Chameleon (25 page)

“Instead of rewarding us for our service, ‘Mother’ excommunicated me. Not for leaving the priesthood—no, for getting married.”

“No,” Fred interrupted, “that was because you didn’t get laicized.”

“Which,” Cass returned, “brings us to you. You went through the process, and almost as luck would have it, you got it. You were laicized. So, although you, like me, got married, you are not excommunicated. But what did ‘Mother’ demand as a price for granting the dispensation?

“I’ve read the rescript and I’m sure you have too.”

Fred winced inwardly. He knew what was coming.

“In return for keeping all the rules and going through the whole demeaning process, ‘Mother’ threw some new rules and regulations at you. I can’t hope to remember them all, but here’s a few:

“Outside of being able to absolve someone who is in danger of death—something, by the way, that even I in my state am empowered to do—you cannot exercise any function of a priest. You can’t preach a sermon. You can’t take any part in a liturgy anywhere your ‘condition’ is known. Like you had leprosy and people would be shocked if they knew about it.

“Almost anybody in any parish can be delegated to distribute Communion. They’re called ‘extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist.’ You, who gave Communion almost every day of your life for twenty years, you can’t even be an extraordinary minister.

“You can’t do anything in any seminary in the world. Not only are you barred from teaching theology, you can’t even teach a language in a seminary. You can’t teach in Church-related colleges. You can’t even teach in Church-related schools unless a bishop specifically okays it, and even then, you can’t teach religion there. Of course, the bishop just might—and that’s a heavy-duty ‘might’—let you teach religion as long as it wouldn’t cause scandal. Once again, you are the leper.

“Your marriage has to be the sort that used to be performed in a rectory rather than a church. It has to be performed as if everyone involved is ashamed of what’s happening.

“You are supposed to move out of the locale where you were a priest to somewhere where no one has a chance of knowing that once upon a time you were a priest. Again, a bishop can dispense with this atrocity.

“And finally—and most damaging to your whole argument—it’s final. You can never go back. As excommunicated as I am, I haven’t been put in your category. Were I to be divorced or—God forbid—become a widower, theoretically I could function as a priest again, though they’d probably try to send me to Ethiopia. But you: You’re
laicized.
You played by all their rules. And because of that, you’re out for good.”

Stapleton was quick to respond. “You’re exaggerating. For one thing, nobody—at least nobody I know—enforces those rules totally. And for another, that ban on laicized priests returning can be changed by the Pope at any time.”

“Okay, Fred, the Pope can do anything he damn well pleases, but this Pope is not likely to do that. And whether or not the rules are enforced is beside the point I’m making—which is that there is no earthly reason why you cannot give Communion, or teach religion, or why you should have to get married like an ecclesiastical leper. There’s certainly no logical reason why you should be specifically banned from functioning as a priest again. The point is: ‘Mother’ is being vindictive, nothing more, nothing less. ‘Hell hath no fury,’ etc. And I don’t think it’s worth it, saving a vindictive ‘Mother’ from herself. Let her founder, I say.”

“It’s worth it, damn it!
She’s
worth it!” Stapleton was becoming charged. Something he rarely did. “It won’t be easy. That I admit. Something drastic has to happen—is happening—that will get the Church’s attention.”

“There isn’t anything extreme enough to get this institution’s attention. What could do it, Fred? What could do it?”

Stapleton hesitated. He seemed to be struggling inwardly with a decision. “It can’t be told yet. But it will be eventually, and then you’ll see. All of you. You’ll see for yourselves.”

With that, Stapleton nodded to his wife, who long ago had known the evening was going to end early. She went to collect their coats. Then, after murmuring a farewell as well as an apology to the host couple, she rejoined her husband as they left and headed home—in silence, as it turned out.

The party slowly revivified as the guests gradually recovered. Most of them split into small groups and proceeded to debate the issues that had been raised by Hershey and Stapleton.

Meanwhile, Debbie Hershey joined her husband. “That was some tussle.” Debbie carried two highballs. She handed one to Cass.

“You said it. How did we get into that anyway?”

