Man Who Loved God

by William Kienzle

  Until this moment, Barbara had not gauged the enormity and frequency of her infidelity. To touch base, as it were, with all four suitors, and to have each believe he was her one and only indiscretion, was, she felt, an impressive feat. Not to mention that all four could qualify as father of her unborn child.

  As her stream of consciousness progressed, decisions pertaining to her baby gained momentum. Supportive images flooded her mind as fully developed as Orville Redenbacher’s popping product. Why stop with one father for her child? Why not try for all four?

  It would be the acid test proving or disproving that none of the four knew about the other three. If each candidate thought he had no competitor in his trysts with her, then each would believe he was the father.

  And then what?

  Each might support the child as his own. And that would come about either voluntarily or through threats.

  What was the worst-case scenario?

  All of the four would learn of the others’ involvement. But … what the hell, one of them was the father. Of that there was no possible doubt. And whichever one it was, Daddy would be wealthy.

  She could not imagine any of them actually being willing to marry her. Fine. She had no inclination to marry any of them. Send money.

  There was, of course, one major fly in this pie: Al Ulrich. Her husband would know with certainty that he was not the father. And he was not likely either to keep silent or to accept any responsibility for the child.

  He would, in short, be the stumbling block. Somewhere along the way, Al would have to be dealt with. A practical deadline for handling Al would be any time from the present until she began to show.

  But first to inform the paternal contenders.

  She immediately ruled out use of a computer or any of the other current miracles of technology. This had to be a better-kept secret than those devices could ensure.

  Not a letter. Unforeseen, unexpected, and disastrous things came about when the U.S. Postal Service was involved. An envelope could be misdelivered, or opened by the wrong person—a wife, say.

  No, it would have to be a note, hand-delivered by her at tonight’s party.

  To celebrate the opening of the new, perilously located branch, Tom Adams was hosting a dinner party tonight in his posh riverfront apartment. Invited were his three executive vice presidents and their spouses. Also invited were Mr. and Mrs. Al Ulrich and Nancy Groggins and husband. Either Nancy or Al was to become manager of the controversial new branch of Adams Bank.

  Her plan to deliver the message by hand invested new import in the party. Till now, Barbara couldn’t have cared less about the gathering. She assumed the party’s purpose was to be a final sifting of the two contestants, Al and Nancy—sort of an audition to see how they handled themselves in the spotlight. It would never have occurred to her that Tom Adams might merely want to honor a couple of faithful—even courageous—employees. A statement as it were that their willingness to give of themselves was noted and appreciated.

  In actuality, this indeed was the purpose of the party.

  Hitherto it had made no difference to Barbara which applicant was chosen. Now the realization dawned that, yes, there was an element of jeopardy here. What if Al got the job? What if he were harmed? It was a charged neighborhood, fraught with peril.

  What if he were killed?

  She shuddered.

  But … it would go a long way toward solving her problem.

  She wondered idly if such a thing could be … arranged.

  She dismissed the thought. One thing at a time.

  There was tonight’s party with its newly invested importance. And how to deliver a message to four people among a total of one host and ten guests, with no one being the wiser.

  A challenge, no doubt about it. But Barbara thrived on challenges, risk, and living on the edge.

  She took from her writing table four sheets of unmarked stationery. Each note would be identical. There would be no addressee, nor any signature. Just a precaution. Each prospective father would know the message came from her; she would make certain of that.

  The message would be brief and to the point.

  She was in the very earliest stage of pregnancy. The addressee was the father. She was not interested in marriage to the father of her only child, nor in an abortion. But something would have to be worked out. And soon. Oh, and because of the relationship—or lack of it—between Barbara and her husband, as Barbara had explained at the beginning of their affair, Al would know for certain that he was not the baby’s father. Something would have to be done about Al.

  That should do it.

  Now for this evening’s ensemble. She would be at her seductive best.’

  Damn the wives. Full speed ahead!

  Three

  Father Robert Koesler could scarcely believe it. He was going on vacation! It had been several years since he had last indulged himself in what he now looked on as a luxury.

  Two considerations contributed to this view. Clearly, one was the priest shortage.

  At the start of his forty-three years as a priest, few parishes had only one priest to serve them. Thus when vacation time rolled around, it was simply a matter of filling in, of taking on a few more responsibilities, offering an additional Mass on a weekend. Besides, there were lots of religious order priests, teachers not assigned to a parish, who could fill in.

  All that had changed drastically. Not only were one-priest parishes quite common now, parishes were being closed or “clustered.”

  Granted, it was still possible for priests to carve out some leisure time. It worked if parishioners made do with no-Mass Communion services conducted by a deacon, a nun, or a lay volunteer.

  Indeed, Koesler had heard of a recent incident in a suburban Detroit parish. It was the 11 A.M. Sunday Mass with a nearly overflow congregation. The priest didn’t show. So a woman who was taking theology and liturgy classes at Orchard Lake’s Saints Cyril and Methodius Seminary conducted a satisfying and proper Communion service.

  Afterward, one of the male parishioners, congratulating her on her performance, said to her, “They’ll probably ordain you now.”

