Requiem for Moses (27 page)

Things now seemed to be
status quo ante.
Everything was as it was before the incident in St. Joseph’s Church. Green was alive, and five wronged people still had strong reasons to wish him dead.

Come to think of it—Koesler was experiencing one of his more lingering distractions—there
was
a change in circumstances. Green had inadvertently bought himself some time. Before his death—or apparent death—he was a shadowy figure known personally to relatively few people. But access to him was not all that difficult. If one had wanted to do him harm, it would have been comparatively easy to find him alone, approachable, vulnerable.

But now that he was being hailed as “Saint Moses,” he had become highly visible. Even though he had made no appearance outside his apartment, his life was under constant scrutiny. What with one thing and another, he had become a highly visible, albeit remote, self-made prisoner.

What was Green going to do with this newfound life?

Koesler’s guess was that it would be business as usual. Unless Green had experienced a change of heart due to his extremely close brush with death, what would be sufficient to cause this man to reform his life?

Indeed, from his present position as one whom God had specially touched, Green would be better able to wheel and deal.

But Green could not operate indefinitely from the comfortable and remote confines of his apartment. He must emerge sometime. And when he did, it would be an exciting event. There would be a series of unpredictable twists and turns—events that no one could dependably foresee.

Koesler could hardly wait for the near future to unfold.

The progression of the Mass had reached Communion time before Koesler shook away the cobweb of distractions. He was ashamed that he had paid so little attention to a liturgy that he prized and loved. But, in his defense, he had to acknowledge his deep involvement in this continually surprising drama.

Communion this day in this St. Joseph’s Church was a throwback to the past. Only a small number in this oversize congregation stepped up to receive the host.

Koesler remembered how it had been when he was ordained in 1954. A combination of two elements held down the number of communicants. There was the Communion “fast.” In Koesler’s early years in parochial school and the seminary, those intending to receive communion were obliged to have nothing to eat or drink from the midnight before. Later, that rule was relaxed, allowing water anytime before Communion. Finally, and to this date, communicants could eat or drink anything but alcohol up to an hour before receiving.

The other problem was “sin.” Somehow—the heresy of Jansenism probably was the culprit—Communion had became intertwined with confession. And the belief and practice grew that Communion could be received only after confession. Thus, many people who confessed once a month received Communion once a month.

The combination of these two practices, neither of which could find a home in authentic theology, led to packed churches late Sunday morning—say eleven o’clock or noon—with yet only a handful of communicants.

Koesler, until today, hadn’t seen in ages a Mass in which only a small percentage of the congregation received.

Perhaps, he thought, this report of miracles had attracted extremely conservative Catholics who continued to think themselves and just about all others unworthy to approach the altar with any frequency.

Perhaps, too, many here today were not Catholic—maybe just sightseers and the curious.

When he concluded the Mass, only a few people left the church.

Well, he asked himself, if you were in hopeful anticipation of a miraculous event, would you leave? Aware of Murphy’s Law, you’d be certain sure that no sooner did you leave than someone would be cured.

Before heading to the rectory, he entrusted to Saint Joseph, whose name this church bore, the job of clearing up this miracle business with all due dispatch so that everybody’s life might return to a more simple routine.

He found a small pile of phone messages as well as a sandwich and a pot of coffee—all a gift from Mary O’Connor. Mary’s cheerful and efficient management of parochial affairs was helping immeasurably in getting Koesler through these packed days.

He riffled through the messages. Almost nothing that couldn’t wait until the sandwich was dispatched. The one exception: a request from Pat Lennon for a return call.

Koesler knew Lennon was working on the Green story. He also knew she was not one to make frivolous requests. He left the table, entered his office, and dialed.

“Lennon.” Her voice sounded scratchy. One inevitable price of using a cellular phone.

“Just as a matter of curiosity, where are you?”

“The Lodge going north. This Father Koesler?”

