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“Hmmm. Well.” Koesler had never been through a more bizarre maze of moral rationalization. “What about Brenda? If she provides the physical benefits of marriage for you, how about the ‘procreation and education of children’?”

  “Brenda has taken care of that.”

  “She has?”

  “Permanently.”

  “She’s had a tubal ligation?”

  Nash nodded. “I know, I know: It’s a sin. But she was willing. It was her decision and it was a one-time-only occasion.”

  Deep within himself, Koesler felt terrible that Brenda had allowed herself to be mutilated. And for Teddy Nash! Yet the use of this radical method of birth control didn’t much surprise him. It represented some of what he considered to be the worst pre-conciliar moral thinking.

  Back in the days when such things were confessed, couples fought their consciences over artificial contraception, and regularly and painfully presented these “sins” to the priest in confession—“mortal sin” after “mortal sin” over and over, by the week or the month, sometimes finding a sympathetic confessor, more often being severely berated.

  Whereas a single operation—a tubal ligation for a woman, a vasectomy for a man—one “mortal sin,” and a confessional purgatory was over and done with for life.

  But such radical surgery on Brenda—for Teddy Nash! For the convenience of Ted Nash, she would never become a mother!

  This moment was as close as Robert Koesler had ever come to decking someone.

  Controlling himself, Koesler asked, “She did this … she had it done … voluntarily?”

  “Her idea all the way. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, I would have been delighted to start another family.”

  “Uh … if Melissa had volunteered to be sterilized, you would have gone along with that? Just as you did with Brenda?”

  “Of course. It would have been her decision, just as it was Brenda’s. Melissa’s only contribution was a willingness to use an IUD and a spermicide jelly or the pill or … uh … I’d have to wear a condom. You see, no matter which method Melissa permitted, I would be drawn into the sin. I couldn’t have had sex with her as long as I knew she or I or both of us were using contraception. I would have been cooperating in a sinful act. But it wouldn’t have been my fault if she had gotten herself fixed. But no—not Melissa.

  “As I said, I would have been happy to have a family with Brenda. But when she didn’t want one, well, I was overjoyed when she suggested—she suggested that solution.”

  “Because then it is not your sin.”

  “Exactly. The most important thing in the world, Padre, is the state of sanctifying grace. The most important thing in the world!”

  “I couldn’t argue with that. But—”

  “And I have never been out of it.”

  “What?”

  “I have never in my entire life been out of the state of sanctifying grace. I have never in my life committed a mortal sin.”

  Koesler could think of no adequate rejoinder. Finally, he murmured, “I can’t think of too many canonized saints who could or would make that claim.”

  Nash checked his watch. “I’m really pressed for time. So, if you’ll excuse—”

  “One final question: Father Deutsch agrees with all this?”

  “With the bottom line, yes. Although he arrives at the same conclusion by using the principle of the double effect.

  “And now, I really hate to be abrupt, Father, but that was your last question. It’s been answered, and I must leave. But before I leave, you must leave.” He stood. “I remind you, Father: All that we have said here, all that I have told you, remains right here. I know I haven’t made a confession—”

  “How could you? You never commit a sin.”

  “That’s right. But even though what we’ve talked about is not protected by the seal of confession, it certainly is a professional secret.” He stepped around the side of the desk. “Now, Father, that will be all!”

  Koesler rose. He turned to leave, then turned back. “Do you mind if I take one of those sandwiches? I am hungry.”

  “Take them all.”

  “One will do nicely.”

  Koesler took one of the elaborately wrapped packets and, without further word, departed.

  He had much to think about.

  C H A P T E R

  11

  AS HE AIMED HIS CAR south on 1-75, Father Koesler again thought about his conversation with Ted Nash.

  The priest had thought of little else since their meeting the previous day. There was so much to digest, so much to unravel, so much speculation to iron out.

  It had then been almost a welcome relief to receive a call this morning from Eileen Monahan, asking if he could visit her this afternoon. With only minor schedule juggling, he could. Eileen had declined to enlighten him as to the reason for the request, stating only that she thought it very important.

  It was a pleasant day. He was even able to roll the car window partway down. And, since it was early afternoon, there was little traffic on the freeway; he need pay but peripheral attention to the driving. Thus, with his mind in neutral, he once more played back some of Nash’s more outrageous statements.

  Koesler had considered his own tendency to rationalize to be one of his more outstanding failings. But his level of expertise in this field in no way approached Ted Nash’s proficiency.

  It was almost as if Nash began with the premise that he not only never had but never would commit a mortal sin. Thus, whatever went wrong simply had to be someone else’s fault.

  This concept of morality—that evil was classifiable into serious or mortal sin, less serious or venial sin, or imperfection—was peculiar to Catholicism.

  Koesler could remember clearly as a child having been taught, and believing as he grew up, that individual actions could be mortally sinful, deserving punishment in hellfire. Thus, one could go to confession on Saturday and be headed for heaven (with always the possibility of a stopover in purgatory), and then one might miss Mass deliberately the next day and be headed for hell on Sunday.

  This yo-yo theory of spirituality inevitably led to the conclusion that salvation depended on God’s getting one’s soul on the right bounce.

