The Greatest Evil (14 page)

He parked on Gunston and stood on the sidewalk remembering his first taste of parochial life as a young priest.

Visions rose before him: There was his suite: sitting room, bedroom, and bath. His chances of duplicating the spaciousness of these facilities in any future assignment seemed remote. There was Father Farmer’s suite, with five bottles of beer peacefully cooling on the windowsill—Farmer’s silent revenge for the lack of provided alcohol and the locked refrigerator.

The visions receded as Koesler climbed the steps, rang the bell, and dutifully recited the Hail Mary that, the sign said, would bring a priest to the door. It did.

Father Frank Henry was a bit young to be a full-fledged curmudgeon. But he made up for this drawback with a nasty disposition.

“Well, the prodigal son returns.” It was neither an original nor a particularly appropriate greeting. But that was Henry’s way.

“Hello, Frank. Is the boss receiving?”

“No, I think I heard him say he was going skating.” Henry’s macabre sense of humor was functioning. Father Walsh, the “boss,” had only one leg. Poor circulation had cost him his right leg and threatened his very life. So he might or might not have been up and able to receive visitors just now, but he was
not
skating.

For whatever reasons, Fathers Walsh and Koesler had struck up an instant May-September friendship. Walsh was old-fashioned enough to address all priests—even Robert Koesler, who was but one-third the older man’s age—as “Father.”

The purpose of Koesler’s visit was to inform the priests of this parish of the critical illness of one of their parishioners. The other matter on Koesler’s mind was a bit murky. The problem had to do with Koesler’s intent to visit Louise Delvecchio with more than passing regularity. Would this involve any territorial law that required pastoral permission? Or was it a courtesy simply to inform the pastor?

Koesler knew of no law forbidding a priest visitation rights, even when he was not assigned to that parish. He was touching this base merely to make sure there would be no problem from any quarter.

“I assume,” Koesler said, “the boss has skated as far as the living room.”

“That’s a fair guess.” Henry stepped aside and motioned Koesler in.

A case might be made to explain Henry’s brusqueness. Like many another Detroit priest, he was in a holding pattern for a pastorate—waiting for his own parish. Now forty, he’d been a priest for fifteen years. He had more than enough experience to be a pastor, but there were no vacancies. With hardly any priests retiring, he simply had to wait his turn. In effect, he was being squeezed between the older clergy hanging in there and the eager young priests coming up behind him.

Additionally, thanks to his abrasive disposition, he would have to wait still longer while many of his classmates were rewarded with their own fiefdoms preceding him.

As Koesler entered the spacious living area, Father Walsh looked up from the whispered praying of his breviary. Instantly, a smile covered his face.

Koesler glanced through the archway to the dining room. There lining the mantel were legions of medications the pastor consumed with meals.

“What brings good old Father Koesler back to St. William’s?” Walsh greeted.

“I’ve got some bad news that you need to know and I need to talk to you about.” Koesler sat down in a chair directly across from the elderly priest. He had hoped that Frank Henry would go on about his business. No such luck; Henry seated himself near the large window overlooking Outer Drive.

Walsh looked deeply concerned. “Well, let’s have it.” He had coped with his share and more of bad news.

“It’s Louise Delvecchio. She’s just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”

Henry seemed shocked. Walsh groaned. “Can they operate?”

Koesler shook his head. “It’s inoperable. They got to it too late.”

“That happens …” Walsh had known it to happen many times in his sixty years.

“Is she going to have radiation therapy?” Henry asked.

“No. It was sort of a family decision.”

“They’re making a mistake,” Henry said. “A big mistake. That’s her one chance.”

“It’s a crapshoot,” Walsh offered. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. You choose therapy, it doesn’t work, the patient just gets sicker. You skip therapy, you wonder forever what would’ve happened if you’d taken the radiation.”

“They considered both options rather thoroughly. Dr. Schmidt was there during the entire debate.”

“Hey, wait a minute—” Henry turned full attention to Koesler. “Doc Schmidt was there; I can understand that. But you? What were you doing there?”

“Louise called. The doctor set up this family meeting yesterday. All the kids were there this morning. I was kind of surprised that Vincent got a furlough from the seminary. Even for an event like this … especially since neither the rector nor Vincent knew how serious the situation was.”

