Till Death (12 page)

“Dana had just about convinced us not to run it at all. And believe me, he really tried. Then the station manager entered the scene. When he gets a fix on something he’s like a bulldog with a bone. He won’t let it go.

“Anyway, Father, that’s what happened. Honest, Dana did everything he could. But the game was up just as soon as the manager made up his mind. Dana and Trish felt awful about it. They wanted you to at least know what happened.”

“Okay,” Anderson growled; it was clear that Geller had spoken his piece. “Thanks for the call.”

He had to assess the damages.

The phone rang again. He knew the pastor wouldn’t pick up and he himself sure didn’t need the distraction. He activated the answering service. He was sure they would log some calls. Undoubtedly a few of his priest buddies wanting to rib him for his quick entry into the wonderful world of TV celebritydom.

Still, with a little bit of luck … with a little bit of luck …

Nothing in the TV presentation had even hinted at Dea’s previous and unannulled marriage. Absent that detail, there was no reason for anyone to question the kosher quality of the wedding.

Maybe, just maybe, he could squeeze out of this pickle. Maybe he would get some sleep this night after all.

He did. But not much.

He was up early to check the local TV and radio stations to see if there was any further mention of The Wedding. He thought of this ceremony as unique and thus worthy of upper case.

He listened a bit absently while preparing a breakfast of cereal with bananas. As was his habit, he scanned the morning paper per page—spending only a short couple of minutes—reading not much more than the headlines on most pages.

Until page A5. The three-column picture showed the handsome couple, Mr. and Mrs. Dana Dea. And there was he himself blessing the rings.

The story said it all. The ceremony had taken place in a Southfield apartment. Damn! The pastor of St. Michael’s in Southfield would know that no delegation had been requested. Anderson was certain that even at that very moment that pastor was phoning the chancery to wash his hands of any responsibility for all this—and to question why Father Anderson had not requested the necessary delegation.

The story revealed the most damning aspect of the event: that Dea had been previously married. Double damn! Now the pastor of St. Andrew’s would be phoning the chancery, charging Father Anderson with improperly and invalidly marrying a couple who were unmarriageable as far as the Church was concerned.

Anderson was just getting over this shock when the news came on Channel 5. It was the final nail in the coffin. How could this have happened? How had they been able to capture the central truth of this story? And so fast?

He placed a call to Nelson Kane, a friend who was managing editor of the morning paper, and an occasional member of Father Anderson’s congregation. “How did this happen, Nellie? I mean I talked to a guy named Geller at Channel 5 last night. Know him?”

“Yeah.”

“He explained how the story got on their eleven o’clock news. But he didn’t have the whole thing. You have the whole thing. Did you get it from Geller?”

“No, we got it on a silver platter. One of your guys called after the TV news broadcast and in time for our late edition. I’m sorry, Jerry. Really. We had no choice. He had chapter and verse. If we hadn’t run it, the other guys would have.”

“Wait a minute. You said one of our guys gave you the whole story. What do you mean ‘our guys’?”

“Name is Foley.” There was a pause while Kane riffled through a deskload of notes and wire service copy. “Name is Monsignor Dennis Foley, pastor of St. Andrew’s in Grosse Pointe. That’s all I know just now. But while I’ve got you on the line …”

Anderson hung up firmly.

No sooner had the receiver hit the cradle than the phone rang. “Yes!” It was probably another media person. Anderson was furious with the lot of them.

“Father Anderson?” a familiar female voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Hold everything for Bishop Donovan.”

The next and no-nonsense voice belonged to the bishop. “Jerry, you busy this morning?”

“Well, yes I am, Bishop. I—”

“Well, cancel your appointments. I want to see you right away downtown.”

“Okay. Right away.” Anderson, even if he’d had hours to decide how to respond to the bishop’s demand for his presence, could only have replied affirmatively.

Before leaving for the chancery, he stopped by the dining room where his pastor was assembling breakfast. “I’m on my way down to the chancery. I have no idea when I’ll be back. I just wanted you to know.

