Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  “Why not?” With all she had drunk, she was feeling no pain. But she would. This would be a night she’d remember as long as she lived. It would also mark the last time she would ever bring a stranger home. In retrospect, she would conclude that she had been lucky to live through the horror.

  But at this moment, she was anticipating nothing more than a roll in the hay with this handsome hunk.

  And he was reflecting on the paradox. Ordinarily, if one wishes to be incognito, he wears some sort of costume. But, if one lives in a costume—say a monk’s habit with a cowl covering one’s head—one can go unrecognized merely by letting everyone see what one really looks like.

  Meanwhile, wonder of wonders, just a little while ago he didn’t give a damn. However, now John Reid was going to pack Brother Paul in mothballs and have himself a phenomenal night.

  TUESDAY

  JULY 25

  CHAPTER

  11

  One half-hour before opening time, everyone was about his or her business.

  Tellers were counting their money and going through the previous day’s mail deposits.

  Bill O’Brien, a vice-president of First Standard Bank and Trust, and manager of the Livernois branch, along with a teller, was opening the night depository. Bank rules required that a member of management as well as a regular employee be present at the opening of the night depository to cross-audit each other. Once they completed their task, the tellers would process the envelopes.

  The general teller went from cage to cage, making sure the tellers had enough money to at least get them off the ground this morning. The tellers went through the ritual of “buying” and “selling” money from the general teller. Meanwhile, other employees were preparing a shipment of excess funds for downtown.

  All of this was a very busy but almost soundless operation. Thus, even in the midst of all this activity, the tapping of keys against the glass front door could be clearly heard.

  Bill O’Brien, along with several of the employees, looked up. O’Brien was annoyed. He had enough to do before opening time without being hounded by some impatient customer who couldn’t read the banking hours posted on the door right before his eyes.

  The manager’s vexed look dissolved when he recognized who was at the door. He nodded to an assistant, who unlocked the door, admitting the two monks, then relocked it after them. Their familiar robed figures glided through the lobby directly to O’Brien.

  Customers were not supposed to be admitted before banking hours. The monks of St. Stephen’s Monastery were an exception to this rule. The practice of admitting them a half-hour or so before time had been instituted by O’Brien as a courtesy to the religious. In time, it had become an advantageous practice as the monks’ deposits grew larger. O’Brien liked to get such large amounts in and counted before opening for business.

  “Good morning, Father Robert . . . Brother Paul.” It was guesswork, as both monks were in full habit with cowls pulled over their heads. They could see out, although the rims of the cowls acted as blinders. But one could not see in without pressing one’s face against the cowl and peering in. An indiscretion at the very least.

  However, O’Brien’s was an educated guess. It was always Robert and Paul who brought in the deposits. At least that was how they identified themselves. And what reason could they have for lying?

  It was the much taller, athletically built Brother Paul who responded. “Good morning, Mr. O’Brien. God bless you for extending this courtesy to us. It really helps with our busy days.”

  It was just about the same thing Brother Paul said nearly every visit. Ordinarily, O’Brien took it with a healthy grain of salt. He could not conceive how these monks kept that busy from day to day. But after what had happened yesterday, he could well imagine they were about to be besieged. And, in keeping with yesterday’s events, O’Brien tried to treat Father Robert with enhanced reverence.

  “Let me take that bag for you, Father Robert.” O’Brien relieved the smaller monk of the black satchel. “That was quite something that happened at the monastery yesterday. You’re a celebrity now. And justly so.”

  As O’Brien relieved him of his burden, Father Robert, with a small, stifled cry, staggered sideways.

  O’Brien was instantly concerned. “Here, Father Robert, sit down here in my chair. Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Brother Paul said. “He’s just tired from yesterday. There were so many questions, so many reporters, the TV cameras and their terribly warm lights, on top of the heat of the day. I’m afraid it’s been a bit much for him.”

  Actually, Robert was weak from the punishment inflicted the previous night by Paul. But he—as the others—knew better than to speak out. Robert sank gratefully into the supportive leather chair, bowed his head, and rested for the moment.

  “I can well imagine,” O’Brien said to Paul. “Is there anything we can do? We’ve got some aspirin, but that’s all; I’m afraid we don’t even have any brandy.” He gazed concernedly at the seated priest. “I’m worried about him. Are you sure he’s all right?”

  “He’s got the constitution of a horse. He’ll be fine. Let’s just let him rest. He’s got another big day ahead of him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mass as usual and then all the supplications and prayers and blessings to follow. And after yesterday I’m afraid we are anticipating a larger crowd than usual.” In fact, Paul added in thought, I’ll be disappointed as hell if it’s not S.R.O.

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s true.” O’Brien was not completely at ease. He’d never done business with a miracle worker before. But then, he consoled himself, who had?

  “By the way, Mr. O’Brien,” Paul said, “there’s a check in this morning’s deposit that is somewhat larger than usual.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It’s $200,000.”

  “That is substantial.”

  “Yes. The woman who was cured yesterday—Mrs. Whitehead . . .”