“I see,” Walsh murmured.

“Which brings me to the second point,” Koesler said, addressing the pastor. “I’ve grown very close to this family. I think you knew that when I was stationed here. And I’ve stayed in touch-since I left here. That’s probably why Louise asked me to be with them this morning.” Koesler ignored Henry’s glower. “I promised them I would look in regularly and help as much as I can. It was, admittedly, a pretty rash statement. I know that now. I feel I should’ve asked you first to see how you felt about it.

“I must admit, I don’t know what the proper procedure is in a case like this. But I felt that I should at least inform you about what’s happened and what I intend to do to help. I don’t really know whether there’s any kind of permission I need …”

“Well”—Henry was sitting on the edge of his chair—“I remember how close you were to that family when you were here. If you’ll recall, I told you not to—I warned you about friendships with parishioners. It leads to poor professional standards. You didn’t listen to me … and now look what’s happened!”

“Father …” Walsh said. But Henry blazed away. “What kind of message is this going to send to the people of St. William’s parish? That they can’t depend on the priests the bishop sent here for the care of souls? That somehow the priests of this parish are incompetent? That if parishioners want the very best, they need to send for you—”

“That’ll be enough, Father!” It was as harsh a tone as Koesler had ever heard Walsh use.

Walsh turned his wheelchair to face Koesler. “I don’t think any of Father Henry’s worries are going to be realized.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Father,” Koesler said. “Because there’s one more thing you’re going to have dumped in your lap regarding Louise Delvecchio.”

“What’s that?” Henry’s emotional temperature was percolating—increased measurably by Walsh’s rebuke.

“You see,” Koesler began, “the final decision on how to proceed with Louise’s condition was not merely a choice of therapy or death. And this solution was arrived at by Vincent: They are going to have a miracle.”

Koesler would not have stated the matter this bluntly had not Henry been close to exploding. “A miracle? A miracle!” Henry was livid. “Just a miracle!” He was almost sneering. “Any particular time?” he asked derisively.

“By Easter,” Koesler said as if he were making a casual announcement in church.

Henry stood up, almost suffered a heart attack, and abruptly left the room.

Father Walsh, who understood what Koesler was doing, chuckled. “By Easter, eh?” Walsh, smiling broadly, shook his head.

“I guess you had to be there,” Koesler said. “This seemed to me to be Vincent’s baby completely. Tony was very strong for radiation.”

“Ever the athlete. Mother has to beat cancer.”

“Uh-huh. Louise seemed determined to do everything in her power to gain the miracle—not so much for herself as for her son.”

“The Italian mother … everything for the children.”

“Especially for the priest son,” Koesler said. “Anyway, Dr. Schmidt was open to whatever the family decided. In the end, he is entrusting Louise’s care primarily to Lucy. I’m going to back her up as best I can.”

“Ah …” Walsh sighed, “Lucy. Got a good head on her shoulders. She’s going to make a fine adult. Still, awfully young to lose her mother.”

Koesler nodded. “This would be a hard time for all of them: Lucy graduating high school, Tony graduating college and hoping for a pro football career—and, of course, Vincent about to become a priest. Missing her son’s ordination would be the greatest tragedy for Louise. But”—Koesler shifted in his chair—“I don’t know: What if they got their miracle?”

“Father!” Walsh was surprised at Koesler’s willingness to accept that possibility.

“You should have seen Vinnie,” Koesler amplified. “His strong faith was so evident. It was almost contagious.”

“‘Almost’?” Walsh’s eyes bespoke wisdom that came from paying attention while growing older.

Koesler reddened. “Everyone eventually seemed to hop on Vinnie’s bandwagon,” he said after a moment. “But when push came to shove … well, Doc Schmidt was humoring the family. Tony didn’t buy one share of it. Louise wanted to please her son the priest. Lucy appeared the most sincere, but, I wonder …”

“That leaves you, Father.”

“Truth is … I kind of believe it.”

“But …” Walsh rubbed his bald pate, a frequent gesture. “… a ‘kind of belief’ is not what you’re looking for. Is it?”

“You’re right, of course. We’ll need a firm, steady faith to gain this favor from Almighty God.”

