16

It was just a few minutes till noon. Whenever she had the opportunity—and this was one of those times—Sister Mary Therese Hercher liked to spend a few quiet moments in prayer before the noon Mass.

She genuflected and entered one of the pews near the sanctuary. It was cold; she shivered as her knees touched the padded kneeler. Mother of Sorrows was a venerable parish and this edifice was a tribute to the parish’s more lush days. Plenty of marble and brick, with lots of stained glass. And a huge “rose window” in the front wall above the choir loft—which these days was almost never used.

This huge structure was heated only for Sunday Masses. Through the week, particularly during January and February, it required more than ordinary dedication to visit the church for Mass or private prayer.

It would have made a lot of sense to Therese to just lock the church except for Sundays and special events. Daily Mass easily could be held in the church hall or even, comfortably, in the rectory. Only a very few people attended daily Mass. With no trouble, the small group could have assembled in the basement of the rectory and been warm and comfy. But Father Dick Kramer seemed to feel that if they were to lock the church Monday through Saturday, in no time the chancery would hear of it and they would lock it up for good and all.

That man!

Sister Mary Therese began to pray for the pastor. Stubborn, bull-headed, singleminded, dedicated, generous, caring, hard-working. She was filled with negative and positive feelings.

In the final analysis, Father Kramer had her respect and her continued commitment. If this parish was sinking slowly in the west—and she believed it was—and if the pastor was going to stay with his parish to the bitter end, then she too would stay aboard.

It was not Sister Therese’s style to pray that any course of events should go on according to her lights. Rather, over the long years of a developing prayer life; through the postulancy, the novitiate, first profession, and final vows, she had fairly successfully adopted Christ’s prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane—not as I will, but Thy will be done. In most instances, she had found this the most comforting and comfortable approach to God.

But not now. She was certain it was God’s will that Mother of Sorrows parish should close. Well, perhaps not quite that baldly. But she was certain that for his emotional well-being, Father Kramer must get out of the parish and escape the impossible demands he felt the parish was making of him.

No possible way could he keep this school open. Yet he would continue to struggle until the inevitable failure occurred. And once the school, as well as several other parish services, ground to a halt, Father Kramer would be forced to leave and establish a new headquarters in a parish that more called for and could better profit from his many talents.

Then Mother of Sorrows would cease to exist as a parish. For no other priest in the archdiocese would apply for it. This had happened in quite a few city parishes. And it surely would happen here, also. So she prayed for her friend, Father Dick Kramer, that he would have the sense to admit this was a dying elephant. And that God would continue His presence among these good people even after the demise of Mother of Sorrows parish.

As she prayed, a lonely figure entered the church and walked quietly down the middle aisle. Therese recognized Sarah Taylor, the woman who just last week had lost her son in that tragic incident. The classic example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Little Rudy Taylor! Therese could hardly imagine how the gang who murdered him could have mistaken this young boy for a competing drug dealer.

It had taken the police only a few days to catch Rudy’s killers. The gang—boys themselves chronologically—were to be tried as adults.

What a shame! What a waste!

Either Sarah Taylor had found or was still searching for her consolation in the church. While the Taylors had been regular attendants at Sunday Mass, and while Rudy had occasionally been a Mass server during the week, Sarah had never attended daily Mass until Rudy was killed.

What could one say to someone who had suffered a loss comparable to that of Sarah Taylor’s? Sister Therese had long since found mere words insufficient. But each day, during Mass, at the greeting of peace, Sister Therese had led the others in giving Sarah a little hug and a few of those inadequate words. Something seemed to be helping—probably that little hug.

Therese slid back in the pew. There was something about the hardness of the wood and the no-nonsense ninety-degree angle of the seat and backrest that argued against falling asleep in church. If that weren’t enough, there was the pervading chill. All in all, at least on weekdays during the winter months, one was almost guaranteed an alert congregation.

Her gaze kept returning to Sarah Taylor. Therese remembered her early days in this parish. It was a confusing time during which she’d tried to work out existentially what the office of pastoral associate entailed, especially when occupied by a nun—technically a layperson. At the same time, she’d had to acclimatize herself to the black experience.

One of her first introductions to the differences between the black and the white culture had taken place only days after she arrived at Mother of Sorrows.

It happened when Rose Bevilaqua died. Rose, very white and very Italian, had been a Mother of Sorrows parishioner before a single black family had ever moved into the parish. The Bevilaqua family was one of the few white families that did not participate in the exodus from that changing neighborhood. Not only did they stay put; they remained very active in the parish.

Eventually, the last of their children married and, quite naturally, moved away. Then Rose became a widow. Still she would not move. If anything, she became more involved in the parish and very popular with the children.

