Requiem for Moses

by William Kienzle

  “Do you recall his name?”

  “Uh … it was … Italian, I think. He was a sergeant, I think … a big guy.”

  “Mangiapane?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Did he speak with your husband?”

  Margie raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Moe is not receiving.”

  “He wouldn’t see the officer?”

  “Nobody! No, check that: He did see the doctor—Dr. Fox.”

  “Did the doctor say what transpired? Was there any kind of diagnosis?”

  Margie shook her head. “Nothing happened. There wasn’t any diagnosis. Moe wouldn’t let Fox examine him.”

  Why? Why? Why? The question stuck in Koesler’s mind. “Do you have any security or burglar-proof system?” he asked, in a seeming non-sequitur.

  “The cop, uh … Sergeant Mangiapane, asked that too. In a word, no. We decided long ago that we wouldn’t be like prisoners in our own home. So, no, nothing like that at all.”

  “Surely you have dead bolts on the door!”

  “No.”

  Koesler looked incredulous.

  “The cop was surprised too. But, no, no extra security.”

  “Then anybody could come in here anytime.”

  “Well, hardly. We do keep the door locked.”

  “Mrs. Green, if I can believe anything I’ve seen in the movies, on TV or read in the papers, it doesn’t take much to enter a place that has standard locks.”

  “Moe was kind of fatalistic when it came to this ….” Margie leaned forward as if imparting a solemn observation. “He agreed with John Kennedy’s outlook: If someone wanted badly enough to get him, they’d probably do it. And that was the president of the United States talking. A president who got about as much protection as anyone could imagine. And, of course, they got Kennedy. He did say that the assassin would probably pay with his own life. And that happened too … that is, if Oswald really was the assassin.

  “Anyway, that’s Moe’s opinion. He was very firm about it. No use leaving the door open or unlocked. But no use putting floor-to-ceiling locks on it.”

  “But what about you?” Koesler demanded. “You live here too.”

  She thought for a moment. “I’d feel better with a chain and dead bolt. But the lack of them doesn’t bother me that much. Over the years I’ve come to know when to fight Moe and when to let him have his way. If I fought him over every disagreement, we’d be at each other’s throats all the time. That wouldn’t bother him. But it would bother me. So, on the security of our home, it’s just not that important to me. If somebody wants to get in here badly enough, a lock ain’t gonna stop him.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Koesler shook his head.

  Margie smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Father. This is a pretty secure building. It’s fully occupied. There are people, even on this floor, who are coming and going all the time. We get to know each other, at least by sight. If something was not on the up and up, we’d know. And we’d do something about it.”

  “Still …” Koesler looked at his watch. “Good grief, it’s almost time for Mass. I’ve got to be going.”

  As she assisted him into his coat, she laughed. “I suppose I ought to take you up on your invitation to come to church, but …”

  As if on cue, they heard the tinkle of a bell.

  Margie’s eyes met Koesler’s. “The master wants me to dance attendance on him. It may be a little time before I’m free to do what I want—let alone go to church.”

  As Koesler left the building, he could see the truth of what Margie had said. The muffled sounds of activity could be heard from nearly every apartment. Two people were waiting for the elevator. In the lobby, two couples were conversing. And a uniformed doorman stood at what passed for attention. Maybe the place was more secure than it seemed at first glance.

  He would walk the few blocks to St. Joe’s. He needed the exercise, and he had time before the noon Mass. As he walked, hands buried in his pockets, leaning slightly into the strong gusts of wind off the river, he had much to think about. Not just what he’d learned this morning, but something that had been bouncing around on the back burner of his mind.

  In this affair of the “resurrection” of Dr. Green, something was being skipped over. It was in the form of a hypothesis. Something was being overlooked. What was it? Several times during his brisk walk, it almost surfaced, only to sink again.

  Never mind, he thought. It’ll come. It always does.

  Chapter Nineteen

  St. Joseph’s Church was crowded to the point of standing room only. At least the crowd had not spilled out onto the sidewalk, so his entry to the rectory was unimpeded.

  Mary O’Connor informed him that the present congregation was just that—present. People had been coming and going all morning. Undoubtedly, the afternoon would see an additional exchange of people.

  He wasn’t surprised at the size of the crowd; after all, this was the only parish in the archdiocese that was having “miracles.” But he was pleased at the reverential silence that marked this group. There would be no problem offering Mass this time anyway. He hadn’t thought of it in these terms, but today especially he was grateful to be able to offer Mass facing the people, one of the changes authorized by Vatican II. He knew all the prayers of the Mass by heart, so he was free to study the congregation as he proceeded with the liturgy.

  The size of the congregation made him think of Easter and Christmas, when it was so easy to distinguish twice-a-year Catholics from regulars. Just so, now the faithful few who frequented daily Mass were present. A small number of the Sunday congregants were added. All the rest hoped either to witness a miracle or experience one.

  It was easy to disregard the strangers. Easy until one looked more closely.

