The Greatest Evil (27 page)

“That, Mr. Hackett, is what we would have reminded your wife had she come to see us. She was a Catholic. She knew that she would have to bear whatever fate might send. Our crosses may come from observing the laws and moral teachings of our faith. Or our crosses may be physical. Prayer! Prayer is the answer.”

“Look, Bishop—!” Hackett was near to exploding. “If I were the one who’d died, I wouldn’t want anyone to come to you and beg that I be buried as a Catholic. Not if they had to beg. But I’m trying to be faithful to my wife’s wishes. How can you sit there in judgment …”

Father McCarthy had heard more than enough. He left the room and entered the adjacent office. He could hear through the thin wall Delvecchio and Hackett arguing heatedly.

When he returned after several minutes, a Cheshire cat grin suffused McCarthy’s face. “The Cardinal is on line one, Vince. He wants to talk to you.”

Delvecchio glanced sharply at McCarthy. “I didn’t hear the phone ring,” he said angrily.

McCarthy shook his head. “I placed the call, Vince. I figured you’d have to talk to the Cardinal sooner or later. Might just as well get it over with. And, by the way, Vince, the Cardinal
is
waiting on line one. I’d talk to him if I were you.”

Delvecchio punched the button and picked up the receiver. “Eminence?”

“Bishop Delvecchio,” the voice responded.

Several Detroit priests did excellent impressions of Cardinal Boyle. So true to life were some of these imitations that more than one clerical victim had been deeply embarrassed to realize that he had just treated the genuine Cardinal with the disdain reserved for one of his mimics.

This voice easily could belong to the genuine Cardinal. No point in taking a chance. “Yes, Eminence.”

“I understand that a widower is requesting the Mass of Resurrection and burial rites for his late wife.”

“Yes, Eminence, but—”

“I am given to understand that this unfortunate woman took her life.”

“Well, Eminence, there are reasons—”

“I am told that her last years have been filled with pain and depression. Is all of this correct?”

“Yes, Eminence.” It did indeed sound authentic. Delvecchio had never heard his superior speak in such a tone. The response that sprang to Delvecchio’s lips was held in check, but, no mistake, it was there.

“I would remind you,” the Cardinal continued, “that the holy Church in general advises compassion in such a situation. And that certainly is the policy of this archdiocese. Do I make myself clear on this matter, Bishop?”

“Yes, Eminence. Perfectly clear. It is your wish, then, that this request be granted?”

“It is the policy of our archdiocese and, yes, it is my wish. I am sure you will settle this in such a manner that I will not be drawn into this liturgical decision again.”

“Yes, Eminence.”

“Then, good-bye, bishop.”

“Good-bye, Eminence—” But the Cardinal had already hung up.

Bishop Delvecchio was both furious and embarrassed. The blood seemed to have drained from his head. He was well aware that theologically he and Boyle were oceans apart. Nonetheless, the Cardinal had always been the soul of civility. A gentleman in the finest sense. This was the first time he had encountered the prelate with his emotions down, as it were.

Delvecchio pinned McCarthy with his gaze. The unspoken message was, I will get you for this. I don’t know when or how. But you will pay for this.

The bishop turned to Hackett and cleared his throat. “Your request, Mr. Hackett, for the Mass of Resurrection and the rites of Christian burial for your wife is granted. However, there are some guidelines that I am initiating as of this moment and for the future as well.

“Any priest who officiates at a wedding or a funeral will abide by the liturgical practice of this parish. Which, I add, is in conformity with Holy Mother Church.

“Further, any lay person who wishes to speak in this church on the occasion of a wedding or a funeral will be limited to no more than two minutes. And the remarks that he or she wishes to make within those two minutes must be approved beforehand by me.

“Father McCarthy will handle your wife’s funeral. And, Father, you will be careful to enforce these new regulations. Later today, we’ll have a staff meeting and the implication of what I have in mind will be made very much more clear.”

22

It took only seconds for Father Koesler to recall Father McCarthy’s account, which pretty well documented the mind of Bishop Delvecchio.

