The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  By and large, the transformation was going as smoothly as possible.

  There was little mutiny. After all, the school was not circling its wagons. It would be the same size. The classrooms would be as large as ever. And filled. There just would be no Brothers of the religious persuasion. There would, in fact, be no male teachers at all. Not at first, anyway.

  Mr. and Mrs. Smith were stunned. They’d had no inkling such a massive change was in the offing. They were aware—everyone was—that the debate over sexual segregation and integration was alive if not particularly well.

  They puzzled too that their twins had known of the change before the decision was made public. Odd, particularly, that the twins should have heard it from Emmanuel Tocco.

  The Smiths were not all that fond of Manny. But as he and Michael had hit it off so well and had become pals, the Smiths had decided to go with the flow. All the while, they would keep a weather eye on the relationship.

  The recent fight that was rapidly achieving legend status was a case in point. The Smiths made it clear to Michael that they were not pleased. They were grudgingly grateful that Manny had saved the day. But they impressed upon Michael that they would have much preferred that he had just given the ruffians the stupid ball, thus making even the slightest altercation unnecessary.

  As for the teaching change, the Smiths actually were more pleased than not. They had affection for the nuns—more so than for the Brothers.

  Michael’s parents had learned, through their son, of the closeness of Brother Vincent and Manny. They were certain that the Brother had approved of Manny’s defense of his rights.

  The Smiths were somewhat concerned over the influence integration would have on Rose and Michael. In particular they wondered what, if any, effect such integration would have on plans for the twins’ vocations.

  The Sisters had taught Michael for his first six school years. Then, in the seventh grade, the Brothers had taken over. Now Michael would have but one additional year with the Sisters.

  Then he’d be off to the seminary, to be taught again by men. But this time by priests—the cream of the crop.

  The Smiths, Henry and Lucy, wanted an undemanding life. Didn’t everyone?

  Their own lives were in apple-pie order. They belonged to the one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic Church. Their Church had laws, lots of them. But if you kept those laws, heaven was assured you. Don’t kill, unless it is justifiable. Don’t covet: wives or goods. These laws also inveighed against immoral thoughts, which, as long as they remained thoughts, were venial, not mortal. Or, as the joke had it: A priest asks a confessing parishioner whether the man had entertained impure thoughts. “No,” the sinner replied, “they entertained me.”

  As for coveting goods: It was all right to want a car like one’s neighbor had—but not okay to want one’s neighbor’s car.

  And so on they went, through Ten Commandments, 2,414 laws, and more. Priests were expected to at least be familiar with almost all of them. As for lay Catholics, they knew that they must attend Mass on Sunday and financially support the local parish.

  The point was that as long as one did not seriously violate any of the significant laws, all was relatively well.

  As for what was expected of lay Catholics, the Church took it as a given that their personal lives would be properly ordered. Most would marry before a priest and in the presence of two witnesses. They would have marital relations, every act of which must be open to the creation of new life; no artificial birth control. They would have children, likely more than they would have planned—or could really afford.

  If a Catholic family had the supreme good fortune to have one or more of its children enter religious life—priest, Sister, or Brother—parental responsibility would stop at the door of the rectory or the convent or the religious domicile.

  The Smiths were batting one thousand on all counts. They did not want the cart toppled. Thus their concern over their twins’ gender separation in school.

  Michael would have his one and only scholastic experience with girls in class this coming year. What could happen with sharing a classroom with eighth grade girls?

  Plenty. Henry Smith well remembered the onslaught of teen puberty. It was awful— having those urges and no place to put them. For the coming year Henry would keep his son on a short tether.

  Then there was Rose. For a young lady she had her act pretty much together. But Lucy remembered her own early teen years. Girls that age discovered that they could be both desirable and desired. They, too, could have raging hormones.

  And Rose was not going to go through just one year of mingling, as was Michael. She would have five years to keep herself virginal and chaste. School—even a Catholic school—could do only so much to safeguard the adolescent girl. Both Henry and Lucy would keep a special eye on their exemplary daughter.

  They would shepherd their twins along the path toward religious life. If this enterprise was successful, their children would be delivered to the Lord intact. After that, it was His problem. Henry and Lucy would have heaven locked up.

  It was left to the McManns to see to their daughter on their own. This was not a familiar position for Nat and June McMann. In a way, they played follow the leader. And their leaders, in almost every endeavor, were the Smiths. It was an effort to keep up with the Smiths.

  If, for example, the McManns hosted the Smiths at dinner, the menu was sure to reflect the Smiths’ taste and preference. It could be said that the McManns lived in the Smiths’ back pocket.

  And as proof of the axiom “The apple does not fall far from the tree,” Alice McMann shadowed Rose Smith like a faithful puppy.

  It was almost a given that Alice’s desire for the religious life sprang from Rose’s. Had Rose opted for marriage and family, to the best of her ability Alice would have found someone who was a friend of Rose’s intended. Someone who was apt to want to live near his good friend. In which case, Alice would then be living near her best friend. And the cozy relationship of the parents would be mirrored in the lives of the children.

  Alice’s greatest fear was that something would interfere with her relationship with Rose.

