No Greater Love Page 11

  “Oh, I’ll admit change can happen. But for Page to give up his seduction of women would be like Larry King becoming a Trappist monk.”

  Koesler was about to respond when, uncharacteristically, Cody held up a silencing hand. “Don’t get me wrong, Father. I’m not entirely concerned that Page is a womanizer. At least he’s not trying to enter into a gay relationship with my son. If there was a chance in hell of that happening, well …”

  Koesler, of course, understood the uncompleted ultimate threat, but shuddered to contemplate it.

  “But I would be concerned if Page were to infect Al with the physical side of sex—even if it was heterosexual.

  “My boy, Father, is right where I want him to be. The only threat I can see to Al’s becoming a happy and fulfilled priest for a lifetime of service comes at this moment from William Page.

  “Your paths may cross, Father. I mean you and Page. If you sense there is any trouble that he is making for Al … I want you to threaten his ordination.”

  “But—”

  “No.” Cody would not be contradicted. “Trust me, Father. Page wants one thing above everything else—including women—and that’s to float through life, free of worry, as a priest. Trust me on this one: He will do anything to get ordained. After that …?” Cody shrugged. “After that … well, once he’s a priest, all bets are off.

  “The big thing for me, anyway, is that whatever Page does after he’s ordained likely will not influence Al. But for now till their ordination day, if Page wants to get there in one piece, he’d better stay the hell away from my son.

  “And that’s about all I want to say about that!”

  On that unequivocal note, Koesler felt sure this matter was concluded. Cody could scarcely have been more explicit. Koesler would make contact with Al Cody, befriend him if he seemed to feel in need of a friend.

  As for Bill Page, the water was murkier. At this juncture, Koesler quite possibly knew more about the Reverend Mr. Page than did any faculty member. Whether or not the senior Cody’s appraisal would prove accurate only time would tell. Meanwhile, Koesler would keep a weather eye out for developments.

  In any case, for the moment it seemed that all of Bill Cody’s concerns had been addressed. “Okay,” Koesler said. “I would have seen Al in the course of events anyway. After all, he is a former parishioner. I’ll just make our visit sooner rather than later. Thanks for coming in and telling me about all this.” He was getting to his feet when Cody motioned him back down. “Please bear with me some more. I wanted to tell you about Al, but that’s not the main reason I’m here.”

  Thirteen

  Father Koesler was reminded of a story told by a priest-professor from his seminary days.

  That priest had related that there were times when one or another seminarian would request an appointment, during which the student would go on and on, rambling from topic to topic: war to sports to politics and the like.

  Then, after the first hour or so, the priest-professor, unable to pinpoint what in this unholy mess was bothering the student, would be on the verge of concluding the tête-à-tête. At which point, the student would announce, “By the way, I’m quitting.” Presenting a topic worth several more hours of study and counseling.

  He wanted to talk to me about Al, Koesler reflected, and only now he gets to the main point.

  Even Cody’s body language was eloquent. While talking about his son, he had first sat quietly in his chair, then gotten up and paced, which showed disquiet.

  But now he had arrived at the main item on his agenda. Which was …?

  It could have been his relationship with his wife, always volatile. Or maybe it had to do with his practice of law. Or perhaps something about St. Joseph’s parish. If Father Koesler had to bet, it would be on the last of those possibilities.

  Cody actually pulled his chair adjacent to the desk and rested his elbow on the desktop. His head was only inches from Koesler’s.

  The priest’s instinctive reaction was to lean back, away from Cody’s intensity. But he quickly decided to go along with Cody’s choreography. “So, what is it, Bill?”

  “It’s our parish!”

  Bingo!

  “Have you been back to our parish since your vacation?” Cody pressed.

  “Yes. But it’s not ‘our’ parish. It may be yours, the pastor’s, and the other parishioners’, but it’s no longer mine. I’m retired, remember?”

  “Of course. But not so long ago you were the pastor. You gave us a lot of yourself. You can’t tell me you’ve lost all interest in Old St. Joe’s.”

  Koesler hesitated. This was leading to something. And he wanted to avoid entrapment. “Of course I haven’t forgotten St. Joe’s. But I’m no longer responsible for it. If you’ve got a problem, Bill, you should go to the pastor.”

  “The pastor is the problem.”

  Now Koesler did lean back. And he fell silent. Right around the next bend in this conversation lurked a dilemma. He could see it coming.

  “You said that you’ve been back at St. Joe’s since your vacation.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’d wager you haven’t attended a weekend Mass since you got back.”

  Koesler made no reply.

  “Well, have you?”

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize there was a question there. You just said you’d bet I haven’t been at a weekend liturgy since my return. I couldn’t bet with you since I know the outcome: No, I haven’t been there on a weekend.

  “In fact I only just returned when I received a message that Bishop McNiff wanted to see me. That’s when he invited me to live here, teach a little here, and—as one fuddyduddy to another—keep him company. By swapping stories of the good old days, presumably.

  “I didn’t want to commit to the bishop’s invitation until I had cleared things with Father Tully.

  “I don’t know whether you’re aware of this, Bill, but the Detroit archdiocese has a rule that discourages retired priests from remaining in their former parish. And, to be perfectly frank, I agree with that policy.

