None of this surprised Koesler. He had led uncounted couples through that procedure.
What did startle him was Kleimer’s account of how he’d made sure that Audrey both understood and agreed to her part of the bargain. As part of the Catholic ritual, she also had some promises to make. Namely, that she would be open to having children, that she would raise them as Catholics, and that she would live her faith in a way that might lead her husband to convert.
In no other instance that Koesler could recall—in his own experience or that of any other priest he knew—had the non-Catholic partner in a mixed religious marriage gone to such trouble and detail to make certain sure that the validity of the marriage could never be challenged.
Kleimer concluded his narration. “As far as I was able to guarantee, the only sticking point was that impediment of my not being Catholic. But the priest requested a dispensation. And it was granted. I know; I studied the dispensation when it arrived from the chancery.…”
Koesler had to wonder why Kleimer had been so meticulous about his marriage’s validity. It was, he thought again, in his experience, unique.
“… I mean,” Kleimer said, “isn’t that something like Henry VIII?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Henry VIII, king of England.”
“Was someone executed, and I haven’t heard about it?”
Kleimer thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, she was one of four of Henry’s wives who wasn’t executed.”
“Where are we going with this?”
“Oh. The point is that Henry’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon, had been married to Henry’s brother, Arthur. Arthur died a year after the wedding. Then she married Henry. But before they could be married, they had to get a dispensation because she was too closely related to Henry by affinity—the marriage to his brother.
“The Pope dispensed them. Then, when Henry wanted to divorce Catherine and marry Anne Boleyn, he claimed that his marriage to Catherine was invalid because she had been his brother’s wife. In effect, he wanted the same Pope who had dispensed them from the impediment to invalidate their marriage because of the impediment he dispensed them from.”
“I’m familiar with that story. But what’s it got to do with you?”
“Just this: When Audrey told me that her marriage to Schneider had been validated, I blew my cork. But later, when I got to thinking about it, I figured she must be confused. A priest couldn’t do that … he couldn’t just run roughshod over all those laws. I mean, they’re your laws—laws of the Catholic Church. He’s not some kid priest; he’s been around.
“When she married Schneider, they couldn’t get around her previous marriage to me. I made sure all the i’s were dotted and all the t’s crossed. I guess they thought they had some small chance if I were to cooperate. Of course, I refused any cooperation.” He laughed sharply. “Why in hell would I be cooperative when I went through all that trouble to make certain there were no loopholes?”
“Why, indeed?”
Koesler noted repeatedly during this narration how inordinately pleased Kleimer was that he had been able to foil his former wife’s every attempt at happiness. And how disgruntled, how angry he was, that somehow, despite his best efforts, she had somehow achieved that happiness.
Kleimer by no means was the only person Koesler had ever known who was so filled with hatred. Oddly, this sort of venom was frequently found between people who had once been the best of friends or even lovers.
When a marriage went sour, it was most rare that the process of dismantling the relationship was accomplished amicably. From time to time, Koesler would reflect on a couple who at one time had sat in his office planning their wedding. They could not be more in love. They looked at each other with adoration and hunger.
Then, sometimes, years later, the same couple would be back for marriage counseling. Now, they refused to look at one another. The animosity was palpable.
What had happened? The chemistry was so precarious.
While, in Koesler’s experience, there were many contenders for the title of “meanest former spouse,” at this point Kleimer was the leading candidate.
One of Koesler’s weaknesses—at least he considered the trait less than Christ-like—was his dislike for persons such as this. No, he did not much care for Bradley Kleimer. But the priest tried not to betray his feelings. There was always the possibility, no matter how slight, that such a person might turn about and learn to forget rather than harbor vindictiveness. To love rather than to hate. To rejoice in the good fortune of a former friend or spouse rather than seeking vengeance.
But, to be perfectly honest, he did not hold out much hope for Kleimer.
“Anyway,” Kleimer was saying, “after I had a chance to reflect on what Audrey told me, I had to think there was something else going on. But what? Then I thought maybe Carleson was able to find something wrong with that dispensation we got from the impediment of mixed religion. But what in hell could’ve gone wrong?
“That’s when I thought of Henry VIII, who got a dispensation and then challenged the validity of his marriage because of the dispensation—just as if it had never been given. Could that have happened to me? Could they have found some flaw in the dispensation we got?
“Well, you’re the expert when it comes to Church law. What do you think?”
Koesler did not appreciate the corner Kleimer had forced him into.
To begin, Koesler had no way of knowing what had happened between the Schuylers and Father Carleson. Perhaps Carleson had discovered a loophole. Unlikely … but possible. Or he might have worked out an arrangement whereby they agreed to live together as brother and sister rather than as husband and wife.
At very best, such an unrealistic relationship was awkward. At best it would be strained; at worst, intolerable.
There were several other possible arrangements that might have been found and agreed upon. But, in short, Koesler did not know exactly what had happened. However, after his conversation with Carleson Sunday night, Koesler knew full well that the priest was fully capable of doing just what Audrey Schuyler had implied. He knew that in Detroit some priests retained the approach that requires anyone with a previous marriage to acquire not only a civil divorce but an annulment—a ruling by the Tribunal or Church marriage court that the previous marriage was null, that it never existed. Indeed, such is the letter of the law.
