Winer shrugged. “It is as the man said: No one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.”
“For what it’s worth, Rabbi,” said the student, “I think that is a cop-out.”
“Young man . . .” Sister Janet began a reproof in a tone familiar to many parochial students of yore.
“It’s all right, Sister,” Winer assured her, “let the young man speak his piece. We want this conference to be as open and honest as possible. You were saying, young man?”
For a moment, the student seemed impressed enough with Winer’s forbearance to possibly withdraw his antagonistic comment. But his next thought was to make his point. “Whatever other reasons we’ve got for writing—altruistic maybe—we want to get published, we want to be circulated and read, we want to sell, we want to make money. I think P.G. Press has a pretty good track record doing just that.”
“Yes,” a hitherto silent student cut in. “Even if we want to communicate some sort of religious message or truth, we want to reach the maximum number of people. P.G. Press does that. I don’t think you’d deny that, Rabbi.”
Winer sighed deeply. “No, my dear young woman, no one could deny that some of the writers under contract to P.G. sell a lot of books—many more than any of the writers on this panel. Some of them appear more regularly on various so-called best-seller lists. What sort of effect they have on the reader is a question we must address in greater depth. Obviously, we have much to discuss in the coming days. It should make for an interesting conference.”
Sister Janet glanced at Krieg to see if he wished to add anything at this time. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. The beatific plastic smile had returned. No one else on the panel seemed inclined to further comment. Nor were any more hands raised in the audience.
Sister Janet thanked—with relief—everyone, and declared the session concluded.
She then noted that although the schedule called for a movie to be shown after dinner that evening, the name of the film hadn’t been listed.
“Well,” she said, “I think we have a treat for you, especially in light of the nature of this workshop. We have the 1954 British movie, Father Brown. This film stars Alec Guinness as G. K. Chesterton’s very perceptive priest-detective, and Peter Finch as the thief, Flambeau. It also features Joan Greenwood. I think you will all enjoy it very much.”
Judging from the smiles of most everyone in the room, Sister was guilty of understatement.
Koesler was pleased. He had seen the movie, but so very long ago he could scarcely remember it. Mostly he recalled having enjoyed it greatly.
He had read—or thought he had—all of Chesterton’s stories about the adventures of Father Brown. They surely were among the most popular works of the great writer. Yet Chesterton himself had considered them merely avocational. An indication of how lightly he regarded the series was his treatment of the characters. In the first of the series, Flambeau was the villain. But Chesterton liked the character so much that in the sequel he brought Flambeau back as an ally of Father Brown.
Koesler was grateful to anticipate the movie. He was not all that keen about the prospects for dinner.
12
On the one hand, he was very hungry. On the other hand, his appetite diminished markedly when he considered partaking of nourishment with his fellow “faculty” members. The relationship between the writers and the publisher was akin to that of an impending tribal war. Scalps would be taken.
He had never before been on a panel quite like this. Of course he had experienced times when panelists disagreed with each other. That was to be expected, at least occasionally. The unique character of the present panel was that it had been preprogrammed as hopelessly irreconcilable.
And who was to blame? Regan, the absent host? In a way. He should have rejected Krieg’s preconditions, even if it meant starting from scratch in setting up the workshop.
And yet, in the end, all roads led back to Krieg. He was the linchpin around whom this conference was built. The underlying question was why he had insisted on the presence of these specific writers.
So far it was evident that Krieg wanted these writers in his stable. It was also evident he had failed to corral them, at least up to the present. Was this a last-ditch effort? Did he think that a face-to-face meeting would convince them to join him?
If so, that would contribute to the explanation of his response to those questions this afternoon. Was he trying to convince the writers that they were missing a very desirable larger readership by not signing with P.G. Press? If that was the case, thought Koesler, he had failed completely. Would there be still more overtures? Probably.
