The Greatest Evil (33 page)

“You’re right, Father. I will watch that carefully.” It was said in a measured tone, as if taking a vow.

“But”—her voice lightened—“you don’t know how good you’ve made me feel. Now, what do I do with Vinnie?”

“Leave it. Maybe someday we’ll get a chance to talk it over, just he and I. I know where he’s coming from. But in this case the question is the supremacy of conscience.”

Still, Koesler hesitated. He was loath to leave it at that. It was not all that simple. “But,” he said, after a moment, “we can’t afford to get smug about this. At this stage we’re muddling through at best. Every abortion is sad. Most of them are tragic … and every one of them is the end of a living thing. You know that and I know that. And someplace in this procedure, there is sin. Serious sin. Our Church is not teaching infallibly here. But, it is teaching. Add to that, we—you and I—are not infallible. We’re trying to reach a tolerable compromise. Because we need to.

“For now, I can tell you two things: You’re not excommunicated. And you listened to our Church reverently and you prayerfully formed your conscience. And now you’re following your conscience. You—we—may be wrong. But you are not committing a sin.”

“Thank you!” Never were these words more sincerely meant.

After he hung up, Koesler continued to think.

Not all that long ago, defining an actual time of death was of little practical value. There are, of course, incontrovertible signs that death has occurred. But there was no general agreement as to the exact moment of death. Then medicine and religion combined to agree that the cessation of brain function—as evidenced by the flat line—marked the moment of death. Then came organ transplants, and with them the need to know the exact instant the donor organ was available for “harvesting.”

In the opinion of Koesler—and many others—a similar criterion was needed to identify and agree upon the time that human life begins. The need was unquestionably there. But the problem polarized the concerned parties. One must be pro-choice—holding that human life begins at birth—or pro-life, holding that human life begins at the first moment of conception.

Neither side had so far been able to prove its point convincingly enough to reach any sort of agreement with the other.

Conscience, he pondered, what a tricky concept.

Dissenters from the supremacy-of-conscience theory frequently point triumphantly to the occasional murderer, thief, or traitor, and mockingly cite such wrongdoers’ claims that they were only following their conscience. But the people committing such acts are plainly sick people with sick consciences.

The conscience that must be followed is the “well-formed” conscience.

Such as Lucy’s.

Whimsically, Koesler turned to his filing cabinet and pulled the file on “Conscience.” It held treatises on abstract theological applications and definitions. There were normal or abnormal consciences, lax or scrupulous, tender or burned out … and so on.

Then came the conscience blockbuster.

Pope Paul VI wrote his encyclical “Humanae Vitae.” In it, he stated that every act of intercourse must be open to the possibility of conception. And lots of the faithful—including the Pope’s own appointed committee—for the first time in their lives disagreed with the ordinary teaching of the Church.

In response to this encyclical, the French bishops wrote, “If these persons [who dissent from “Humanae Vitae”] have tried sincerely but without success to conform to the given directives, they may be assured that by following the course which seems right to them they do so in good conscience.”

Of course, thought Koesler, as Henry Higgins of “My Fair Lady” observed, “The French don’t care what they do, actually, as long as they pronounce it correctly.”

But if the French bishops were not convincing, there is the testimony of far more conservative American bishops: “There exists in the Church a lawful freedom of inquiry and of thought, and also general norms of licit dissent.… In the final analysis, conscience is inviolable and no person is to be forced to act in a manner contrary to his or her conscience, as the moral tradition of the Church attests.”

The final document in Koesler’s file was, as far as he was concerned, the clincher. It was from Vatican II’s Pastoral Constitution:

“Conscience is the most secret core and sanctuary of the person.… Where one is alone with God, and there in one’s innermost self perceives God’s voice.”

“Alone with God” says it all.

Lucy Delvecchio studied, queried, then prayed, before dissenting from official Church teaching. Now she is alone with God. She perceives no sin. She sleeps tranquilly.

The Koesler conscience is not that untroubled. For him, contraception is one thing, abortion another. But he has not seen nor studied what Lucy has.

He fixed himself a gin and tonic.

