Dead Wrong (13 page)

Father Koesler spent a good part of the remainder of the Mass reflecting on that sermon. He choked on most of it.

The third of the Ten Commandments—in the Catholic version—orders that the Sabbath day be kept holy. It does not specify just how the day is to be kept holy. Later Jewish traditions grew like weeds around the Sabbath. Still later, Christian law changed the observance of the Sabbath from Saturday to Sunday. Still later, Catholic law demanded attendance at Mass as one of the ways the Sabbath—Sunday, not Saturday—was to be observed.

In none of this had anyone but Father Deutsch, to Koesler’s knowledge, ever found a kinship between this Church law and the natural law.

Then came the familiar conservative emphasis on the Pope as, in effect, a surrogate conscience for all Catholics. The emphasis dulled all distinction between infallible pronouncements and the ordinary teaching authority of the Church.

But, if one were to accept Deutsch’s description of the Pope as the sole possessor of dogmatic and moral truth, then of course anyone who differed with a papal opinion would be in error.

Thus, those Catholics—not necessarily all bishops—who possessed
truth
through submission to and agreement with the Pope must
fearlessly
(Deutsch’s emphasis) correct the erring brother or sister.

And correction must be made “with restrained love, as the Holy Father does.”

Koesler had some difficulty equating defrocking priests, stripping theologians of their teaching tenure, silencing dissidents, removing select powers from bishops, and the like with “restrained love.”

But he was most troubled by the tortuous logic and twisted rationalizing so evident in Father Deutsch’s presentation. Given this self-serving thinking, what could be condemned? What could be justified? How much influence did Deutsch have over Nash? How much Nash over Deutsch?

Koesler had a feeling he would soon know the answers to these questions.

C H A P T E R

10

“
I
TE
,
MISSA EST
,” Father Deutsch intoned.

“Deo gratias,”
the voice-over responded.

After the final blessing and the reading from the opening of St. John’s Gospel, the Mass was completed. Slowly, the image faded and the screen became gray in death for the nonce.

Nash rose. Koesler followed.

“Wasn’t that grand?” Nash enthused. “The only thing, maybe it’s a little late in the day. Maybe we should schedule the Friday Mass at the start of the workday … say, eight o’clock. What do you think, Padre?”

The only time Koesler felt comfortable being addressed as “Padre” was when he happened to be in a Spanish-speaking country or group. Now, he swallowed his irritation. “I don’t know. You’ve probably had the Mass at noon for a long time. It may be a habit by now. But it does make more sense to me to start the day with prayer.”

Koesler had unspoken doubts about celebrating Mass throughout this corporate setting. Attendance likely was obligatory. And, of course, there was no way the audience could receive Communion. Sort of like being invited to a banquet and then not being offered anything to eat.

“Good idea, Father,” Nash said. “I think we’ll try it at eight for a few weeks. See how it works out. But first …” He again motioned Koesler to a chair near the superdesk. “… let’s hear the good news about Dad. Wait: It’s after noon. You want some lunch? I can send out. Or, if you want to go to my club …?”

“A sandwich might be nice.”

Nash nodded and addressed the intercom. “Loretta, have them send up a few sandwiches: combination cheese…” He looked across at Koesler. “That okay? It’s Friday, you know.”

Koesler nodded and wondered about this man. It had been many years since Catholics had been required to eschew meat on Fridays. There were a few who still abstained. But they were a distinct minority and, in almost all cases, extremely pious. How did any of this—putting a priest on the payroll, having Mass for employees, championing Catholic causes, still abstaining on Fridays—square with being an adulterer and a destroyer of the environment?

“Now …” Nash sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “… tell me all about Dad. He asked to see you, you said? I can’t get over that.”

“Uh … he did call. And he did ask me to visit him. It sounded like a routine sick call. But when I got there, that didn’t seem to be the case.”

Nash’s expression froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your father had no intention of making a confession, receiving Communion or the Sacrament of the Sick.”

“But I thought …”

“So did I.”

“Then what …?”

Koesler took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Your father wanted me to somehow break up the affair between you and Brenda Monahan.”

“What!?”

“Specifically, he wanted me to talk my cousin into ending the affair.” Koesler almost felt like ducking.

“What affair? Who says I’m involved in an affair?”

“Well … your father, for starters.”

“He’s an old fool! I swear he’s getting senile.”

“I think he gives you credit for covering your tracks skillfully.”

“This is ridiculous. Just ridiculous.” Nash started to rise from his chair. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Wait a minute!” At the tone of Koesler’s voice, Nash hesitated, then sat back tensely.

Koesler was firm. “I’ve gone to considerable trouble to arrange this meeting. And I am not one to meddle in people’s private lives. I wouldn’t even be here today if it weren’t for Brenda.”

“Now see here.” Nash’s defense was beginning to break down. “What gives you the right to come in here and accuse me—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I want to talk to you about a fact. The fact of your relationship with my cousin.”

“You have no proof! I’m a married man. I have a wife and a family. I know who Brenda Monahan is. We’ve met at a few social functions. I know she lives alone in an apartment. We could scarcely meet in my home—my family, the servants, everyone would know. I know I’m followed from time to time by slime columnists. If ever I met Ms. Monahan at her apartment, we would have been found out and you’d see it on the evening news or in the next day’s paper. So—” a note of triumph—”what do you think? Are we part of NASA? Do we meet in outer space?”

“Mr. Nash, I’ve already noted that your father said you have been successful so far in covering your tracks. I haven’t the slightest idea how you do it. With mirrors? I suppose you have someplace where you can meet in secret. All I know is that your father’s allegation is true.”