“Don’t you remember? You went over to try to get them to join the rest of the crowd.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” As he sipped his drink he became aware that his throat was sore. “Instead of getting the party together, we damn near broke it up.”

“You know, Cass, we’ve been together a long time. But I’ve never heard you talk about the Church like that.”

Hershey shrugged. “I never think about the Church, I guess. Certainly not as a mother in need of my presence.”

“Well, Fred Stapleton certainly does. He made that crystal clear tonight.”

“That’s got me puzzled, Deb. He was never like he was tonight. Not all the time I’ve known him.”

“I hardly know the Stapletons. They don’t usually come to get-togethers like this.”

“I know. I thought these gatherings were just not his cup of tea, or that he was too tired. But from what I saw tonight, I’ll bet he spends every free moment he’s got on this CORPUS thing,”

“It sure sounded like that.”

“I know some people in that organization. They’re committed, but not like Fred.” He shook his head. “I can’t figure it out. He was a few years ahead of me in the seminary but I knew him pretty well. Quiet, thoughtful; he seemed a dedicated student. But just about the opposite of a rabble-rouser. The kind of guy who would make a good priest—or, for that matter, a good shrink. As often as I see him on TV or hear him on radio or read about him, I’ve always felt good for him. Good that he found this psychology gig. He seemed a natural,” Brow furrowed, he shook his head again. “But … after this evening …”

“I know; there were a couple of times tonight when I thought you two might come to blows.”

“Did you? It didn’t cross my mind. But now that you mention it, there was something … I don’t know what. You’re right: There was a hint of a time bomb—just below the surface. Way, way out of character for Fred Stapleton. Way out of character. Like someone else had taken over. And then at the end, when he said something about getting the Church’s attention …” He looked at her searchingly. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I don’t know, honey, but it sounded kind of ominous.”

“Yeah, someming’s going on with Fred. But what?”

“Five card draw, gentlemen,” the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey announced. “Jacks or better to open, and one-eyed jacks are wild. Let’s ante,”

Father Koesler scarcely ever attended poker games. Early on, he had learned that conversation, idle chitchat, was not welcome at the poker table. And Koesler did like to chat. What better to do when priests get together socially? Something that happened too rarely these days. Almost more importantly, he hated to lose. He hated it to the point of fearing it. And that was not the proper attitude to bring to the poker table.

So why was he here tonight?

Cletus Bash had asked him to come. Almost pleaded with him. Father Bash was having a difficult time gathering sufficient numbers.

No trouble getting Quent Jeffrey, of course. Poker was second nature to him. Everyone knew that. But all the other dependable regulars seemed unavailable. Bash could have played two-handed with Jeffrey but, in all candor, Bash knew he was no match whatever for Jeffrey. Safety in numbers, he figured.

All this was a conclusion Koesler easily reached. Another measure of Bash’s desperation was that the fourth player tonight was Monsignor Del Young.

While the Monsignor had an overstocked purse and didn’t mind losing at games of chance—which he did with determined regularity—he, too, was an irrepressible conversationalist.

Koesler was unable to guess how many clerical prospects Bash had contacted earlier. The number must have been astronomical if the best Bash could do was himself, Bob Koesler, and Del Young. It was next to impossible to tell how frustrated Bash felt. He was, normally, quite surly and sharp. Those words exactly described him tonight. But then, they probably would have defined his disposition even if he had had greater success in lining up more dedicated players. The few times Bash could have been considered as being ebullient, as far as Koesler could recall, were those occasions when his high profile was being featured in the local media, clearly identified as the archdiocesan spokesman—read best-informed person in captivity.

Bash spoke. “Someone’s light.”

Koesler glanced at the table top. Three white chips lay where they had been casually tossed. “Del,” Koesler said softly, “I think you forgot to ante.”

“Me? Did I? That was careless. Sorry.” He pitched a white chip onto the center of the table.

The cards were being dealt noiselessly, expertly, one at the time, five to a customer. Koesler marveled at Quent Jeffrey’s dexterity. While card games were not Koesler’s favorite pastime, he’d seen his share of dealers—mostly fellow clergymen—although he’d never joined any of the guys in a Las Vegas vacation, nor had he witnessed any truly professional players. Nonetheless he thought Jeffrey must come close to the professional norm.

