If Father Simpson was so gung-ho about the priesthood—ready and willing to ruin Stan’s life—how come there was no push to recruit young Jerry Trent to the seminary and the priesthood?
Stan was tormented by one question for which he had no answer: Why me?
It was as if this priest had diligently made plans that left Stan with no relief, loophole, or escape hatch. If this was a deliberate ploy, it was devilishly clever.
Father Simpson was basking in the glow that virtually every Catholic home would on occasion provide: Nothing is too good for Father.
Merry Christmas.
George and Lily Benson looked on the priest as if he were another Padre Pio, with the power and willingness to work miracles on behalf of an otherwise uncaring Church. George and Lily were blissfully at ease in their newly achieved state of grace.
Merry Christmas.
Dick and Peg Trent were happy for their friends. They were grateful to Father Simpson not only for what he had done to bring the Bensons to Communion in the Church, but also for the attention the priest paid to Jiggs and Judy.
Jiggs seemed particularly taken with Father Simpson. That was all to the good; the boy was not as strong in the faith as his parents prayed he would be.
Merry Christmas.
Jiggs had been dreading this dinner. He was certain he would be cast as Peck’s Bad Boy. After pussyfooting around for years, his cousin Stanley had apparently made up his mind to become a priest. How could Jiggs compete with that? In another setting, Jiggs’s willingness—eagerness—to march off to war would have taken precedence. Here the spotlight would be on Stan. And so it had been until this enlightened priest had praised Jiggs’s courage and patriotism.
Merry Christmas.
Judy had never expected to actually converse with a priest. Priests were so far above other people. In school, priests were known as “other Christs.” One does not share small talk with a Christ. But here was a priest who was emptying himself, lowering himself to give full attention to a mere young girl. He had even applauded her vow to help win the war.
Judy was concerned. Had she given the wrong response? Most priests would have reminded a young girl of her calling in life. The pinnacle a Catholic woman could reach would be as a good and faithful wife and a generous, caring mother. Judy had answered bravely if not cautiously when she had declared that she would be active in the war effort. A sort of Judy the Riveter.
Merry Christmas.
Finally, there was Stan. A lad whose life had been turned upside down. He was trapped into becoming a priest. There wasn’t even any doubt about his ability to achieve that goal.
Some seminarians had great difficulty meeting the academic standards of the seminary. Stan not only would not know that fate, he would have to compromise his own intelligence in order not to stand out. Even more would be required of him. He would have to adopt mediocrity as his way of life. All this so as not to risk arousing interest in his family history. His would be a lifelong concern, to hide from everyone his birth as an ecclesiastical bastard.
And once a bastard, always a bastard. The mere fact that, at this late date, his parents’ marriage had been legitimized did not change the fact that he had been conceived and born out of Church wedlock.
The documents that he would present to the seminary in about five months would indicate that:
(a) He had been baptized. (That was correct even unto the date.)
(b) He had been confirmed. (Which he had been on the date in question.)
(c) His parents had been married in the Church. (In ample time before Stanley’s birth.)
The marriage certificate would be a fraud, perpetrated by Father Simpson. And Stanley, unbeknownst to all but a few, would nonetheless be a bastard unworthy of and thus barred from the priesthood.
He was willing to accept Father Simpson’s pronouncement that the laws and rules governing marriage in the Church were silly. But they were the rules.
He would be carried forward by his mother’s happiness. That left Stanley in a dilemma too profound for one so young. It would take its toll on him.
Until now, Stanley had never hated anyone. He disliked his cousin Jiggs … but he did not hate him. Father Simpson stood alone as the object of Stanley’s hatred.
Merry Christmas.
SIXTEEN
NINETEEN FORTY-FIVE was a monumental year. World War II ended with the unconditional surrender of both Germany and Japan. It was a time and a cause for great celebration.
On a much smaller scale, our seminarians were progressing in their advancement to the priesthood.
In September, just after the close of the war, Bob Koesler entered his senior year of high school. In almost any other scholastic setting he would be king of the hill. But Sacred Heart Seminary was not the usual academic scene. After four years of high school, the students simply passed into the first year of college. No ceremony, not even a certificate of graduation. And, of course, no prom.
Bob Koesler and Patrick McNiff had been the earliest in their class to bond. All due to that mixup when they’d first come to enroll. However, the bonding had expanded into a sort of subculture at three Catholic summer camps staffed by students of Sacred Heart Seminary.
These young men were together from September to June, studying, praying, engaging in athletics—all in intensely close quarters. Finishing their school year, the young men—now camp counselors—supervised, watched over, taught, and entertained campers from June through early August. Aside from special vacations such as Christmas and Easter, for these counselors late August was the only time to be with one’s family.
Koesler was brought by McNiff onto the staff of one of the three Catholic boys’ camps, Camp Ozanam. It was funded by the St. Vincent de Paul Society.
Meanwhile, Koesler brought his fellow Redeemerites into this tight-knit group. The three, Koesler, Mike Smith, and Manny Tocco, became newly appreciated in their home parish. One cause of their acceptance was a new pastor, who saw the priesthood in its universal oneness. Another reason for this open-door policy was the dearth of Redemptorist seminarians.
