No Greater Love Page 20

  Cody gazed lingeringly at the little whiskey remaining in his cup. “My father,” he murmured.

  “Your dad?” Once again, Page was forced to appreciate that he was indeed old enough to be Al Cody’s father. Just barely, but old enough nonetheless.

  “Yeah. Earlier tonight he was going to go to the mat with his pastor over a folk liturgy they started in the parish. It’s got to be over now. And I don’t know how it came off.”

  “Pretty bad for your father, I’d guess,” Page said. “He’s in the parish council, right?”

  Cody nodded. “The president.”

  “Even so, he’s going up against a battleship … I mean, standing up to the pastor—who is he again?”

  “Tully, Father Zachery Tully.”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s the mulatto—the guy who came from Dallas. The Josephite guy.”

  Cody nodded again.

  “And he took over St. Joe’s from the guy who’s here now—uh, Koesler … right?”

  “Right again. On top of that, the pastor’s got a brother in the Detroit police force—a homicide detective.”

  “No shit! I didn’t know that.”

  “I tried to tell Dad that opposition was futile. But, typical of Dad, he wouldn’t hear of it. Once he makes up his mind, that’s all she wrote.

  “But he can’t win this one … I know it. And I just couldn’t get through to him.” He shook his head. “He must feel lousy now. And I can’t help him. I feel rotten.” He drained the cup and held it out for a refill.

  Page too shook his head, but poured more whiskey in Cody’s cup. “Okay, so your dad is part of the whole damn thing. And you can’t do anything about it right now. But whatever happened tonight he’ll get over in time. It ain’t like a Folk Mass is gonna bring down the Roman Empire.”

  Cody nodded.

  “So,” Page said, “what’s some more of ‘the whole damn thing’?”

  Cody tried to think of all the rest of the mess inside his head. It was, thanks to Jack Daniel’s, getting muddled. “I dun—dunno, Bill,” Al slurred. “I coulda sworn there was more. But it dunn’t seem to matter.” He knew a big part of what had robbed him of sleep was his pending ordination. He just couldn’t get his mouth to cooperate.

  “God, Al! I wish you would spit it out. You are so damn depressing. Maybe it would help if you hadn’t gotten loaded so soon. It might have helped if you could have talked about it.” Page screwed the top back on the bottle and slipped it into the pocket of his robe. He pressed Cody to lean against him as they wove their way out of the snack room and down the corridor toward the residence wing.

  Page continued to talk, not at all sure that Cody was conscious or even semiconscious. Whether he could even hear, much less comprehend.

  Actually Page was finding it a bit of a lark. At least Cody wasn’t in any condition to interrupt.

  “You wanta think about something that’s really depressing?” Page stage-whispered.” My sex life. Like, it’s a big zilch.

  “If I could paraphrase Alfred P. Doolittle, I’m gettin’ ordained in June. Ding-dong, the balls are gonna chime. There’s girls all over the place, and I’ve got just three months to lay every one of ’em. Heh, heh, heh!” He laughed mirthlessly.

  “Nothin’ wrong with the Doolittle character. The problem was Lerner and the way he wrote the role,” Page mused. “Doolittle grieved because he was gettin’ married in the morning. And then Lerner wants us to believe that he’s gonna live faithful to his wife from that moment on.

  “Now I ask you, Al: What was there in the character of that cockney bum that would lead anybody to imagine he’d be faithful? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!” Page almost shouted his conviction.

  Cody, through his drunken haze, shushed Page.

  Page reverted to the stage whisper. “Sorry. But that’s God’s truth: Nothin.’ Doolittle may get married in the morning, indeed. But how long do you think that’ll last? Huh?”

  Cody mumbled something totally unintelligible.

  “That’s right,” Page affirmed the gobbledygook. “Probably on the way to the wedding reception he’ll screw the bridesmaid—all of ’em if there’s more than one.”

