Two more priests checked their watches, shrugged, and headed for home. This left the four who had been assessing the sad state of city maintenance, Father Carleson, and Father Koesler.
Ernie Bell had arrived about forty-five minutes late for the meeting. It was evident that he’d been drinking, and while the meal had sobered him somewhat, he still had not completely recovered.
“So, Don,” Dorr began, “you’re a Maryknoller. Where were you working before you came here?”
“Oh, just an insignificant diocese in Central America. Nobody’s ever heard of it.”
“What brings you to Detroit?” Echlin asked.
“I’m tempted to say Northwest Airlines. But I know you’re serious. So, I didn’t come here blindly. I checked out the major dioceses in the States and this one seemed most promising.”
“This one?” Dempsey’s tone suggested skepticism. “Pound for pound, we’ve got more problems than any other metropolitan diocese I can think of.”
Carleson shook his head. “You’ve gone through the Council right from its beginning in the early sixties. Most of the other dioceses ducked Vatican II. They’re still fighting their way through it. This thing adapting to the Council and its spirit—like most other things depended on who the bishop happened to be. Your guy—Boyle—has fought his way through it. Still fighting.”
“Yeah, but they put you in St. Anne’s,” Dorr said. “Things are just as poor there as you could have had in the missions.”
“No.” Carleson smiled. “These people here aren’t really poor. Why, most of them have TV sets. In the Third World, there are just two societies: the extremely wealthy and the dirt poor. And when I say dirt poor, I mean it literally.”
“So, then,” Dorr said, “that’s why you came back: The missions were more miserable than you counted on?”
“No, not really. It was the bishops.”
“Bishops!” Dorr snorted. “You really lucked into it, didn’t you? Getting assigned to Diego!”
Through clenched teeth Carleson replied, “That’s only temporary.”
“Temporary?” Echlin chuckled mirthlessly. “Not if he thinks he can make your life truly miserable.”
Carleson didn’t respond.
But Ernie Bell did. He almost exploded. Seemingly, the mention of the bishop’s name had roused him. “Diego! That bastard! Diego, that goddam bastard!”
“What’s the matter with Diego?” Dempsey wondered.
“You don’t know?” Koesler said. “I thought everyone knew.” .
“Diego discovered that he could make Ernie’s life miserable,” Echlin said. “And he’s been doing pretty well at it ever since.”
“How come I didn’t know that?” Dempsey asked.
“I don’t know.” Echlin shrugged. “It’s pretty common knowledge, at least among the guys.”
“But Ernie, you speak Spanish. You’re good at it,” Dempsey protested. He looked at the others. “My God, he’s at St. Gabriel’s … right in the heart of the Latino community. Why would Diego give him a hard time?”
“Where’ve you been, Frank?” Dorr asked. “If you’d get out of the Afro ghetto once in a while—”
“And get into your ghetto?” Dempsey interjected.
“At least get out of your own. What Diego’s been doing—and not doing—is famous … infamous.”
“Like?”
“Like he’s supposed to be God’s gift to the Hispanic community.”
“That’s what he was in Dallas,” Dempsey said.
“That’s what he was supposed to be in Dallas,” Echlin corrected. “Turns out he don’t like Latinos very much.”
“Doesn’t like Latinos!” Dempsey exclaimed. “Why, my God, he’s Mexican himself! Why wouldn’t he like Latinos? He is one.”
“I don’t know,” Dorr said. “Something must have happened to him when they made him a bishop.”
“Yeah, it happens. It happens all the time,” Echlin said. “Look at Supreme Court justices. Presidents nominate them expecting they’ll follow the president’s party line. But, often as not, they don’t.
“Or look at our history. Cardinal Montini was a star-spangled liberal until they put a white suit on him and made him Pope Paul VI and he dug his heels in.
“Or take Danielou. As a theologian he was always in trouble. Then they make him a Cardinal and nobody can find a liberal bone in his body.”
“So,” Dorr pursued, “why not Diego?”
“The son of a bitch.” Bell spoke for the first time since his similar blast earlier in the conversation. “Latinos—Latinos who live in this city—live in barrios. Diego ain’t gonna live in a barrio … not again.”