“Indeed …” Father Walsh sat back in his wheelchair.

“Something you may soon hear about—that is, if Lucy keeps her part of the bargain—is the request for your parishioners to join the Delvecchio family in their petition for the miracle.”

“Lucy’s going to ask me for that?”

“So she said.”

Walsh patted the arms of his chair with both hands. “Well, we’ll pray … but not for a miracle.”

“Not?”
Koesler hadn’t anticipated this.

“Seen it too many times, Father. People get all worked up—over a very good cause, mind you. But they begin living for that miracle. When it doesn’t happen, for lots of them it cripples their faith.

“We’ll pray. We’ll pray for God’s will to be done.”

“Lucy will come to you—you can depend on that. You will let her down easily …”

“From what you’ve said, I shouldn’t have too difficult a time convincing her.”

Koesler didn’t argue the point. “You’re probably right.”

“And, Father, you are perfectly welcome to visit anytime with any of our parishioners. I think it was good and wise of you to tell us your intentions. The only thing you need from me is delegation if you’re going to perform a marriage in my parish. You will let me know in that case, won’t you?”

It was his small joke. If anything was made perfectly clear to all priests, it was the necessity to be delegated for weddings. Without such delegation, a marriage would be invalid.

“By the way,” Koesler said, as he rose to leave, “may I use your phone? I need to call St. John’s Seminary.”

“You’re leaving? So soon?”

If Koesler had not heretofore been aware of it, it was obvious that Father Walsh would welcome some companionable visitations. The younger priest resolved to drop in more frequently.

“Before you go …” Walsh wheeled himself closer. “… I’ve been wanting to talk to you for some time … something important. Today’s subject matter brought it to mind.”

“Yes, Father?” Koesler sat down again.

“It’s about that couple—Morris, was it?”

“Frank and Martha Morris?”

“Yes. From Nativity.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I knew what was going on. You told me.”

“Yes, I consulted with you. It was my first, and I hope last use of a Privilege of the Faith.”

“Yes. Well, there were a couple of things. I didn’t get into it before, or even after the incident was closed. But wasn’t there some bitterness over that case? Something between Martha and Louise Delvecchio?”

“They’re sisters.”

“I know. After the trouble, Louise came in to see me. We talked a few times. Didn’t really settle anything, as I recall. But … Martha: Didn’t she blame Louise for what happened?”

The memory of that awful event suffused Koesler’s mind. “Yes—even though it was an irrational charge. I thought at the time that Martha was simply striking out emotionally at the handiest target—which happened to be her sister. And Louise was simply trying to help.”

“But Martha never changed her opinion, did she?”

“To my knowledge, no.”

“She never forgave Louise?”

“No.”

“And she’s never talked to Louise over all this time?”

“No.”

“It’s my opinion,” Walsh said, “that this might have something to do with Louise’s condition.”

“The cancer?”

“Haven’t you sensed that Louise is very troubled by this whole thing? That in her mind, guilt is not very deep under the surface?”

“Guilt?” Koesler reacted with surprise. “But Louise isn’t guilty of anything. She and I have been through that many times … though not recently.”

“So you think because she hasn’t talked to you about this recently, that it’s no longer affecting her.”

Koesler thought a few moments before responding. “I see what you’re driving at. She doesn’t talk about it because she knows my opinion—that she has no responsibility, no need to regret anything—and she knows I’m not going to change my mind.”

Koesler reflected again. “So she’s internalized her feelings and they’ve been …”

“Eating at her.”

“You think this caused the cancer?”

Walsh nodded gravely.

“Could that happen?” Koesler asked. “Could an emotional struggle cause something as serious as a terminal illness?”

“I’m convinced of it. In my years I’ve seen more harm done because of stress than almost any other cause.”

Involuntarily Koesler glanced at the empty trouser leg that had once covered a healthy limb. Could stress have—?

Walsh caught the glance and chuckled. “Well, not
every
illness.”

“Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“Well, then,” Koesler pursued the line of thought, “do you think if we were able to patch things up …”

“That we’d have our miracle? No; I think the damage has been done. But I also think that reuniting the two sisters would bring a lot of peace to one very troubled soul.”