Requiem for Moses (12 page)

Margie, from the vantage of one step below the sanctuary and one above the church’s main floor, scanned the crowd. She shook her head knowingly. “Isn’t it the way of things? Nowadays the only time you get together with relatives and friends is at weddings and funerals.”

Caught by her observation, Koesler looked more closely at his one-and-only-one-time congregation. Outside of Father Dan Reichert—still perched like a hawk in the back of the church taking mental notes for tomorrow’s promised confrontation with Koesler and Cardinal Boyle—Koesler didn’t recognize anyone. No, wait: In the third pew from the front was someone he knew: Patricia Lennon, respected reporter at the
Detroit News.

Had she found out about this from one of her many sources? Did an editor assign her to cover this event? It didn’t much matter. She was here. And that meant that some sort of story would be in tomorrow’s paper. That was the bad news. Added to the possible summons by the Cardinal, decidedly bad news.

The good news was that Lennon was a good journalist—fair and reasonable. Over the years, their paths had crossed when Koesler had assisted in various police investigations and Lennon had covered the action.

Margie touched her son’s arm as she addressed Koesler. “Has David given you some useful background on his father?”

Before Koesler could reply, David, with a brief laugh, answered. “Oh, I was definitely not alone in briefing the good father. Quite a few people bent his ear. If the father has an active imagination, he probably could write a book on Dad right about now. How much of what we’ve contributed will prove useful for what Father has to say tonight is anybody’s guess.

“Now”—David stepped away—“if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get myself a ringside seat. Good luck, Padre. You’ll need it.” He headed for one of the seats that his sister was saving.

Now that nearly everyone was seated, the congregation did not seem quite as daunting as it had when milling about. Still there were many more people here than Koesler had anticipated.

“I wouldn’t blame you at all,” Margie said, “if you were quite angry with me. I talked you into all this.”

Now that she had invited the thought, Koesler agreed. He felt like the victim who had been gulled into a trap.

“Believe me,” Margie continued, “I never thought it would turn out like this. So big … I mean so many people. But Moe and I talked about this. I didn’t take him seriously. I didn’t think he was going to die. Now that I look back, I shouldn’t have expected him to live with that pain. But I just didn’t anticipate Moe dead.”

“You talked about this?”

“Well, yes. Except we never thought there’d be any problem with Kaufman Funeral Home. If I had taken him seriously, I would’ve checked all these details and been prepared. He wanted the wake. Now that I look at all these people … well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know that he has more than a very few friends here. Everybody else … well, they couldn’t be described as friends—or even close.”

She gazed into Koesler’s eyes. “I’ll try, I’ll honestly try to make this up to you. It’s just that I would’ve felt as if I had betrayed Moe if we hadn’t been able to do this just the way he wanted. And, as it turned out, you made it happen. I owe you, Father.”

“No, you don’t.” Koesler had been taken aback by Margie’s obviously sincere apology and expression of gratitude. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to play this out as we planned it.”

“The eulogy! I haven’t had an instant to supply you with any background information on Moe. And I promised you. People kept coming up all evening. But you were talking to some people, weren’t you? Maybe they were a help?” She didn’t sound convinced.

“I’ll tell you who talked to me, and in what order. And you can judge for yourself.

“First was Jake Cameron …”

Two vertical lines formed at the bridge of Margie’s nose.

“… then Claire McNern …”

The lines deepened.

“… followed closely by Stan Lacki.”

She seemed puzzled at this name.

“Then came your daughter …”

The lines returned.

“… and, finally, your son.”

The lines were like gashes. “Of all the people in this church tonight, those are exactly the ones I would not have wanted you to talk to.”

“From what they told me, I would have thought you yourself would belong in their number. I got the impression that no one was more shabbily treated than you.”

Margie sighed. “You had to get to know Moe and make some strong allowances for the kind of life he lived. And, on top of that, Moe did not make it easy to get to know him. In fact, he discouraged anybody from getting close to him.