The incident had taken place only a few months ago. Nothing could have changed much since then. And this was, by far, not an isolated experience. There seemed to be a vicious streak in the bishop—one that manifested itself in an element of vindictiveness, particularly when it came to priests he looked on as sinners.

Whatever had happened to that happy-go-lucky kid with the creative sense of humor who laughed at minor liturgy rules?

That kid seemed to have slipped into reverse at the death of his uncle. From that time on, Vincent grew increasingly rigid, cold, and literal when it came to interpreting and enforcing Church law.

Yet there were “bastard pastors,” as they were known by the clergy, who were far more universally autocratic and nasty than Delvecchio. There were those who would neither understand, forgive, nor tolerate a Sophie.

The nonbenevolent clerical tyrant was rare, but not unique. One such notorious soul, after installing comfortable new pews and kneelers in his church, ran short of money. Unable to outfit the entire church, he then issued an edict directing those attending with children to use the old and visibly tired pews. This was the pastor who had his ushers slash the tires of any automobiles in the church lot that were parked over the yellow line.

Vincent Delvecchio was a long way from that sort of despotism and capricious cruelty. Indeed, he could be downright expansive and generous as long as no rules were being broken or bent.

But there was this hangup as far as the behavior of the clergy was concerned, and, in general, a stiff-necked attitude toward those he perceived as sinners, even when any such person was not conscious of any sin.

However, in the light of his response toward the George Hacketts of this world, what reaction could be expected of Vince Delvecchio in the matter of Father Zack Tully?

On the one hand, it could be argued that Tully was breaking no law. To date, he was on record as being unwilling only to take an oath and profess a faith in a
public
ceremony. The canonical command insisted only that the pledges be taken by one—among others—who was becoming a pastor. There was no mention of any ceremony. Could there be, Koesler wondered, some way of squeezing through that hole in the law?

The possibility was worth further exploration.

Somehow, this crusade was growing within Father Koesler. If only he could recall more examples from Delvecchio’s past that might cast light on the way the bishop might react to Tully’s plight.

At least it was becoming more clear just what Koesler and Tully were searching for: the presentation or approach that might best elicit a favorable response from Delvecchio.

Whatever it was, it would have to be the opposite of a worst-case scenario: a head-on collision between the bishop’s insistence on a public liturgical event and a flat-out refusal on Tully’s part to have anything to do with such a demand.

But, as in almost any such dispute, the bishop, backed by Church law, held all the cards.

There had to be another way.

Tully’s throat-clearing pulled Koesler back from his reverie. “Yeah,” Tully mused, “if it happened once, it could happen again … couldn’t it?”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Sophie. The housekeeper!” How could Koesler have forgotten what they’d been talking about? It was Koesler’s story after all—and he’d finished it only moments ago.

However, in those moments, Koesler’s memory had raced through the incident involving Delvecchio, McCarthy, and George Hackett. Not only had Koesler replayed the story in fast-forward, he had determined not to cite it as an example of the care and feeding of this auxiliary bishop.

But that was all right. In determining a course of action, it helped to know what one wasn’t going to use because it wouldn’t work. “Oh yes,” Koesler said, “Sophie …”

“I mean,” Tully said, “the thing we could try to get over to the bishop is that this is a part of my background as a Josephite. We weren’t schooled to play out all our cards at once and in public. We had to be flexible for the sake of our parishioners.

“And, as a matter of fact, if parishioners have problems relating to the Pope in the way those documents demand, if my stand is not on public record, I’ll be able to respond to their view. I mean, if I take the Oath and Profession in a public ceremony, people with problems will shy away from me. They’ll assume that my mind is already made up. There’ll be no room for discussion.

“That’s
some
thing like Sophie, isn’t it? Delvecchio could understand that … couldn’t he?”

Koesler tilted his head in thought. “I guess so,” he said finally. Then he looked at Tully brightly. “We certainly could try it. But if we can find some other arguments—strong ones—it would help.”

Actually, Koesler doubted that Delvecchio would appreciate a comparison between Sophie’s background-plus-mandate-from-Mama and Tully’s Josephite indoctrination. But it was
something.
Koesler had introduced Sophie with the intention of indicating that Delvecchio did possess a sympathetic side.

