The Greatest Evil (3 page)

“I’ll try not to get ahead of the game.” Tully smiled. “Okay, Counselor: Tell me a story.”

3

“Are you even old enough to remember the Requiem Mass?” Father Koesler regarded his successor dubiously.

Father Tully snorted. “You mean the black vestments and the interminable
Dies Irae
and that? You mean the kind of Mass almost every priest used to say almost every day, Monday through Saturday?” Tully nodded. “I grew up with it as an altar boy and it was still around a little while after Vatican II. So, yeah, I remember the Requiem Mass.”

Catholic laity regularly ask that Masses be offered for their intention. And nine times out of ten—or even more often—the intention is à prayer for a deceased person. For centuries, the Mass offered for a deceased person was the Requiem, with its foreboding music and scary language. And, of course, the actual funeral liturgy was the Requiem, with additional chants at the beginning and end.

Gradually, after the Second Vatican Council, the Requiem disappeared as the Church chose to emphasize the joy and fulfillment of heaven, rather than the sorrow of death. Few parishes even kept black vestments. Few choirs remembered the solemn chants.

Thus Koesler’s questioning Father Tully’s memory of the Requiem was not capricious.

“Okay,” Koesler said. “Well, at camp, fortunately, the chaplain tried to keep down the number of Requiem Masses. Most of the campers gave every indication that they were pretty well bored with daily Mass. The repetition of the Requiem would only have intensified the monotony.”

Tully seemed puzzled. “But what happened to all those Mass intentions for the dead?”

“There weren’t all that many. The camp chaplain was on the priest faculty of the minor seminary—Sacred Heart.”

“So?”

“So, he just did parish work on the weekends during the school year. He didn’t have access to Mass intentions or their stipends.”

“Compared with the other Detroit priests, your chaplain comes out as a poor relation.”

“Not really. Most of the faculty went out every morning—or as often as they wished—and picked up the stipends for the scheduled Masses they offered. The point is, Zack, that at camp we had an occasional Requiem, but not as regularly as in the parishes.”

“What does this have to do with Delvecchio?”

“Just this: Over all those summers we were at Camp Ozanam, I was the organist and choir director.”

“You play the organ?”

“Not very well.” Koesler smiled. “Ozanam couldn’t afford E. Power Biggs. There was an old pump organ in the chapel. That was our Casavant—just like the grotto with its broken noses, missing toes and fingers, was our Lourdes.

“The thing is that Vince also played the piano—and thus qualified on our pump organ. This—nineteen fifty-three—was my last summer at camp—no matter what happened. Either I would drop out of the seminary or I would be ordained. Of course, I was ordained in June of ’fifty-four. My camping days were over.

“And before that summer of ’fifty-three ended, I wanted to pass the baton to Vince. So we kind of relieved each other by the week. I introduced him to the kind of music we used, and he got the practice he needed to go from piano to organ.

“Well, one morning toward the middle of June, Vince directed and accompanied the gang in his first Requiem Mass. Afterward, when I could talk to him privately after breakfast …”

1953

“Vinnie … hey, Vinnie, wait up.”

Bob Koesler trotted to the side of Vince Delvecchio and joined him in walking to the cabin side of the ravine. “What’ve you got this morning?”

“I’m supposed to take squads two and five for boxing instructions.” Delvecchio snickered. “It’d be nice if I knew what I was supposed to do.”

“Nobody took you through boxing instructions?”

“Uh-uh. I just looked at the bulletin board this morning, and there I was: taking two and five. I guess I’m supposed to teach them how to box. I don’t think they meant making boxes for packing things.”

Koesler threw an arm over Delvecchio’s shoulder. “Congratulations! The way I hear it, that’s pretty much how we’re expected to function once we’re ordained.”

“What?”

“Ex officio,” Koesler explained. “From what I’ve heard, we’ll find little use for a lot of what we learn in the seminary. I mean, we’re not expected to put down Manichaeanism or refute Jansenism. We’re supposed to count and bank the weekly collection. And teach catechism–even though we’re not qualified as teachers. Everything is ex officio.

“But boxing: That’s an entirely different can of worms. You could get killed!”