“Now, really, Father, this is too much! One old man accuses me of something he thinks is wrong, and that’s it? All I need to do is simply deny it—which I do. It’s his word against mine. Now, if you don’t mind leaving. I hate to be abrupt but I have a busy—”

“I’m not taking your father’s word over yours. In fact, after speaking with your father, I had no intention of bringing up this matter with you. Something else happened that changed my mind.”

“Oh?”

“I assume you know the structure of Brenda’s pseudo-family.” Koesler didn’t wait for a reply. “She and Mary Lou were taken in and raised by my cousin Maureen, who has two sisters.”

There was no reaction from Nash. He was obviously not about to acknowledge or deny anything with regard to a woman he admitted knowing only casually.

“Well,” Koesler continued, “a little while back we celebrated a birthday for Oona, one of the sisters. It was a brief party. It broke up when Mary Lou became abrasive—to put it extremely mildly. In no uncertain terms, she accused Brenda of adultery with you.

“Even then, it was not just the innuendo or gossip or the fact that both your father and her ‘sister’ raised the issue of adultery. It was Brenda’s reaction. I think under ordinary circumstances she could have braved her way through it. Maybe it was that she was under a lot of stress—but she broke down … caved in. I’ve never seen her that way before. And believe me, I know her very well. Her reaction to Mary Lou’s accusation betrayed in no uncertain terms that it was true.”

He was trapped. It didn’t matter how often or how fiercely he denied his relationship with Brenda, this priest was not about to believe him. Obviously Koesler knew Brenda extremely well, just as he claimed. Yet why hadn’t Brenda told him of the aborted birthday problem? He’d ask her later. For now, he had to deal with this priest. It was time for a little truth—though not the completely unvarnished variety.

“Suppose,” Nash began, “… just suppose—nothing more than that—suppose Brenda Monahan and I are more than casual friends. Now, I’m not admitting anything. But if we were, what business would it be of anyone’s—starting with my father?”

“You mean, is he concerned about the state of your soul? I wouldn’t think so. He doesn’t seem much concerned about his own soul. No, he’s worried about the business.”

“That does sound like Dad. But what do apples have to do with oranges?”

“He’s afraid that no matter how careful you are, you’ll be found out, and your reputation as a stellar Catholic will be destroyed. He doesn’t think you could survive that kind of publicity. And he’s ultimately afraid that if your reputation crumbles, so will Nash Enterprises. Now, some could laugh off a disclosure like this. But your father doesn’t think you could. And, frankly”—Koesler looked fixedly at Nash—“neither do I.”

There was no response. Nash seemed to be pondering his father’s projected scenario, perhaps for the first time.

“To be frank, still,” Koesler went on, “I don’t have any vital interest in Nash Enterprises. My prime concern is with Brenda. Of course, I’m also concerned with your spiritual welfare. But I realize I’m not ‘your priest.’”

Nash’s expression told Koesler he’d scored again.

“As far as I can tell,” Koesler resumed, “Brenda stands to gain almost nothing and to lose everything. She’s condemned to be the woman on the side. I can’t see any indication that you might get divorced. And even if you did, before you married Brenda—or anyone else for that matter—you’d have to get a declaration of nullity from the Church. There’s no guarantee that you’d be successful in that. In fact, even with all your money the odds are heavily against it. I want Brenda to have a life. The longer she stays in this arrangement with you, the more certain it is that she’s never going to have a decent life for herself.”

There was a knock at the door, and Nash’s secretary entered. She placed several tastefully wrapped packages on the desk and left the room, closing the door behind her.

The sandwiches. Koesler was hungry, but this was not the moment for munching. Besides, Nash had made no move toward the food. It would not have been polite to anticipate one’s host.

Nash sat looking at the table for what seemed a very long time.

At length, he spoke. “If anything …
anything
… that is said between us escapes this office, I would, of course, deny it and take appropriate action against you. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Mr. Nash, I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“First, I want to know why you didn’t follow my father’s direction and take this matter up with Brenda. You said that’s what he told you: to take Brenda out of this relationship. Why didn’t you try this with her?”

“I’m too close to her. I know there is no actual blood relationship, but there might just as well be. I’ve watched her grow up. She was always my ‘cousin’ in practice if not in actual fact. Just as doctors are loath to operate on their own relatives, so it would be awkward for me to bring this up with Brenda. Besides, I think the prime responsibility is yours.

“On top of that,” Koesler continued, “—and I think I’m entitled to be somewhat personal here—how do you do it? How are you able to do it?”

“What?”

“Your religious activities and projects. You give a sizeable percent of your income to Catholic causes … far more, I would guess, than can be written off for tax deductions. You are perhaps the most identifiable lay Catholic, in this country at least. You have a priest on your payroll and a weekday Mass for your employees.

“That’s the question: How can you do all this and, at the same time, carry on an adulterous affair? As far as I know, adultery may be the principal fly in your pie. But it is a major league fly.”

Nash paused, then spread his hands, palms up. “You don’t understand. If you understood, it would look different.”

“Understand what?”

“Father Art understands.”

“He approves of this?!”

“He knows what’s going on.”

“If you tell me, maybe I’ll understand … though what’s to understand beats me.”

“It’s my wife. We no longer live together as husband and wife. It’s a sort of brother-sister relationship.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Nash.”

“Ted.”

“Okay, ‘Ted.’ Is this a Church-related ruling?” It was common knowledge among Catholics that the Church regularly demands that couples not canonically married live as brother and sister during the processing of their case or, if that fails, for life.

“No, no. It’s children. In the first four years we were married, we had three children. That was just fine for me, but not for her. We couldn’t agree on a form of family planning. Either I had a moral objection or the method was not sufficiently reliable for her. So we decided we would stay together for the children’s sake—and, of course, propriety.”