  Undoubtedly, Alice’s own choice for a vehicle through life would not have been the religious life. In her deepest heart she would have wanted a good, dependable husband who would love her and be unashamedly romantic long after the pronouncement of the vows. And, as a good Catholic couple, she and her husband would welcome all the children God would send.

  Should Rose change her mind sometime before taking her final vows as a nun, Alice would be more than ready to follow suit. She would think it a heavenly gift.

  But Rose seemed to have no doubts about the life she would choose. Rose seldom changed her mind; metaphorically, her decisions were carved in stone.

  So Alice didn’t let herself dwell on what lay ahead. She would simply be living in Rose’s shadow. And there be as happy as a pig in sunshine. For now, Alice had five more years to enjoy adolescence with Rose.

  Actually, Alice’s only hesitation concerned exclusivity. Rose was not only Alice’s best friend; she was, for all practical purposes, Alice’s only friend. All the others were classmates, or at best, acquaintances. Rose, on the other hand, was a popular girl. She had lots of friends. Admittedly, Alice was her best friend—but not her exclusive buddy.

  Alice, when forced to dwell on this disappointment, was saddened. For the moment, she tried to brush her sorrow aside and enjoy her special friendship with Rose.

  In this little circle, though not bound as closely, were Manny Tocco and his parents.

  The Toccos scarcely knew the Smiths and McManns. The three couples had little in common. As for their kids, it was a mixed if predictable relationship. Manny and Michael were close friends, spending hours together. As for the girls, there were times when Manny had to ponder to remember their names. And the girls knew Manny only as one of Mike’s friends.

  At this time in Manny’s life, girls were not a promin
ent fixture. Some of that feeling could be attributed to the gender separation in school. Some of it lay at the door of the confusion of puberty.

  In any case, Manny’s parents were the first to learn the startling news of the Brothers’ imminent departure. No chance the news could have been garbled or false: Manny had gotten it straight from Bro. V.’s mouth.

  For the first time in his young life, Manny would be in a classroom with girls. His parents now bombarded him with advice. He didn’t think he needed all this counseling. But he did. And he was not alone.

  The Brothers’ imminent departure and the ensuing mixture of boys and girls from first grade through high school seemed all that anyone could discuss. Whether or not each parishioner was directly or personally affected by this drastic change seemed irrelevant; everyone had an opinion. And each felt free—nay, compelled—to voice his or her concern.

  Compared with some of the other parishioners, the Toccos were rather laid-back. They’d had a headstart in being exposed to the news. In addition, if ’Fredo’s and Maria’s plans stayed in place, this state of affairs would exist for only one scholastic year. What could possibly happen in one scholastic year?

  Plenty.

  Boys and girls realized their opposite grades existed. But they were unsure what the differences were or what those differences might signify. And now was the time to learn.

  At this period in their lives, girls became aware that they could drive boys wild. Something as basic as hairstyles could be provocative. Clothes that hinted at what made girls different from boys were chosen and worn for effect. Aided by her perception of Hollywood’s version of femininity, a girl’s deportment might range from super-sweet to super-suggestive, her gait from undulation to flounce.

  Boys, most of them, affected an air that decades later would be termed macho. They too were influenced by Hollywood. Emulating filmdom’s depiction of U.S. servicemen, the more daring sported a cigarette pack in the rolled-up T-shirt sleeve. They considered themselves dashing in dungarees (with cuffs also rolled up) and penny loafers. They carried themselves like their favorite sports heroes—all in hopes of proving themselves desirable to girls. In actuality, at this phase of puberty, the girls were more interested in the boys than the boys were in the girls. Mostly, the boys were interested in sports; girls served mainly as something to discuss with one’s fellows in so-called bull sessions. At such times the more advanced boys pretended to have “gone all the way” or at very least to “know the score.” Which was rarely the case.

  ’Fredo Tocco was supremely confident that his son would survive it all. Manny knew where babies came from. For faithful Catholics, there was only but one means of preventing an event that could seriously compromise their future: Abstinence. ’Fredo would have put his last dollar on Manny’s self-control.

  ’Fredo didn’t express his positive feeling about his son’s one—at least—year in mixed company. Actually, ’Fredo would not be at all upset should this year lead to four more in coed classrooms. In such an event, he would, of course, do his best to comfort his stricken wife. But, if truth be known, he wouldn’t be at all disappointed.

  No way could the Tocco family afford one of those fancy all-boy schools—even for one year. Maria knew that. She didn’t even mention the subject.

  She herself had been a student in a parochial school. Of course it had been coed. She well remembered the fun of teasing the boys. And as for ’Fredo, in the concluding days of their courtship, Maria had driven him near mad with desire. Now things would come full circle.

  Girls would roll up the waists of their skirts as soon as the nuns were out of sight if not out of mind. They would push the proper behavioral boundaries. They would experiment with ways to enflame Maria’s little boy.

  That Manny would come through untainted and unscathed, and persevere in his vocation to the priesthood became the number-one intention of Maria’s daily Mass attendance.

  NINE

  OUR LADY OF GUADALUPE parish encompassed a neighborhood of near valueless homes close to the heart of downtown Detroit.