  The elderly woman in the front pew fingering rosary beads, for instance. Not exactly the recommended manner of assisting at Mass, but her heart was in the right place. A closer look showed tears flowing freely. Was she crying out of pity for herself, or for someone else?

  Since she was elderly, he projected her prayer of petition as beseeching God to remove some of her physical burdens. Late in life she couldn’t throw off illnesses and injuries with the certainty and facility that had once been hers. Also she seemed to be the type of supplicant that could pray—and mean—“not mine, but Thy will be done.”

  When it was time to stand for the Gospel reading, she had obvious difficulty getting to her feet.

  The brief homily Koesler based on the earlier, first reading. That was from the second book of Kings, the reading that tells the story of King David and his perhaps exhibitionist neighbor, Bathsheba.

  It was a familiar if infamous tale.

  David was on the roof of his palace enjoying the late evening sunset, when whom should he see bathing on the roof of a nearby building? One look was enough for David to send for Bathsheba. Although she was married, an affair with David began. Meanwhile, her husband, Uriah, was fighting a war for David.

  Complications set in when Bathsheba became pregnant.

  Immediately, David sent for Uriah, ostensibly for some R and R. The king tried his best to get Uriah to go home and be with his voluptuous wife. But Uriah felt that as long as his comrades were suffering deprivation on the field of battle, he should not indulge in the ease and comfort, of his home and conjugal relations.

  David had a serious problem. Uriah could count. So when his wife had her child, he would know it was much longer than nine months since they had been together.

  So far, David’s sin of adultery was, at least, an act of weakness. But now he plotted a deliberate and heinous crime. He instructed Uriah’s commanding officer to put him in the front lines where the battle was most intense—and there to abandon him.

  Uriah was killed. Bathsheba moved in with David. And the king seemed not to realize that he had done anything wrong. It took the prophet Nathan to make David see the abomination he had committed.

  At last, David’s sorrow is gen
uine, and his self-imposed penance is impressive.

  Then comes reconciliation.

  Koesler’s homily was directed at reconciliation. The word means the restoration of friendship or harmony. Two things are needed to effect this rebirth of union: One party has to be sorry. The other has to accept this sorrow, and forgive.

  David was deeply and thoroughly sorry. God accepted his grief, and forgave him. David and God were reconciled.

  Koesler dwelt for a time on how difficult this reconciliation is to achieve in many instances.

  But as he spoke, his thoughts wondered to Dr. Moses Green. He had offended many people—five whom Koesler could name without hesitation. When these people had unburdened themselves to him, none of them had seemed inclined to forgive or offer any hope of reconciliation.

  But of course Green himself gave no sign whatever of being sorry for what he’d done as well as what he had threatened to do.

  Not much chance of a reconciliation there—on either side.

  When he’d first heard the bill of particulars against Green, reconciliation was not the first word that popped into Koesler’s mind. Vengeance was what the aggrieved parties wanted.

  Things now seemed to be status quo ante. Everything was as it was before the incident in St. Joseph’s Church. Green was alive, and five wronged people still had strong reasons to wish him dead.

  Come to think of it—Koesler was experiencing one of his more lingering distractions—there was a change in circumstances. Green had inadvertently bought himself some time. Before his death—or apparent death—he was a shadowy figure known personally to relatively few people. But access to him was not all that difficult. If one had wanted to do him harm, it would have been comparatively easy to find him alone, approachable, vulnerable.

  But now that he was being hailed as “Saint Moses,” he had become highly visible. Even though he had made no appearance outside his apartment, his life was under constant scrutiny. What with one thing and another, he had become a highly visible, albeit remote, self-made prisoner.

  What was Green going to do with this newfound life?

  Koesler’s guess was that it would be business as usual. Unless Green had experienced a change of heart due to his extremely close brush with death, what would be sufficient to cause this man to reform his life?

  Indeed, from his present position as one whom God had specially touched, Green would be better able to wheel and deal.

  But Green could not operate indefinitely from the comfortable and remote confines of his apartment. He must emerge sometime. And when he did, it would be an exciting event. There would be a series of unpredictable twists and turns—events that no one could dependably foresee.

  Koesler could hardly wait for the near future to unfold.

  The progression of the Mass had reached Communion time before Koesler shook away the cobweb of distractions. He was ashamed that he had paid so little attention to a liturgy that he prized and loved. But, in his defense, he had to acknowledge his deep involvement in this continually surprising drama.

  Communion this day in this St. Joseph’s Church was a throwback to the past. Only a small number in this oversize congregation stepped up to receive the host.

  Koesler remembered how it had been when he was ordained in 1954. A combination of two elements held down the number of communicants. There was the Communion “fast.” In Koesler’s early years in parochial school and the seminary, those intending to receive communion were obliged to have nothing to eat or drink from the midnight before. Later, that rule was relaxed, allowing water anytime before Communion. Finally, and to this date, communicants could eat or drink anything but alcohol up to an hour before receiving.

  The other problem was “sin.” Somehow—the heresy of Jansenism probably was the culprit—Communion had became intertwined with confession. And the belief and practice grew that Communion could be received only after confession. Thus, many people who confessed once a month received Communion once a month.

