Till Death (6 page)

As it turned out, Angelico simply lived in an unfortunate time frame.

When he had served his apprenticeship as an assistant there were many priests to staff many parishes. A change in assignment required nothing more than a letter beginning with the words: “Dear Father So-and-So: For the care of souls I have it in mind to send you to …” And there followed the name of one’s next assignment where one would work for no more than the next five years.

Times had changed drastically. In a word, there just simply were not enough priests to go around. And assignments were no longer made by letter; now the transferee had an active voice in the circumstances of his own future. In this seller’s market, the first to be shunned were despots like Father Angelico. The irascible tyrant importuned the chancery people via mail and phone, until, worn down by the onslaught, they had to respond.

The task of informing the irate pastor on the present way of life fell to a young priest—low man on the hierarchical totem pole.

After stating the simple truth that St. Ursula’s was not going to get a replacement for Father Anderson, the young cleric responded to Father Angelico’s, “Why not!?”

“Because,” the fledgling priest replied, “no one will serve with you.”

Angelico seethed, fussed, and fumed. It didn’t matter whether a priest wanted to come live with this pastor: Send him!

In fending off all these objections, the chancery official held the trump card: the factual truth—no one would serve with the cantankerous old pastor.

Five

Meanwhile, a vacuum had been created in the spiritual life of Sister Perpetua.

Her spiritual director was gone. Not irretrievably—she and he still shared the same city. Yet, to try to maintain their relationship would complicate things. The city’s bus service left much to be desired. Twelve nuns shared the one car allotted to St. Ursula’s convent. Jerry Anderson had a car, of course. But it was unrealistic to expect him to visit her. He had more than enough to do acquainting himself with his new parish.

It was June. The traditional time for graduation celebrations and, of course, June brides. Both sorts of events saw the return of Father Rick Casserly. Even after all these years, he was still called upon occasionally to witness a marriage at his former parish. He also agreed to attend St. Ursula’s high school graduation.

Feeling the loss of Father Anderson, Sister Perpetua’s attention turned to Father Casserly. Given a choice between Casserly and Anderson—all other things being equal—Perpetua would have chosen Father Rick for her director.

In the cold light of reality, Anderson had been no more than a convenience: He had been handy when she felt the need of spiritual direction. Now that Anderson had departed he was no more handy than Casserly—who would have been her first choice had that been convenient.

She phoned Father Casserly and explained the situation. The main problem, if he accepted her plea, would be transportation. But before any concern about how to get from here to there, Casserly would have to agree to become her director.

He was well aware that his primary responsibility was to his present parishioners. Of course one neither could nor should cull nonparishioners out of the confessional line nor screen phone calls. But taking on an individual for a relationship as sensitive as personal spiritual direction could develop into a time-consuming task.

Casserly had lived through a similar misery during his days at St. Ursula’s. Perhaps, on second thought, not so similar; there he’d had to deal merely with the pastor. Perpetua answered not only to the pastor but much more nitpickingly to the Mother Superior, plus ten other equally dissatisfied nuns.

He reached for the phone just before it rang. It was Sister Perpetua.

“I was just about to call you.” His assured tone was that of a self-confident priest. “I’ve given your request a lot of thought. And prayer,” he added, although not at all sure that his considerations had actually included prayer. “I’d be glad to help you. And I think I may have a solution to the transportation problem.”

“But—”

“I have quite a few friends at Ursula’s,” he continued over her interruption. “I’m sure I can get one of the women to drive you back and forth. I haven’t actually contacted anyone yet. I wanted to find out first what you think about it. Frankly, it’s about the only way this can work.”

“There’s more …” She sounded bewildered. “There’s another problem.”

“Oh?”

“It happened just today. Mother Superior called me in this afternoon—just a few minutes ago.”

“What is it?”

“I’m being transferred.”

He was about to ask if she had been consulted about the move when he remembered the Theresians operated in the old, strict fashion: One was told nothing more than where one was going and when one was expected to arrive. “To another school?” The Theresians staffed a few hospitals. It was easily possible that a nun such as Perpetua with several years of teaching under her belt could be sent to a hospital to start from scratch.