While he could make some sort of sense of Krieg’s behavior in light of what he appeared to be trying to accomplish, the question that more deeply stumped Koesler was the unexpected intensity of hostility the writers exhibited toward Krieg.
So, all right, each of them had been courted by Krieg to sign with him. If anything, Koesler thought, the normal response to such an overture would be to feel flattered. However, after further thought and some helpful advice, each of them learns more about the intricacies of publishing and feels that he or she would be entrapped and, in a sense, enslaved within P.G. Press. At which point, they would be forced either to prostitute their talent or expend a lot of time and money getting out of the contract.
So each of the writers decides against signing with P.G. What’s the big deal in that, Koesler wondered. Every day, millions of people routinely refuse invitations to join book clubs, accept another credit card, subscribe to an insurance policy, and so on, ad infinitum.
In like manner, the writers refuse Krieg’s offer. Why does this upset them so? Each of these writers is a religious person. Each of them is a traditionally civil person. Why should they react so uncivilly to Krieg?
On second thought, Koesler recalled the hurtful words flung at David Benbow by Augustine in the sacristy this morning. Not all the writers were paragons of civility.
Koesler had assumed that each of the writers was a kindly and understanding soul. Augustine had proved him in error. Could any of the others be masking a nasty disposition under the veneer of a religious title and/or habit?
The answers to these questions would possibly be revealed in time, Koesler concluded, as long as he remained alert, curious, receptive, attentive, thoughtful, and sober.
In keeping with that final condition, he declined Sister Janet’s offer of a predinner cocktail. In this abstemious decision he was alone. From Sister Marie’s innocuous white wine to Father Augustine’s potent Scotch-on-the-rocks, the others seemed to feel they either needed or deserved a drink. And after this afternoon’s session, Koesler thought they might very well need one.
Sipping at his tonic water and lime, Koesler studied the liquor tray. Same as yesterday, a meager selection of pedestrian brands.
He smiled when Rabbi Winer tried the cabinet door, behind which were ensconced Krieg’s far more pricey labels, and found it locked.
Winer shrugged and, when he found the others observing what he’d done, he grinned self-consciously, half embarrassed, half amused. “The Reverend runs a tight ship,” he commented. It was clear that Winer would use Krieg’s religious title only sarcastically.
“I’m sorry,” Sister Janet said. “We have a very limited budget. There is an extra key to that cabinet hanging in the pantry”—she pointed—“just through that door. The liquor does belong to Reverend Krieg, but I’m sure . . .”
Winer had not intended to disparage the liquor supplied by the college. “Please, Sister,” he hastily interrupted, “I intended no commentary on what you’ve offered. It’s fine. As much as anything, I was interested in whether he’d had the cabinet locked.”
“It was,” Sister Janet began to explain, “part of the arrangement Reverend Krieg had with . . .”
“ . . . with Mr. Regan. We know,” Benbow said.
“Strange,” Sister Marie said, “for a. person who hasn’t been he
re for months to have such an impact on what we’re doing.”
“I guess Regan was the straight man in this scenario,” Benbow said. “The one with all the punch lines is Krieg.” He took the empty glass from his wife. “Here, dear, let me freshen this for you.” He dropped a small ice cube in both his and his wife’s empty glasses, nearly filled each glass with Mohawk Gin, then added vermouth as if he were using an eyedropper.
“Speaking of having all the lines,” Marie said, “we haven’t really had a chance to discuss that bizarre incident last night.”
“Krieg’s ‘death.’ The play within the play,” Winer said.
Augustine was about to refill his glass but decided against it. He had entirely missed that episode. He had wanted to have the particulars explained to him but felt awkward in asking. This was his opportunity to be brought up to date and he didn’t want to miss a word.
“I think Sister is absolutely right in referring to that matter as bizarre,” Martha Benbow said. “I just can’t imagine what the man had in mind.”
“By the way,” Benbow said, “just where is ‘the man’? We couldn’t be lucky enough to have had him leave town in a huff, could we?” His words belied his smile.
