Man Who Loved God

Five

At the outset, Father Tully attempted small talk with his driver. The response was monosyllabic.

The driver’s only bow toward a uniform was a pair of leather gloves. Why the hand covering? Father Tully hadn’t a clue, but judging from the driver’s reaction to other questions, the priest decided not to pursue it.

Riding along Jefferson at this early evening hour, Father Tully was most impressed by the emptiness of the streets.

Downtown Detroit’s gigantic buildings-the Renaissance Center, the Millender Center, Cobo Hall, the Pontchartrain Hotel-all of them attested to a vibrant city. But where was everybody?

As it happened, they had a very short ride.

Just past Cobo Hall and beyond the Joe Louis Arena stood the Riverfront Apartments, the home of Thomas A. Adams, Father Tully’s host for this evening and soon-to-be recipient of the St. Peter Claver Award.

They had to pass through two checkpoints, one to enter the garage and another for the building itself. The security system seemed quite formidable to Father Tully. He had no idea how it would have been viewed by a professional burglar.

They left the elevator at the fourteenth floor and walked a short distance down the hall. The decor, though obviously expensive, was depressing; it seemed dark and confining.

The door to the Adams apartment was opened promptly after the driver rang the doorbell. Father Tully’s chauffeur preceded him, peeled off to the right, and disappeared through another doorway. The priest assumed they would not meet again until it was time to return to the rectory.

Father Tully was ushered into an expansive living room. Off-white walls and ceiling, comfortable leather furniture, here and there a small table, art work tastefully exhibited, and a delightful vista through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The apartment complex was located at the edge of downtown Detroit. At one time, the heart of downtown had been several blocks to the north. But with the Ren Cen, Hart Plaza, and the City-County Building established close to the Detroit River, the city’s heart had shifted.

He had no reason to reflect on it, but Father Tully was now at the very place where, in 1701, Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac and companions got out of their canoes and set up camp at the “straits,” or in French, detroit.

The view from this apartment showcased Windsor, Canada-much industry, some housing, Assumption University, and the University of Windsor-Detroit’s Ste. Anne’s, the second-oldest parish church in the United States; and of course the dynamic river that connected-via Lake St. Clair and the St. Clair River-two of the Great Lakes: Huron and Erie.

In any case, Father Tully had little time to reflect on the topography. His host had just entered the room. Thomas A. Adams crossed directly to the priest.

Adams’s open-arms carriage was amplified by his welcoming smile. Abundant snow-white hair was styled to touch his ears and collar, then graded upward. His handsome face was, suntanned and heavily creased, giving it a leathery texture, highlighted by crinkly laugh lines. At several inches under six feet tall, he was about Father Tully’s height, though heavier. Noting Adams’s dinner jacket, the priest was again reminded that his own clerical clothing fit in anywhere, from a formal affair such as this, to the streets of the barrio.

Evidently, Adams had caught his guest’s fascination with the view. “Really something, isn’t it?” he said as he took the priest’s out-stretched hand.

“Beats anything I’ve seen in Dallas.”

Adams laughed heartily and patted the priest’s shoulder.

Several servants bustled about, setting out hors d’oeuvre trays, decanting wine, and performing last-minute cleaning chores on already spotless surfaces. All were liveried, as was the butler who had admitted Tully and his driver to the apartment.

“What would you like to drink, Father?” Adams’s gesture encompassed the array of wines as well as the credenza bearing a variety of spirits. “We’ve got just about everything.”

Tully gazed at the display. “Yes, you surely have. Maybe a little white wine.”

“Excellent.” Adams turned to a waiter who materialized at his elbow, bearing a small tray of filled wineglasses. Father Tully had been unaware of any servants bending an ear in their direction. One must have been assigned to anticipate their desires.

“Would you care to sit down?”

“Mind if we stand by the window? I can’t get enough of this view.”

“Of course. Good idea.” Adams led the way to a jutting corner that accentuated the vista. The rays of the sunset not only made the sky seem incandescent, but lent a magical mystique to the river.

The priest shifted and looked around the room.

“Is there something you want, Father?”

“Uh, not exactly; I was wondering about Mrs. Adams ….”

The lines on his host’s face sharpened. “There is no Mrs. Adams … at least not for about a year now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“A divorce. I got an annulment.”

Tully considered the statement. It wasn’t “She got an annulment,” or “We got an annulment.” Could Tom Adams secure an annulment all on his own? Wouldn’t his wife have to at least cooperate in the process? Wouldn’t some priest-priests-need to do all the considerable paperwork? What might the stated cause be for the div-uh, annulment? Was this part of a key to Adams’s character? He seemed so warm, so open, so congenial. Yet this was a happy occasion: what would the man be like if crossed?

Both men silently gazed out the window. At length, Tully placed his nearly empty glass on a nearby tray.

“Another one, Father?”

“No. Thank you. No more. I’d better stay alert. I’m going to make a presentation, remember: your award.” Tully indicated the slender carefully wrapped package in his left hand.

“Oh yes, of course. Harry …” Again a servant materialized at Adams’s elbow. “Take this package for Father Tully and bring it back just after all the guests arrive … at eight o’clock.” He turned to Tully. “I think it would be good to have the presentation before dinner and before the liquor has had its, effect.”

