The Greatest Evil

18

During the prayers, Lucy gently closed her mother’s mouth. The eyes were already closed.

After the prayers, Father Koesler and Lucy stood. Vincent remained kneeling at the foot of the bed, clutching his mother’s ankles.

“Do you want to stay with her?” Koesler asked Lucy.

“I think we’d better find Tony,” she said.

It occurred to Koesler-and not for the first time-that of the three offspring, Lucy by far was the rock.

Vincent seemed in another land.

“We’re going to find Tony and be with him, Vinnie,” Koesler said. “Do you want to come?”

No response.

“Vinnie-” Lucy said sharply.

“No,” Koesler said. “Let’s leave him alone. He wants to be with your mother. Besides, the doctor should be here any minute.”

They found Tony standing in front of the darkened TV screen, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Wordless, they stood on either side of him for what seemed a much longer time than actually transpired.

“Damn Vinnie and damn his damn miracle!” Tony said bitterly.

“It’s not Vinnie’s fault,” Lucy said quietly.

“No? Whose idea was it not to try therapy?”

“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was originally,” Lucy shot back. “The point is once it was proposed, we all agreed to skip a treatment that stood almost no chance of being effective. All of us, that is, with the possible exception of you. You lost that vote. We couldn’t ask some hospital to give Ma one fifth of a radiation treatment because you wanted it and I and Vinnie and Father and Doc didn’t.”

“So, okay: You won.” Tony was almost snarling. “The point is, without therapy Ma lasted about a month. With treatments, she could have watched you and me graduate. She could’ve watched St. Vincent get ordained. Now she’s not going to be here at all. Now,” his voice rose, “she’ll miss everything.”

“This is no good, Tony,” Koesler said. “You can Monday-morning quarterback from either side. We agreed it would be better to skip radiation. Even your mother agreed.”

“What chance did she have of disagreeing? The vote was four to one before Ma could speak her piece.”

“Try and look at it this way, Tony: We tried going without treatment. We know now that had its expected result: She passed away. The only real surprise is that it happened earlier than we anticipated.

“Imagine,” Koesler continued, “that we had agreed to have the radiation treatments. We-the doctor, all of us-were quite sure they could not cure her-not with the cancer she had. But suppose we had gone with the radiation. We know she would have been pretty miserable and uncomfortable. Much more so than if she hadn’t gotten them. So then, when she inevitably died, we would’ve been second-guessing ourselves … wondering what her quality of life would’ve been like if she hadn’t had to undergo the treatment. Her quality of life was much better without than with.

“What is quite certain is that with or without, she had a terminal illness. But as I said: One could argue either side. No one could claim that each and every one of us didn’t want what all considered best for your mother.

“And as for the miracle that Vincent worked and prayed for almost alone, it really was the only possible solution to this tragedy. At times, just based on Vinnie’s investment of prayer and sacrifice, I actually expected it to happen.

“The big thing is: It’s over. With or without treatment, and without a miracle, it’s over. Sooner or later it will be over for all of us. Your mother has gone from here to eternal life. The challenge you two have is to live up to your mother’s standards. And one quick way to do that is for you to love each other and forgive each other whenever forgiveness is called for.

“I mean, picture your mother here, now, as well she may be. You wouldn’t want her to see you bickering and, in effect, blaming one another for her death.

“With your mother gone, you’re all going to have to be closer than ever.”

For a minute, there was neither sound nor movement. Then, tentatively, Lucy moved to Tony and embraced him. He returned her hug.

Typical, thought Koesler in his growing admiration for Lucy; typical that she would be the first to make a gesture of reconciliation.

The doorbell broke the silence.

Having been summoned to an emergency call and seeing the three of them in the living room instead of upstairs with Louise, Dr. Schmidt knew immediately. “She’s gone.” It wasn’t a question.

“We think so.” As far as Koesler was concerned it wasn’t official until the doctor confirmed it.

They followed Dr. Schmidt up the stairs, but remained in the hall while he entered the bedroom.

After some minutes, he called them in.

He had pulled the sheet over Louise’s small body. He was writing on what seemed to be a document and was, in fact, the death certificate. “Do you want me to help make arrangements?” he asked of no one in particular.

