No Greater Love Read online

  Cody had only a little coffee left in his cup. He swirled it. He seemed to study it. As if it were not coffee but tea, and not tea but tea leaves, and he was about to tell his own future.

  He put the cup down and stared at Page, who, unaccountably, became somewhat dismayed.

  “Maybe,” Cody said, “maybe we don’t have to pretend, Bill.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Maybe it’s gone beyond pretend.”

  “What …?”

  “It’s just getting a little clearer. Ever since you came to the seminary and joined our class I’ve grown increasingly dependent on you, Bill. I looked up to you … I don’t know why.

  “I went along with you in a lot of adolescent behavior. The way we made life difficult for all the non-M.Divs, especially the women—and most especially Patty Donnelly.

  “All that I learned from my mother—respect for women and sensitivity toward minorities—all down the drain. Just because I wanted your approval. That’s becoming very clear now.

  “Bill, I don’t share your values. If I’m going to be a priest, I’ve got to be a straight arrow. If I’ve never had sex before I’m ordained, it’s not going to cripple me.

  “But it would cripple me if you—no, to be fair, we were to collaborate in a seduction of Patty Donnelly. That would be something I’d regret for the rest of my life—” He looked almost stricken. “And to think I was going to do it!

  “I was just going to go along with you like I have so many times. You’d prop a chair against a table to block one of ‘the great unwashed’ from being in our company. And then so would I. You’d freeze someone out of our conversation and I’d follow your lead.

  “And now it’s happened again.

  “It came as a great shock to me—what happened between you and Andrea. I felt really bad for both of you. Of course, Andrea got the worst of it, by far, so my sympathy was mostly for her.

  “And because I was so sorry for Andrea, I also was sad for Patty. The two of them were closer than you and 1.1 don’t know where they put Andrea. I tried to find her. But before I could find her, she was gone.

  “So I went looking for Patty, and I found her. And, as I thought, she was devastated. I apologized for all the misery I had caused them—”

  “You what?!” Page could not permit such an act to go unchallenged. “I suppose you included me in this hangdog apology. Well, I’ll have none of it! What’s done is done. There’s no going back. I don’t regret a thing. I don’t take back a thing. And there’s no apology going to come from me!”

  Ordinarily so forceful a counterattack would cow the submissive Cody. This evening proved an exception. Cody not only maintained eye contact, he wore a slight smile. It was Page who blinked.

  “No,” Cody said, “I did not offer your apology. And, now that I think of it, it didn’t even cross my mind. It was I who had contrition. I didn’t care about us—you and me. I had treated both Andrea and Patty and all the others shabbily. I, who acted less the Christian, played the unfunny practical jokes; I had a lot to be sorry for. The apology was from me.

  “I didn’t even think of you when I delivered the apology. Isn’t that marvelous: If I had thought of you, I wouldn’t have expressed any sorrow. Because I knew you wouldn’t.

  “But you fixed things anyway, Bill. You came in here swinging away. And you gave me the thing that I do worst at—a choice. Was I going to side with you or with Patty?

  “I chose you! I asked Patty to understand the pressure you’d been under. What pressure? It turns out this whole thing has been a big lark for you. The only bruise you got was losing St. Waldo’s. Big deal! You’ll be ordained. You’ll get a juicy assignment. Your friends in administration and on this faculty will see to that.

  “I chose you. And I lost Patty as a friend. A new friend. And I have this very strong feeling that I’ll never regain her friendship. All because of you.

  “Well, Bill, I don’t think we’ll ever have to pretend we are no longer buddies. In very fact, we aren’t.”

  He dropped his cup in the trash can and left the room.

  “Just a minute! You can’t do this! You don’t cut me out of your life. I drop you! Like a hot potato!” But Page was aware that he was shouting against a blank wall. Cody was gone.

  Page felt alone. Not the aloneness of this otherwise vacant room. Deeper than that.

  He began counting up the friends he had among his fellow students. Even stretching the definition and/or description of friendship, he really had no one. Acquaintances? Quite a few Enemies? More than anyone might expect. Friends? Al Cody.

  Actually, Al was more a lackey, a gofer, a flunky. Now, even Al was gone—at least for a while.

  Would he return? Would he come back?

  Surely he would. Here’s a guy who couldn’t decide whether or not to cross a street. For the past eight years, Bill Page had been posing questions and providing answers for this kid who simply couldn’t make up his mind.

  It was like taking a life preserver away from a nonswimmer. Al Cody needed Bill Page. Al was going to experience this need very soon. Page knew it. He pictured Cody as he must be right now: trying to decide whether to return to the protection and direction provided by Bill Page—mentor and guardian.

  It was just a matter of time. Everything would work out. Things always did for Bill Page.

  Twenty-six

  It was late afternoon on the day after “the incident,” as it was being popularly termed. It happened to be St. Patrick’s Day. The communal Mass had just been celebrated.

  In ordinary circumstances, much would have been made of the popular saint’s feast. But this was not an ordinary time.

  It seemed that all anyone was interested in was “the incident” involving Andrea Zawalich and Bill Page: one expelled, the other confined to the campus; all over a sexual matter the essence of which eluded the students’ best efforts at detection. But it was virtually all everyone was talking about.