Tully handed the packet over.

Adams smiled wryly. “Mickey would not enjoy seeing me get this award.” Noting the priest’s puzzled expression, he added, “Mickey’s the ex. My works of charity were one of our principal bones of contention. Well,” he said with finality, “she made fun of them one too many times.

“But”-he broke into a genuine smile-“she’s not here. She’ll never again be a part of my life in any way whatever.

“Now, enough of that.”

Father Tully was impressed. When this guy cuts you, you’re dead.

They were silent again. The sunset was highlighting the city’s architecture.

“I was wondering,” the priest said finally, “it must be some kind of thrill to have a bank named after you.”

“That’s up for grabs,” Adams said. “Sort of, which came first, the chicken or the egg? In this case, which came first, the family name or a street sign?”

“Please?”

A waiter offered wine from a tray. Adams exchanged his empty glass for a filled one. Father Tully declined the offer.

Adams sipped. “You see, my father started this bank. Its first headquarters had an address on Adams Street in downtown Detroit. Dad probably would have named the bank after himself anyway. Adams Street was the clincher.” He shook his head. “Dad’s been gone these many years now.” Abruptly, he shrugged and lightened. “I’ve never seen any reason to change the name. Besides, having the bank ostensibly named after my family sort of defines my job-what I do.”

Lights were going on in businesses, apartments, and homes as the city prepared for nightfall. Father Tully turned from the window. “You know, I’ve never actually met a bank president. Would you be insulted if I ask what it is you do? I mean, the question that is guaranteed to drive most priests up the wall is, ‘What do you do all day, Father? I mean, after you say Mass?’ It shows that the questioner cannot imagine what could possibly occupy a priest after he slips from view at Mass. So, I don’t suppose you hit the links every day before or after making an appearance at your office.”

Adams chuckled. “Actually that’s not far from wrong.”

“It isn’t?”

“Instead of saying Mass, which I’m sorry I will never be able to do, I review loans. I have to approve a loan if it’s in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars and up for a business or one hundred thousand for a mortgage.”

“Wow!”

“No ‘wow’ necessary.” Adams emptied his wineglass. The ubiquitous waiter collected it immediately. Adams indicated he wanted no more.

“What you must remember, Father, is that we’re a small bank. Compared with say, Comerica, very small indeed. While I’m checking on a hundred thousand, the big guys are looking at about five million.

“But that’s not my main concern. My job, ‘after Mass,’ if you will, is to be visible.

“I knock on doors. Call on the local Firestone dealer. I’m looking for a moderate investment in my bank. I call on as many of the merchants in town as possible. I join the Chamber of Commerce. Lots of civic stuff. I manage to get in the Bloomfield Hills Country Club so I can meet the movers and shakers of our town-to get relatively small accounts.

“I am visible, friendly. I speak before the League of Women Voters. I’m a member of the Lions Club. I do lots of business on the golf course-”

“Excuse me,” Tully interrupted, “but isn’t the game of tennis where all the movers and shakers move and shake and close deals? Isn’t golf too slow and time-consuming?”

“No, tennis has some action, as you suggest. But golf is still supreme.

“But I don’t want to give the impression that business is confined to a few specific locations or opportunities. Lots of business is done at breakfast or lunch … seldom dinner.

“Why, in the morning at Kingsley Inn or even the Denny’s on Telegraph Road there can be half a dozen millionaires discussing investments, loans, mortgages … business.

“And my job boils down to a single word: visibility.”

“Wow!” Tully breathed, with genuine awe. “I can tell you, that’s a busier job description than I could ever come up with. ‘After Mass’ you’re going at warp speed.”

Adams smiled and shook his head. “There’s much more to it than that. Remember, I said we were a small bank ….”

“Yes.”

“Well, Satchel Paige is supposed to have said, ‘Don’t look back; somebody may be gaining on you.’ In the banking game, you’d better look back or somebody is going to eat you. Mergers go on all the time. You know that, Father. Comerica, for one of many examples, used to be two moderately large banking institutions. Now it’s one gigantic corporation.

“It’s called ‘cashing out,’ Father. Some small bankers get rich by selling out. Others run scared. For instance, I’m an officer in the Independent Bankers Association. We fight the big guys off to remain independent. We fight against interstate banking.”

“Well, you must be doing all right. After all, you’re opening a new branch. In fact that’s at least part of what we’re celebrating this evening, isn’t it?”

“The new branch?” Adams’s lips tightened. “Our mayor is ecstatic. While the banking business in general is cutting its presence in Detroit, here we go opening a new branch right in the heart of one of the roughest sections of the city. And we’re getting static from some of our depositors for it. They’re worried that we’re taking their money on a goofy ride. There’s a lot of flak on this-”

“Then … why?”

“Why? I suppose this sounds silly, but because it’s the right thing to do. It’s our chance to show these people that someone cares. Not many think it’s a smart idea.…”

There was another period of silence. The only sound in the room was the low clatter of silverware and dishes as the staff continued its preparations. Finally, the priest spoke. “Mr. Adams, you are either unique, or very, very rare.”