“No. Ma and I talked this through,” said Lucy. “I know what to do.” She left the room and they could hear her firm footsteps going down the stairs.

Tony stood near the doorway, not knowing quite how to react.

“This was fast,” Schmidt said. “I certainly didn’t expect her to go this quickly.” He turned to Koesler. “How long have you been here, Father?”

“I came right after noon Mass.” Koesler studied his watch. “About an hour and a half, I’d say.”

“Did she seem in any distress?”

“No … I don’t think so. Mostly she was resting. I talked with her for a while. That was right after I got here. We all took turns”-he looked around at the other two-“of about fifteen or twenty minutes each. It was during Tony’s watch that she … well, began to die. We prayed for her. Her … agony lasted no more than half an hour … although,” he added, again looking at the other two, “it seemed a lot longer. She seemed to be trying to breathe and finding it more and more difficult. We all were with her when she passed.”

“Not all of us,” Tony said bitterly.

“I asked you to call Dr. Schmidt,” Koesler said, in explanation of Tony’s absence at the end.

“I didn’t come back.”

“This is never easy,” Schmidt said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“My sister stuck it out!” The statement reflected a chauvinistic spirit; Tony had not lived up to a demand answered by a “mere girl.”

The priest and the doctor let Tony’s charge stand. Both felt that in time the young man would have a more mature attitude.

Schmidt turned his attention to the medication and supplements on the nightstand. “You said that until near the end she exhibited no apparent pain?”

“No,” Koesler responded. “Tired … she seemed very tired. But no pain that I could detect.”

“Well, this probably is the answer.” Schmidt held up the small morphine bottle. It was empty. “For the life of me, I couldn’t get her to use a painkiller. I don’t know why. Well, evidently, she changed her mind.”

“She had joined her suffering to that of Christ,” Koesler murmured. He felt that his mind was becoming numb.

Schmidt looked at him sharply. “I don’t understand that at all!”

Koesler sighed. “It made sense to her.”

When Louise had explained her intention regarding the morphine, Koesler had thought of a sermon given about a hundred years ago by John Henry Cardinal Newman. Newman’s homily addressed Mary’s presence at the crucifixion of her son. It was an involved theological speculation that began with the hypothesis that Jesus was one person and that was divine. He was God. However, He also possessed two natures: human and divine. Not only was He a human man, He also was God. He lacked, then, a human personality. This absent human personality could not participate in the total suffering that ended in His death. Newman’s point was that Jesus’ mother contributed-offered-her human personality to complete her son’s redemptive act.

It was a most complex concept … a theological clutter.

Koesler was certain Louise had never read or even heard of the sermon preached so long ago. And yet that, in effect, was what she had done in joining her suffering with the terminal pain of Jesus Christ.

Now, gazing at the empty bottle, Koesler began to comprehend how intense her pain must have been-so great that she was forced to abandon her resolution.

But he was glad she had done it. It had been the certainty of the painful effects of the radiation, along with the hopelessness of the treatment, that had prompted the decision to forgo therapy.

Without radiation, morphine became the prescribed antidote for the pain of her cancer. Thank God she had finally made use of it.

Schmidt closed his bag, then stopped and looked around the room. “Something’s missing.”

“What?”

“Vincent. I haven’t seen him since I arrived. Surely he’s here! He couldn’t still be at the seminary, could he?”

“That’s strange,” Koesler said. “Of course he’s here. He’s been here since yesterday. After Louise died, Lucy and I left him here with her. He seemed to want to stay near the body. With all that’s been happening, I’m afraid I forgot all about him.” He turned to Tony, still standing in the doorway. “Do you know where Vinnie is?”

It was as if Tony had suddenly wakened. “No … no, I don’t. I’ll go find him.” He disappeared down the hall.

“Can you stay with them for a while at least?” Schmidt asked Koesler.

“I’ll stay. They’re expecting some relatives and friends later. The original plan was for visitors to come and go without sticking around to tire her. Now, of course …” Koesler looked at the outline of Louise’s slight form. “… there’s no reason for them to leave. I’m sure they’ll stay to comfort the children and each other. But I’ll hang around until the crowd grows a bit.”