This situation made Koesler ever more grateful for the Maryknoll missionary priest who had steered the young man to Sacred Heart Seminary.
A singular event took place halfway through the season of Lent. Starting on Laetare Sunday, Sacred Heart High School seniors were given permission to smoke at specific times and in restricted areas. It got to be a rite of passage.
On that Sunday, students who had started smoking earlier had their habit ratified. Those who had waited for Laetare—meaning Rejoice—began their coughing introduction to adulthood. A few—Bob Koesler was not one of them—declined the honor, but almost no one wondered if the habit might prove dangerously unhealthy.
Early on, when Koesler was a sophomore and his Redeemer schoolmates were freshmen, their relationship was more precisely defined. Koesler, McNiff, and their buddies would teach underclassmen the importance of being even one year ahead. In the spirit of kindness that should characterize the priesthood, the upperclassmen would make themselves available to the younger seminarians.
Naturally, Koesler offered his services to Smith and Tocco. The offer was pro forma. Smith was a gifted student, with a history of tutoring Tocco.
It was just as well Koesler remained unencumbered. Another student needed him.
Stanley Benson, classmate of Smith and Tocco, was on the scene, having passed the entrance exam and interview. Thereafter, he became virtually invisible.
At this age, Benson was the epitome of the ordinary. Physically, he resembled a young Trotsky, while possessing none of the firebrand leadership of the Marxist martyr. His dark stringy hair looked as if he had combed it with an eggbeater after having survived a tornado.
Benson knew what was in his inmost mind. But he kept that a secret from everyone, including even his priest-confessor.
From his earliest days as a seminarian, Benson took stock of the dramatis personae.
The
young man named Michael Smith would have been happy to add Benson to the list of those being tutored. But Benson knew the last thing he needed was help with his studies.
He had been careful to pass the entrance exam comfortably. Actually, he could have come close to perfection. But that would have attracted attention.
And that’s how it had continued to this day in the autumn of 1945.
The whirlpool hair and indifferent grooming were part of his plan. No one considered Stanley Benson prime material for the priesthood. Because he … well, he just didn’t look like a priest.
He had no need of academic help in any case. So he graciously turned aside Smith’s offer. Benson needed to soft-pedal his talents. If he needed anything, it was to present a mediocre personality … and he would have to form that himself.
There was a student, however, who appealed to Benson: Bob Koesler.
Left to himself, Benson would have died on the vine. He seemed to have no athletic skills whatever. And seminarians—particularly those at Sacred Heart—were expected to develop athletically.
Stan would have been happy to be covered with spiderwebs. But that would have seemed counterproductive to what the seminary wanted to produce as priests.
The consensus appeared to favor exercise. Mens sana in corpore sano. A healthy mind in a healthy body. Besides, the object all sublime was to build asexual macho men. Sports aided in the creation of that matrix.
From Benson’s observation, Koesler was a moderate to successful athlete, and he seemed genuinely eager to help.
Koesler, of course, was aware of Benson’s presence on campus. But if he had been even two years rather than one year behind Koesler’s class, Benson might well have disappeared in the mist. It came down to Koesler’s knowing Benson’s name and virtually nothing more.
But that was not Benson’s aim. Underexposure was as bad as overexposure when one intended to stay lost in the middle—the goal of mediocrity. And so Benson approached Koesler, wondering if the senior might act as a quasi-coach.
A cloud passed before Koesler’s eyes as he tried to place this scrawny kid coming toward him across the gymnasium floor. The face was familiar, but Koesler couldn’t come up with a name.
Benson could see—he had expected it—that Koesler was drawing a blank. “Stan Benson,” he identified.
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Koesler extended his hand and gripped a weak fish.
There was a time-out on the floor and Koesler was toweling off perspiration. “Anything I can do for you, Stan?” If there was anything, Koesler couldn’t imagine what it might be.
Benson explained his plight. He knew, and basically agreed, that exercise was good. But for one reason or another—not health; his health was fine—he just couldn’t compete enough to participate in any of the demanding games that seemed so popular at Sacred Heart.
As Benson spoke, Koesler looked him over. He tried to imagine this lightweight in a football game. In time, a player might well wonder whether he should center the ball or Stanley.
Benson concluded with a plea. “Can you help me, Bob?”
Koesler looked him over once more. This was a case for Vince Lombardi. Except that Lombardi wouldn’t have taken on the challenge. To think of Benson as having a killer instinct was to think that lambs are ferocious. “I dunno …”
“Please.”
“Well, okay. We’ve got a half day tomorrow. Why don’t we meet here in the gym after lunch and we’ll see what we can do.”
The next day, promptly at 1 P.M., Stanley, attired in brand-new basketball togs, showed up in the gym. His father had gotten the uniform for him. Delighted that his son was finally interested in sports, George dreamed of the day Stan would make a varsity team, even if only to sit on the bench. George Benson was a jock. Stan Benson was whatever the opposite of a jock might be.
Koesler strolled onto the court dribbling a basketball. He almost doubled over at the sight of Stan, but managed to contain himself in a Christian manner.