  The combination of these two practices, neither of which could find a home in authentic theology, led to packed churches late Sunday morning—say eleven o’clock or noon—with yet only a handful of communicants.

  Koesler, until today, hadn’t seen in ages a Mass in which only a small percentage of the congregation received.

  Perhaps, he thought, this report of miracles had attracted extremely conservative Catholics who continued to think themselves and just about all others unworthy to approach the altar with any frequency.

  Perhaps, too, many here today were not Catholic—maybe just sightseers and the curious.

  When he concluded the Mass, only a few people left the church.

  Well, he asked himself, if you were in hopeful anticipation of a miraculous event, would you leave? Aware of Murphy’s Law, you’d be certain sure that no sooner did you leave than someone would be cured.

  Before heading to the rectory, he entrusted to Saint Joseph, whose name this church bore, the job of clearing up this miracle business with all due dispatch so that everybody’s life might return to a more simple routine.

  He found a small pile of phone messages as well as a sandwich and a pot of coffee—all a gift from Mary O’Connor. Mary’s cheerful and efficient management of parochial affairs was helping immeasurably in getting Koesler through these packed days.

  He riffled through the messages. Almost nothing that couldn’t wait until the sandwich was dispatched. The one exception: a request from Pat Lennon for a return call.

  Koesler knew Lennon was working on the Green story. He also knew she was not one to make frivolous requests. He left the table, entered his office, and dialed.

  “Lennon.” Her voice sounded scratchy. One inevitable price of using a cellular phone.

  “Just as a matter of curiosity, where are you?”

  “The Lodge going north. This Father Koesler?”

  He grimaced. It was out of character for him not to identify himself when calling someone. For one, identification was polite. For another, he did not think he had a distinctive voice. In that, he was wrong.

  “Yes, sorry. It’s Father Koesler. May I help you?”

  “I hope so. I need an educated guess. And on Church matters, you’re about as educated as I know. This committee that’s been set up to investigate the Green matter—you know, the Cardinal’s committee—they’re calling a meeting for this afternoon that I can’t attend. They’re supposed to make public their first statement on the miracles. What do you think they’re going to say?”

  “Whatever I tell you has got to be a guess. But a pretty good one, I think. I was at the Green apartment this morning—”

  “You were?!” She sounded impressed.

  “Mrs. Green asked me to come. I didn’t learn much. She just wanted to settle on a stipend for the wake service that wasn’t.”

  “Lemme guess: no charge.”

  He actually felt embarrassed for no good reason except that he’d turned down money.

  “Did you get to see Green?”

  “No. He is seeing no one but his wife and his doctor. And he refuses to let the doctor examine him.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes,” Koesler agreed, “and it leads me to my first guess: The Cardinal’s committee is not going to get to see him either … at least not yet.”

  “So what’ll they say?”

  “That’s my second guess. They will report that they have not yet been able to interview him. And the following is the most important statement they will make: They will strongly advise everyone not to presume or assume that there is a genuine miracle here until the investigation can proceed.”

  “Cool the miracle,” Lennon synthesized.

  “That’s about it. But I don’t think the people who want the miracle to be real are going to pay much attention.”

  Silence. A problem on the freeway? Or perhaps she was formulating another question. That was it. “The people who believe in miracles,” she said after some moments, “don
’t they tend to be a bit conservative?”

  “Generally.”

  “Then, don’t conservatives also believe in their bishop? I mean, they’d like to believe in the two—so far—big miracles at St. Joe’s, but they also believe in the bishop. And if the bishop tells them to cool it …?”

  “Not as much today as in the recent past,” Koesler said. “A good example is right here in Detroit. Cardinal Boyle has a reputation as a liberal—erroneously, I think, but the reputation nonetheless. The dyed-in-the-wool Catholic conservative will tend to take the Cardinal’s direction with a grain of salt when there’s a disagreement with the archbishop.”

  “Right,” she said. “There was that French archbishop … Lefebvre, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, a crashing conservative. He ended up defying the pope—Paul VI. And all of it over the old Latin Mass.” Koesler was shaking his head in disbelief even now.

  “Well,” Lennon said, “once again, you’ve been a big help. Thanks.” Typically, she broke the connection without giving Koesler a chance to say good-bye.

  As he was replacing the phone on its receiver, the other line rang. It scarcely could be another emergency. The odds …

  Mrs. O’Connor apparently thought it might rank; she called out from two offices away, “Father Reichert on line two?” It was a question because she didn’t know whether he agreed with her evaluation.

  He could have postponed what he anticipated would be a disquieting conversation, but he didn’t want to fall too far off the pace. The present situation could generate emergencies by binary fission. He punched the second button. “Koesler,” he said, trying to sound pleasant.

  “This is Father Reichert.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll come right to the point. I want to apologize.”

  “Uh … for what?”

  “For everything I’ve put you through. Threatening you Monday afternoon. Castigating you after the wake. Dragging you before the archbishop. The whole thing.”