Other priests might counsel such a couple to get married in any manner recognized by the state and just continue receiving the sacraments. This is sometimes referred to as “the pastoral solution.”
Still others, mainly in low profile, perhaps in the core city, will witness the remarriage—in direct contravention of Church law.
Father Carleson, however, never even asked couples who came to him whether there was a previous marriage to be dealt with. Koesler had concluded that Carleson was a do er, not merely an observer. He might well have waved aside all restrictions plus lots of laws, and simply witnessed the couple’s marital promises.
“Well—?” said an impatient Kleimer.
“Well, I don’t know what happened. It’s like when a surgeon performs an operation. Then someone like yourself goes to a second doctor to ask what the first doctor did. Doctor number two would have to be at a loss as to what happened. He’d have to have been there, seen the X rays, shared in the examination, witnessed the operation.” Koesler hoped Kleimer was understanding all this. “I have no clue as to what Father Carleson found or did.”
Kleimer checked his watch. He should get back to find out what Quirt had or hadn’t accomplished. But he wanted some answers from Koesler more satisfying than a plea of ignorance. “Okay. Lemme ask a couple of procedural questions. If Carleson somehow was able to validate that marriage, shouldn’t there be a record of it somewhere?”
“Yes,” Koesler answered truthfully, if with some reluctance. “There might be a notation in the marriage register at Ste. Anne’s. There also ought to be a notation in th
e baptismal records of both parties.”
“So …” Kleimer felt he was finally getting someplace. “… if there’s nothing in the records, they’re still locked out of the Church as much as they were when they married in the civil ceremony.”
“Not necessarily. They might have agreed to a brother and sister living arrangement.”
“Oh, yeah; I read about that when I married Audrey.”
Once again, Koesler was impressed by the extent of Kleimer’s preparation for his eventual vindictiveness.
“But,” Kleimer continued, “if they agreed to that, they couldn’t have intercourse. It’d be a sin for them to do anything sexual more than a brother and sister might do … right?”
Koesler, with an increasing sense of distaste, nodded wordlessly.
Kleimer seemed quite satisfied that the Schuylers, even though squared away with their God, would still be miserable. Then furrows formed in his forehead. “Hey, wait a minute! I’m thinking of what kind of guy this Carleson is. Diego seems to have made a lot of trouble for a lot of people. But nobody does anything about it but Carleson. He’s an action guy. He doesn’t wait around for things to happen; he makes them happen. He killed a bishop. It’d take a lot less to say the hell with some Church marriage laws and just witness the marriage of a couple of people who canonically couldn’t get married … no?”
“You’re jumping the gun badly. Father Carleson has been accused of murder. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty. Your premise is unfounded.” But Koesler feared that the astute attorney had detected his unspoken fleeting agreement with that premise.
“Son of a bitch …” Kleimer was no longer addressing Koesler, or anyone else for that matter. He was talking to himself. “This thing works both ways. If he can overlook every law of the Church and act out his contempt for those laws, why couldn’t he do the same with another law against murder, and just do what he feels is necessary?” He had him! “Sure! I’m gonna hang that bastard!”
Kleimer rose and slipped into his overcoat as Koesler said, in an alarmed tone, “Wait a minute, Mr. Kleimer. You’re dealing with two different kinds of law here. God’s law is not always the same as Church law.”
As he continued to try to reason with Kleimer, Koesler became somewhat incoherent.
Kleimer, wrapped up in his own elation, walked out the front door. As he went down the steps, he waved offhandedly. “Good-bye, Father Koesler. And thanks.”
The priest could only stand and watch as Kleimer got in his car and drove off.
Slowly, Koesler became aware that Mary O’Connor was staring at him, shocked. She had never seen him so flustered. “Are you all right, Father?”
Koesler did not respond immediately. He shut the door slowly, thoughtfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right, Mary. But I’m afraid a friend is in an awful lot of trouble.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
After Kleimer left the rectory, Father Koesler stood silent and still, watching the prosecutor bound down the steps and into his car parked at the curb. The priest felt as if he had betrayed a friend merely by truthfully answering questions. He knew he could not have done otherwise. But he felt bad regardless.
Mary O’Connor was surprised when Koesler asked her to hold all his calls. He scarcely ever did that.
Koesler went upstairs to his study. The room’s one small window admitted little light to brighten this gray day. He chose to sit in the gloom and think.
This matter of marriage, divorce, and remarriage was handled differently in various faiths. For one whose marriage had disintegrated, this could easily be life’s lowest point. And divorce, depending on whether and how it was contested, could be brutal.
To Koesler, this was the moment when an understanding, solicitous, forgiving, and welcoming Church was most needed. He was embarrassed to admit that his Church, the Catholic Church, was perhaps the least helpful of any major faith in this respect.
Koesler had friends who were priests, ministers, rabbis, so he knew something of their procedures.