“What time is it getting to be?” Tully asked, as they both glanced at their watches.

“Almost eight o’clock”—Tully answered his own question—“just about an hour till our guests start arriving. I think I’ll look in on the cooks—let ’em know we haven’t forgotten them.”

He headed for the stairs, then turned back. “You know, one of the problems I’ve got with Delvecchio is that he comes across like a knight in shining armor. As far as I can tell, he’s never done anything wrong. You certainly can’t fault him for enlisting your help with his aunt’s marriage problem. He has no responsibility for his uncle’s suicide.

“He had a breakdown when his mother died. Far as I know, there’s no morality in a nervous breakdown. You said a previous auxiliary did pretty much the same thing when
his
mother died.

“And in all the stories about Bishop Delvecchio, he’s forever conforming to the wishes of Mother Church. He just seems to never do anything wrong …” Tully paused a moment. “God forgive me, but I wish he would slip and be mortal. Just once. Then he might know what it’s like to be human and fail once in a while—like the rest of us.”

Koesler made no response. “Don’t get me wrong, Bob,” Tully said after a moment. “I wouldn’t want to be like him. But,” he said, as he turned back toward the stairs, “I wish he could be a little like me.”

And off he went to bolster the spirits of the cooks.

Alone, Koesler mused. I would have thought that things like the way Vince had treated George Hackett were ‘wrong.’ The compassion, understanding, and forgiveness that Vince was able to extend to a poor soul like Sophie were seemingly lacking in his other relationships.
That
I would have thought was ‘wrong.’

But I know what Zack had in mind: Wrong equals sin equals sex. For so many, illicit sex was
the
sin that carried a strong burden of shame.

It also awakened the prurient in others.

There was the funeral of France’s President Mitterrand. Among the mourners in procession and photographed at his casket were his wife, his mistress, and his illegitimate daughter. Could any such public figure in the United States have pulled that off?

Back to Zack and his whimsical wish that Delvecchio would join the rest of the human race and do something that would cause him embarrassment—read have a sexual encounter with somebody …
any
body.

That and the resultant shame might bring him down to earth.

It just so happened that Father Koesler could speak to that question. But he would not do so.

23

1966

It was late November. Michigan’s trees had flaunted their colors and now were pretty much bare. A strong, frigid wind raced over the Detroit River. It whistled through the nearly deserted canyons of downtown Detroit. One could fire cannons down Jefferson, Gratiot, Woodward, or Fort Street with impunity.

Though a short avenue, Washington Boulevard was not sheltered from this preview of winter. Actually, with its angle to the river, it was one of the colder thoroughfares.

The boulevard boasted one of downtown’s more noteworthy addresses: 1234 housed St. Aloysius Church and rectory and, possibly even more important, the archbishop’s office, the chancery, the tribunal, and other headquarters of ecclesial business.

Today, everyone had shown up for work except the priest-secretary to Archbishop Mark Boyle. Monsignor Shanahan had come down with an early and virulent cold.

Perhaps it was fate.

Shanahan had no backup. And since this archdiocese was—with an occasional exception—wed to seniority, it was a simple case of finding the low man on the totem pole.

Enter Father Vincent Delvecchio.

An outsider would have been amazed at how positions were filled in the Church. The answer was seniority, or, more exactly, chronology.

Another standard method of filling priestly positions was the educated guess. Since this option had little to do with qualification, the Peter Principle ran rampant.

In the seminary there seemed no rhyme or reason in designating an infirmarian; it was pure accident if the student-infirmarian knew anything at all about maladies, medication, or therapy. Such a situation could be dangerous.

With less fraught possibilities were other assignments made. Take, for instance, the appointment of teachers in the diocesan seminary. Students who got good grades were tapped for teaching. Of course if they had wanted to teach, they could have joined a teaching order such as the Basilians, Sulpicians, or Jesuits. It mattered not that they had chosen a school that graduated parish priests; they earned high grades, therefore they became teachers. By fiat of the bishop.