional theology? No Sophie happy endings there!
Indeed, just a few months ago, a much more typical story involving the bishop had gone the rounds. It was not an incident that would have encouraged Father Tully at this moment, so Koesler had no intention of telling him.
Koesler had heard the story—well documented—during a priestly golf foursome.
The story was related by Father Joe McCarthy. He had been a classmate of Bishop Delvecchio and thus, owing to the bishop’s five-year delay after his breakdown, was ordained five years earlier than Delvecchio.
McCarthy was one of those who had stepped back from his pastorate to be an assistant. In his case, it was not any theological or canonical problem; it was because his health could not sustain the pressure of pastoral duties. The priest shortage had placed an extra burden to provide services for a growing number of Catholics on a diminishing supply of priests.
So it was that Joseph Patrick McCarthy requested an assignment as an associate pastor. The chancery, as was its wont, had the last laugh in assigning him as an associate to Delvecchio.
The chancery was in no mood to grant McCarthy an early retirement. Thus, to qualify, he would need to hang in there until age seventy. Meanwhile, he had to take orders from a man he did not respect, as well as from a man who had less parochial experience than he.
McCarthy’s story was compelling, first-rate clerical gossip. It was one of the rare times Koesler could recall that a golfing foursome was glad to wait on the tee and even ignored the invitation of those ahead to play through.
At this juncture, in the twinkling of an eye that encompassed a pause for Tully’s reaction to the Sophia saga, time stood still for Koesler as he recalled McCarthy’s tale.
The narration had begun on the practice putting green and continued from green to tee for fully nine holes.
The Greatest Evil Page 20