“I think the parish has a school. Mother didn’t say—and I was too shocked to ask.”

“Has it got a name?” Perpetua’s information so far had not been very helpful.

“St. Adalbert’s.”

There followed a long silence. “Adalbert?”

“Yes.”

Another long silence. Then: “Do you know anything about St. Adalbert’s?”

Perpetua was not one given to asking questions. “I never heard of it before.”

Again, silence.

“Adalbert’s,” he said finally, “is kind of famous—or rather, infamous.”

“Not another Ursula’s! I don’t think I could take that.”

How to soften the news? Casserly thought it wise not to dump too much reality on Perpetua all at once. St. Adalbert’s convent had been a Waterloo for many an undecided, confused Theresian nun. Deep within him, Casserly held a secret hope that Perpetua could weather this and endure. But the matter of this assignment had to be handled delicately.

“It’s not another Ursula’s.” He didn’t sound as self-assured as he had in the beginning of this conversation. “It’s along similar lines. But not the same. Listen: You’ve got your walking papers. I know from my exposure to this group that there’s no reason to expect a review or an appeal. You have to go where you’ve been sent—or start a procedure to leave religious life.”

“
Leave? Take my hand from the plow? Look back?
I can’t do that! I’ve got to hang on!”

Similar thoughts had occurred to Casserly. He did not want her to give up. Especially without giving this assignment her best shot. “Look,” he said, “when are you scheduled to go to Adalbert’s?”

“Mother Superior didn’t say. She didn’t give a specific day. She just said to be ready … that somebody from the mother house would come by and take me there.”

“Anything else?”

“Uh … like what?”

“Did she say anything else about where you’re going?”

“No. Now that you mention it, there was a long period when she didn’t say anything. Like she was waiting for me to say something. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. It came as such a shock. I was just trying to absorb the thing. I don’t think I grasp the whole situation even now. I called you … sort of instinctively. You’re the first one I’ve told … not even my folks.”

“Okay. Get your things packed.”

“That won’t be hard.”

Ah yes, he thought, the vow of poverty. Women religious generally seemed to take it much more seriously than male religious. Casserly was a diocesan priest. So he had taken no vows. Even so, he had few possessions.

“I think it’s going to be imperative that you come to me on a regular basis. You have every right to choose me as your director. Put your foot down. Something you’re going to have to do much more often now. They’ll have to provide you with transportation. If they out and out refuse, get in touch with me. We’re playing hardball now.”

She hesitated. “What am I getting into? You’re scaring me …”

“Don’t worry. We’re going to see this thing through together.”

The last statement quieted her fears. Until this suggestion that he intended to support her in this new and frightening venture, she had felt desperately alone. “Okay. I’ll do everything you say. But after I settle in, what happens next? Do I contact you?”

He considered the question briefly. “Better you leave the first move to me. I’ve got a lot more clout than you have. Not that my influence could move a mountain or anything. But I’m completely out of their jurisdiction. And as far as guiding you, I’ve got Church law in my pocket.”

She sighed audibly. “Thanks. I really mean it. Before I talked to you I didn’t know which end was up. Now I feel lots more confident. I’ll go to Adalbert’s and wait for your call. Thanks and thanks again.”

He signed off, then leaned back in his chair. His mind was cluttered by the turn of events. Before this phone call, he had foreseen no problems in granting Perpetua’s request.

Casserly knew firsthand the difficulties of staffing St. Ursula’s parish and/or school. But it was not impossible. Perpetua herself was a walking example of that. Her current assignment had been not only Perpetua’s first teaching position but also she had embarked upon it fresh from the novitiate—a brand, spanking-new Sister turned loose on nun-baiting school kids.

Yet Perpetua had carried it off. In the face of these challenges, she’d stuck it out for seven years.

But now she was about to face the greatest crisis the Theresians could mount. Its name was Adalbert, and its purpose was geared to be a launching pad—sending Perpetua out into the lay world.