“That thought crossed my mind.” Delvecchio stopped walking, turned to Koesler, and grinned. “Some of those guys are bigger than I am.”

“You’ve got something going for you.”

“I’d really appreciate knowing what.”

“The kids probably think you’re an expert at the manly art of self-defense.”

“Excuse me, but how does that help me not get my block knocked off?”

“You must’ve seen some amateur or professional boxing matches someplace down the line.”

“A few.”

“A few,” Koesler repeated. “Just enough to carry this off, I think.”

“You
think!”

“Show the kids footwork. That’s a big part of boxing … at least I seem to have read that. You know how to dance?”

“I’m a seminarian.”

“I know. But you have a sister, don’t you?”

“Yeah. But I never danced with her. And they’re sure as hell not teaching it in the seminary. Unless … at St. John’s …?”

“No, no. I’ve got only one more year at St. John’s—and I’m pretty sure the record of keeping seminarians away from girls will remain unblemished.

“Okay …” Koesler thought for a moment. “Here’s what you do: You ask the kids if anybody knows anything about footwork in the ring—”

“And if somebody volunteers, I let him teach everybody whatever he knows.”

“Exactly.”

“And if there aren’t any volunteers?”

“You’re still in business. If nobody knows anything, make it up as you go along. Just keep moving. Try like hell to remember what you’ve seen in the movies or whatever.”

“And after footwork?”

“Try to make it last.”

“For an hour and a half?”

Koesler tended to agree that might be stretching things. “Maybe then you could do a little shtick on the role of hands and arms as instruments of self-protection.”

“You mean, put the gloves on?”

Koesler shook his head decisively. “No! Under no circumstances do you get in the ring with anyone. Some of our darlings may be itching to take out their frustrations on the staff. Not necessarily you … but you would make an interesting target in a boxing ring with the gloves on. Just offhand, who do you think the kids would be rooting for?”

Without answering, Delvecchio turned and headed on. Koesler walked along with him.

“So,” Delvecchio said finally, “what I do is I fake it for as long as possible. And if, after I do everything I can, there’s still time to kill …”

Koesler pulled at his lower lip. “You might match the kids according to height and weight and let ‘em go at each other for a minute or two.”

“Yeah, but given that I haven’t actually taught them a damn thing, isn’t it likely they could hurt each other?”

“Haven’t you seen the gloves we use?”

“No. I didn’t have any reason to look for them.”

“Well, when you go to the property room, I guarantee you’ll be impressed with the gloves. I think the camp got them brand-new about thirty or forty years ago. Unless you know how to tuck the excess padding under your fingers and make the surface taut, it’s like having a pillow fight.”

“Okay. Thanks, Bob.” Delvecchio stopped and lifted his eyes heavenward. “I’ll let you know how it all comes out,” he said as he turned back to Koesler. “But if something goes wrong with the advice you so generously gave me, look me up in the infirmary.”

Koesler chuckled. He took a fresh look at Delvecchio. Vince resembled Murphy’s Law animated. If something could go wrong with him in a boxing ring, it would. At six foot two or three, he had plenty of height, but he was rail-thin. In a year, when he would graduate from Sacred Heart to St. John’s Seminary, the food would take a sharp turn for the better and he probably would fill out. Meanwhile, height alone would not help him survive in the ring.

Delvecchio needed prayer.

And this reminded Koesler of the reason he wanted to talk with Vince. It had nothing whatever to do with the squared circle. “But teaching boxing isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I was wondering …” Delvecchio’s look was open but puzzled.

“It was about Mass this morning.”

“Really? Was I bad? I’m still trying to master a legato touch. You don’t have to worry very much with the piano.”

“No, it isn’t the legato; you’re doing all right with that.”

“I’m just lucky I don’t have to mess with pedals. I don’t think I could coordinate the whole thing … not unless I had a lot more time to practice.”

“It’s not the organ work,” Koesler said. “Or, well, actually, it’s the
amount
of organ work.”

“Huh?”

“This morning we had a Requiem Mass.”

“Yeah, I know. Are you upset ’cause I put half the
Dies Irae
in a monosyllabic monotone? If the whole thing is chanted the way it’s written, it takes all day.”