“I know.” The statement was made in honest humility, without the slightest trace of boasting.

“I wonder,” the priest said, “if there’s another businessman who forms company policy on the basis of doing what is right.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are lots. You just don’t hear about them.”

“Maybe. But in your own experience, how many do you know personally?”

“Not many,” Adams admitted. “But I’m sure they’re around. How could you read Scripture and not be influenced by it?”

“There are a lot of people-the majority, I fear-who listen to it most every Sunday and let it go in one ear and out the other. You really live by the Bible, don’t you?”

There was a faint blush to Adams’s cheeks. “Let’s not go overboard. I try to live close to the Christian ideal. And I often fail. But I want this to succeed. I want very much to have this branch set an example.

“And, while I think of it, I should tell you about the others here tonight. I’ve invited my three executive vice presidents and their wives. They all know each other, of course, but for your sake they’ll be wearing identification tags. And there’ll be two others of special interest. One is Al Ulrich, the other is Nancy Groggins.”

“What’s so special about them?”

“It’s pretty well known throughout our banking family that these two are front-runners for managership of the new branch. Each is already a branch manager. Each is extremely capable. Both would do well in this extremely sensitive position. And, most of all, they both want the position … and that’s something else: I doubt that management of this new branch is a high priority with many of my employees.”

“Fear? Of the neighborhood?”

“To a great degree, I think yes. Some see it as a dead end-though that certainly wouldn’t be the case for anyone who does a good job in this spot.

“Anyway,” Adams continued, “I would appreciate your reaction and opinion. Al and Nancy are good people, but quite different from each other. See what you think.”

“You haven’t made up your mind yet? Isn’t the opening just around the corner?”

“Later this week. And everybody figures I’ve already made the selection. But I haven’t. I know it’s not fair to ask your opinion in this major decision based on one exposure and an observance over just a few hours. But I’ll tell you this: I’m leaning toward Nancy. With that in mind, see if you agree or not.”

There was a stir in the vestibule as the other guests began to arrive.

“One last thing,” Adams said. “I suppose you’ve been wondering why you were selected to come to Detroit to give me this award.”

Father Tully had, indeed, wondered. It couldn’t be because his brother was a police officer here; how could Adams know this when the policeman himself hadn’t known it?

“I guess,” Adams explained, “it would be safe to say the Josephites have been my favorite charity for a good long time.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that.”

Adams smiled. “When I got word that I had been selected for this year’s Peter Claver Award, I talked to your superior. We agreed that it would suit both our purposes to link the award with the opening of this very special branch of my bank.

“And I wanted his recommendation for an excellent representative to bestow the award. He nominated you. I checked into your background, your accomplishments, your progress, your present needs. I wholeheartedly backed his choice. And I thank you for taking part in this ceremony.”

As it turns out, thought Father Tully, my selection had nothing to do with my brother. Well, that figures. I’m here because my superior suggested me as a Josephite representative and Tom Adams agreed with the selection.

“Now, Father,” Adams continued, “I’ve been informed that you currently are in the process of building on to your church.”

Tully nodded enthusiastically. “We outgrew the old building. We’re doing all right raising funds. Just slow. Our people don’t have much.”

“I heard all about it from your superior.” Adams reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a piece of paper. It was a check, dated, signed, and made out to the Josephite order.

Father Tully took the check, examined it, and looked up at Adams. “This check … it’s blank.”

“I’m aware of that.” Adams could not suppress a pleased grin. “You see, in the corner, I’ve directed that it be used in your building fund.”

“But … but it’s blank! I don’t know what you intend. I don’t know how much you want to contribute.”

“The balance. I want to finish your fund drive.”

“I can tell you what that amount is.”

“I know how much you need to finish the drive. But there may be incidentals that crop up. The blank check gives you a guarantee that you won’t be ‘surprised’ by any unexpected last-minute expenditures.”

Tully shook his head. “Your generosity is almost incredible. I don’t know what to say. Except thanks.”

“Not at all. I just took a page from the story of the Good Samaritan. I know you’re familiar with that.”

“Sure. About the Jew who was mugged and left for dead. People who should have helped him passed on by. But a Samaritan, who should have been his enemy, helped the Jew.”

“But,” Adams interrupted, “it’s the next part of the story that I centered on. The Samaritan takes the Jew to an inn and gives the innkeeper some money to take care of the injured man. And the Samaritan promises that on his way back he’ll stop and reimburse the innkeeper for any additional expense incurred.

“You see? The Samaritan gave the innkeeper a blank check.” Adams smiled at the simplicity of his reaction to one of Jesus’s most popular stories.

Father Tully regarded Adams, and thought that unless his former wife was extremely religious and generous, she would have had a decided difficulty understanding him. And so they had split.

It all came down to this: Adams loved God and expected others to do the same.

The priest recalled the simplistic question and answer of the all-but-forgotten Baltimore Catechism: Why did God make you? Answer: God made me to know Him, to love Him and to serve Him in this life and to be happy with Him forever in the next.

That, basically, appeared to be the way Thomas Aquinas Adams lived.