There was movement at the bedroom door. Tony had returned from somewhere, but Vincent wasn’t with him. The boy was ashen.

“What is it?” Koesler asked.

“You’d better come.” He turned and led them down the hall to the guest room-the bedroom that Vincent and Tony had shared when they were children.

All Koesler saw was a well-kept room … until Tony pointed to the far corner beyond the bed.

Koesler, following Tony’s pointing finger, took a few steps around the side of the bed. There, on the floor, curled in a fetal position, was Vincent. He was not moving.

“Oh, my God!” Koesler exclaimed.

The Present

“Oh, my God!” Father Tully breathed.

Neither priest spoke for several moments.

“This is playing out like a Greek tragedy,” Tully said finally. “An excommunicated aunt; a failed nullity decree; a suicide; sisterly enmity; terminal cancer at the worst time for the children; and now … what? A catatonic young man on the verge of ordination to the priesthood?” He shook his head. “Incredible!”

“It does have a cumulative effect, doesn’t it?” Father Koesler agreed. “Although I’m the storyteller, I’ve never considered the events of the Delvecchio family’s tragedy in one continuous chronological line before.”

He thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s because I’m not dwelling on many of the happy, upbeat, positive things that happened to them. But then, it was this accumulation of really bad fortune that transformed the family-especially Vincent. As I said before, seeing the story this way is giving me a much different perspective.” He tilted his head slightly. “Interesting.”

During Koesler’s lengthy narration, Tully, not consciously, had inched forward until now he was perched on the edge of his chair almost like a bird in a cage.

Aware now that he had become physically involved in the Delvecchio chronicles, he pushed himself back in his seat. “But what happened to Vincent?” he asked. “Obviously, he didn’t die. On top of that, he was ordained; my God, he’s a bishop!”

Koesler looked grave. “That undoubtedly was a pivotal time in Delvecchio’s life. Fate might have taken him in almost any direction. At least for a while, his life’s course was not in his hands. Others took on that responsibility for him.

“Looking back on it now, I don’t know how those kids got through it. But somehow they did. The funeral for Louise was Easter Wednesday. I gave the eulogy. Ordinarily it would have been one of the St. William’s priests. And Frank Henry was not happy that Father Walsh actually asked me to do it.

“Easter Sunday evening Vincent was admitted to St. John’s Hospital. The day of his mother’s funeral, he was transferred to St. Joseph’s Retreat.”

“St. Joseph’s Retreat? What’s that?”

“Nothing now. It was a Catholic sanatorium in Dearborn, staffed by the Sisters of Charity-you know, the ones who used to wear the winged bonnets-”

“Like the Flying Nun.”

“Pretty close. I was kind of familiar with the place before Vince was committed. For one thing, while I was at St. Norbert’s, St. Joe’s was only about a ten-minute drive away. When we were shorthanded-usually because the pastor was on vacation-we used to get from St. Joe’s one or another of the priests who weren’t too far removed from reality to help us with Mass …” Koesler smiled, remembering. “One older guy really was memorable. Each time he’d say Mass for us, he’d steal a vestment. When I drove him back to St. Joe’s, I’d always try to find a way of retrieving it.

“One day I was driving him back and he started reminiscing about how terribly his bishop had treated him. And, believe me, he had a long litany of complaints. Then he said, ‘I just had it with the man. So I went right up to him and told him to go to hell.’

“‘Did he go?’ I asked him.

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘he sent me.’”

Tully chuckled. “But Vincent … what happened to Vincent?”

“I think he was virtually a prisoner in the Retreat. No visitors-not even a priest. I tried to see him and couldn’t. That was almost unheard of … I mean, I’ve been admitted to hospital rooms where the patient is so ill a spouse is denied entry.”

“No one knew what was happening to him?”

“Sure. Guys in the chancery knew. The seminary faculty was kept informed. Of course both those groups could be very close-mouthed about things. And in Vinnie’s case they were. I was eager to find out what was happening. But I didn’t have a clue … until the meeting.”

Koesler had been sitting too long. He got up and started pacing.