  “Oh, yes. The wife of the architect.”

  “That’s right. Mr. Whitehead was kind enough to send the check over. It was very thoughtful.”

  Until now, O’Brien had not given a thought to what the price of a miracle might be. But $200,000, especially from the wealth of an H. Emery Whitehead, seemed equitable. Perhaps a ballpark figure.

  “That was quite thoughtful,” O’Brien agreed.

  “What I mean, Mr. O’Brien, is, now that this has happened, it is undoubtedly the beginning of quite a lot of that sort of thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. The account of the miracle, I am told, has been reported far and wide—carried on the wire services and network television. It’s even gotten foreign coverage. So, praise God, there may be more cures. Certainly more very substantial contributions.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. O’Brien, this has been quite literally an answer to prayer. You know how much our order has yearned to build a magnificent monastery.”

  “Yes. We’ve talked about that.”

  “Not that there is anything wrong with the building we’re in—you know it used to be a branch of your very own First Standard Bank and Trust. I mean, the building is in good shape. I would not want you to think we are not grateful for the home you practically gave us.”

  “Of course not, Brother, we all knew that it was a temporary facility.”

  “I just wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “No problem.”

  “You see, the land we’re looking at for the monastery is out in West Bloomfield.”

  “Hmmm. Land is pretty dear out there.”

  “We know. At first we were thinking of Duns Scotus—you know, the old Franciscan place in Southfield.”

  “So big! I thought you had only—what is it, five or six members?—in your whole order.”

  “Five. Yes, and that’s why we didn’t pursue Duns Scotus. But now, with all this publicity, we’re bound to attract new members. As a
result, we’re considering erecting something even larger and more spacious than Duns Scotus.”

  “My, my!” O’Brien was, of course, very impressed by the miracle. But he’d had no idea that one miracle could have that many tendrils. He was not terribly surprised that a man such as H. Emery Whitehead would make a most generous contribution in gratitude for his wife’s cure. It just had not occurred to O’Brien that donations of a similar nature might follow. Or that this sort of publicity might attract more members. But, now that Brother Paul had mentioned it, it made sense.

  “My point is,” Brother Paul continued, “that we are going to be depositing a considerable amount of money in this bank.”

  O’Brien brightened. “Well, we’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. Perhaps even suggest some investments . . . ought to have that much money working for you.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all very well. But what I’m interested in right now, if I may be blunt, is your security.”

  “Our security?”

  “You don’t have any—what?—guard here that I can see.”

  O’Brien chuckled. “Goodness! The security in banks today is such that the armed guard is almost a thing of the past.”

  “I’m sure. But the others at the monastery are wondering about this too. Just before Father Robert and I came over this morning, they asked about how safe our deposits would be. I mean, we’ve never had this much money before.”

  “Well, you can certainly assure the others that—wait: Would you like a little tour? Then you could report on our security measures to the others.”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  O’Brien checked his watch. A few minutes till opening. Time enough.

  He began by assuring Brother Paul that no one but authorized personnel was admitted behind the partition where the tellers worked. Brother Paul reminded O’Brien that he had admitted the two monks behind the partition today and just about every day that they brought in a deposit. The two men had a good laugh over that.

  O’Brien made much of the scanning monitors that recorded almost all the action in the bank, especially throughout the lobby. Very discouraging, O’Brien averred, to your average bank robber to have his activity on film, subject to playback, stop/action, enlarged photos. Remember the damning shots of Patty Hearst robbing that California bank?

  Brother Paul remembered very well.

  He did not mention it, but the film wouldn’t be all that much help if the perpetrator was wearing an all-encompassing costume such as a religious habit that covered all from the tip of one’s head to the tip of one’s toes.

  The tour was completed quickly.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. O’Brien. I’m absolutely convinced. I’ll certainly reassure the others. You’ve been very kind—and helpful. God bless you.”

  Brother Paul retrieved Father Robert and led the older man from the building.

  Father Robert looked to be in pretty bad shape. But then, O’Brien reflected, all he could see was a gray habit shuffling its way through the lobby.

  Now that he thought of it, he had been speaking with Brother Paul for a lengthy period—a very long period if one counted all the times the monks had brought in deposits—yet O’Brien had never seen either’s face. O’Brien preferred to look people in the eye when he spoke to them. But if asked what these monks looked like, or even the color of their eyes, he could not have described them.

  Odd. But that was the way with religious life. As a Catholic, he could understand that.

  Father Robert Koesler believed in God and routine, in that order. Thus, for an initial comfortable feeling, he depended on a predictable beginning to each day.

  For mornings, Monday through Friday, that meant: Rise at seven o’clock, ablutions, morning prayer, Mass at eight with a two- or three-minute sermon, breakfast at 8:45. That’s how it had gone this morning. So, he was content.

  Most days, Mary O’Connor was among the few attending daily Mass. Then she would join him for breakfast, such as it was. That’s how it had progressed this morning. So he was doubly content.