“But he was involved with the kids.” She looked more carefully at Koesler, and speedily decided he knew too much to try to soft-pedal her late husband’s machinations and his habit of manipulating everyone, especially those close to him. “The bottom line,” she declared, “is that he provided his kids with a decent home, good schooling, and almost anything they wanted. That last wasn’t so hot: He gave them everything so he could keep them in line with threats to take the toys away.

“No, skip that last part altogether. Just say that he provided for the kids.

“He was a good doctor. Well, at least he was skilled, even if he was not always true to the Hippocratic oath.

“No, skip the last part. He was a skilled doctor.

“And he was a decent husband. He did not stray all the time … just—no, skip that. We stayed married twenty-one years. That’s got to count for something!”

Margie was close to tears. And she had brought herself to this point.

“This was his idea ….” She brushed away a tear. “Moe was the one who wanted the eulogy. I went along with it without thinking. If I’d given it a second thought, I would’ve realized that we could never get away with this. There just aren’t that many good words to say about him.

“And I’m the one who got you into this.… Boy, what a screwup. What can I say but, I’m sorry? And if you want to call it off, I’ll understand completely.”

Koesler was conscious of how faithfully Margie had tried to fulfill each and every promise she’d made to Moe. He would not let her default in this final pledge.

He looked again, more carefully, at his ersatz congregation. Here and there were people who had the aspect of solemnity one usually finds at a wake. But many seemed to be relishing this moment; an almost palpable smugness emanated from the pews.

All in all, Koesler was determined to take on this naked challenge. Margie had promised her husband, and Koesler had given his word to her. “You go take your place, Margie ….” He gestured her toward the seat next to her daughter.

Koesler would never forget her look of gratitude as she turned and left him.

He turned toward the altar and bowed his head.
Lord
, he prayed silently,
this is by no means a major crisis in my life. But I need your presence now. Give me words to move these people to a sense of understanding and forgiveness. This is death. The most solemn moment in life. There seems to be no sense of loss or mourning. Give me the appropriate words.

He could think of no more relevant prayer than one of his favorites, “The Breastplate of St. Patrick.” In silence he continued:

Christ as a light, illumine and guide me.

Christ as a shield, o’rshadow and cover me.

Christ be under me.

Christ be over me.

Christ be beside me on left and on right.

Christ be before me, behind me, about me.

Christ this day be within and without me.

Christ the lowly and the meek.

Christ the all-powerful.

Be in the heart of each to whom I speak.

In the mouth of each who speaks to me.

In all who draw near me, or see me, or hear me.

Fortified from within, he turned to face the congregation. He had new authority and command. The congregation sensed this; the smugness dissipated as air from a balloon.

He waited several seconds for words to come to mind.

Without salutation he began: “The ending of anything makes a thoughtful person more thoughtful. Tonight, we are at the scene of an ending. Someone we have known—for weal or woe—is gone. His presence is marked by a shell that tomorrow will be lowered into the earth. For he—and we—are dust and into dust we must return.”

At this point there was a horrendous commotion. The front door of the church was flung open as if hit by a battering ram.

The congregation, as one, wheeled to see what had happened. Since almost everyone had risen to look, some had to stand on kneelers or benches to see over their neighbors’ heads.

No sooner had the door ceased reverberating on its hinges than there was an outcry that might wake the dead.

Then all hell broke loose.

Chapter Nine

Koesler, tall and standing in the elevated sanctuary immediately facing the middle aisle, had the best of vantages for what was happening. Which was all to the good, since he would be called upon many times to testify as to what did happen.

As Koesler saw it:

An imposing figure at the opposite end of the church, having entered the outer door, had exploded through the inner door, simultaneously wailing in some foreign sound or tongue.

The new arrival wore an oversize hat above a cloth coat over a dress. Its cry was in the mezzo-soprano range. Thus Koesler settled on female.