  “No chance,” she replied.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m overqualified.”

  Most of the priests who heard this story thought it hilarious.

  Koesler’s second reason for not taking time off was that finding a substitute for a couple of weeks just wasn’t worth the bother. Frankly, he enjoyed what he did as a priest. Leaving his work was like vacationing from a vacation.

  But this time off had been handed him on a platter. Out of the blue, a priest had phoned and offered to substitute for Koesler while he got away from it all for two or three weeks.

  Koesler had not sought this relief. That the offer was made so spontaneously made it seem like a gift from God. Manna in the wilderness.

  With little time to plan, Koesler had selected Georgian Bay in Canada. He’d always wanted to visit that area, rich in missionary lore. Besides, one of his priest friends was stationed in a parish in that vicinity.

  The visiting priest who would substitute for him was now upstairs in St. Joseph’s rectory. He had arrived this very day and Father Koesler had already given him a tour of the buildings and a briefing on how things were done at old St. Joe’s.

  That was another new wrinkle. Before so many changes had followed the Second Vatican Council, there was little, if any, diversity in the way Mass was offered or services were conducted from one parish, or even one diocese or country, to the next.

  The language was in Latin within the Latin Rite churches throughout the world. Rubrics—instructions—were identical and told the priest what tone of voice to use, what gestures to make, and where to move and when.

  That was then. Now there were subtle and some not so subtle nuances from parish to parish within the same diocese.

  In the 1950s and earlier, a visiting priest could walk into a sacristy, vest, and go to the altar without
even a greeting to or from the pastor. Now the common question before attempting Mass in an unfamiliar parish was, “How do you do it here?”

  For Father Koesler the most unusual part of this present improbable arrangement was the identity of the visiting priest: He was a member of the religious order of St. Joseph’s Society of the Sacred Heart, or, more popularly, the Josephites.

  The Josephites, an order small in number, were dedicated to a parish ministry for African-Americans. Possibly their most famous member was Father Phil Berrigan, who, with his Jesuit brother, Father Dan Berrigan, raised consciousness over the issues of war, injustice, and poverty.

  That was the visitor’s background. His name was Tully—Father Zachary Tully. And at this moment he came downstairs and stepped into Koesler’s office.

  “All settled in?” Koesler asked brightly.

  “It didn’t take long.” Tully wore a black suit and clerical collar.

  Koesler himself regularly dressed in clericals; he appreciated other priests in uniform. “I notice you didn’t bring much with you. I hope our Michigan weather doesn’t surprise you too much.”

  “We’re just out of August,” the other protested.

  “It gets tricky in Michigan. After all, you’re up here from Dallas.”

  Father Tully took a chair opposite Koesler. “That’s Texas, and that probably sounds warm to a Northerner or a damyankee. But we have our winters too. Oh, granted, not like yours,” he said, anticipating Koesler’s exception. “But we need our warm clothing too.” He chuckled. “I remember one Christmas when we had an ice storm in Dallas. Knocked out the electricity and really threw the residents for a loop. Some of the neighborhoods didn’t get the power back on for eleven days.” He grinned. “Which led to the headline on the front page of one of the Dallas papers: DALLAS OFFICE OF EMERGENCY PREPAREDNESS NOT YET READY.”

  “Speaking of winter temperatures,” Koesler said with a smile, “how about, for medicinal purposes, a drink?”

  Father Tully waved the offer away. “No. Thanks much, but I’d better save myself for the party tonight.”

  “That’s right,” Koesler recalled, “you’re headed for a party, aren’t you? Something about a bank?”

  “Adams Bank and Trust. That’s what got all this going.”

  “Yes.” Koesler warmed to the story. “How was that again?”

  “Well, most of us Josephites are at least acquainted with the name Tom Adams. He’s been a major league donor to our order. I’ve always been impressed with his generosity.

  “We were set to recognize him and his charity toward us and present him with our annual St. Peter Claver Award. Then we got word that he was going to open a branch of his bank in one of the poorest sections of Detroit. Our Superior General decided to break with tradition and give him the award out of due season as it were. To make it extra special.

  “So, don’t ask me why, but I was chosen to present the award. That’s what I’m going to do at the party tonight.

  “We would’ve preferred a larger ceremony—maybe in the cathedral with your Cardinal Archbishop Boyle. But Mr. Adams preferred a private ceremony with some of his employees and their spouses. And we said—what else?—‘Whatever you want, Mr. Adams.’”

  “Yes,” Koesler urged, “but how did you find out you had a prominent relative here?”

  Tully settled into the chair and leaned forward. “Let’s see … how to put this …? Well, my father died some forty years ago. I was just five then, so I hardly knew or remember him. My mother and her sister raised me. My dad didn’t have any religion in his life, so they told me.

  “But my mother and my aunt were sort of super-Catholic. So it wasn’t very unusual that pretty early on I thought of being a priest.”

  “That’s the way it usually works,” Koesler agreed. “Or at least the way it used to work.”