  Several of the priest faculty had concelebrated the Mass along with Father Koesler and Bishop McNiff. Now, in the faculty parlor, the priests, having divested and hung the ornate white vestments in the sacristy closets, were headed for what some called the “happy hour” and others termed “attitude adjustment time.”

  Father Koesler was about to join the parade when McNiff motioned him over. “Robert,” the bishop intoned, “how would you like to keep a tired old man company?”

  “I’d consider it. Where is the old coot?”

  “Yer lookin’ at him, Bobby.”

  “I refuse to acknowledge that designation for you … mainly because I’ve only got a year on you.”

  As the other priests took to the stairs that led to the faculty lounge, Koesler and McNiff repaired to the bishop’s suite.

  Koesler, having declined a drink, joined McNiff on the sofa, easily the most comfortable article of furniture in the room.

  “Things certainly didn’t used to be like this, tall, dark and tall.…”

  “You mean students involved in scandals?”

  “No. I was thinkin’ of St. Patrick’s Day in the good old days.”

  “Ah, yes,” Koesler recalled. “The day off, no studies, no classes. A holiday afternoon. The annual college basketball game between the Irish and the gentiles.”

  “Funny how the Irish used to win those games year after year, even though they were taking on the whole rest of the school.”

  “Well, you know how they always say that on St. Patrick’s Day there are just the Irish and those who want to be Irish. There were some strange Irish names on that court: Kowalski, Slominski, Krause.…”

  “Sure’n their mothers were O’Brien and Murphy and Bannon. And will you ever forget the year some hooligans painted all the toilet seats green on St. Pat’s Day.”

  “There was retaliation for that.”

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Of course …” Koesler would revive the memory anyway. “It was the next year
, on the Feast of the Circumcision, when some of the boys painted the toilet seats red.”

  “In either case, some heads would’ve rolled if the faculty hadn’t been in a forgiving mood.”

  “That’s something else that’s changed,” Koesler noted.

  “What’s that?”

  “The mood of the faculty.”

  “You’re referring to yesterday?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I must say,” McNiff mused, “I was surprised. Especially at the penalty on the Zawalich girl.”

  “I can’t help thinking that what she and Page did wasn’t that far removed from some of the escapades we got involved in when we were seminarians.”

  McNiff looked shocked. “We didn’t challenge any girl to sex games!”

  “There weren’t any girls in the seminary in those days,” Koesler reminded.

  “Still …”

  “Plus you could make a pretty good case that this penalty was a double standard. Expulsion is certainly a lot more severe than a few weeks’ grounding.”

  “True. And she in her final year! I did tell her that if she found another seminary, I’d be willing to recommend her.”

  “Good for you! But what happens if the faculty gets word of that? I mean, those faculty members who voted her out?”

  “They’re just going to have to like it or lump it.” There was a touch of defiance in the bishop’s voice.

  Koesler appreciated this. It marked a return of the Pat McNiff of yore. As a seminarian and as a priest, he had been a feisty little fellow. Lately, he had mellowed. While some of the mellowing process was welcome, particularly in his role as a bishop, there were times in this present assignment that cages needed to be rattled. Koesler was pleased at his friend’s show of spunk. “That’s the way to talk, Pat. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”

  “Actually,” McNiff reflected, “yesterday we saw the good news-bad news routine.”

  “Oh?”

  “The bad news is what happened to the Zawalich girl. She was so well put together. Every time I looked at her, the word that came to mind was ‘competent.’ She had her life so organized.”

  “Yes,” Koesler agreed. “Wasn’t she the one who had a job all lined up?”

  “Yeah. St. George’s in Southfield. She was all set to be pastoral minister there. She had her staff selected and pretty well trained. Andrea would’ve hit that parish running. Funny how she had Bennie Manor wrapped around her finger.”

  “Manor?” A name Koesler had not heard in many years. “I hadn’t gotten wind of that.”

  McNiff chuckled. “You remember Manor, don’t you?”

  “Sure. He was a few years behind us in the seminary. But the memory is cloudy. He didn’t do very much. He was sort of just ‘there.’ He didn’t go out for sports or entertainment. He didn’t even break many rules. I’ll bet when the seminary faculty got around to calling him for ordination, there was a collective ‘Who?’”

  “Yep, that was pretty much Bennie Manor.” McNiff cuffed the arm of the sofa with his hand. “And he’s never made waves in all these years. If we hadn’t run low on priests, Bennie probably would never have made pastor. But when they got near the bottom of the barrel, they came up with Bennie.

  “Far as I know,” McNiff reflected, “he just marked time in the parish until it came time to retire. I understand he had that pretty well planned. Which only indicates that there was something he could do well.”

  “Let’s see …” Koesler began a silent count. “He must be damn close to retirement now. What was he—three or four years behind us?”

  “That’s what she used—his pending retirement—to scare him into giving her free rein to update practically everything in the parish.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “You know what this means?” Koesler said. “It means that behind that bland look he always wore, there was nothing going on. What did she do, tell him they wouldn’t let him retire until he updated the parish functions?”

