The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  Koesler knew he was talking in circles now. Always returning to Lily Benson and the love between mother and son. Mother was able to assist son in what she thought was his undying desire to be a priest. Son could not turn down her gift and lead the sort of life he really wanted. A perfect dilemma.

  “At what cost? At what cost?” Stan kept repeating the question like a mantra.

  “Don’t do this to yourself,” Koesler said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It’s not a matter of whose fault it is. I am not a priest. I never was a priest. I was forced into a false ordination.”

  “Don’t go on like this!” Koesler admonished. “Maybe we can work out something. There is a law—Ecclesia supplet—that the Church supplies what is needed. The Church can take care of canonical glitches when there’s been a blunder committed. Like when a canonical detail has been forgotten or overlooked and the bride is about to walk down the aisle. The Church can supply the proper jurisidiction or permission—or whatever is missing. Maybe we can work out something like that.”

  So concerned was Koesler about his friend’s emotional health that he was grasping at straws.

  “It’s one thing,” Benson said softly, “to build on a mistake. It’s something else to work with nothing.

  “The hundreds, thousands, of Masses!” He spoke as if to himself. “The hundreds of thousands of absolutions I’ve given! The marriages I’ve witnessed! Can the Church supply validity for all these?”

  He turned to look at his friend, although it was too dark to see Koesler’s face. “Bob, it’s not that I forgot something on the way to the altar. It’s more like Joe Blow stepped into a Confessional and began giving absolution. I am not a priest. I never was. I’ve never wanted to be a priest. And I never was.”

  Moonlight shone into Benson’s eyes. They were moist with tears and somehow childlike. “I’ve wasted my life and brought nothing good into anyone else’s life.”

  “That’s not true, Stan. God would never let it be true.”

  “We’re not talking about God, Bob. We’re talking about law.”

  Silence.

  “There’s a rollaway bed in my apartment, Stan. Why don’t you stay with me for a while? Until we straighten this all out?”

  Benson shook his head. “I’ve got some thinking to do. Don’t worry about me, Bob. I’ll be all right.”

  “Stan …”

  “Please, Bob: It’ll be okay. I’ve just got to be by myself. I’ll be in touch.

  “And, Bob: Don’t feel bad that you were the one to open my eyes. If you hadn’t done it, I’d have done it myself in time. And it was so much better to have you around when I found out. Besides, I asked you for a rundown on my status. I’m grateful. Honest.”

  “Stan …”

  Benson chuckled. “I’m a big boy. I’ll be okay. Go home. I’ll be in touch.”

  Most reluctantly, Koesler departed, but not before he placed his hand on Benson’s shoulder and gave what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

  Father Koesler was engaged in one of his favorite forms of relaxation. Eyes closed, stretched out in a recliner, he was enjoying the glorious voice of Jonathan Swift. Koesler had filled the CD player with Swift’s recordings, from operatic selections to songs of the tenor’s birthplace, Scotland. Scenes of the breathtakingly beautiful Scottish highlands filled his mind’s eye, as Swift’s rendition of “Loch Lomond” wafted throughout Koesler’s living quarters.

  The priest smiled, recalling his own visit to Loch Lomond many autumns ago. He almost chuckled aloud, recalling how he had sat below in the cabin, while a boatload of tourists faced the loch breeze above on the deck. Finding himself alone, Koesler had broken into his own rendition of “Loch Lomond.” He had sung at the top of his lungs, confident that the grating rattle of the boat’s engine would provide cover for his frivolous action.

  Frivolous action. Had Stan Benson ever enjoyed anything frivolous? Koesler wondered. He tried to think back over what he knew of Stan’s life. He couldn’t recall Stan ever doing anything frivolous or being anything but serious and sober. Now that he thought of it, he realized that Stan had always seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Koesler had never before adverted to this. He was reasonably sure that none of the others in the circle of six had ever adverted to it either; all of them had been too busy making their own way through life.