He would drink to conscience.

27

It did not take long for Merl Goldbaum’s prediction to become fact.

It was a slower than usual news day. The city desk was floating in a sea of lazy tranquility. Things did seem to be moving right along. But, as W.S. Gilbert once wrote, “Things are seldom what they seem.”

In late morning, the city editor beckoned to one of his reporters who was not in the running for an Oscar for his portrayal of a busy newsman.

“There’s a pro-choice rally at Cobo Hall this weekend. We’ve got that covered, but we need some sidebars. Go dig up some abortion clients and get their comments on how they were treated—their reaction to the whole thing. Be sure to get the date of the procedure so we can do a graph on whether things are getting better or worse.” Such a setup was hardly a scientific approach—but, what the hell …

“You want me to do a customer survey on abortion clinics?” The reporter tried to make the assignment sound ridiculous: He didn’t want to do the story.

“Yeah.”

“Where am I supposed to find these broads … at least the ones who’ll talk for the record?”

“That’s why we pay you such a lavish salary: so you can put together simple stories like this.” The reporter was dismissed with a get outta-here gesture.

How the hell was he supposed to find somebody who used an abortion clin—Wait: His wife’s friend had a cleaning woman who’d had an abortion …

A few phone calls nailed it down. He would interview Loretta.

“So what was the worst part of the procedure?”

“There wasn’t no wors’ part. They treated me good. Course, I was only six weeks along.”

“Okay …” That sort of quote would not interest the reader or, more important, please the editor. “What was the best part of the procedure?”

Loretta brightened. “Oh, the doctor. She was so nice. She stayed with me all the way through. She kept telling me what was gonna happen and that I wasn’t gonna suffer none. And I didn’t!” she finished triumphantly.

“What was this doctor’s name?”

“It was Dr. Delvecchio. Bless her.”

Delvecchio … Delvecchio. Why was that name familiar? There was a Delvecchio way back in the original six-team pro hockey league. For Detroit. For the Red Wings. In the Detroit Red Wings’ dynasty years. Gordie Howe, Ted Lindsay, Sid Abel, and Alex Delvecchio. Could this doctor possibly be a relative of Alex?

Wait … there was another Delvecchio who was famous for something or other. Yeah, a football player. A pro. Some years back. Let’s see … he had a brother, didn’t he? A Father—no, a monsignor. A Catholic priest whose brother was a pro football player.

And they had … a sister … yeah, a sister who was … a doctor! A Catholic priest and his sister the abortion doctor—oh, please, God, make Dr. Delvecchio be the sister of Monsignor Delvecchio!

His prayer, of course, had been answered retroactively.

Then, the good times rolled.

The editor was ecstatic. Forget the pro-choice rally. Forget Russia and nuclear bombs. Go get the priest and his sister.

The archdiocesan director of communications held news conferences. The archbishop referred questions to the director of communications. Monsignor Delvecchio returned barely two of every ten calls. Lucy Delvecchio used the language of her conversation with Koesler to respond to questions. Monsignor Delvecchio, putting two and two together, guessed that Lucy had spoken to Father Koesler. Delvecchio promised himself that he would even that score one day.

Meanwhile, PR expert Merl Goldbaum sat back, read the papers, watched TV, listened to the radio, and shook his head. He should’ve taken the lead—cut them off at the pass.

The story played itself out over a five-day period. But the media made the most of it while it lasted.

The Present

“That’s why I have a hard time imagining that you didn’t hear about this at the time,” Father Koesler said.

Father Tully shook his head. “It does sort of ring a bell now that you mention it. But if I heard about it at all, I probably passed it off with something approaching relief—sort of, There but for the grace of God go I.”

“Well, it was no picnic for the brass of this archdiocese. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that ‘scandal,’ if I may call it that, might have further delayed Delvecchio’s promotion to bishop. And it could be what’s keeping him from becoming an Ordinary.”

Tully, having called the shot, sank the eight ball. He won. “Another game?”

“Why not?”

Tully racked the balls and motioned Koesler in for the break. Once more, balls were spread all over the table, but nothing fell.