Just inside the church, she cried out again. She swung her right arm in a lateral arc. Her hand caught Father Reichert at the temple. His glasses flew to his right as he tumbled head over heels into the empty pew behind him.

Father may have made some sound. If he had, it was well covered by the woman’s unrelenting shrieks.

She headed up the middle aisle in a vaguely serpentine movement. Though in constant motion, she made slow forward progress.

Her near lethal-right hand now covered the unlikely expanse of her left chest, which, in turn, may have contained her heart.

The congregation’s reaction reminded Koesler of a scene from
The Producers
, wherein, at the conclusion of the first act of
Springtime for Hitler
, the audience sat silent in open-mouthed shock.

He glanced at the family. David and Judith looked at each other. Koesler could not actually hear the words, but it was easy to read their lips. “Aunt Sophie!”

Who would have thought it? Saved by Aunt Sophie!

The figure was now no more than thirty or forty feet from the sanctuary and Father Koesler. Either this was a woman or a burly teamster in drag. But, then, she had already been identified by her nephew and her niece.

She paused momentarily and regarded Koesler. “Goy!” At least that’s what he thought she said.

“My brother!” she wailed. Whatever tongue she had been using, she was in English now. “My baby brother! What have they done to you?”

She stood at the side of the open casket and addressed the dead man.

“Look where you are, Moe!” She turned her head back and forth, this way and that, looking at his surroundings.

Koesler studied the remarkable movement of her neck. Was she going to do a 360-degree turn, à la Linda Blair?

“See,” she continued, “you wear the shroud. But where are you?! Look at these statues. You should be where only a Star of David is hung. Oh, Moe, your
widow
”—she all but spat out the word—“did this! But I’ll make it right. Oh, yes, I will!”

In one significant step, she closed the gap that separated her from her niece and her nephew. She bent at the knees, put her arms around David and Judith, and picked them up. Their feet no longer touched the ground. Effortlessly she carried the two to the spot she had just abandoned. She did not put them down as she explained to her brother that it surely could not have been the doing of his children that caused him to be lying here in the enemy’s camp.

Meanwhile, David and Judith, faces buried in Aunt Sophie’s cushiony breasts, were struggling for air. Fortunately, her bosom was firm enough that their faces had not disappeared entirely. Gradually, they worked their heads around enough so that they could breathe out of the sides of their mouths.

As Aunt Sophie continued her exculpation of Moe’s children, she began to sway back and forth. As this motion increased apace with her deepening emotions, her body began to bump the casket repeatedly until it began to rock gently—almost like a cradle.

David was the first of the two smothering youngsters to clear his profile from Sophie’s nonsuckling bosom. What he saw caused him to do a doubletake.

Pulling his head back far enough to see that his sister also had freed her air passages, he nodded toward the casket. “Look!”

Judith chose only to breathe again. It had become a luxury.

“Look!” David insisted.

Judith pulled her head free of Aunt Sophie’s hold. She looked. “His eyes are open!”

Their faces were only inches apart, so they had no trouble communicating.

“That’s right,” David, stunned, affirmed.

Judith tried to stay calm. She thought for a few moments. “Doesn’t this happen sometimes? I mean, people die in a certain position. Then, later, the body snaps back to that position. I never heard of one opening its eyes … but … it is possible, don’t you think?” Even with her own rationalization, she could not force herself to look again at those open eyes.

But David continued to observe. “Did you ever hear of a dead man blinking?” Fear was evident in David’s voice.

Judith, finding a strength she did not know she had, pushed herself totally free of Aunt Sophie’s grasp. “He’s alive!” she shrieked, drowning out even Sophie. “He’s alive! He’s alive! He’s alive!”

Others, with no real knowledge of what they were shouting about, took up the cry. “He’s alive!” “He’s alive!” So far only Judith and David had witnessed the marvel of the blinking eyes. Even Sophie didn’t know what this was all about. She was busy looking around at everything but her brother’s body.

Koesler, bewildered, stood rooted to his central location. He could not see what Green’s children saw.