  Over breakfast, the two would go over the day’s schedule, with Mary reminding Koesler of his more forgettable upcoming obligations. Koesler would go through the morning editions of the Free Press and the News, and apprise Mary of the pressing concerns of the city, state, country, and world.

  At this moment, Koesler was slicing a banana over cold cereal, while Mary, fortunately for both, brewed coffee.

  “Joe Walk claims the air conditioning is acting up.”

  Seated at the kitchen table, Koesler opened the paper and spooned some cereal. “It’s out? Completely?”

  “Not completely just yet—but going. He says he can’t get it to stay running dependably.”

  “Can’t he fix it?”

  “Too complex a job. He says we have to call the heating and cooling people.”

  “Again? They charge an arm and a leg.”

  “Sunday will be here before you know it.”

  Koesler sighed and turned a page. “These people are spoiled with an air-conditioned church. In the good old days, men perspired, women glowed and the priest melted under all his vestments. Penance—that was the word! Summers you boiled, winters you froze.”

  Mary smiled and set a cup of black coffee to one side of his papers. “You know how it is, Father: ‘How’re you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm?’“

  “I know, I know. They’ve come to expect a comfortable church. What do you think: Call in the professionals?”

  “I don’t see any other way.”

  “Okay.” He tasted the coffee and sighed appreciatively. “See? That’s just what I was afraid of.”

  “The parish council meeting tonight? That shouldn’t be too bad. It’s midsummer. Several of the members are away on vacation.”

  Koesler looked up from the paper. He never ceased to be amazed at Mary O’Connor’s grasp of the parish and insight into its parishioners. She seemed to know where everyone was at any given time. She knew where all the skeletons were buried. And, what argued most for her sainthood, she never had a bad word for anyone. Not even those who deserved a word or two.

  “I wasn’t really referring to the council meeting—though that’s horrendous enough, now that you mention it. No, this piece in the paper . . .” He pointed to a front-page article. “About the miracle yesterday at that . . . uh ... St. Stephen’s Monastery.”

  “Not jealous, are you?” She smiled. It was as close as Mary O’Connor would ever come to a figurative jab in the ribs. And that only because she knew Koesler so well.

  “For the love of Pete, no!” It was said with great conviction. “If I wanted a ministry like that, I would have joined a circus. No, I was sure this was going to happen. It got a big play on local TV last night and even a mention on network news. Of course the network treatment was kind of snide. Like the pet-pig-that-can-sing story. But I’ll bet they’ll change their attitude right quick when they find out everyone here is taking it seriously. It’s already on page one of both papers. Undoubtedly, it’s on the wire services and in most of the other papers around the country.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Mary said, “But what’s so bad about that? Isn’t it about time Detroit made the news for something besides its murder rate? Isn’t this a good story for us? Especially for Catholics?”

  “That’s not what bothers me.” As he gestured with his spoon a drop of milk arched through the air, landing on the table just short of Mary’s toast. “What troubles me is the effect it’s going to have on people everywhere. Sick people, people with problems, people who are old and ill.”

  “Isn’t that the idea?”

  “I don’t think so. Not exactly. They’ll be sending money. People who can’t afford anything will be sending much more than they can afford.”

  “Do you really think so?” Mary asked, taking his meaning while overlooking his Irish bull.

  He nodded. “Happens all the time. Look how well those TV ev
angelists do—or used to until they began ruining it for themselves. They made millions—not from millionaires but from people of modest means sending all, or even more, than they could afford.”

  “You think people will do the same for this Detroit monastery?”

  “Betcha.”

  “But why?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Capitalism, maybe. The kind of quid pro quo life we lead in this country. Maybe in the world. Why do people give money to have a Mass offered?”

  “Because they have to.”

  “They don’t, really. The stipend—say five dollars in the good old days—for a high Mass was supposed to mark the maximum offering one could make. People could—and did—have the Mass offered free, gratis.

  “And what was the stipend for?” he continued. “It was supposed to be for the upkeep of the clergy. But, I ask you, did any people who gave a stipend for a Mass or a baptism or a wedding or a funeral think the money was going to buy food for the clergy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think so. I think they thought they were paying for the Mass or the ceremony. And as often as we told them—and we told them often—that you can’t ‘buy’ a Mass, they would say, ‘Yes, Father, but how much is the Mass?’“

  Mary laughed. “I guess you’re right. People come to the rectory now to schedule a date for a wedding or to have a Mass said for the departed and they ask how much it is. Except I’ve never gone into the real purpose of a stipend with them—mostly because till now I didn’t know. I just tell them how much it is.”

  “I know. Who could blame you? That’s the way their minds are set and there’s nothing really you can do about it. So, mark my words, money by the buckets is going to be pouring into that little monastery, and it’s going to be pouring in right away. There won’t be any struggle to get money. There’ll be a lot of donors pushing and shoving to get the monks to accept the money and work a miracle for them.”

  “I still can’t see what’s wrong. Don’t you think the monks will put the money to good use?”