“Wait! What’s this all—” Before the pastor could finish his question, Anderson was out of the rectory.

There was no waiting. Anderson was ushered immediately into Bishop Donovan’s office.

“Sit,” Donovan invited. “Nasty bit of news this morning.”

“I couldn’t argue that, Bishop.”

“Is it true? The paper’s account?”

“Not to the last dotted
i
. But essentially, yes.”

“This is something the boss would ordinarily handle. But, as you know, he’s in Rome.”

Actually, Anderson had forgotten. Cardinal Boyle had gone to Rome together with a select group of United States bishops for a meeting.

Since there was no response, Donovan continued. “That wasn’t a smart move, Jerry. Just in case you are wondering, we are aware downtown that you don’t give the Tribunal much business.”

“According to the scuttlebutt I get, Bishop, I’m not the only local priest who takes pity on the Tribunal.”

Donovan nodded. “A few. Not as many as you think.”

Anderson shrugged. It didn’t matter, nor was it germane how many priests did or didn’t make use of the Tribunal to process marriage cases.

“As far as we know, none of the men let this stuff get into the external forum. We can’t do anything about that.” Donovan made no secret about his fidelity to the Vatican position on just about anything. He, like Father Angelico, was another who, if someone were convicted of heresy, would walk with the condemned to the stake. But, unlike Angelico, he wouldn’t bother praying with the doomed soul; he would proceed to light the fire.

“Sometimes, Bishop, the internal forum just doesn’t do the trick.”

“For a loyal priest, it never does the trick.” Donovan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, I got in touch with the boss just a short while ago. We talked it over. We agreed that something had to be done. He accepted my opinion. So, Father, you will be suspended for a period of two months. During this time you will not confect any of the sacraments—well, you know the details: Short of ministering to someone in danger of death, you will not act as a priest. You can just forget you are a priest for the next two months, beginning now!”

“I don’t know …”

Donovan cut him off. “Later this morning, I will conduct a briefing for the media and announce your penalty You will have no comment. If you wish, I can get you into a monastery for an elongated retreat. That’s optional. The essence is that you will not function as a priest for two months. What else you do during this time is up to you. Personally, I don’t care.”

Anderson fixed his gaze on Donovan’s well-shined shoes. He made no move to leave or even speak.

“I think this matter is concluded.” Donovan said.

“Not quite.” Anderson looked into Donovan’s eyes and held the gaze. “Suspension is a punishment for sin. I believe I have not sinned in witnessing the wedding of that couple.”

“That’s not even debatable.”

“Even then, I don’t think Cardinal Boyle would punish me publicly.”

“To be honest with you, he didn’t want to at the outset. But when I told him how publicly you flaunted it, he had to agree to the public sanction.”

“Publicly? Flaunting?” Anderson almost leaped out of his chair. “I wasn’t responsible for all that publicity. Your man did that!”

For the first time in this meeting, Donovan seemed flustered. “Our man? What are you talking about?”

“Dennis Foley! He was the one who alerted the media. He was solely responsible for that article in the paper.”

“Are you sure?”

Anderson nodded once decisively. “He provided them with every detail in that story.”

“How did he know all this?”

“He was the son of the bitch who refused to witness their wedding in the first place.”

“As well he should,” Donovan stated. But inwardly, for the first time, he had some doubts. “How can you be certain this leak came from Monsignor Foley?”

“Nelson Kane. I called him. He told me.” Anderson did not need to further identify the source. Kane was the tough-talking equivalent of Mother Teresa for Detroit journalists. “Call and ask him yourself.”

“I will.” But even as he spoke, Donovan had no doubt Anderson was being accurate. This information cast a new light on the matter. Donovan would prefer keeping Foley’s role a secret. He was certain Cardinal Boyle would be far more angry at Foley for forcing this issue than at Anderson for violating the law.