  “Then,” Tully continued, “our parish in Baltimore was staffed by a Josephite priest. He sort of took me under his wing. And off I went to the Josephite seminary. About twenty years ago I was ordained and I’ve spent these years hopping around to various of our parishes. It’s been a great life.” Tully smiled broadly. “My aunt, when she found out I was going to Detroit—for the first time in my life—told me the story.

  “It started with my parents’ marriage. It was my father’s second marriage, my mother’s first. He was supposed to be a widower. Whenever the priest pressed Dad for documentation on his first marriage, he stalled, gave excuses, got nasty. I guess the priest decided life was too short for all this grief. So he ended up taking depositions instead of documents.

  “Anyway, they were married. I was their only child. Just after Dad died, his first wife finally found us. I didn’t know about all this. Only my mother and my aunt knew. And they chose not to tell me. It was mostly my mother’s decision. But Aunt May went along with it.

  “Another thing that fits into this picture is that my father was black and my mother, and her family, were white.”

  Koesler looked at his visitor more intently. Yes, Father Tully could easily pass. “Then, after all that time, why would your aunt suddenly tell you about your father’s first marriage?”

  “Do you mind if I stretch my legs a bit? Seems I’ve been sitting a long time.”

  Koesler smiled and nodded.

  Father Tully rose and paced slowly back and forth through the large room. “See,” he said finally, “my mother died about ten years ago. And Dad’s first wife never told her kids about their father’s second marriage—or about me. All my half brothers and sisters know about their father was that he worked in an auto factory and one day he walked out on them.

  “Now I was coming back to Detroit, the home of my father. Aunt May did a little probing and found that only one of Dad’s kids still lived in Detroit. We had the same name—Tully—and he was a policeman. She didn’t want to take a chance on my coming across him without knowing about him—or vice versa.”

  “So she told you the whole story.”

  “All she knew. I was fascinated, of course. I couldn’t wait to get in touch with my brother. So I phoned him. That was a couple of days ago.”

  “How did he take it?” Koesler suppressed a grin.

  “He didn’t believe me at first. Especially when I told him I was a priest. In fact, at that point, he hung up on me.”

  “And then?”

  “I called him back and asked him to hear me out. I told him most of what Aunt May had told me. Some of the details must’ve caught his attention: he began to take me seriously.”

  “Did you see him before coming here to St. Joseph’s?”

  “There wasn’t time. I’m supposed to get together with him and his wife for dinner tomorrow evening. I really can hardly wait to meet him … and her.

  “But you know him, don’t you?” He looked expectantly at Koesler. “When I told him I was looking for a parish to stay in while I’m in Detroit, he suggested this … St. Joseph’s parish. He said it was close to police headquarters and also to their home. He said he knew you. After the way he reacted when I mentioned I was a priest, I was really surprised that he knew any local priest well enough to recommend my stay. And, by the way, once again, I am deeply grateful you invited me.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m getting a vacation when I’d almost forgotten what that was like.” Koesler wasn’t sure whether it was his imagination now that he knew the priest was Lieutenant Tully’s half brother, but there was a definite resemblance. Evidently the priest had inherited his mother’s coloring but some of his father’s features. Koesler was sure that when the two brothers met they would be struck by the likeness. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to leave?” the always punctual Koesler asked. “We wouldn’t want you to be late.”

  Father Tully checked his watch.” Just six o’clock. Mr. Adams asked that I not show up until seven. The party starts at eight. He wanted to get to know me and familiarize me with the guests before they got there.

  “So I’ve got about an ho
ur. Would you tell me something about my brother? He said something about your working with him on a few homicide cases. It didn’t seem to make much sense.”

  “Sure, I’ll fill you in. Would you like some coffee while we talk about it?”

  Tully took a moment to weigh the invitation. “That would be great … if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Koesler led the way to the kitchen. He began to heat the water while Tully sat at the table. Father Tully didn’t know what he was in for.

  Four

  “I don't blame you for being startled when your brother told you he knew me,” Koesler said as he sat across the kitchen table from Father Tully. “I suppose you thought the only way Lieutenant Tully would know a priest is if the priest were in trouble with the law.”

  “No, nothing like that.” Tully chuckled. “Just surprised. How did it happen?”

  “Actually,” Koesler explained, “my meeting with your brother took place quite a few years after I first got involved with the Detroit Police. Again”—he smiled—“not as a felon.

  “I was,” Koesler proceeded, “editor of the Detroit Catholic—the diocesan newspaper. So, with that assignment, I was pretty much out of parochial ministry—just helping out.

  “I lived at a Detroit parish when there was a series of murders of priests and nuns. I happened to discover the body of the second victim—a nun. I also happened upon the killer’s calling card, a plain black rosary.”

  Tully seemed to recollect. “Yeah … I remember that. Didn’t the media call it ‘The Rosary Murders’? Because the killer left a rosary with each body …. wrapped around the wrist?”

  “That’s it. You’ve got a good memory; that was a long time ago.

  “But through that investigation I met some people in the police department. Perhaps the closest connection was an inspector—Walter Koznicki. We’ve become good friends.”