  For no good reason, Cody found a corner of sobriety for just a moment, “You mean that’s what you’re gonna do when you’re priested?”

  “Hey, good goin’, good buddy. I didn’t think you had any more language in your head.

  “But, no, I don’t plan on laying anybody for a long, long while. You’ve gotta be careful with a thing like that … although, now that I think of it, the chancery crowd would probably be relieved that I wasn’t a pedophile.

  “Still and all, I’m not Father Doolittle. There’s a certain amount of discretion expected—Al … Al … wake up!”

  Cody had, indeed, fallen asleep in a vertical position. For the past few steps, Page had been literally dragging Cody’s limp form.

  With great effort, Cody once again got both feet on the ground.

  “That’s more like it.” Page was congratulatory. “Say, we’re almost to your room.”

  Cody looked up for a moment and managed to keep his head straight.

  “Al, since you told me the little morality tale about the bishop and the Trappist monk, I’ve got one for you. And it speaks right to the subject I’ve been running on about.

  “Unh …” Cody responded in a somewhat affirmative tone.

  “This is about a guy who is playing his usual lousy round of golf. On the fifth hole he’s off in the woods looking for his drive. All of a sudden the devil comes out of nowhere.

  “‘How would you like to play scratch golf for a change?’

  “The guy says he’d love it.

  “‘Okay,’ the devil says, ‘you can have your great golf, but it’s going to near ruin your sex life. Still want the golf gift?’

  “‘Yeah,’ the guy says, ‘anything for that.’

  “So the guy’s game just takes off. He wins every match and tournament he plays. Then, one day, about a year later, he meets the same devil on the same course in the same rough.

  “The devil asks him how his game is coming. The guy says it’s terrific. He never thought he’d ever play this good. ‘So,’ the devil asks, ‘how’s your sex life?’

  “The guy shrugs. ‘Not so bad. I get it about once a month, maybe a little less.’

  “‘Gee,’ the devil says, ‘I wouldn’t think that was any good at all.’

  “‘Oh,’ says the guy, ‘it’s not so bad for a Catholic priest in a small town who doesn’t own a car!’”

  Once more, Page broke himself up with his wheezy laugh. “Get it?”

  After a moment’s thought, Cody half-nodded. “You’re gonna get good at golf?”

  “Well,” Page said, “that’s sort of it. I don’t plan on scoring like I did when I was with the ad agency. But I figure quality will have to make up for quantity. It’ll work out. Only …” There was a long pause.

  “Only … what?”

  “Only I just pray that no dame makes a play for me.”

  “How come?”

  ‘“Cause as horny as I am after this long period on the sexual wagon, I’d never be able to resist, no matter what she looked like.”

  Twenty-one

  The knock on the door was almost apologetic. As if whoever was there had second thoughts.

  Father Koesler glanced at his calendar. No appointment was noted. But any hesitation on his part and the bashful caller would probably run away. “Come in,” Koesler called out, just loudly enough to be heard through the heavy door.

  The door opened about halfway and an obviously embarrassed Deacon Al Cody slipped in. “I’m sorry, Father. I know I don’t have an appointment. Is it okay to come in? Are you busy?”

  “No, no. Come in. Make yourself at home.”

  Koesler, in black trousers and a white T-shirt, had been reading. He picked up a cassock from a nearby chair and quickly buttoned it on, interrupting only to motion Cody to a seat.

 
Both now formally cassocked, they sat facing each other across the desk.

  “So, Al,” Koesler broke the ice after a few moments, “what brings you here?”

  “I need some help, Father.”

  “With what?”

  “A homily. You volunteered to help any student who wanted it. I want it.”

  “Okay, we can give it a whirl.”

  Was a homily help the real reason for Cody’s visit? From long experience, the priest knew that people often camouflaged a perplexing, perhaps threatening problem beneath a trivial, even fictive concern. Time would quickly tell in this visit.