“He’s upstairs in his room. He wanted to freshen up before dinner,” Janet supplied. “As for last night, these acted-out mystery dramas are very popular now, you know. As I said, this had been all worked out between Jack Regan and Reverend Krieg.”
“Mystery psychodramas may be popular,” Marie said. “I don’t doubt that for an instant. But I still say last night’s charade was bizarre.”
“The man has a strange mind,” Benbow said. “I’m not sure what his real intention was in all that.”
“If he was trying to plant a thought in our minds,” Winer said, “he went to a lot of needless trouble. I daresay it was already there.”
“Thought?” Martha asked. “What thought?”
Winer did not answer.
“His death?” Marie pursued.
“Why pussyfoot around it?” Benbow said. “The thought Rabbi Winer suggests—which we didn’t need to be reminded of—is the Reverend Krieg’s murder.”
Martha gasped. “David!”
“Praise God!”
Krieg was in the doorway and in good voice and spirits. A couple of paces behind him was the considerable bulk of his bodyguard, Guido Taliafero.
Had Krieg overheard their conversation? Had he heard what David Benbow had just confessed? Krieg gave no indication.
At this point, the others couldn’t help being in the same room with Krieg, but it was Sister Janet who effusively greeted and welcomed him.
Taliafero strode immediately to the cabinet, unlocked it, and proceeded to set out on the serving ledge a splendid array of spirits. He poured a couple of jiggers of whiskey neat and placed the glass in the hand of an inattentive Krieg in much the same way an operating room nurse slides a scalpel into a surgeon’s hand. Taliafero then took his position near the door.
The others still had their original drinks, with the exception of Father Augustine, who, now that conversation about his previous lost evening had ceased, decided it was time for a refill of Scotch. Spontaneously he moved toward Krieg’s superior supply, then hesitated.
“By all means, Father,” Krieg said, “help yourself.”
Feeling like a Judas, or an Esau who was selling his birthright for a high-class intoxicant, Augustine poured from Krieg’s cache.
Almost immediately a sort of natural polarization took place and three groups formed. Krieg and Janet made up the first set. The three men-Augustine, Benbow, and Winer—composed the second cluster. They were joined by Benbow’s wife, Martha. That left Koesler with Sister Marie. He didn’t mind; he’d wanted to talk to her. He offered to refill her glass. She said she’d wait until dinner was served.
“Well, here we are,” Koesler said. “One relic to another.”
“Pardon?”
“There are not that many priests and nuns left. You and I are an endangered species.”
“Don’t I know.” She gestured toward Sister Janet, who was busily listening to Krieg. “That woman is a reminder to me. We practically grew up together in the convent. But she is one of the last of my close friends who is still a nun. Most of the others are gone. Oh, I don’t mean they’ve died—though a few have. No, the majority are ‘in the world.’” She smiled. “Odd how easily that expression comes to mind. ‘In the world.’ I can remember when that excluded all but us. We, in the convent, were not ‘in the world.’ Now even those of us who have remained nuns would have to admit we’re ‘in the world.’”
“I guess. In charge of continuing education for an entire diocese and now author of a popular book. You’ve squeezed into ‘the world.’ But then, you’re certainly not alone. We owe it all to Vatican II, the religious event of this century. From time to time I think of how drastically life has changed for priests as a result of the council. But, to be fair, priestly life has stood still compared with what’s happened to convents.”
“I believe I will have a bit more wine.” She smiled. “Dinner seems to be delayed.”
They moved to the tray the college had prepared; Koesler filled her glass. No point in his taking more tonic water; he was still nursing the ice cubes from his original drink.
Picking up their conversation, Marie said, “What’s happened to convents is that there aren’t any anymore. Or at least precious few. But I’m a bit surprised you’re interested. Most priests nowadays are concerned almost exclusively with their own survival.