“He came from one, didn’t he?” Dorr said diffidently, trying not to further rile Bell.
“Yeah, he came from one,” Bell said. “And he worked in one when he became a priest. But he wanted out. Best ticket out was becoming a bishop. So, he worked his way into getting the red. He’d just about worked his way into the mainstream in Dallas when he got sent here as an auxiliary to Boyle. So he’s God’s gift to the Latinos here. Back in the barrio. But he’s working his way out all over again.”
“Are you sure?” Dempsey said. “I mean, that’s a hell of an accusation!”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I know how he ticks. I confronted him with the whole scenario. I had chapter and verse. I could tell him the contacts he’s made already. I could even tell him the contacts he’s planning to make.
“He tried to deny it. But he couldn’t: I had him dead to rights.”
“So what?” Dorr said. “What could he do to you? I know he’s a bishop—but he’s only an auxiliary. What can he do to you?”
Echlin shook his head. “Auxiliaries may be daddy’s helpers, but they’re still bishops. They’ve got inbuilt clout.”
“But, how much clout?” Koesler commented. “Who knows?”
“That’s exactly it,” Bell said. “Nobody knows. But if he’s got as much as he thinks he has … I could be in a lot of trouble.”
“What? Threats?” Dempsey said.
Bell was silent for a few moments. Finally, “He wanted to close me down.”
“Close you down!” Koesler exclaimed. “St. Gabriel’s? You’ve got to be kidding … or he is!”
“Bob’s right,” Echlin agreed. “St. Gabriel’s is smokin.’ You’ve got as many programs going—or more even—than any other parish in the city.”
Bell shook his head. “We’re ‘not what we used to be’ … that’s what he said.”
“Who among us is?” Koesler said. “The people who built these city churches are either dead or have moved away. I don’t think there’s a single city parish whose people look like the original congregation—either in color, nationality, or numbers. None of us is what we used to be!”
“There’s one big difference,” Bell said.
“And that?” Koesler asked.
“And that is that a bishop didn’t tell you he was going to do everything he could—everything— to close your parish.”
“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it,” Dempsey said. “My God, where would all your people go?”
“There’s that giant right down the street,” Bell said.
“Holy Redeemer? Oh, it’s a monster,” Echlin said. “But it’s got its own hands full. Put what you’ve got at Gabriel’s in Redeemer and the giant would be choked to death.”
Bell shook his head. “Not according to Diego. According to Diego, Redeemer would just be what it used to be. Once more, Redeemer’s got enough Redemptorists to take care of the crowd … just like in the good old days.”
“But … closing!” Koesler shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head again. “That’s just not Cardinal Boyle’s style.”
Bell winced. “That’s where we find out how much clout an auxiliary’s got. All by himself, I don’t think he could shut me down. And maybe that isn’t Boyle’s style. But …” He looked at the others. “… could Diego pr
essure Boyle into doing it?”
All were silent as they considered Bell’s query.
At length, Koesler spoke. “I see what you mean, Ernie. It’s the club. It’s the bishops’ club. Very gentlemanly, very deferential, very you-scratch-my-back-I-scratch-yours. I hadn’t considered that. That makes it a very good question. It’s not just that the odds are against Cardinal Boyle’s doing anything like that. What happens when a fellow bishop, particularly one Boyle has to work with, wants something? Wants it badly …? I don’t know … it’s a new and different ball game, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Finally, Carleson spoke. “It’s getting kind of late, and I lost my ride. Could I beg a lift?”
“You can go with me,” Koesler said promptly. “Ste. Anne’s and St. Joseph’s are only a few minutes apart.”
Neither Carleson nor Koesler proved to be a bellwether. As the two got their coats and hats, none of the remaining four priests made a move to follow suit.
As he left, Koesler noted Ernie Bell returning to the bar. Koesler feared that Bell might drink too much before his drive home. He had come to the meeting late and slightly intoxicated—although he’d recovered well enough as the evening progressed.
Koesler would simply have to trust the others to be responsible.
Dead Wrong Page 32