  Cody’s presenting problem was, indeed, a homily he was supposed to prepare, compose, and commit to memory. It was natural for him to seek help from Koesler. He had long admired this priest. Father Koesler always seemed so confident in all he did. Characteristically, in any given circumstance he would gather all the information he could, then reach a decision and act on it.

  Decisiveness, determination, incisiveness—qualities Cody most wanted and least possessed.

  Ever since his family had moved into St. Joseph’s parish and gotten to know their pastor, Cody had admired him. Father Koesler was a role model for Cody.

  At those occasions when the young seminarian was able to concentrate on the way Father Koesler practiced his priesthood, his doubts would lessen as he would tell himself, I want to be a priest like him. But such occasions were few and far between; most of the time Cody was away from home and parish.

  The seminary, his real home over the past several years, was filled with students who tried to conform to the conservative, traditional philosophy and theology that was at this school’s core, while trying to discover what they truly wanted to do with the rest of their entire lives.

  It was also filled with students who, like Pat Donnelly, wanted something from the seminary that they would never get.

  Amid all this searching, praying, reflecting, meditating, contemplating, and indecision, Al Cody felt adrift.

  He could look at someone like Father Koesler and say, I want to be like that. But then he would return to classes and be lost in doubt. Did he want to—could he—be a priest day in and day out for the entire long stretch of the rest of his lifetime?

  Father Koesler pushed aside a pile of books he’d been using for reference and research. The middle of his desk was now clear and ready for action. “Well, Al, first thing we need to know is when this homily is going to be given.”

  Cody blushed. “This Sunday,” he murmured.

  “This Sunday! You’re not giving yourself much time.”

  “I know. I know. But I did this on purpose.”

  “Oh? What purpose?”

  “Well, see, Father, I figured that in the priesthood there’ll be lots of times when I’ll be busy with lots of things and I’ll come up on a Thursday night—like this—when I’ve got only a couple of days to get things together for the weekend liturgy. And that includes, especially, the homily.”

  “So you’re going to try the just-about-worst-case scenario—a homily whipped up at the last minute. You’ve got to do it now. But let me give you a bit of practical advice—at least it’s been practical for me.”

  “Sure, Father … please.”

  “When you get done with the last of the Sunday Masses, give yourself the rest of the day off. You’ll need it. But Monday morning, read the text of the three readings for next week and then develop a link between them. Pray over. it. Then, for the next several days, keep thinking about that common theme. Most of all, try to find anecdotes and illustrations to bring out the point of that theme. Then you won’t come up against what you’ve got here: Thursday night and … nothing.”

  Cody did not and would not confess having last night guzzled himself up to and including theological intoxication—to the point of being falling-down drunk. He would not reveal this to Koesler because of embarrassment. Cody had planned on starting the Homiletics assignment last night. Then he began drowning in doubts. Thence to the snack room, followed by the liquor supplied by Page—just now, a dubious friend.

  “Next on the checklist: What’s your congregation?” Koesler asked. “What parish will you be at?”

  “No parish, Father. Here … the seminary, I mean.”

  Koesler pursed his lips. If he could have whistled convincingly, he would have. “The toughest audience in creation—your fellow students. The average parish congregation hopefully tries to get something from the homily that’ll help them live as better Christians. Your crowd this Sunday will be critiquing you.”

  “I know. This is not the smartest thing I ever did—to let it go this long, I mean. That’s one of the reasons I came to you; if anybody knows about preaching, you do. And I’m not trying to suck up!”

  “I know you’re not, Al. Well, let’s get at it. Got any idea where to start?”

  “Yeah … if it works out. I’ve been reading, for the second time, Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities.”

  “Okay. That’s a decent place to begin. And I’ve got a throwaway for you, if it works out. I say ‘if’ because you can go down the wrong path by forcing an anecdote into your homily.

  “Anyway, this was a cartoon years ago in the New Yorker magazine. It showed a bearded author sitting on one side of a desk. On the other side is an editor fingering a manuscript. The editor is saying to the author, ‘Really Mr. Dickens, was it the best of times, or was it the worst of times. It could scarcely have been both.’”