  The CD player had switched to “Songs of Italy,” an early recording, made before Swift’s light baritone had evolved into a liquid tenor.

  Italy. Once more, scenes of yore crowded into Koesler’s mind. His trip to Rome when Cardinal Boyle had received the red hat. Rome, the mountaintop of Catholicism … whence had been handed down the 2,414 laws that had ruled so many lives … and ruined not a few. Like that of Stan Benson.

  Stan. Koesler brought his recliner up to sitting position. His brow knitted. Three days had passed since his meeting with Stan at St. John’s Center. Koesler had been expecting a call from Benson, and if truth be known, as the day wore on he had become increasingly anxious. Funny, under ordinary circumstances, Koesler would think nothing of it if he and Stan didn’t meet or even speak for months. But now, given the fraught nature of their recent conversation, Koesler felt that contact was overdue.

  Koesler resolved that if he did not hear from Stan by this afternoon …

  As if on cue, the phone rang. Startled, Koesler almost leaped out of his chair in his haste to answer it.

  “Father Koesler? This is Mrs. Schultz.”

  Koesler’s gorge rose. He had to fight back nausea. He knew Mrs. Schultz, although he had met her only a few times. She was Stan’s occasional housekeeper. That she should be calling now …

  “I hate to be the one to tell you,” she said. “It’s Father Benson.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “He has expired.”

  “Oh, God!” Koesler pulled himself together. “Can you tell me—uh, how did it happen?”

  “I can’t tell you much of anything, Father. I found him this morning. The police came. And I don’t know what all …” Her voice betrayed her anxiety.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Before you come, Father, you should know: The police found Father’s Last Will, and you’re the executive.”

  “Executor,” Koesler corrected. “He never mentioned that. But I’m not surprised. Is … is Father’s body still at home?”

  “They took him downtown … to the morgue.”

  Good, thought Koesler. He and Dr. Moellmann, the County Medical Examiner, were friends. Dr. Moellmann would have, literally, the last word on the cause of death.

  Father Koesler arrived at Our Lady of Guadalupe to find the neighbors, such as they were, gathered in front of the rectory. Whatever had happened, they figured it must be important. After all, a couple of marked Detroit police cars, as well as a couple of unmarked ones, were parked at the curb. And—the real drawing card—a television van had just pulled up. Maybe Father Benson’s neighbors would find themselves on TV tonight! They would have to settle for considerably less than fifteen minutes of fame.

  Koesler had placed a call and left a message for Dr. Moellmann, who was busy even then with Father’s Benson’s autopsy.

  In the meantime, the priest found the will. Koesler marveled at how little Stan Benson had possessed. Obviously he had wanted little from life. And life had given him little. Everything was to go to Maryknoll, a missionary order. The Order would never survive solely on Stan’s bequest.

  As executor, Koesler felt he should be doing something; he wasn’t quite sure what. He rummaged perfunctorily through a chest of drawers. He was brought up short when he came across a hairshirt, an item worn as a means of self-inflicted penance. The priest quickly decided to dispose of it. Stan would not want it known that he had a medieval monastic bent.

  An officer approached Koesler. There were some routine questions. A confused housekeeper had been of little help. The officer had reassured her that these questions
were not of supreme importance. He would ask around. Koesler knew the answers to most of the questions. For the rest, he suggested the officer contact the Chancery. They were likely to know all the minutiae.

  Stan had left no specific request for a liturgy. Koesler elected himself principal concelebrant. He hoped that some of the Detroit priests would attend. Koesler, the Chancery, and the funeral home would take care of lingering details.

  The phone rang. Mrs. Schutz answered it, then handed the receiver to Koesler.

  “Father Koesler …” It was the familiar, Teutonic-accented voice of Dr. Willie Moellmann. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I was waiting for the lab report.”

  Good old Dr. Moellmann: He placed his own phone calls. It was never, “Just a moment please for the doctor.”

  “That’s okay, Doctor. I’m grateful you returned my call. Do you have anything on Father’s death?”