  Yet, strangely, the theory had never seemed questionable to Koesler until Vatican II opened doors to questions.

  To a Catholic, the “state of sanctifying grace” implied an intense union with God, freedom from any serious sin. Koesler chose to emphasize the “state.” It was comparable to living in the State of Michigan or Ohio or California. One shared in the redemptive sacrifice of Jesus Christ and lived in the state of grace. One continued in that state unless one did something drastic, such as move from Michigan to some other location—or unless, in the case of grace, one decided to live a basically selfish life, using and manipulating others along the way. In that case, the transgression of God’s laws was a symptom of the state of sin in which the person now lived. Something radical and decisive had to happen before one entered, abandoned, or reentered this state of sanctifying grace.

  There was no doubt that in Nash’s mind, the earlier interpretation was in force. Which meant that (by Ted Nash’s lights) in all his life so far, Ted Nash had never performed a single seriously evil act.

  To believe that, Koesler reflected, demanded an almost superhuman mastery of rationalization. And Ted Nash, to his probable eternal confusion, had it.

  As far as Nash was concerned, God was willing the nicest things.

  God willed a happy marriage and unlimited progeny. Take sex out of that picture, and God willed a surrogate partner. Ted could not lose.

  In this he was not unlike many who claim to be the humble repositories of God’s will. Such a claim is substantially more credible when God’s will demands unpleasant duties. For instance, the prophets of the Old Testament who begged God not to send them in His name with such ill-received messages. Or someone like Joan of Arc, whose fidelity as a messenger of God’s will brought her to the fiery stake.
r />   Or the essential bearer of God’s will, Jesus Christ, who shrank from the hideous death awaiting him. He could pray, “Not my will, but Thine be done.”

  Compared with these, Ted Nash had a piece of cake. One tended to suspect the recipient of a constantly convenient revelation who coincidentally claimed his course of action to be God’s will.

  Then there was Father Arthur Deutsch.

  Nash had called time-out before he and Koesler could go into just exactly how Deutsch could justify Brenda’s role in this scenario by the principle of the double effect.

  That principle had been around for quite a while. It was one of the few moral determinants taught in Koesler’s seminary days that was still in popular use.

  It was part of a larger concept known as “the indirect voluntary.” The idea being there are certain choices and actions in human life that are neither directly chosen nor the product of force alone. The specific use of the “double effect” occurred when someone did something that spawned two results or effects. To be morally acceptable, the initial action itself had to be either good or indifferent. The first immediate result had to be good and of greater weight than the secondary result, which could be evil and was not directly intended.

  Thus, for instance, the case of an ectopic pregnancy—one in which the fertilized egg attaches itself outside the uterus. The doctor may operate—a good or indifferent action. The primary result is good, in that it saves the mother from an impossible medical situation. The secondary result, not intended, but only tolerated, is the death of the embryo.

  One could argue endlessly about the principle and its relevance for this age. Is there, for example, any action that is indifferent? And what constitutes a “good” action?

  But the principle is still being used by Church ethicists to settle, for instance, complex moral questions fostered by advances in medical technology.

  Father Koesler’s present puzzle was how Father Deutsch could have twisted the double effect principle into a justification of the relationship of Ted Nash and Brenda Monahan.

  How could the “action” be anything other than sexual interaction between two persons, one of whom freely admitting that he is married to someone else? How could such an action be judged “good” or “indifferent”?

  What would be the first effect—Ted Nash’s sexual gratification?

  That’s good? That outweighs the secondary effect? Which is what? The harm done to Melissa, not to mention Brenda?

  Of the two approaches to the ratification of Ted and Brenda’s affair, Koesler preferred Nash’s. And he didn’t much care for that.

  Neither Ted nor Father Art seemed to have an acceptable explanation. Both were rationalizing in the worst sense of that term.

  The final question, and the one Koesler found most perplexing, was what, if anything, was Brenda getting out of all this?

  “Great sex,” according to Ted Nash.

  Koesler, never having experienced great, adequate, or shabby sex, wisely decided he was not qualified to evaluate the importance of great sex.

  But, he wondered, how great can it get? Even if it were an acknowledged sublime event, wasn’t it possible that some other partner could prove every bit as good at it as Ted claimed to be?

  Finally, was “great sex” sufficient to cause someone like Brenda to throw away her life?

  For that, as far as Koesler could see, was exactly what she was doing.

  Everyone who knew Brenda was convinced that her horizons were unlimited. Yet she seemed to have painted herself into such a tight corner. When she had asked Koesler for help in getting a job someplace in the chancery operation, he had readily agreed. As it worked out, his intercession proved effective.

  Mary Lou’s employment history being what it was, Koesler did not much expect her to hold on to her new job. Even working for a near saint. For whatever reason, her prospects seemed definitely limited.

  Brenda, on the other hand, must have had some good reason for wanting to work in the chancery. Again, Koesler had figured that she would not long stay with the archdiocese. Not unless the Pope made her the archbishop—a position she could easily have handled, but one not likely to be offered her.

  Brenda had unquestionable talent.