Tully sank a solid and another game was under way.

“I’m in the same position as that reporter who broke the story about the monsignor and the abortion doctor,” Tully said. “I know Delvecchio has a brother. I remember Tony as a player—but he’s more familiar as a sports commentator. But I didn’t know about his sister. What’s happened to her?”

“Oh, she’s still in town. Still working in the ER at Receiving Hospital.”

“How about the clinic?”

“She had to give that up. Before the story broke, no one paid much attention to the little building. It helped the anonymity of the place that it was located in a nondescript neighborhood near downtown.

“But after the news got out, a whole team of protesters and pickets descended on the clinic. It wasn’t safe for Lucy to go down there.

“But Lucy and I are still friends. Maybe sometime we can have lunch,” Koesler suggested, “just the three of us.”

“That would be nice.” Tully chalked his cue. “We could have it here at St. Joe’s … that is, if I can get by her brother and take over this parish officially.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

Actually, after dissecting Vince’s personality and MO this evening, Koesler was not all that sure of a happy outcome.

Tully, on a run, was now studying his shots more carefully. “I was wondering”—he straightened up—“as you were telling that story: Do you think Delvecchio knew his sister had talked to you?”

“I don’t know. Not for sure. He’s never brought it up. And there have been occasions when he could have. But he’s never mentioned it.”

“You’d think he’d have tumbled to it. I mean, you’ve been so close to that family; it would have been natural for her to turn to you.”

“I guess.”

Tully laughed. “Maybe he’s taking it out on me instead of you.”

Koesler did not laugh. On the contrary, he grew more thoughtful.

“That,” Tully continued, “leaves only Delvecchio’s brother to be accounted for.”

“And his aunt Martha.”

“Oh, yeah, the aunt. But the brother … that relationship fascinates me. I mean, I get the impression that they were never very close … were they?”

“Not to my knowledge. But compared with the space between them now, they could have been the best of buddies as kids.”

“Deteriorated, has it?”

“Disintegrated,” Koesler said emphatically. “It’s really a shame what’s happened between those two. And it’s almost totally Vince’s fault.”

“Really?” It was Tully’s turn to shoot. Instead, he sat on the arm of one of the chairs. Evidently, he would rather hear the story of the brothers Delvecchio than shoot pool.

Koesler laid down his cue. But instead of being seated, he began to pace. “We’ve already talked about Tony’s big plans. A pro football player, retiring from that into broadcasting.

“Then came reality. No team took him in 1959. So he followed the example of a few other players and joined the Canadian Football League. He was sensational in his first year. His performance grabbed the interest of the NFL. He went to the Chicago Bears. He and another quarterback alternated, and while Tony didn’t set any records, he held up his end.

“Eventually, he was traded to Detroit, where in his waning years he was the backup quarterback.

“With the Lions, the big thing was he was the hometown kid come home. He was a native Detroiter and the fans loved him for it.

“By the time Tony retired from the field, the number of teams had mushroomed: Television was using more and more former players for either play-by-play or as color announcers. That’s when Tony got his big chance. First the networks and then the sponsors discovered how articulate and funny he could be. One thing led to another and Tony also became a high-priced pitchman for a whole bunch of products advertised on TV.

“It was as if Tony’s ship had come in: Everything seemed to be going his way.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tully said.

“Yeah, it does. But when it came to Vince and Tony, fate played some funny tricks. This, I think, was the most tragic relationship of them all.”

“I remember Tony’s playing days,” Tully said. “And I see him on TV during the season, but I don’t really know anything else about him. You mentioned a young woman—when he was about to graduate from college. Did they marry?”

Koesler almost winced. “No. And that’s what gave Vinnie his opening.”

1985

“’Samatter, babe?”

Beth Larson looked about her. “What could possibly be wrong surrounded by the ambience of the Lindell A.C., with Wayne Walker’s jockstrap on. the wall?”

“It’s bronzed.”

“Oh, that makes it all the more aesthetic.”

“C’mon now,” Tony Delvecchio pleaded. “Don’t go and ruin my night.”