  They laughed.

  “That’s a good story, Father. Think anybody in the student body will have seen that?”

  Koesler shook his head. “I shudder when I think your average student here was in pure potency when that cartoon was published.

  “Now, is there something special you want to focus on from A Tale of Two Cities?”

  “Yes, Father. The end. The very end of the book.”

  Koesler smiled. “Yes. I can see and hear Ronald Colman speaking those lines. A smile of satisfaction on his face and a tear in his eye.”

  “Ronald …?”

  Koesler shook his head. “You’ve never heard of Ronald Colman.”

  “The name’s sort of familiar. He was … an actor?”

  “A very good actor. And, among lots of other movies, he played the lead in A Tale of Two Cities. But I see you’ve got the book there. Read me the lines.”

  “Sure …” Cody opened the book and turned to the end. “Sydney Carton has taken Darnay’s place to be executed,” he said, setting the scene. “And Carton is now waiting his turn to be guillotined. As he moves up closer to the block, he says—and these are the last lines in the book—’It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

  The two sat in silence for several moments.

  Koesler wiped a tear from his cheek. “That’s such beautiful writing. It was, indeed, the best of times and the worst of times. But, obviously, you’ve found some specific moral from the work. Otherwise you wouldn’t be thinking of using it as the basis for your homily. Can you tell me exactly what has so impressed you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that a lot, Father. An awful lot.”

  “And …?”

  “Well, it’s the decision he made … Carton, I mean. It was so … final. I thought it was so neat … no, that’s not the word … so dramatic, so impressive when he’s waiting for his plan to be set in motion.”

  Cody flipped a few pages back into the book, and read, “‘The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone forever, ten gone forever, eleven gone forever, twelve coming on to pass away’ I mean, saying good-bye to the time that will soon become eternity for him.”

  “Yes,” Koesler agreed. “Now, how are you going to apply that?”

  Cody smiled engagingly. “I’m not sure. I thought I’d open with the basic story of the book.”

  “Maybe you cou
ld start with the New Yorker cartoon.”

  “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  “A little humor in the beginning is one of the best ways of getting their attention. Then, after telling them about the cartoon, as you suggest, a sort of Cliffs Notes setting of the stage for that ending. But you want to center on what the book’s ending signifies.”

  “Yes, Father, the decision. Once Carton decides to take Darnay’s place and, as it turns out, to die for him, Carton grows more at peace with himself. I want to bring that out.”

  Koesler went to the bookcase and removed the lectionary that held the Scripture readings, daily and Sunday. “Let’s see what the Church is offering you for this Sunday.”

  Silently, Koesler scanned the three readings; first from the Old Testament, second from one of the Epistles, and third from a Gospel.

  Having read the three, Koesler looked at Cody with a hint of disbelief. “Are you sure you didn’t rig this, Al?”

  “No, I didn’t,” in innocent protest.

  “This Gospel, it comes made to order.”

  “How so, Father?” Cody felt exhilaration.

  “It’s from St. John. It’s from that long discourse of Jesus that John chronologizes as being after the Last Supper. Get this—I’ll just skip around a little so you can see what it has to do with Carton and Darnay:

  “‘As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Live on in my love. You will live in my love if you keep my commandments, even as I have kept my Father’s commandments, and live in His love. All this I tell you that my joy may be yours and your joy may be complete.

  “‘This is my commandment: Love one another as I have loved you. There is no greater love than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends … I call you my friends.’

  “Doesn’t that fit, Al?” Koesler placed the book on his desk and looked intently at the seminarian.

  Cody nodded enthusiastically.

  “You saw,” Koesler said, “how Sydney Carton would lay down his own life to save Darnay’s. And how, once he took the decisive steps to pull that off, how calm he became.

  “And then Jesus, using different words, says the same thing. He says, ‘There is no greater love than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’