  One of the area’s few boasts was the Olympia, a gigantic indoor sports arena. Primarily, the Olympia was home ice for the Red Wings, Detroit’s professional hockey team.

  Originally, the National Hockey League comprised only six professional teams. Though most of the players were born and bred in icebound Canada, four of the six teams represented U.S. cities.

  It seemed a happy compromise; Canadian youth learned to ice skate before learning to walk. But the money to support the teams and their league was found in New York, Chicago, Boston, and Detroit. Toronto and Montreal completed the roster.

  Even areas that had no hockey teams were familiar with the names Howe, Abel, and Lindsay. These three were dubbed the Production Line—as in what Detroit made: automobiles built on production lines.

  Hockey nights at the Olympia created an anomaly: The neighborhood made money providing parking for fans who otherwise would never have darkened the neigborhood’s streets.

  The Olympia also hosted events such as wrestling, boxing, and basketball, all of which featured fighting, sometimes in the arena, sometimes in the stands.

  Our Lady of Guadalupe boasted few parishioners. So only one priest was assigned to that church … popularly, if incorrectly, pronounced Guadaloop. Although Archbishop Mooney kept harping on the paucity of priestly vocations for Detroit, most parishes had at least two priests, and many had even more.

  Measured by this scale, Guadalupe could hope for no more than one lone pastor. And that’s what it got, along with the veiled threat that it might well be closed entirely.

  The present pastor, Father Ed Simpson, knew—if by no other sign than that he was assigned to hold the fort here—that he was low in the archdiocesan pecking order. Thus, he was forever looking for ways to improve his image and thereby climb at least a few rungs.

  He was the butt of many a put-down by his clerical colleagues. He tried to remove some of the sting by joining in the lighthearted camaraderie. On such occasions, he was wont to fall back on the phrase used by earlier pastors assigned to less-than-optimum parishes: “a little wrinkled, but a plum.”

  Try as he might, Father Simpson was unable to scare up more than one or two new families per year. Actually, he was more apt to lose one or two.

  Man did not live by Olympia events alone. Whenever a breadwinner could earn a little more bread, the moving van—or, more likely a friend with a pickup—would empty the house, and the erstwhile resident would never look back.

  Unsuccessful at drumming up added parishioners and equally ineffective at increasing weekly contributions, Father Simpson grubbed for some means to improve his profile.

  The only possibility of attracting a favorable chancery eye would be to come up with a candidate for the seminary or the convent.

  The likelihood of sending some girl to the convent was ever so much more realizable than coming up with a seminarian. But he would just be providing another woman who would not be under archdiocesan control. The various religious orders of women serving in Detroit were managed and directed by superiors of their own order.

  However, sending a boy to Sacred Heart Seminary would be furnishing a greatly desirable commodity: Diocesan priests belonged to the local bishop and, as such, were definitely prized.

  Granted, some much larger and more viable Detroit parishes had not fostered even a single seminarian in a good many years. But these other parishes achieved such other commendable deeds as adding new members to the parish lists, thus delivering in a timely fashion their quota of diocesan taxes and generally evidencing life and growth.

  It seemed that parishes staffed by charismatic priests contributed the majority of the seminarians. But charismatic priests seemed to skip over “the parish next to the Olympia.” Concisely, nobody wanted to be like Father Ed Simpson. Bing Crosby’s Father O’Malley, yes; Ed Simpson, no.

  But now old Ed had an idea—an idea that, if it worked, might bail him out
of this moribund parish.

  Even registered parishioners of Guadaloop rarely attended Mass regularly. It was next to impossible to come up with lads to serve as altar boys at Mass.

  With one exception.

  Little Stanley Benson was fidelity personified. No matter what the occasion—Mass, Benediction, Rosary, Novenas—even periodic celebrations: Forty Hours, Parish Missions, Confirmations—there was Stanley Benson, scrubbed clean, resplendent in laundered and pressed cassock and surplice. Often his cheek or neck was blotched with red—the lipstick smudge of a mother’s fond kiss.

  Little Stanley, Father Simpson reasoned, was in church so often … why not? Maybe he could become a priest. Maybe he could be Father Simpson’s ticket out of Guadaloop and onto the upward ladder.

  One morning Father Simpson broke one of his own nonnegotiable rules: He invited someone to the rectory for no more than a social event. At least it seemed to Stanley and his mother that there were no strings attached.

  What they did not know was that Father Simpson subscribed to the axiom “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Or, in this case, breakfast. So, at the appointed hour, Stanley, freshly cleaned and pressed, showed up at Father Simpson’s doorstep.

  Father Simpson invited him in the front door, ushered him into the kitchen, and sat him down at the kitchen table. The priest then proceeded to whip up some eggs and fry some bacon. He had no full-time housekeeper; the tortured budget held no money for such a post. And, for most prospective housekeepers, there wasn’t enough gold in Fort Knox to woo them into working at Guadaloop.

  Stanley was particularly well turned out for this morning’s rare invitation. His mother had run down the articles of polite behavior so that Stanley would not shame the Bensons.

  “So, Stanley,” Father Simpson opened, “what grade are you going into this year?”