“Is this okay?” Stan’s question referred to his uniform.
“I … basically, I guess so,” Koesler said. “I don’t know what ‘team’ you’re playing for. But there’s one important thing.”
“What’s that?” Benson was eager.
“That elastic thing you’re wearing on top of … uh, on the outside of your shorts …”
Benson looked down at it. “Yes—?”
“It’s called a jockstrap, and it’s supposed to be worn under … uh, inside your shorts.”
“Oh …” Stan was embarrassed and confused. He did want to be au courant, but he realized that to get the strap on correctly he would have to take off his shorts as well as the strap. This would have made him temporarily naked from the waist down. He hesitated, indecisive.
“Don’t bother with it now,” Koesler said. “Let’s just get warmed up.”
“Okay.” Stan was determined to at least master enough of athletics to get lost in the crowd.
“Here …” Koesler called. “Catch this.” He lobbed the ball at Stan, who awaited it with open arms.
The pass hit him in the chest and knocked him backward.
Koesler trotted over to make sure he was all right. He was.
Koesler led his protégé to one of the baskets. He started to explain the game.
“I know the object.” Stan didn’t mean the remark sarcastically; he just wanted to hurry things along. “No offense!”
“None taken.” Koesler handed the ball to Stan. He didn’t want to try another pass just yet.
Time after time, Stan threw the ball upward toward the basket. Stan was, thought Koesler, setting world’s records. In perhaps fifty tries, not once did his shot reach the basket’s rim.
Koesler considered mentioning this, but assumed Stan would realize that if there are going to be points scored, the ball would have to at least go over the rim.
Conclusion, after nearly an hour and a half: Stan Benson had no coordination. None at all. About the only thing accomplished was the providing of entertainment for boys who were entertained by seeing an athletic supporter worn in so imaginative a fashion.
Even a dogged Koesler had to admit that Stan would never score a single basket. Too bad; Koesler liked to see progress even on a modest scale.
Next, the teacher took his student to the basement handball courts.
There were six four-walled courts. As the twosome approached, the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of the balls against the walls could be heard as in an echo chamber.
One court was open. Fortunately, it was the singles court. Stan wouldn’t have to run as far. They descended into the pit.
Stan had never seen this game before. A few words of explanation were in order.
It didn’t matter. Stan could neither serve nor return the ball. The shots that came anywhere close to being kill shots were the ones that hit Stan. And the only marks he got were the contusions that pockmarked his skin.
As they rested, though only Stan was perspiring, Koesler took stock. He had never encountered anyone so completely uncoordinated. In motion, Stan was a danger only to himself. Any opponent, in whatever sport, could damage Stan at will.
As the two sat on the floor, backs against the wall, a word came to Koesler.
Walk.
Walking must’ve been among the earliest exercises known to mankind. Homo erectus, wasn’t it? The great primates who stood up on their hind feet.
When we first stood erect, there were no planes, cars, scooters, roller skates, bicycles, or anything else to ride. We walked.
“Stan, do you ever walk?”
Benson looked at Koesler as if he were an alien. “Well, yes. Of course.”
“I don’t mean ‘walk’ as in how you got to these handball courts. I mean serious walking … with some attention to speed and distance.”
“Hmmm. If you put it that way, no. Not really.”
Koesler told Stan to change into casual clothing—without jockstrap, either inside or outside—and me
et him at the seminary’s elongated back porch.
Surrounding an area large enough to contain three football fields or five baseball diamonds, depending on the season, was a red brick walk that did not lead to Oz. It didn’t lead anywhere. If one stayed on the walk without surcease, one would travel in circles endlessly.
So, the two began to walk. It didn’t take long for Stan to tire and experience breathing difficulties. At that point, Stan was willing—eager—to quit for the day.
But Koesler divined that should he let Stan off the hook, the boy would misread the purpose of this walking. Reminding Stan of the goal he had set for himself, Koesler permitted them the indulgence of resting on one of the benches along the pathway.
When Stan regained his breath, off they went again.
Fearful of his own weakness in backsliding, Stan asked if Koesler would continue walking with him. Koesler did not hesitate. Anytime there was a recreation break too brief for an organized game, there they’d be: Koesler and his protégé, walking around and around on the red-brick footpath.
As they walked, they talked … that is, once Stan was able to coordinate walking and talking.
As a tribute to Koesler’s endurance and patience, before graduating from Sacred Heart Seminary, it was possible for Stanley Benson to participate on the basketball court.
Without the slightest possibility of helping his team in any fashion whatever, at least he could catch the ball. He could neither throw, dribble, nor score with it. But Koesler took inordinate pride in getting Stan out on the court without threat to his—or anyone else’s—life.
They continued to walk together. To walk and talk together. Over the years they learned much from and about each other.
SEVENTEEN
MEANWHILE, BACK AT HOLY REDEEMER PARISH, the integrated high school students had long since gotten used to each other.
At first, there had been feelings of awkwardness and self-consciousness. Boys felt uncomfortable that, in general, girls knew answers much more frequently and speedily.
The Gathering Page 15