  So what was she doing in a job that paid a fraction of her worth? Would she be moving on soon? Every week, Koesler half expected to learn that she had advanced to some more rewarding job, perhaps in some other city or state or country.

  Even more, what was she doing in a dead-end relationship with a man like Ted Nash who would stay married to another woman until death did them part? Why had she had herself sterilized? To preserve her fragile union? She had all the ingredients to become an outstanding mother. Nash was more than willing to do his part to make her one. His track record with Melissa indicated he was not lacking in procreative powers.

  But Brenda, for whatever reason, did not want his children. Nor, in view of her operation, anyone’s child.

  Maybe it would be worthwhile, after all, to have a heart-to-heart talk with Brenda about all this.

  Koesler had hoped that his hard-won meeting with Ted Nash might have settled this matter. But it had accomplished nothing other than throwing a bit more light on Ted, his house priest, and their peculiar if not unique approach to a bizarre theology.

  Out of all this, Brenda emerged as a focal point for both Charles and Ted Nash. Father and son seemed preoccupied with her, yet they could not have been more divided in their attitudes toward her.

  Charlie viewed Brenda as a threat to the financial empire he had painstakingly formed and built. He wanted her out of the way. For Ted, on the other hand, Brenda literally completed his life, providing the sexual and romantic gratification missing in his now-loveless marriage. He needed her desperately.

  Did Brenda realize the spot she was in? If she was not diligently and unremittingly on her guard, she could find herself at the center of a most uncomfortable collision course. And, without exaggeration, the result could be much more than uncomfortable. It could be fatal.

  Koesler hated even to consider that possibility. But Charles Nash had not gotten to the pinnacle of the development business by being Mr. Nice Guy. There was no evidence as far as Koesler knew that Nash had been involved in violence, let alone murder, in the past. But the old man had made it clear that he would allow nothing—nothing—to pull apart what he had constructed.

  Ted Nash, on the other hand, did not seem quite as prone to the use of any means necessary to achieve his goals. It was, however, quite obvious that he coveted and doted on the success of Nash Enterprises every bit as much as did his father.

  While Ted’s method of achieving or preserving success might not be as elemental as his father’s, Ted had access to a theology that could justify just about anything. Whatever Ted wanted, needed, demanded, could be twisted around to be construed as God’s will. Where might that stop? Koesler saw no boundary at all.

  If Charles Nash were to perceive Brenda to be a threat to Nash Enterprises, and if no other course could eliminate that perceived interference, Charlie just might remove her by force. And if she became a hindrance or in any way a problem for Teddy, he and his priest were perfectly capable of devising a theology that would remove her from being part of God’s holy will.

  No matter how one looked at it, Brenda was in harm’s way.

  Fortunately, the automatic pilot that occupied Koesler’s head while driving freeways clicked in. He had reached the turnoff for Grosse Ile. In no time, he was at the familiar gate —front or rear, depending on one’s point of view—to Eileen Monahan’s island property.

  Preoccupied as he’d been on his drive down here, Koesler had given little or no thought to the purpose of Eileen’s invitation. With Eileen, it could be anything from a trivial concern to a major calamity. Odds favored a light bulb that needed replacing but was beyond her reach.

  Whatever it was, it would give his brain a rest from Brenda’s very pressing problems.

  C H A
P T E R

  12

  THERE THEY STOOD on either side of the fence, Koesler on the outside and the dog on the inside.

  The dog barked furiously. Koesler observed that each time the dog barked, which was some twenty-eight or twenty-nine times per minute by unscientific tally, the beast left all four paws off the ground. It actually jumped straight up into the air with each bark.

  Why would a dog do that? Koesler wondered. Maybe it was beside itself in a frustrated frenzy. So much commotion for such a little dog! Its small stature notwithstanding, Koesler was not tempted into opening the gate and trespassing on what the dog proclaimed as its territory. It wouldn’t have been a large bite—but, large or small, Koesler did not want to lose any portion of either leg.

  After what seemed too long, Eileen came hurrying out of the house, calling futilely to the dog as she hustled toward the gate.

  Reaching the animal, she scooped it up, tucked it under one arm, and headed back toward the basement door. Shaking a finger of her free hand at the miscreant, she scolded it in no uncertain terms. And, all the while, the dog kept on barking, with passion and vigor.

  Only when the basement door was fully and firmly shut behind the creature did Koesler enter the yard. “I tried, Eileen,” he said. “Honest to glory, I tried. I tried to turn off my sweat glands. I tried to think positive thoughts. I tried to communicate with the dog, tried to use human-to-canine ESP. Nothing worked.”

  Eileen stood waiting for him near the house, her hands fluttering as she said agitatedly, “You’re early! You’re early! I would have had the dog in the basement, but you’re early. I thought he was barking at a passing car. And then when he kept it up, I thought it might be the postman or a salesman or something. But Oona said she bet it was Father Bob. ‘You know how he has that annoying habit of coming early to things,’ is what she said.”

  “Oona’s here?”

  “Yes, dear. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “What’s to mind? I’m just surprised is all. You didn’t mention she was going to be here. Did she just pop in?”