The Gathering (4 page)

And then the waiting game began. Allowing two days—three at the most—for delivery by the postal service, each and every morning the family expected mail from the seminary. What could be taking so long?

Robert’s adrenaline rush had long since subsided. Initially, the path had seemed to lead toward Missouri and the Redemptorists. A priest at Holy Redeemer had started making arrangements.

Robert had never been long away from home and family. His mother feared that homesickness could end his aspirations. Then they had learned about the Detroit seminary, and suddenly things were upside down. Mrs. Koesler was relieved. Her son could be a day student and live at home.

The Redemptorist who had been counseling Robert took the change in plans in stride. The priest was aware that should Robert for any reason leave the diocesan seminary, he could still try Missouri. But it was not vice versa. If Robert were to attend, then leave the Redemptorist seminary, he would not be accepted at Sacred Heart.

Though the Koeslers didn’t know it, they were on the safest path. Sufficient to tap into this alternative plan was the Redemptorist’s thinking—
if
it became necessary.

Robert, however, was getting worried. So far, he was committed to the diocesan seminary. But the deadline to apply to the Redemptorist seminary was fast approaching. What if the deadline for Missouri passed and he was then rejected by Sacred Heart Seminary?

In such a case, he would be attending Holy Redeemer High School. And his dream of the priesthood? At best, put off till next year, when he would be applying for the tenth grade, as had the McNiff kid.

The worst scenario? He would not be accepted by either school. And his dream of the priesthood would be shattered. He didn’t want to think of that eventuality. But he couldn’t suppress the worry.

Then it came. He had been accepted for the ninth grade at Sacred Heart Seminary.

Catholics were no strangers to the belief in miracles and Divine intervention. Young Robert interpreted his acceptance into the seminary as a portent that he would persevere over the twelve hurdles ahead.

None of the other applicants had anywhere near that degree of confidence.

Whatever, considering the size of the school, its history, the number of students, the caliber of the faculty, its service to the Archdiocese of Detroit, Robert Koesler would soon be a very small fish in a very large pond.

   
THREE
   

H
OLY REDEEMER ELEMENTARY GRADES
and high school took up a heap of land on Detroit’s southwest side.

From day one, boys were separated from girls. The IHM Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, taught both boys’ and girls’ elementary classes through the sixth grade. From the seventh grade through high school, the Brothers of Mary taught the boys, while the nuns taught the girls. In those final six years, not only were the two sexes segregated by classrooms, they were in separate school buildings.

As if anticipating the Age of the Automobile, Holy Redeemer church spawned an extravagant asphalted parking lot. In the early forties and before, the entire city had easy access to mass transportation in the form of streetcars. The time had not yet come when the auto giants would contribute to the demise of the streetcar system. Redeemer parish made ready for a parking crisis. If there was a car in every garage, there would be room for churchgoers to park those vehicles while attending Mass.

But on any hot summer’s weekday afternoon, the parking lot was virtually unoccupied. The sun beat down and baked the smooth surface.

Two boys were engaged in a nameless game of bouncing a tennis ball so it would ricochet off the ground, hit the church wall, and be fielded by the alternating player.

The
da-dum, plop, da-dum, plop
reverberated against the surrounding school buildings.

As they played, the two boys chattered.

“Man, this vacation is goin’ way too fast,” Manny Tocco observed.

“Yeah.” Mike Smith couldn’t argue the point.

Da-dum, plop. Da-dum, plop.

“Man, I wish there was a swimming hole around here.”

Smith grinned. “The Detroit River’s just a few blocks south …”

“And the ocean’s just a few states east.”

“Yeah. Then there’s Ozanam.” Mike smiled at the memory of his two weeks at that summer camp.

“You just got back, dintcha?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s on a lake, isn’t it?”

“Yeah … Huron.”

“That musta been great.”

“It woulda been if the stupid water wasn’t so cold.”

Da-dum, plop.

“This late in the summer?”

“Yeah, well, one of the counselors said it gets swimmable in late August. It looks great … especially when you first get there. The weather’s hot as hell and all you can see is blue water sort of forever. Canada’s across the lake, but you can’t see it. Just water. And then they let you go in …” Mike would never forget the shock of that water that turned one’s skin blue.

“Besides havin’ a lake you can’t swim in, how was it?”

Mike tossed the tennis ball from one hand to the other. “Too many rules”—he tossed the ball back—“and just too many campers.”

Manny’s brow knitted. “How does that figure?”

“Well, they had more’n two hundred kids—and less’n twenty counselors. In each season there’s five groups of kids. Each group has a two-week stay. So the groups keep changing. But the same counselors stay for the whole summer.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why they had so many rules …”

“It sure doesn’t sound like my kinda place … ’specially not for a vacation. Man, we got enough rules in this Catholic school without gettin’ an extra bunch shoved down your throat.”