“Now I shouldn’t have said that,” she corrected herself. “I don’t mean they are not giving service to their parishes or whatever their particular vocation calls for. I mean most priests don’t think much about nuns—now that there’s no chance of getting a passel of them for the parochial school.”
Koesler chuckled. “I used to be a regular confessor for nuns in parishes where there’d be anywhere from twenty to thirty or forty in a convent. That’s where I learned the word ‘promptitude.’ Seems that’s about the only sin nuns ever committed. They were late for things.”
Marie laughed. She had an engaging laugh. “Stop! You’re bringing back memories. Memories that are treasured, but memories regardless. I would just as soon forget before they remind me too much of the grind we were in. Nuns as teenagers. The postulancy, the novitiate, first vows, perpetual vows. Then the parochial school and its unending routine. Up for early—and I do mean early—Mass, quick breakfast, Mass with the kiddies, school, lunch any time or way one could; afternoon classes, evening prayer, dinner, lesson plans, night prayers, and then to bed. Every day throughout the school year until summer break gave you a chance to finish one academic degree or begin another.” Inwardly she winced at the memory.
“Is there any doubt that things have changed radically for you—for women religious?” Koesler said. “To my eyes, the biggest change has been the virtual end of communal life—those convents with all those nuns living so closely together.”
Marie grew serious. “You’re right. There have been lots of changes: the habit; the rules that apportioned one’s whole life; independent thought being discouraged. But most of all—you’re absolutely right— there’s no more community such as it was.”
“And that was, substantially, the reason for the founding of religious orders. So, although I’ve never asked anyone in your position—if you don’t mind—why stay?”
“Why stay?”
“If you don’t mind?”
“You first.”
Koesler chuckled. “Turned the tables on me, didn’t you? Well, I could claim inertia, but that would be facetious. I could say that something happens to a person after age fifty that discourages a midlife career change. And I suppose that could discourage even more anyone thinking of leaving a religious vocation.
“But, in reality, ‘none of the above’ to any significant degree compels me to stay in the priesthood. I suppose it’s mostly the feeling S
ancho Panza had about Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha—‘I like Him.’ That’s the way I feel about the priesthood. I like it. I’ve liked it ever since I was old enough to think about what I wanted to do as an adult.
“Of course, being a priest isn’t the same as it was as we progress from one decade to another. The Council, of course, was the pivotal event. People no longer need the priest for just about everything, as they used to. Probably never should have been that dependent. But, I must admit, it was fun being that in demand. And the laity, who used to be called ‘consultors,’ on a diocesan level with the bishop or on the parochial level with the priest, really should have been called ‘consenters.’ Now, with parish councils, they come close, in many cases, to being arbiters.
“But that’s okay. I like being with people as a priest. I prize the sacramental life of the Church and I’ve always felt honored being able to be a contributing part of that sacramental life. I enjoy trying to make the Gospel message practical in daily life through homilies.
“Oh, like many of my confreres, I am not nutty about some of the Church’s present leaders and the gross amount of control they try to exercise over the people of God. In that respect, we’re lucky to have Cardinal Boyle as our bishop. But, also like many of my confreres, I try to stay out of the hierarchical way and let my life revolve about the parish and the parishioners. And, on that level, I love it.
“Good enough reasons to hang in there?”
“Quite.” Sister Marie had listened intently. By this time, she and Koesler were practically oblivious to the other two groups, who, in turn, were wrapped up in their own respective conversations.
“And now, Sister, your reasons,” Koesler said. “Why are you still with us?”
Marie placed her glass on the table, apparently deciding not to have more wine, at least until dinner was served. “I’ve thought about it, of course, as you have.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“Yes, I suppose so. What with so many of our friends leaving the priesthood, religious life. Many of them good people. It has to make you wonder about yourself. That and all the changes. As you suggest, far more cataclysmic for us than for you. I’ve had to reevaluate my commitment more than once.
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