He grimaced. It was out of character for him not to identify himself when calling someone. For one, identification was polite. For another, he did not think he had a distinctive voice. In that, he was wrong.

“Yes, sorry. It’s Father Koesler. May I help you?”

“I hope so. I need an educated guess. And on Church matters, you’re about as educated as I know. This committee that’s been set up to investigate the Green matter—you know, the Cardinal’s committee—they’re calling a meeting for this afternoon that I can’t attend. They’re supposed to make public their first statement on the miracles. What do you think they’re going to say?”

“Whatever I tell you has got to be a guess. But a pretty good one, I think. I was at the Green apartment this morning—”

“You were?!” She sounded impressed.

“Mrs. Green asked me to come. I didn’t learn much. She just wanted to settle on a stipend for the wake service that wasn’t.”

“Lemme guess: no charge.”

He actually felt embarrassed for no good reason except that he’d turned down money.

“Did you get to see Green?”

“No. He is seeing no one but his wife and his doctor. And he refuses to let the doctor examine him.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes,” Koesler agreed, “and it leads me to my first guess: The Cardinal’s committee is not going to get to see him either … at least not yet.”

“So what’ll they say?”

“That’s my second guess. They will report that they have not yet been able to interview him. And the following is the most important statement they will make: They will strongly advise everyone not to presume or assume that there is a genuine miracle here until the investigation can proceed.”

“Cool the miracle,” Lennon synthesized.

“That’s about it. But I don’t think the people who want the miracle to be real are going to pay much attention.”

Silence. A problem on the freeway? Or perhaps she was formulating another question. That was it. “The people who believe in miracles,” she said after some moments, “don’t they tend to be a bit conservative?”

“Generally.”

“Then, don’t conservatives also believe in their bishop? I mean, they’d like to believe in the two—so far—big miracles at St. Joe’s, but they also believe in the bishop. And if the bishop tells them to cool it …?”

“Not as much today as in the recent past,” Koesler said. “A good example is right here in Detroit. Cardinal Boyle has a reputation as a liberal—erroneously, I think, but the reputation nonetheless. The dyed-in-the-wool Catholic conservative will tend to take the Cardinal’s direction with a grain of salt when there’s a disagreement with the archbishop.”

“Right,” she said. “There was that French archbishop … Lefebvre, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, a crashing conservative. He ended up defying the pope—Paul VI. And all of it over the old Latin Mass.” Koesler was shaking his head in disbelief even now.

“Well,” Lennon said, “once again, you’ve been a big help. Thanks.” Typically, she broke the connection without giving Koesler a chance to say good-bye.

As he was replacing the phone on its receiver, the other line rang. It scarcely could be another emergency. The odds …

Mrs. O’Connor apparently thought it might rank; she called out from two offices away, “Father Reichert on line two?” It was a question because she didn’t know whether he agreed with her evaluation.

He could have postponed what he anticipated would be a disquieting conversation, but he didn’t want to fall too far off the pace. The present situation could generate emergencies by binary fission. He punched the second button. “Koesler,” he said, trying to sound pleasant.

“This is Father Reichert.”

“I know.”

“I’ll come right to the point. I want to apologize.”

“Uh … for what?”

“For everything I’ve put you through. Threatening you Monday afternoon. Castigating you after the wake. Dragging you before the archbishop. The whole thing.”

Koesler was taken aback. “You certainly don’t have to apologize … but now that you have: why?”

“Because you were right and I was wrong. Simple as that.”

“How did you reach this conclusion … uh, if you don’t mind?”

“You were right to welcome the healing power of God into your church.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. You were the last person still in the church after the incident with Dr. Green. You sure weren’t in a forgiving mood then. In fact, you laid it on pretty thick.”

“I said I’m sorry. But it wasn’t the first miracle that convinced me you were right all along. It was the second miracle, when that poor crippled woman was healed. The doctor’s return to life was going to happen, no matter what. That was a true miracle, I have no doubt. But it could have happened anywhere since it involved an unbeliever.