  “Yes. Death was due to asphyxiation. The cause was carbon monoxide poisoning. From all appearances, most likely accidental.”

  Koesler breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t wanted to think—! “You’re sure?”

  Dr. Moellmann chuckled. “When am I not sure? It wasn’t difficult. From what I’m told, the rectory is an old house with a gas furnace, and a large fan and vent in the kitchen. It was recently renovated; the doors and windows were replaced. Also new insulation was added. All in all, an accident waiting to happen.”

  “How so?”

  “Obviously, no fresh air could enter without cracking open a window or door. The fan was running, creating a backflow down the chimney, instead of exhausting from the chimney. The furnace goes on under negative pressure. Carbon monoxide replaces oxygen. The victim suffocates.”

  Koesler automatically almost asked again, “You’re sure?” but stopped himself. Dr. Moellmann had already committed himself on that, and did not suffer foolish questions gladly.

  Koesler would rephrase the question. “There’s nothing else involved?”

  “I just got the lab report. The carbon monoxide binds to the blood and the blood turns a dark cherry color. It was an easy test. There was no sign of struggle—or anything of that nature that would suggest homicide. There was no indication of suicide like a note. So, it will be termed an accident.” It was obvious that Dr. Moellmann’s statement was a conclusive one. Sort of, thought Koesler, like Roma locuta est; causa finita est—Rome has spoken, the matter is closed.

  “Thank you, Doctor. Maybe we can do lunch sometime.”

  “Ja. Call me.” And he hung up.

  One thing more, thought Koesler: We have to have a gathering of the group.

  THIRTY-THREE

  IT WAS 6 P.M. The five remaining principals were assembled in the cafeteria of St. John’s Center.

  “We haven’t been together as a group in a long, long time,” Koesler said.

  “And now,” Sister Rose Smith said, “it is funerals that bring us together. First Mrs. Benson, and then our friend Stan.”

  “He never really belonged to this group.” Michael Smith had a perceptible chip on his shoulder. “Bob dragged him in and the rest of us adopted him like a stray dog.”

  “Come on, Mike,” his twin said. “Lighten up. We just buried the poor guy. If anything, we ought to be examining our conscience and see what we did to cause his death.”

  “Rose is right,” Alice said. “And, in a way, so is Mike. We weren’t exactly gracious to Stan. He was always odd man out. Maybe if we had been kinder, more welcoming, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “What did we have to do with it? It’s been declared an accident. That means nobody is responsible,” Manny said. “After all, it’s not as if he committed suicide …” He turned to Bob Koesler. “ … did he?”

  Koesler had been mulling over the medical examiner’s conclusion: accidental death. But Koesler couldn’t rid himself of the bee buzzing around in his brain. What if … what if … what if Stanley, so upset and depressed over the news Koesler had given him, had indeed decided that life was no longer worth living? Just because Stanley hadn’t left any note didn’t necessarily mean that he hadn’t taken his own life. Maybe in committing suicide—if that was the case—Stan had thought of that old legal term, res ipsa loquitur—the thing speaks for itself.

  Did “the thing” speak for itself? Was it so evident that Stan felt his whole life had been a waste, a lie, a farce; was that enough to cause him to turn on the exhaust fan, set the thermostat, and calmly lie down to go to sleep for the last time?

  And if so, how would anyone ever know? Maybe Stan had intended for his death to be ambiguous, believing that his old friend and classmate, his fellow priest, Bob Koesler, would get the message and understand?

  Oddly, Father Koesler, upright man that he was, had not till now even thought to consider the possibility that someone else—who?—could have set up the circumstances leading to Stan Benson’s death. But now that the horrid possibility occurred, all he could think of was: Who would do that? And why? The old rule in mysterious deaths was: Who profits? But nobody would profit from Father Stanley Benson’s death. What little he had—a pittance—would go to Maryknoll. And it was all Father Koesler could do to keep from laughing at the very image of any Maryknoller creeping into Guadalupe’s ancient rectory to commit murder. No way!