“What meeting? What happened?”

“The meeting was the second Sunday after Easter, at St. John’s Seminary. The rector and his faculty; Monsignor Jake Donovan from the Detroit chancery; Father Walsh-as Delvecchio’s pastor; Bobby Bear, Vincent’s psychiatrist; and I-at Walsh’s invitation.” Koesler was silent for a moment. “Seems they had been treating Vince with electroshock.”

Tully shuddered. “They used that a lot back then, didn’t they …”

Koesler nodded. “With a lot of therapists it was the treatment of choice. And then, much more than now, being confined in a sanatorium was almost a badge of shame that was difficult to live down. Especially if you were a seminarian. They had awfully tight standards then: Any deformity or questionable health could be cause for dismissal. If this had happened to just about any other seminarian, it would have been curtains for his vocation.

“But Vincent Delvecchio was not your run-of-the-mill candidate. The chancery had plans for Delvecchio. So the top brass had a bad case of mixed emotions. Thus the meeting …”

“I know the outcome,” Tully broke in. “They kept him in the seminary and ordained him. But I don’t exactly know why. I mean, I know it’s really rough when someone very close dies. But … catatonia? That sure would make me wonder …”

“Not so rare. A long time ago Detroit had an auxiliary bishop whose mother died at a very old age. And that bishop’s reaction almost set the standard for Vince’s. In time, the bishop got over it and functioned again. The difference here was that the precedent incident involved a bishop, whereas Vince was still a seminarian. What can you do with a bishop who’s gone haywire? Whatever else happens, he remains a bishop. But a seminarian? He has a breakdown, he can be dumped. Ordain him and you’ve created a problem that could haunt the diocese for as long as the illness continues … maybe for the sick priest’s entire life.

“And, I can assure you: If it hadn’t been Delvecchio, he would’ve been dumped even though he had already been ordained a deacon. They would just have applied for a laicization. He would’ve been reduced to the lay status and left to get along as best he could.

“But, of course, this wasn’t just any ordinary kid who wanted to be a priest. This was the Reverend Mr. Vincent Delvecchio. The archdiocese of Detroit had a lot invested in Vince: not only money but plans for administrative service.

“Thus, the conclave.”

“And,” Tully asked impatiently, “what happened at the meeting?”

“Oh, I can’t recall all of it …” Koesler paused to refresh his memory. “Well, first off, Monsignor Donovan identified the state of things. He was present in lieu of Archbishop Boyle. Boyle at this time”-he looked intently at Tully, who could not be expected to remember when the future Cardinal Boyle had succeeded Cardinal Edward Mooney-“had been in Detroit only some three months. He was installed in December 1958 and we’re talking about the spring of 1959.

“Donovan wanted to impress everyone that Boyle considered this decision concerning Delvecchio of prime importance-important enough that the archbishop himself would have attended. But since he was new to the diocese and was swamped, he couldn’t be there. Nonetheless, all were to understand that Donovan represented Boyle, the chief bishop of the state of Michigan.

“Then, as I recall, Dr. Bob Bear reported that Vince had suffered an extremely severe anxiety attack. He didn’t want to be overly technical nor could he reveal any information protected by physician-patient confidentiality, etcetera.

“Bear’s prognosis was guarded. With care and intensive therapy, Vince’s prospects were quite good. However, at this point, no predictions were ironclad. The doctor’s conclusion: One, that Vince not be ordained a priest until recovery was pronounced and solid; two, that during the time of Vince’s recuperation he be carefully monitored.

“Then the faculty had at it. It seemed obvious to me that the course the doctor had outlined made sense and that that’s what would happen. But I guess each of them felt impelled to contribute something. Father Walsh drew audible lines under some of the faculty’s comments. By the time it was my. turn, everything that could’ve been said had been. So, I passed.

“The responsibility for the final, word seemed to be shared by Father Finn and Monsignor Donovan. And basically, they pretty much followed the doctor’s suggestion.

“Finn said that no matter how quickly Vince might recover, ordination was out of the question this year. He said that no final decision should be made until at least a year from now and maybe longer. But Finn was concerned that Delvecchio not be put upon a shelf somewhere and periodically studied like an insect under a microscope.