“Oh”—it came out as sort of a sigh—“it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Besides”—Mike grinned—“the counselors were kind of neat.” He wound up and fired the ball toward the wall.

Da-dum, plop.

“They’re all seminarians. Older guys … not long to go before they get ordained.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “One thing I got from my stay there: Those guys—the seminarians—they’re human. I mean they lost their temper about the same as any other guy.” He grinned again. “Even used bad language once in a while.”

“So what’s so different about that?”

Mike shook his head. “Just that they’re almost priests. They get ordained, they don’t suddenly become plaster saints. They’re
human
.”

Manny pondered that. “These guys—these seminarians—they go to school the same place we’re headed?”

“Yup … Sacred Heart.”

“Is that smart?” Manny turned to Mike. “I mean, we were all set to go to the Redemptorist place in Missouri. Are we makin’ a mistake? I mean, you convinced me it was a good idea to go in for high school …”

“Instead of waiting for college? Yeah. I’m convinced we better make our move early—and make it here. Matter of fact, I was talkin’ to Bob Koesler. He just got the word that he’s been accepted at Sacred Heart. He’s goin’ in next month. He’s on cloud nine!

“But he told me about a guy he met who got rejected on the entrance test. He said it’d be a good idea to really crack the books in the eighth grade. Especially English.”

Da-dum, plop.

“Well,” Manny admitted, “it does make a helluva lot of sense to stay here … I mean, I wasn’t nuts about goin’ all the way to Missouri.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way.” Mike tilted his head in thought. “Funny how this worked out. We would all be going to Missouri if it hadn’t been for that missionary priest who clued Bob into Sacred Heart.”

“I know. Now the joke is on the other two guys in Bob’s class: They’re packin’ to go to Missouri.”

“Bob was barely able to get into Sacred Heart himself. He didn’t even have time to tell those other guys. He’s lucky he made it.” He turned up one side of his mouth. “I guess he’s on his own now.”

“Until we get there next year.”

“That’s not a lead-pipe cinch, you know: We gotta get accepted first.”

Da-dum, plop.

“Hey, don’t worry, we’ll make it. We’re not dummies. And we’ve got lots more time to prepare than Bob had …”

Manny was tiring; it was just too hot to expend even this small amount of energy. He put an extra measure of smoke on his next throw.

Da-dum … dum … dum … dum … da … da …
Mike missed the rebound. The two watched as the ball bounced away. It rolled about twenty yards, where it reached a level drain in the pavement, rocked a bit, then lay still.

“That’s eleven,” Manny said. “I win.”

They walked over to the inert ball.

“Wanna play another one?” Manny was definitely running out of steam. Still, he wished Mike would be willing to bet a nickel or so on another game. He sighed; he could have relieved his buddy of pocketsful of loose change in almost any athletic competition, but it was an an exercise in futility even to imagine that Mike might gamble.

They had talked about what Manny liked to call “putting your money where your mouth is.” They had talked about the morality of gambling. As students at a parochial school, they had discussed the morality of a lot of situations. On the question of gambling, Mike and Manny disagreed. Manny could see no problem whatsoever in gambling any amount as long as you could cover your bets. Mike was convinced that no one should risk the cataclysm that could well occur.

Last year Mike had asked the priest who visited their classroom periodically what the position of the Catholic Church was on gambling. It seemed to the young student that the priest waffled. Most of the time gambling was bad; however sometimes it could be a harmless, innocent recreation.

To Mike, in his youth and with his rigid upbringing, everything was black or white; nothing was gray. His Church was the only guaranteed source of truth in life. It was one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic. He lost a bit of respect for any visiting priest who was willing to compromise.

In a more capsulated way, Manny was confident that he could beat anyone at anything. Mike had no comparable self-confidence. Mostly, he just couldn’t bear to lose. Thus he was reluctant to wager. Even in situations where he might be reasonably confident of winning, it went against his conscience to take money from the loser. What with one thing and another, Mike couldn’t stomach gambling.

It didn’t surprise Manny that Mike didn’t want to continue the game. It
was
too hot. Only a wager could have motivated him to any further outdoor physical activity today.

They retrieved the tennis ball and walked back toward the slight shadow cast by the huge buildings. En route, Manny continued to bounce the ball as if he were dribbling a basketball.

“You gotta play with that thing?” Mike said.

Manny snickered. “Sore loser.”

The two were in the same phase of development. Each was about five feet five. Each was thin. They would both grow to be adults, but not in the near future. Judging from their parents, Manny would be heavy-set; hirsute, with dark black hair; and ruggedly handsome. Mike, should he favor his father, would grow only a few inches taller than he was already. Possibly five feet nine or ten. He would remain slender; his hair would stay reddish brown until it turned gray or white. Eventually he would lose much of it to male-pattern baldness.