  McNiff nodded appreciatively. “The way she had it laid out, Bennie would say Mass on weekends and, after the scare put on him, probably every weekday as well.”

  “That makes her … what?”

  “Pretty much the pastor.”

  “How did we ever let a catch like her get away?”

  “Our faculty took care of that.”

  “Oh, yeah. But you said that the faculty’s vote brought good and bad news. Well, we’ve seen the bad. What about the good?”

  “The good news, Bob, was the tabulation of the ballots.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The verdict in this case … the trial, if you want, was pretty much decided before we even gathered. About the only thing that surprised me on the bad side was her expulsion.”

  “And the good?”

  “The number who voted for forgiveness and tolerance. Until very recently the votes on a matter like that would be 27 to 3—over and over again. That’s how unevenly divided this faculty was.

  “Those votes yesterday were a victory for what I was sent here to do. Oh”—he raised a hand as if in warning—“it’s not over. They weren’t voting on any of the ‘absolutes’ in Doctrine or Morals. Or how we react to the Pope’s latest word. But it’s a step.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “To you, too.”

  “C’mon. I’ve been here just a little while.”

  “I know that. But you’ve had an effect. You probably can’t see it. Our three acknowledged progressives have been a bit more sure of themselves. And the conservatives have unbent a little. You’re just too close to this thing to see the changes. And of course the changes haven’t been all that dramatic. But they’re real—and yesterday’s vote was a solid indication.”

  “Well … if you say so.” Koesler had difficulty accepting compliments from someone like McNiff with whom a joking relationship held sway. “So … what next?”

  “In this institution?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Not much …” McNiff thought aloud. “Things should quiet down. Easter’s coming up in about three weeks. Then it’s all downhill till graduation, matriculation, and ordination.

  “Take my word for it. Things will settle down. It’s going to be business as usual. And”—he grinned wryly—“we could use a little bit of that.”

  Father Koesler made his way slowly and thoughtfully back to his room. “Business as usual,” McNiff had predicted. All well and good … but what, exactly, was “business as usual” nowadays?

  Koesler shook his head.

  At the heart of it all was the polarity of Catholic conservatives and liberals. Those of the committed sort. The two groups might just as well consist of nitro and glycerin. Mix them and … murder.

  Thirty-some years ago such sharp divisions were unknown in the broader Catholic Church.

  The “Faithful” were faithful. They received the sacraments regularly and fervently. Most would not even think of missing Sunday Mass.

  Priests—the diocesan or secular sort—were either pastors or assistants (curates). Pastors had lived long enough to outmaneuver the actuarial tables. Now they planned on surviving long enough to enjoy their triumph. Assistants prayed for their pastors, that they might soon be in heaven—or at least in purgatory.

  Bishops—who “had achieved the fullness of the priesthood”—really had it made. If nothing was too good for Father, in Ireland nothing was too good for the bishop at all, at all.

  Things changed in the Church at about a quarter of a resolution each millennium.

  Then came Vatican Council II—roughly analogous to the turning point between Before Christ and Anno Domini.

  The Council ushered in the Age of the Laity. Armed with the Conciliar phrase “The People of God are the Church,” they (the laity) launched an incursion into hitherto priestly territory.

  Where once only the consecrated hands of deacon-on-up could touch the Communion wafer, now there were Extraordinary
Ministers of the Eucharist.

  Priests might struggle to retain their territory. Or they might retire. Meanwhile there occurred a fission that divided the conservative and the liberal wings of the Church.

  These were not conservatives who harkened back to the Apostolic days immediately following Christ. These conservatives merely wanted things to be again as they were immediately before Vatican II. As it turned out, they were trying to put the toothpaste back in the tube.

  Liberals were marching resolutely into the twenty-first century even though, at that time, the world was only a little bit more than halfway through the twentieth.

  Bishops, members of one of the more exclusive worldwide clubs, began to circle their wagons. They were squeezed between the Pope and their priests.

  Tending to be mostly conservative, bishops tried to carry forward the dictates of the Pope. Ordinarily, they could accomplish this through their priests. But the priests were disillusioned, their morale was scraping bottom, and they were grievously overworked.

  In 1966, the average age of seminarians was twenty-five. In 1993 the average age was thirty-two. Seminaries were not churning out priests in anywhere close to the numbers thirty-some years before. Active priests were trying to survive even as they served.

  From the hierarchical aerie, the Church hardly was The People of God. It was the same old triangle that had existed quite comfortably before the Council.

  The People of God formed the foundation. They were given “the word” by, in many cases, a hard-pressed clergy. The clergy were given “the word” by, in many cases, a bewildered hierarchy. The hierarchy was given “the word” by a confident if insular Pope.

  Mother Angelica with her network TV toy sat at one end. Theologian Hans Küng sat at the other.

  “Business as usual …” Koesler stood irresolute in front of the unopened door to his room. How long had it been … how many years—decades?—since things had been “usual” in the Church? He thought back to his service as an altar boy, to his years in the seminary, to his days as a fervent young priest, to his time at the helm of the archdiocesan newspaper, to his terms as a pastor. Where, along the way, had things stopped being “usual”?