But the bishop quickly decided this sort of secret did not easily lend itself to being kept. Much better for everyone—except, of course, Anderson—that the Cardinal be advised of this added complication. “In good time,” Donovan continued, “the boss will be briefed on how this happened. The media has got hold of the story and they’re not going to let it go until some action is taken. Your suspension stands.

“You may, naturally, appeal this decision in the diocesan court; the Tribunal would handle the appeal.” Donovan barely suppressed a smile thinking about what the Tribunal would do to this clerical loose cannon if it got the chance. “I don’t really think you want to pursue this.” The bishop paused a moment. “Does that pretty well finish this matter?”

Anderson’s shoulders slumped. “I guess so.” He rose and took a step or two toward the door, then stopped as another thought came to mind.

The matter was not finished by any means. He thought of all the people he had conducted on a tour of the internal and external forums. He had helped many of them in good faith form their consciences. They—many of them—had been convinced on his word alone. What would they think when they learned that he was being punished for what he had told them and what he had done for them? Would those tender consciences be troubled again?

Anderson returned to the chair and sat down.

Donovan was startled. They had covered all the necessary ground. He would have treated Anderson gruffly. But the poor bastard was on the ropes. While toying with his episcopal ring, the bishop leaned forward.

“I’m not going to accept the penalty. It was meant to punish sin. And, as I’ve said, I don’t consider what I did sinful. Rather than accept, I will resign my priesthood.”

Donovan was completely taken aback. “You’d do that!”

“Yes.”

Donovan studied the desktop. He did not want to go to the mat on this one. The conclusion had been clear at the outset: The Church would slap Anderson’s wrist. He would accept the verdict and go into temporary exile. Later he would come back chastened, a little bit older and a lot wiser.

Anderson would be made to know that he couldn’t get away with this sort of aberrant conduct.

All would be well.

But the whippersnapper was upsetting the applecart. What’s more, there was very little time left before the scheduled news conference.

What to do?

It was too late to contact the Cardinal. The bishop would have to improvise.

“This is not going the way I want it to go,” Donovan said.

“Sorry. But I’m not going to give in on that punishment.”

Donovan thought again. Maybe it didn’t have to be a flat-out sanction. Maybe there was a way of getting the message across without the penalty.

The bishop folded his hands on the desk. “How about this? I state that Church law was violated. And that you have requested and received permission to take a leave of absence. You will use up to a couple of months to rethink your position. You are still a priest in good standing but you will take a spiritual retreat before returning to the archdiocese.”

Anderson considered that. He had taught his people that they were indeed violating Church law. But only because said law could not address their situation. So, he could accept the statement containing language that a law had been broken. It was a little iffy. But after all the time he had patiently worked with these troubled people, they ought to be able to take this language and run with it.

But there was something more to be considered: his mother’s tender conscience and her pride in him as a priest.

It was not uncommon for Catholic parents to feel fulfilled in a very special way when a son became a priest. Generally this feeling was more intense for the mother than the father. So it was in Anderson’s family. His father definitely was pleased. His satisfaction had grown over the years of Jerry’s priesthood. But his mother was ecstatic. She remained so to this day.

It was also not uncommon for a Catholic young man to remain in a seminary or the priesthood solely out of respect for his parents, who would be terribly hurt if he were to quit.

The sentiment is similar to that of a married couple who remain together only for the sake of their children.

In either case, the end result of this charade frequently was disaster.

Anderson’s father had died five years ago. Jerry, assisted by many of his priest classmates and friends, had offered the Resurrection Mass. His mother’s loss was buffered by all the priests, especially Jerry, who stood by her and at the altar.

To this date, Anderson had been a priest over fifteen years. His mother would be shocked that her son would violate a Church law. Both she and he could survive that. And there was no threat connected with his being granted a sabbatical leave of absence. But this would not be the end of the matter.

The handwriting was clear on the wall. The next time he would be dragged into the public arena for a similar sidestepping of Church law, the boom would be lowered. The next time he would, in all probability, be facing anything from suspension to being returned to the lay state. The latter punishment was more popularly known as defrocking.