“At the same time, it might be counterproductive to take Vince back at St. John’s Seminary. Of course he could continue in some sort of graduate work. But he would have to do so on his own. And that would not be feasible in this institution’s makeup. With all the other students from the first year of theology to the fourth, Vince would, in effect, be in a fifth year of theology-a class unto himself, as it were.

“Then Monsignor Donovan spoke up. He noted that originally Delvecchio had been scheduled to study theology in Rome. At almost the last instant, another student, who happened to be the nephew of a bishop, had been substituted for Vincent.

“‘Why not,’ the monsignor said, ‘use that appointment now?’ So Donovan suggested-with all the clout of the archbishop of Detroit-that Delvecchio be sent off to Rome for … the duration, however long that would be. Donovan said he had several personal friends in Rome, who, he was sure, would monitor Vince’s progress, behavior, and so forth.

“As a fringe benefit, while he convalesced Vince could be taking some graduate courses in Rome. He could end with a leg up on a master’s or a doctoral degree.

“All in all,” Koesler concluded, “it seemed like a happy solution to’ the whole problem.”

“So, he went off to Rome?”

“Well, he did have a choice: He could refuse the Rome assignment, he could shop around for another seminary in another diocese, or he could go job hunting.

“He went to Rome.”

“We corresponded-irregularly for the most part. Would you believe he spent the next four years studying in Rome?”

“Four years! It took him that long to get well?”

Koesler chuckled. “Not nearly. I could tell from his letters that he was making steady progress. Considering how ill he had been, he recovered remarkably quickly.”

“Then how come they didn’t ship him home right then?”

“Let’s just say-and for some very good reasons-the diocese didn’t want to gamble. I, for one, will never forget seeing Vince curled up on the floor, helpless and unconscious. And while nobody from the chancery was there, they couldn’t forget what had happened. Vince understood their reluctance to bring him home and ordain him.

“But he did extremely well with his time. Before he left Detroit, he spoke French, Spanish, and, of course, English and Latin. While he was in Rome, he became fluent in Italian. He got a doctorate in theology and a licentiate in Canon Law.”

“Wow!” Father Tully was impressed.

“Toward the end of his time in Rome, the guys in our chancery were trying to figure out where to slot him. Word had gotten around about what had happened. Gossip, especially clerical gossip, is a dam that can’t hold indefinitely. The brethren couldn’t figure what happened to him when he didn’t return to St. John’s after Easter vacation.

“After Vinnie’s endurance effort at prayer, all the guys at St. John’s at that time knew about his mother. It was also easy to learn there was no miraculous cure. But he disappeared. Over time, it wasn’t that difficult to put it all together. St. Joe’s Retreat and then sent off to Rome as if he were wrapped in the secrecy of a spy.

“So, there was that to consider. Vince hadn’t really been Mr. Popularity; now he bore the sobriquet of ‘crazy.’ How would he be greeted when he returned to Detroit as mysteriously as he’d left? Of course he had a couple of degrees from prestigious Vatican colleges. Not only that, he’d been in Rome as the Second Vatican Council began. Unfortunately, his appreciation of the Council was tainted by viewing it through the eyes of some of his more conservative teachers and mentors.

“The Roman Curia was not happy with this plaything of Pope John’s. Generally, they were dedicated to doing everything possible to torpedo the Council and return to the good old days-when any Church movement began and ended in Rome. Then, the ‘Church’ very definitely was the Pope and his administration.

“The Curia put up a determined, but a losing battle.

“And so Vincent Delvecchio returned to his archdiocese. Now his archdiocese had to figure out what to do with this talented misfit.”

The phone rang, followed by the sound of Mary O’Connor’s footsteps almost running down the hall.

Mary and Koesler had been through some pretty urgent and stressful times. She never ran.

“It’s the bishop!” she stage-whispered at the door.

“Which one?” Although Koesler would’ve bet on the answer.

“Delvecchio.” She was almost wheezing.

Koesler looked at Tully. “Want me to get it?”

Tully shook his head as he rose from his chair. “I’ll get it. Speak of the devil! I’d like to hear how he sounds now that I’m getting a better idea of what makes him tick.”