  “But I offered to help Father Tully until he felt perfectly comfortable in my old parish—his new parish. I didn’t think staying there temporarily would violate the spirit of the rule.

  “I must say I was a bit surprised when Father Tully—graciously—declined my offer. I’m sure you know—probably better than anyone else, with your son about to be ordained—priests are hard to come by these days. During my years as a pastor, I’ve had a couple of priests volunteer to help out. And I can assure you, in each case, I accepted practically before the offer left the priest’s mouth.

  “As I say, Father Tully was very gracious about it. But he did send me on my way.

  “And just in case he ever did need me to help—and if I should be available—he suggested that I leave some of my stuff in my old room in the rectory. And so I have.

  “And that, William, is the state of the parish as far as my being a part of it. I’m not punching a time clock here at the seminary, but this is as close to a full-time ministry as I have right now.

  “As for St. Joe’s, it’s a great old place. I enjoyed my years as pastor. But they’re over now. I’ve got a toothbrush and some stuff in the rectory. But, as they say, I’m outta there. Father Tully’s running the show.”

  “Right into the ground,” Cody said, with some bite.

  “What?”

  “You say that you were surprised when Father Tully turned down your offer of help. I think you should’ve been more than surprised; you should have looked into what would motivate Father Tully to decline your offer.”

  “It didn’t occur to me for an instant—”

  “Can you think of any other priest-pastor doing that? Rejecting out of hand this kind of proposition? In this day and age?”

  Koesler gave it a moment’s thought. “I can think of a priest or two whose offer I could and would turn down.”

  “Because …?”

  �
�Because they’re wacko.”

  “But that’s not the case between you and Father Tully.”

  “No. We respect each other. You’ll recall that when I was on vacation I entrusted the parish to Father Tully. I assure you I would not have done so without having a great trust in him.”

  A momentary smile. “I remember that vacation. It was the first time in anyone’s memory that you took any time off. I don’t know if anyone ever told you, but your parishioners were well aware of your dedication.

  “The more involved parishioners still joke about how you phoned the rectory every day—sometimes more than once a day—from Canada … just to make sure everything was copacetic.”

  Koesler grinned. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “So you trusted and respected Father Tully, but you checked on him the whole time you were away.”

  For an instant Koesler had forgotten that Bill Cody was a very successful attorney. He was building an argument here, and Koesler had been walking into a trap. “Bill”—Koesler spoke with great sincerity—“I would have done that no matter who had spelled me while I was away.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But does Father Tully have a similar trust and respect for you?”

  “I’m sure—I’m certain—he does.”

  “Then why would he refuse your offer?”

  “Because he didn’t need my help, I suppose.” Koesler raised his hands and shrugged. “We have three Masses on the weekend—one late Saturday afternoon, two Sunday morning. That isn’t a backbreaking schedule—especially for one as young as Father Tully. For heaven’s sake, I did it for years, and quite obviously it didn’t kill me.

  “Besides, speaking at all the Masses gives a sense of continuity and constant direction to the congregations. I assume that’s why Father Tully didn’t need me: He should be able to preside over three masses in two days with no ill effects whatever.”

  “You haven’t been back, Father,” Cody reminded him. “Father Tully isn’t presiding over three Masses in two days.” Cody paused and drew closer to Koesler. “He is presiding over four Masses!”

  Koesler’s mouth dropped open, something that frequently happened when he was startled or surprised. “He added a Mass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, now, that does give one pause. The three Masses we had seemed adequate.”

  “I can remember when you first came here, Father, the congregations at both daily and weekend Masses were very slim. You built them to a respectable size.”

  Koesler dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand. “The priest who preceded me was busy about lots of worthwhile enterprises. He didn’t have time to give a lot of attention to the parish. It wasn’t his fault that attendance was down.”

  “Yes, but you went around the town houses and high-rises and rang doorbells.” He smiled. “You even rang mine—figuratively.”

  Koesler well remembered. He remembered with mixed emotions. Bill and Eileen and Al. Living in a high-rise in the shadow of the Renaissance Center, with breathtaking views of the swiftly moving Detroit River.

  Koesler, working from a diocesan list of Catholics, had phoned. Eileen, the homemaker, who had given up a possible career as a dental hygienist, happened to be home when Koesler rang. She invited him to drop by.

  Bill was home irregularly. His law practice was extremely demanding. Then there was Albert, attending St. Mary’s Prepatory High School. Wonder of wonders, he was thinking of entering the seminary. So few young men today give the slightest thought to the priesthood that having one in the parish was like finding an endangered species.

  Once, not that long ago, the Codys had lived within the territorial boundaries of St. Waldo’s in Bloomfield Hills. Even though they had moved to downtown Detroit—many miles and cultures from that affluent northern parish—they still attended and contributed to their former parish.

  But Father Koesler had called, had blessed their penthouse, had shown an interest in them. It was time for a change. The Codys became active, involved parishioners of St. Joe’s.

  All went well, except …

  The chemistry between Bill and Eileen just didn’t seem to make it. The signs of conflict were quiet and subtle. But they were present to the careful observer. And Father Koesler was nothing if not that.