Among Orthodox Jews, the bill of legal divorcement is enacted by a husband giving a “get” to his wife. There is no trial, or precise laws that must be observed. A rabbinical court finalizes the “get” by making cuts in the paper bearing the decision. This “cut” is a statement that the case may not be reinstated. It is final.
According to Jewish law, a husband may divorce his wife at will, with some restrictions. That the husband must approach the rabbi precludes such whimsy as dismissing the wife over, say, breakfast. However, the wife needs the permission of her husband to seek a divorce. Which may be another definition of “fat chance.”
One further indication of the wife’s standing is that a wedding cannot be witnessed on the Sabbath. One cannot conduct business on the Sabbath. The connection being the perception of a wife as comparable to chattel—property.
Reform Jews, with whom there is a current tendency toward more traditional practices, are, by and large, not in the divorce business. Things are pretty much up to the individual rabbi. In this, there can be a good bit of shopping for the right rabbi, since it is perfectly possible for the one rabbi, for reasons of his own, to refuse to witness a specific marriage.
The Conservative wing of Judaism is somewhere between the Orthodox and the Reform.
So, unless one is the unhappy wife of an Orthodox Jew, it seems not all that difficult to be remarried in the Jewish faith.
The Episcopalian Church in the United States of America is far more structured than Judaism.
Until the mid-seventies, in this branch of Christianity, it was not canonically possible for a divorced person to be remarried. Then, in the convention or synod of that time, the U.S. Episcopal Church altered its stand to permit remarriage in the Church.
The responsibility for the care of these cases falls to the parish priest. In fact, the total response for all Episcopal marriages is in the lap of the parish priest.
The process begins with a parish member in good standing. He or she is a communicant of a given parish. The communicant approaches the parish priest and the process begins.
There is a minimum of sixty days or a maximum of six months notice given. During this time there is a studied preparation. This requirement is meant to remind all those involved that this will be a union as set forth in the Book of Common Prayer. If one—or both for that matter—is a divorcé or divorcée, the priest may ask that person to express what happened in the previous marriage, why it happened, and what was learned.
Whether or not the marriage includes a divorced person, there are informational forms to be filled out. If there has been a divorce, the form will inquire into the care of the children, if any, of the prior marriage.
Finally, if a divorced person is involved, a letter must be sent by the priest to the bishop, asking canonical permission to witness the vows.
Rarely would that permission be denied. For one, almost all the time the bishop has no way of knowing the people involved. He relies on the priest’s judgment. The bishop’s attention might be piqued if one of the parties were a celebrity or, perhaps, notorious.
If a priest were to exercise atrocious judgment, the bishop might well level a punishment—in effect, denying the priest permission to function as a priest for a given time.
In the Episcopalian Church in the United States of America, attention certainly is given to the existence of a prior marriage. Steps are taken to learn from the past, and an attempt is made that a sad history will not be repeated.
“Shopping” for a sympathetic priest seems fruitless, at least in the directives of Episcopal Church law, since the communicant is directed to consult his or her parish priest.
But such restrictions, rubrics, processes, and laws fade into a mild attentiveness when compared with Roman Catholic law regarding marriage, nullities, dissolutions, sanations, privileges of the faith and remarriage.
Give the Catholic Church this: It has been around a long time to build up these laws, or canons.
And the Church has used this time assiduously.
Koesler pulled a huge volume from his bookcase. The Code of Canon Law—a Text and Commentary. These 1,752 canons, published in 1983, comprised Catholic Church law.
He switched on the overhead light and returned to his seat with the book. He pulled a pen and a pad from his desk.
He’d never thought of it before, but now he decided to tabulate how many of these 1,752 laws applied to marriage and remarriage. After a few minutes of counting, he came up with 146 laws.
Perhaps the pivotal law is Canon 1060, which states: Marriage enjoys the favor of the law; consequently, when a doubt exists, the validity of the marriage is to be upheld until the contrary is proven.
This is at the hub of remarriage after a civil divorce. Remarriage, by definition, indicates there is a prior marriage. There is no doubt about the validity of the first marriage until and unless one or both parties want to marry someone else. At that point, if the second marriage is to be in a Catholic ceremony, the party or parties must prove, not that the previous marriage was a failure, a bad but sincere effort, a mistake, etc; but that the previous marriage was null from its inception. It must be proven that only some ceremony took place, but that nothing happened.
Koesler considered the most simple example: Church law requires that for a valid marriage, among other things, the Catholic wedding must be witnessed by a priest and two other witnesses. What happens if the Catholic is married, say, by a judge? Obviously, the marriage is invalid, since it was not witnessed by a priest. Thus, the Catholic is free to marry; since no valid marriage existed, there is no valid marriage to block another marriage.
However, that first marriage, according to Canon 1060, “enjoys the favor of the law.” In order to remarry, the Catholic must challenge the validity of the first marriage. That is what created the “doubt.” Now the Catholic must “prove” the first marriage was nothing from its inception.
Bishop as Pawn Page 19