Jeffrey did not bother looking at the cards as he dealt. Rather, he studied the faces of the other players. Particularly Del Young, who picked up and appraised each card as it was dealt. Neither Bash nor Koesler touched a card until all were dealt.

Following Jeffrey’s lead, Koesler scrutinized Young as he picked up the cards and fitted them into some sort of order in his hand. To Koesler’s surprise, it did seem possible to tell whether Young was experiencing good or bad cards by little movements of an eyebrow or cheek muscle. Young’s was the antithesis of the storied poker face.

Koesler wondered whether he himself betrayed his hand, bad or good, in the same way. But he decided that he played so seldom it wasn’t worth worrying about.

Everyone studied his cards in silence.

“I’ll open for two.” Bash dropped two red chips into the small pot.

“All right here.” Young contributed two red chips.

Wordlessly, Koesler and Jeffrey did the same.

Jeffrey picked up the deck and looked expectantly at Bash.

“Three,” said Bash. Jeffrey dealt him three, again studying the face, not the cards.

“One,” said Young.

“Three.” Koesler.

Jeffrey: “And the dealer takes three.”

Each player having discarded, picked up, and studied the newly dealt cards.

Koesler’s hand had not improved. He’d started with two tens; that was still the best he could do. It was a hopeless hand. One had to have at least a pair of jacks to open and Bash had done that. Thus Koesler was defeated without leaving the gate.

Jeffrey waited, looking at Bash, who had opened so it was his move.

“Check,” Bash said.

“Well, I guess I’ll open with five.” Young carefully deposited five blue chips in the pot.

Koesler, his hand already defeated, had studied Young as the monsignor had picked up his one card. Both eyebrows had reacted. It was a safe guess that he had gotten his card. Koesler threw in his hand, as did Jeffrey. Had Jeffrey also spotted the reaction?

“I’ll call you, Del,” Bash said as he dropped five blue chips in the pot.

Nothing happened. Something should have.

“Del,” Jeffrey said, “what have you got? Clete called you.”

“Oh!” Young exclaimed. “Yes, of course.” He spread his five cards on the table as he declared, “Full house. Kings over eights.”

“Damn!” Bash muttered, and pitched his cards face down on the table.

“Well,” Young said happily, “looks like my night.”

All things are possible, thought Koesler. But the likelihood of Del Young’s having a “night” of luck was so remote as to be ludicrous. There was his tendency to bet impetuously, which was definitely not the mark of a winner. Then there were the dramatis personae of the evening. On his best day, Del Young could not gamble successfully against Clete Bash. And Quent Jeffrey was way out of both their leagues.

As for himself, the difference between Del Young and Koesler was that Koesler knew his limits—and they were very narrow. Indeed, it had been at Koesler’s insistence that the stakes were reduced for the evening. White chips were worth twenty-five cents. Red chips were worth fifty cents. And blue chips were valued at a dollar. Usually the stakes were much higher.

But, as always, Koesler’s highest hope was to break even. While he did not mind contributing to charity, his favorite charity was neither Bash nor Jeffrey.

Clete Bash gathered the scattered cards and began to shuffle them.

“Anything new on the murders?” Young asked, making conversation. And then clarified, “I mean poor Larry Hoffer and the Donovan woman.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Koesler said. “I’ve tried to keep up with the news but it seems the police investigation is proceeding without any breaks in the case.”

“I wish they’d hurry up,” Young said. “I’m getting nervous. There’s somebody out there who seems to be hunting down officials of the diocese.”

“And you’re one of them,” Bash said as he shuffled. He was poking fun at the monsignor.

“All well and good for you to feel secure—at least tonight,” Young retorted. “After all, we’re playing on your turf. You don’t have to get home after this is over.”

They were gathered in the common room on the Chancery Building’s seventh floor. Bash’s living quarters were on the ninth floor. In former times the priests’ residence rooms on the building’s ninth and tenth floors would have been almost all occupied, and the common room well populated at this hour. However, these were lean times. Having a chancery full of resident priests at the expense of help in parishes would have been a senseless luxury.