  He was brought back to reality as Manny repeated his question, this time somewhat insistently. “He didn’t commit suicide, did he, Bob?”

  “If nobody is responsible,” Mike interjected, “then what are we all doing here this evening?” He looked at Bob. “Maybe we’re here,” he said, answering his own question, “so that Bob—amateur detective that he is—can pace back and forth like Sherlock Holmes and tell us which of us ‘dun it.’”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mike,” Rose said, “will you stop being such a jerk!”

  Michael shot an irate glance at his sister but said nothing.

  “In a way, all of you have a piece of the truth as I understand it,” Koesler said. “I think Stanley Benson has something to teach us—all of us. I think we owe it to him—and to ourselves—to learn something from his life … and from his death.”

  Mike laughed. “He’s going to become St. Stanley?”

  The others were growing short of patience with Mike. When no one responded to his jibe, Mike looked around the circle. One corner of his mouth pulled down in irritation. But he seemed to be getting the message.

  Manny picked up Mike’s baton. “What, exactly, do you mean, Bob? What can we possibly learn from Stan’s life … or his death? That he was too cruel to be a priest?” They all knew that Manny was alluding to Stan’s sloughing off Manny’s granddaughter’s problem. “Or,” he continued, “that we should provide ventilation when we are dealing with carbon monoxide?”

  Manny recalled Stan’s bragging that he’d had the rectory repaired and the windows and doors replaced. So the ME’s finding was that the cause of death was asphyxiation due to carbon monoxide fumes. The large kitchen exhaust fan was left running, eventually pulling inside the living quarters the poisonous fumes from the chimney. It appeared that Stan had forgotten to turn off the fan, had gone to bed, fallen asleep, and never awakened.

  Now Manny too began to have second thoughts. Was it possible—? No! He dismissed immediately the idea that anyone had killed Stan. But suicide? Was that more likely? Manny shook his head. If truth be known, he didn’t think enough of Stan to consider that Stan had the grit to commit suicide.

  Manny straightened up. “Sorry,” he said, in apology for his seemingly shallow or mean comments. “But”—he looked at Koesler—“why are we here now?”

  This wasn’t going as Koesler had planned. He’d better get things on track and keep them there. “I think it’s important for us to understand Stan. And I confess I myself didn’t understand him until about a week ago—the night after we buried his mother.

  “At his invitation, I met with Stan here at St. John’s. He told me pretty much everything about his life
.”

  He had their complete attention. They had not expected a biography of someone they’d thought they knew pretty thoroughly.

  Koesler took them through Stan’s experience with the Mass, and his fidelity as a server. Mike and Manny could understand; they’d had similar experiences. Except that in their case, the fascination with the Mass and with the priesthood that produced it had led them toward the seminary. They were startled to learn that while Stan had shared their attachment to the Mass, the priesthood had never held the slightest attraction for him.

  “Then why,” Alice asked, “did he go to the seminary?”

  Koesler explained the linchpin role that Father Simpson had played. The phony annulment, the fake convalidation, the alleged leftover annulment from missionary days, locking everyone concerned into unbreachable secrecy.

  “You mean to tell us that the Bensons and Stan fell for that!” Manny couldn’t believe it. “That’s incredible!”

  “Not if you’re a tortured soul convinced you’re going to hell,” said Koesler. “Along comes a trusted priest, their pastor, and tells Mrs. Benson that she doesn’t have to go. No matter how fanciful this scenario seems to us now, she wanted so badly for it to happen that she would have believed anything … and she did believe everything Father Simpson told her.”

  “And Stan?” Rose asked. “He didn’t have to have a fairy tale to clutch.”

  “He didn’t have to swallow the myth. The motivation Simpson used on Stan was his mother’s happiness. She had always believed that Stan wanted desperately to be a priest. He hadn’t set her straight because it didn’t matter: He was an ecclesial bastard and was led to believe that his condition was an irreversible impediment to Orders—that it made it impossible for him to ever become a priest.