“But without the doctor’s miracle in St. Joseph’s, we never would have experienced the second miracle. That woman—a strong Catholic—believed in the One, True Church. Because of that faith and the previous miracle, she spread her faith at the feet of Our Dear Savior.

“It is immaterial to me how you knew this was going to happen. Only that you knew. So, I apologize. I assure you I will be there to witness and to testify. There will be more. There will be more!”

“Wait a minute ….” But before Koesler could remind Reichert that the Church was discouraging such precipitate conclusions, this zealot had hung up.

Koesler set the phone back in its cradle. This, he thought, is a good argument against allowing priests to retire. Some among his brethren needed something to keep them busy.

Chapter Twenty

It was show—or rather, sing and dance—time at Virago I.

Two young women, beautifully built and more talented than most, were waiting backstage to audition for two openings. A performer at either of the Viragos could expect the possibility of moving on to legitimate theater or lucrative advertising work. It had happened with some frequency over the years.

One who had decided, in spite of very attractive offers, to stay with the company was Susan Batson. Years ago, she had won a spot when she’d auditioned with Judy Green. The story of what had gone on between Judy and Jake Cameron had never been told in its entirety. But rumors that linked the diverse facts painted a credible scandal.

Jake was here this early Wednesday afternoon. He continued to attend every audition, though he no longer played the role of one who had the last word. Green’s periodic pummeling had sapped his self-confidence.

He was in a blue funk. Over the past several months, this foul mood had come to enshroud what had once been an ebullient personality.

He sat slumped on a folding chair. Susan Batson sat next to him. Others who traditionally participated in this pleasant avocation were nearby.

“How many openings?” he asked.

“Two,” Susan replied. A measure of how far he had slipped; in the past he would’ve known.

“How many girls?”

“Ten.”

“Did you check their résumés?”

“Yeah.”

“Any young ones? Eighteen or so?”

“Two. But I checked them out real good.” This, of course, was one of the better-grounded rumors: that Judy had faked her date of birth. Everyone familiar with Jake’s M.O. knew that the night of the first audition he would hit on her. It had been routine for him. And he hadn’t worried about age; after all, she was eighteen. Until her father the doctor let Jake in on the fact that she was underage and Jake could be put away for statutory rape.

A partnership in Virago had been Green’s price tag for not pressing the rape charge. That had taken a sizable amount of wind out of Cameron’s sails.

Everyone had thought that that was the end of it. Everyone but Moses Green.

All had been quiet until Green, cautiously at first, began pressuring the board of directors to squeeze Jake out of the enterprise entirely.

Jake had fought like a drowning man. But he had no possibility of beating Green back. Too much money, too much power, too little humanity. It was all too much for Jake.

Green’s death had solved most of Cameron’s problems—all of the more serious ones anyway.

No one was more surprised or despondent than Cameron when Green seemed to beat death and lived again. Cameron’s bitterness was all the more profound because he had so enjoyed that short, happy period that turned out to be the eye of the hurricane.

“Well,” Cameron said, “it’s show time.” He had used the cue to start the dancing since the first topless bar he had managed. Until recently, the phrase had been imbued with a sense of enthusiasm and anticipation. Now it carried not much further than Susan’s hearing.

In fact, since it was not audible backstage, Susan called out, “All right girls, let’s go. Number one.”

Number one danced onto the stage. She clutched a corner of the curtain and wrapped it around herself as she pirouetted further onstage. About three-quarters of the way, she hesitated and danced back to where she had begun. Thus she delayed for a few seconds letting everyone see how little she was wearing.

It was a well-planned maneuver. Not original, by any means. It dated back at least to Gypsy Rose Lee, if not to Salome. Number one made the move gracefully and effectively.

Cameron noted all this, but he was out of steam before the trip began.

The dancers continued in order until all ten had performed.

“Hey, Jake, you wanna get in on this?” one of the judges called. “We’re gonna vote.”