  Bill seemed affable enough. But that was a surface virtue. Down deep he strove mightily to keep an aggressive personality in check. This emotional muscle served him well in court. He had just never learned to leave it at work.

  Koesler quickly became aware of Bill Cody’s rigid and judgmental nature. During homilies, Koesler frequently was drawn to making eye contact with Cody. And Cody would return the contact through tense eyes that seemed never to blink. At such times, Koesler was reminded of a feral animal stalking prey.

  The parish council of St. Joe’s, after some experimentation, had settled on a body of six members with four as a quorum. Add Koesler as pastor and Mary O’Connor as secretary and the council was complete.

  A couple of years ago, Bill Cody had run for a seat on the council.

  Koesler was concerned. It was one thing to be scrutinized and patently evaluated during Mass when the priest had a captive audience. Quite another when the predator wielded some ill-defined clout as president of the parish council. Which is what Bill Cody became by popular vote.

  Seriously complicating this situation was the coincident election to the parish council of Eileen Cody.

  Under the best of circumstances, Koesler was dubious about having a husband and wife as members of a body such as a parish council. Particularly since he knew, or at least sensed, the complex relationship of Bill and Eileen, he considered inserting into the council’s constitution language that would prohibit spouses serving on the same council.

  But, in any case, such legislation could not be made retroactive.

  As it happened, there was little conflict in the business and parochial doings of St. Joseph’s parish. And while tension between the Codys was manifest to Koesler, who was painfully aware of it, no words were spoken that would evidence any conflict between the couple.

  Now, Koesler clearly perceived, something had happened in the parish that had caused Bill Cody to abandon his stalking mode and pounce. Something to do with that additional weekend Mass.

  Koesler was being drawn into a conflict he loathed to enter. He felt the vortex.

  With more caution, he returned to his conversation with Cody. “I guess I’ll never forget the census calls, the doorbell ringing. It struck me as terribly sad that that beautiful old church was serving so few people. Little by little, we did turn it around until we gathered a pretty respectable number. But a fourth Mass on the weekend …” His brow furrowed. “It’s been a little while since I was there, weekend or daily. But it seems inconceivable that Zack could have attracted enough new parishioners to need another Mass. I must say, I’m at a loss—”

  “The extra Mass, Father, is a Folk Mass!”

  There was no denying that Folk Masses were common now. And there were a variety of them. Almost any form of liturgy, except those legislated and found in the Roman Missal, fell into the general category of “Folk.”

  It started with a guitar instead of an organ or even a piano, and it went from there in every conceivable direction.

  Clearly, a Folk Mass at staid St. Joseph’s was a radical departure from what had come to be expected there.

  “Was this okayed by the parish council?” Koesler asked.

  “It wasn’t presented to the parish council!”

  Short of hearing Father Tully’s reasons for this, Koesler tended to think that was a mistake. “You’ve attended this Mass?”

  “A few times.” Cody’s tone left no doubt that he was disgusted by what he had seen and heard.

  “Would you describe it?”

  “Sure. It’s an outrageous blend of Baptist and Catholic. The only Catholics that service—I won’t call it a Mass—the only Catholics who could relate to this are blacks
and hippie whites.” It was evident that Cody found this Folk Mass, if not the entire genre, an abomination that scandalized him.

  It was quite obvious to Koesler that his intercession was going to be sought. This was what Bill Cody had been aiming at from the outset. Could he head off this ambush at the pass? Koesler wondered. The best way he could conceive was to get this ball into another court. “I imagine that this Folk Mass began after the most recent council meeting … otherwise you surely would have debated it then and there.”

  Cody nodded.

  “And the next scheduled meeting?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Have you tried to talk to Father Tully?”

  “Of course. I haven’t been able to pin him down. He never returns my phone calls. Whenever he says Mass he always has to leave immediately. ‘Pressing pastoral duties,’ is the word. I’ve tried time and time again.”

  “Well, he will undoubtedly be at the council meeting tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, and I’d like you to—”

  Koesler began shaking his head before Cody completed the invitation. “Out of the question. As I said, my duties … my sphere of influence at St. Joe’s is over. I have no entrée to a council meeting. It would be as if a stranger were to barge in. The council would sic the dog on him—or, at very least, call the cops.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that,” Cody said soothingly. “We all know what you’ve done with St. Joe’s. You can’t feel nothing for the welfare of your parish—”

  “It’s not my parish!”

  “We know that. We also know that besides caring about the parish, you are a good friend of Father Tully. As the president of the parish council, I’m inviting you to attend this meeting.”

  Koesler seemed as wrung out as a washcloth. Much of what Cody said was true: The old parish, as well as its present pastor, were dear to Koesler. Yet he could not, in any way, shape, or form, barge into that meeting, which had every promise of being a knockdown-dragout confrontation.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do …” Koesler’s demeanor showed that this was his final word on the subject. “I’ll get in touch with Father Tully tomorrow. Or, judging from your luck, I’ll try to get in touch. I’ll talk to him. I can’t predict which direction we’ll take as a result of our talk. But I’ll see what, if anything, can be done.”