“No, it isn’t that. This is your first Requiem. You probably aren’t aware of the rubric for a Requiem High Mass. The organist is allowed to play only—
only—
to accompany the singing. You’re strictly limited to accompaniment alone. This is only a word for the future. I’m sure you didn’t know that rule; very few people do.”

“I knew it.”

“It’s probably one of the least known rubrics in—What?”

“I know you’re not supposed to play the organ except to accompany the singing. In a Requiem High Mass.”

For a few seconds, Koesler was speechless.

“You knew?” he asked finally.

“Yeah, I knew. I pay attention in Father Flynn’s chant class. I thought he knew what he was talking about from the first day. One of the first things he told us was that if we got ordained, and, inevitably, we were to sing a high Mass—starting with our first Solemn High Mass the day after we are ordained—the rubric in the missal is not going to read, ‘Can the priest sing?’ or, ‘Is it safe to let the priest sing?’; it just says, ‘The priest sings.’”

“But”—Koesler’s tone was one of disbelief—”you knew about playing the organ during a Requiem Mass …”

“Uh-huh. Just like I said. I knew.”

“Then why, if I may ask, were you playing it when there wasn’t any singing?”

Delvecchio shrugged. “But I only played it during Communion time.”

“The rubric doesn’t say, ‘The organ may be played for accompaniment only—with the exception of Communion time.’”

Delvecchio was beginning to be ambivalent. He did not appreciate being quizzed as if he were a child. On the other hand, he admired Bob Koesler in many ways.

“Look, Bob: For a lot of these kids the novelty of going to Mass every day wears off pretty quick. They pay better attention to what’s going on as long as there’s something going on. Even in a Requiem Mass there’s something to focus on most of the time. Except for Communion—it takes one priest a long time to give Communion to roughly two hundred people. And while that’s going on, the only sound is feet shuffling down the aisle. It’s tough for the counselors to keep the kids in line. I think it helps if the organ is going … don’t you? I mean, don’t you, really?”

Koesler exhaled in frustration. “The point is not that organ sounds can soothe the savage camper. I tend to agree with you that it does. But the point is, the rule directs that there’ should be no music played at a Requiem High Mass except to accompany singing. The rubric makes no exception. That’s the point.”

“‘The guys who made up that rule were never counselors at a boys’ camp!” Delvecchio was becoming heated.

Koesler reflected that heat. “I happen to be music director here. And I say we keep that and all other rubrics in our liturgies.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, Bob, I didn’t know we were dealing with the greatest evil, the unforgivable sin.”

Koesler turned in disgust and walked away. After a few steps, he turned his head and, while continuing to walk, said, “On second thought, Vince, maybe you ought to get in the ring with one of the campers … one of the
big
campers.”

4

The Present

Father Koesler was blushing ever so slightly. At this stage in life, in retrospect, he considered the argument between Delvecchio and himself childish. Especially on his part. And it embarrassed him not only to recall the incident but especially to confess it to Tully.

But Father Tully was chuckling. “I’d have to agree with Delvecchio: Fooling with the organ during a Requiem Mass probably isn’t the ultimate sin of despair.”

“Especially,” Koesler agreed, “when you consider today’s liturgies: There’s virtually no distinction between ‘high’ or sung, and ‘low’ or spoken. But there still are rubrics.”

“Not many. And particularly guys my age and younger aren’t uptight about adapting the liturgy to the occasion.” Tully sat back in his chair, reflecting on the drastic changes in liturgy that followed Vatican Council II.

“I can remember quite vividly,” Tully said, “how tight everything was then: hands extended, facing each other at shoulder position and distance. The whispered words. The directed gestures. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance or choice.

“Oh, not that there weren’t priests who veered from the rubrics. But most of them were just playing out their own idiosyncrasies. Every single thing that went on in the Mass of yesterday was spelled out in precise detail.”

Koesler nodded. “I’m getting thirsty. What would you say to some iced tea?”

“Iced tea?” Tully thought for a moment. “Did you make it, Bob?” He remembered all too well a couple of cups of coffee brewed by Father Koesler. They had been indescribably unpotable.

Koesler smiled. He was aware that his guests hardly ever finished a cup of his coffee. His tea, however, did not live in like infamy. “Mary O’Connor made the tea, Zack. Want some?”