When Tully returned he was smiling.

“What’d he want?” Koesler asked.

“He wanted to get out of tonight’s little ceremony.”

“Why? What happened?”

“‘Unexpected complications’-of such mysterious origin that he couldn’t be specific.” Tully winked. “He said he couldn’t possibly make it before close to nine. That’s where he made his mistake. When I told him our other guests wouldn’t be here until nine at the earliest and that we were willing to live with that, he didn’t have much of an alternative.”

“So …?”

“So then he didn’t say anything for a moment. I could imagine him cursing his luck in mentioning a time that he thought was out of the question only to find it fit hand in glove. Finally he said he’d be here as early as he could. He said maybe we could get the paperwork out of the way so he’d be free to leave before it got too late.”

“And you said …?”

“I said that maybe that would work out.”

“I wonder,” Koesler mused, “what he meant by getting ‘the paperwork’ out of the way?”

“Your retirement documents, I suppose.”

“You don’t think …”

“… that he meant my Oath of Fidelity?” Tully shook his head. “I truly don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he wants this Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity to be part of a public ceremony. That way some people would have cause to turn me in if ever I strayed from the Pope’s course.

“Actually,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “I’m almost looking forward to going a few rounds with him. Now that-thanks to you-I’m getting to know him better. Bishops can give one the impression that they put their episcopal vestments on in a telephone booth. It’s good to be reminded that they put their pants on one leg at a time.”

“Or,” Koesler noted, “as one of my priest teachers, once said of the rather rigid St. Alphonsus Liguori: ‘A good man, very saintly. But if you read too much of his stuff, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn.’”

Tully laughed. “Well, then, tell me more about Bishop Delvecchio. Maybe he’s already putting on his trousers with that shoehorn. If he is, I’d sure like to know. I can use all the information I can gather.”

“All’s fair in psychic games with the hierarchy,” Koesler improvised.

“Say …” Tully consulted his watch. “… we’ve got a little time on our hands. What say we repair to the basement and shoot some pool?”

“Sounds good.”

“And,” Tully said, as he led the way downstairs, “you can go on with your briefing.”

The basement of St. Joseph’s rectory had been divided into several rooms, or more precisely, compartments. The largest of these was huge. Spacious enough to contain an upright piano, lots of metal folding chairs-now stacked against the wall-and, in the center, a slightly smaller-than-official-size pool table.

This room was used by, among others, the parish council and its various committees. When in such use, the plastic cover was drawn over the pool table, turning it into a meeting table. Never mind that the rail made this somewhat awkward.

The table had been added to the rectory’s basement by one of Koesler’s predecessors. Sometimes, when there was no pressing business-a circumstance occurring less and less-Koesler would wander down and fool with a game of solitaire … usually humming the River City pool hall song from Meredith Willson’s The Music Man.

“How about some eight ball?” Tully invited.

“Sounds good.”

“Name the stakes.”

“Fun.”

“Fun? We don’t need to play for much … but the pot ought to be there.”

“I don’t gamble …” Koesler felt as if he were going to confession … as if gambling were a virtue and he was wrong not to.

“It’s not against our religion, you know.”

“I’m aware there’s no Church law against it-unless it gets out of hand. It’s just me. I can’t stand to lose. So I don’t take that chance.”

Tully tilted his head. I’ll just pretend we’ve got something on the game, he thought. He was certain his gambling outings were under his control. He just loved the thrill of chance.

He racked the balls while ceding the break to Koesler. In this, Tully knew not what he was doing. For the break came perilously close to shattering some of the balls. Two solids fell neatly into separate pockets.

Tully was impressed. “Are you sure you don’t want a little bet? This is no mean beginning.”

“No bets. Just pretend, if you like, that we have a wager.”

Just what Tully had silently done. Was Koesler clairvoyant? he wondered.

Koesler’s next shot would indicate his wisdom in eschewing a bet.

One of the problems with sinking a number of one’s own balls was that one then had to shoot around (in this case) the stripes. Such was now the situation, as striped balls lay in the way of a clear shot. Actually, only one solid was open. It wasn’t a difficult shot, but it was a table length away.