St. Adalbert had begun as a legitimate parish in Detroit’s far west side, actually straddling the border between Detroit and Dearborn. Neither Detroit nor Dearborn was willing to out and out claim the territory. Its atmosphere comprised the cinder belched from the gigantic Ford Rouge Plant that turned out cars and soot. It had not taken long for the St. Adalbert’s plant—church, rectory, school, and convent, all very small—to become encrusted with the automotive giant’s spewing waste.

In short, the neighborhood grew to be an undesirable place to live and to support a Catholic parish. The parish plant did one favor for the diocese: Instead of become an imposing white elephant it remained tiny.

As for clergy staffing the parish, even in the Church’s heyday in the 1960s—when priests were abundant—St. Adalbert’s never had more than the one lonely pastor.

As for the convent, gradually, the Theresians managed to post there the order’s most cantankerous, irascible, obnoxious, peevish, bad-tempered, disagreeable Sisters—with a mean age in the mid-to-high seventies. Thus did the Sisters of St. Adalbert’s form a chute to the outside world.

Young women, such as Sister Perpetua, would from time to time mistakenly enlist in the Theresians. Usually, any Theresian convent to which such hopefuls were missioned quickly and easily—one might even say, with relish—made them see the error of their ways. And the once idealistic candidate would leave the order.

The Sisters of St. Ursula’s had done their darnedest to ease Perpetua out of their company. They undoubtedly would have succeeded had it not been for her little miracle in the form of a relevant Gospel text for meditation. Armed with that revelation, and supported by the counseling of her director, Father Anderson, Perpetua had kept her feet on the path despite the undertow created by the Sisters.

Thus the religious powers that be decided that Perpetua needed the St. Adalbert’s convent to catapult her out into the mainstream of American life.

Within the week Perpetua met her van—it wasn’t a large van—but then she scarcely needed much space.

Notified that Perpetua was now ensconced at St. Adalbert’s, Casserly made his phone call to Mother Superior. He came on strong. He wasn’t asking for any favor. Sister Perpetua had voluntarily and spontaneously requested that he be her spiritual director and he intended to do just that. He had even taken the trouble to check with the chancery; it was fine with the boys downtown. And so Mother Superior, as head of this convent, had better make transportation available.

At the first words of Mother Superior’s response, Casserly was willing to confess to overkill.

She couldn’t have been more agreeable. Of course she would take care of the necessary details. All she needed was to know when such transportation was desired.

Casserly was almost speechless. He didn’t know what to make of this spirit of cooperation.

For her part, Mother Superior was simply confident that the spirit of the St. Adalbert’s nuns would win the day. To date, it had never failed.

Dumbfounded, Sister Perpetua learned no one was putting any barrier between her and her spiritual director. Could Father Casserly have been misinformed? He had come on so strongly about the pitfalls that awaited her at St. Adalbert’s.

Casserly shared her wonderment.

Mother Superior couldn’t have been more cooperative. Initially, Casserly and Perpetua met once a month. The convent’s Damoclean sword seemed to call for nothing oftener.

Like the storied Chinese water torture, the campaign at the convent started slowly. These Sisters, like all Theresians, were semicontemplative. But during the prescribed periods when speaking was permitted, no one spoke to Perpetua.

At first she didn’t tumble to what was going on. Of an evening or a Sunday afternoon she would sit in the convent’s common room, keeping busy with knitting. Everyone seemed to be working on something. But no one spoke to her. No one even acknowledged her presence. If Perpetua asked a question, no one replied. If she commented on something another Sister said, it was as if she hadn’t spoken.

At first she was willing to tolerate any number of eccentricities. After all, these were very elderly women. Some gave evidence of Alzheimer’s disease. She rationalized, coming up with excuse after excuse.

She mentioned this phenomenon to Casserly in their monthly meeting only because he probed for problems. He could not believe the convent’s reputation was ill-founded; there had to be some basis for all the rumors.

He hit pay dirt when he asked about socialization, camaraderie. There wasn’t any—at least not for Perpetua.