Koesler blew it.

Tully knew his pool expertise was no better than Koesler’s. This could prove an extended game. Fortunately there was no hurry; all their guests would be late.

Tully walked around the table, gauging possible shots. “So now we’ve got young Vince Delvecchio back home,” he said finally, as he chalked his cue. “What happens next?”

“I was out of the loop-check that: I was never in the loop-so I don’t know how they settled the question. In any case, everybody was quite sure he’d be in the tribunal or the chancery.”

Tully, about to shoot, straighted up in surprise. “The tribunal! After what had happened to his uncle in the marriage court?”

Koesler smiled. “Remember, Vince had a degree in Canon Law.”

“Well, yeah, but that could just as easily have qualified him to teach in the seminary.”

“Good point. But the thinking was that while Delvecchio would not have harmed the students in any way, the vice might not have been versa. You know how kids can be especially cruel … and Vincent’s stay at St. Joe’s Retreat was an easy target.”

“They were really handling this business with kid gloves.”

“That’s the way it must’ve seemed to the power group. Anyway, eventually they assigned him to the chancery.”

“But first they had to ordain him.”

Koesler laughed. “Good point. He was ordained by Archbishop Boyle in the chapel of Sacred Heart Seminary. To tell you the truth, Zack, I think they overdid it. He must’ve thought of himself as a curiosity.

“Ordinations happen in class groups and, at least at that time, in good numbers. Here was an ordination that Delvecchio had worked for harder than almost any other candidate I ever knew. But he became a priest all alone with a small group of relatives and friends looking on. One nice thing: A fair number of his classmates, who had been priests about five years now, showed up.” Koesler, remembering, nodded. “That was nice.”

“Did you take part?”

“Vince asked me to preach. I did.”

“So you still were close.”

“We’ve never been that far apart. The distance, such as it is, has been established by Delvecchio. But that’s okay by me. Whatever he wants our friendship to be is all right.”

Tully sank his second stripe. But scratched on the shot. He backed away from the table. “How did he work out in the chancery?”

“In the beginning, not well. Mostly because they were reluctant to give him a lot of contact with the people who composed the chancery’s clientele, he was made a member of the team that purchases land for future parishes.”

“Land speculation?” Tully’s eyebrows knitted. “Doesn’t sound like a job for a priest.”

“Right. But priests had been doing this for a very long time. Actually, I guess, it started with the growth of the suburbs. The trick was to carefully study the directions in which the developers were expanding and get a central location for a future parish. With enough land for a church, rectory, school, parking, and maybe for an athletic field.”

“A big job.”

“You bet. And one with little room for error. A mistake could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that’s sort of what got Vincent out of that business.”

“How so?”

“Archbishop Boyle second-guessed himself and the chancery’s brain trust. The boss thought the strain might be too much for Vince.”

“They were sort of treating him like a raw egg … afraid he would break?”

“Exactly. So then he became the guy in charge of triage.”

“Triage?”

“He was the first in the chancery to handle people who were blindly seeking help from the archdiocese. They didn’t know whom to see … whom to talk to. They had a need … or a gripe. So they’d call the chancery. They got Delvecchio.”

“How’d he do?”

“Depended on the nature of the call. There were times-not often-that I called the chancery and got Vince. He communicated efficiency, curtness, and not a lot of warmth. After I introduced myself he would relax a little … but not much.” Koesler circled the table, seeking the best shot.

“There’s a story that might help to understand Vince at this point in his life …” Koesler rested his cue on the rack. Neither player was in a hurry. “Vince used to relate the story with some frequency. Working in the chancery, he spent weekends helping out in various parishes. Two things flowed from that setup-”

“Let me guess: One, you never get to know people very well because you hop around from parish to parish. Two, you’re able to repeat yourself because no one group has heard just about all your stories.”

Koesler grinned. “That’s it. But as he wandered around retelling anecdotes, one story in particular came up with some frequency. Apparently he seldom uses it anymore. But he surely leaned on it in those days.”

Tully placed his cue against the table and sat down to better take in the story that had been a favorite of Father Vincent Delvecchio in his early days as a priest.