Then, shortly after Therese came to the parish, Rose died. Because the children loved her so much, Therese decided to take a group of them to the funeral home to pay their respects. She loaded the parish station wagon with young black girls and boys, all dressed in their very best for the solemn occasion.

It was only after they entered the funeral home that Therese learned that the kids had no idea either of what they were doing or what was expected of them.

As soon as her group entered the foyer, the children spread out in every direction. Chased as closely as possible by Therese, the kids bolted from room to room, looking for their friend. Obviously, they did not know what it meant that she had died. Nor had they any notion of the decorum expected in a funeral home, particularly one whose clientele was nearly exclusively white.

One by one, Therese had collared and collected the children from the far reaches of the funeral home and shepherded them toward the parlor that held the mortal remains of Rose Bevilaqua.

When they reached the proper parlor, there was Rudy Taylor perched atop the casket, peering down into its open hatch. As the ragtag group entered the room, a triumphant Rudy pointed down into the casket and proudly announced, “There go Rose!”

And yet, that had by no means been Rudy’s most memorable performance.

Therese recalled a confirmation ceremony only a year or so previous when Rudy unintentionally became the star of the show. The confirming bishop had been Edwin Baldwin. That was important to the memory of the event due to the fact that Bishop Baldwin, one of Detroit’s auxiliaries, retained the custom of interrogating the children who were about to be confirmed. The other bishops had pretty well abandoned that practice in favor of a simple, routine, and thus usually boring, homily. However, asking leading questions of youngsters could prove hazardous, and had—many, many times.

It was Bishop Baldwin’s fey habit to start almost anywhere, then allow the children’s freewheeling stream of consciousness to go wherever it would.

On this evening, the bishop began at the beginning, Genesis, the Bible’s first book. Various youngsters gave a quite vivid, if fanciful, description of the Garden of Paradise and that frolicsome couple, Adam and Eve. From there, they leaped over the millennia to Noah and the Flood and, eventually, to Abraham. At that point, the bishop threw the conversational ball up for a center jump, as he asked, “And who was Abraham?” Rudy Taylor waved his arm wildly, was called on, and volunteered, “Abraham Lincoln was our first president!”

At which time, the eighth grade history teacher prayed that the earth would open up and swallow her.

A commotion in the vestibule of the church brought Therese back to the present. The majority of this small congregation arrived to the sound of coughing and stamping of feet to shake snow from boots.

Therese glanced at her watch—11:59. One minute before the noon Mass. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was daily or Sunday Mass, a movie, the theater, or a meeting: Most people timed their arrival for the last possible moment—or were stylishly late. Few came early—or even on time—for anything. Therese pitied those who missed coming early for Mass. There was no place more conducive to peaceful, quiet meditation than a church when no service was being conducted.

The usual ten to fifteen people scattered themselves throughout the vast church. Most huddled, almost for warmth, in the front near the altar. But there were those who did not cotton to the distinctively post-Conciliar notion of “community.” These made certain that lots of space separated them from those who clustered together. In the best spirit of laissez-faire, the “community” did not force those in the farflung reaches of the church to participate in communal liturgies such as the greeting of peace.

As Father Kramer entered the sanctuary from the sacristy, he rang the bell that announced the beginning of services. There was no altar boy. A deficiency that emphasized the role of the late Rudy Taylor. Not only were priests an endangered species; now, even altar boys were on the list.

Father Kramer kissed the center of the altar, reverencing the bone-relic of the martyr saint “buried” in the altar stone. He intoned, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

“And also with you,” the congregation replied.

“And also with you,” said the man who had just entered the church.

Arnold Bush had timed his arrival carefully. He did not wish to be early and chance the others’ taking note of him. On the other hand, those who came in after him would be more concerned with discovering where Father was in the Mass than taking any interest in him.

Yes, this was the perfect time. Just a few seconds late and seated quite apart from anyone else. No one would bother him. No one would extend to him the greeting of peace. He was at leisure to study the priest, Father Richard Kramer.

It was not long ago that someone—he’d forgotten who—had told him he bore a striking resemblance to Father Kramer. Until then, Arnold Bush had never heard of Father Kramer. Nor, at that time, did the possibility that he had a lookalike in the priesthood much interest him. More recently, the possibility of such a resemblance took on a much more practical significance.

So, Bush, of late, spent one or two of his lunch hours each week driving out to Mother of Sorrows church to attend noonday Mass. As a rather intense Catholic, he did not mind attending Mass more often than just Sundays. But there was much more than mere devotion involved. In fact, at these Masses he seldom said an actual prayer. He would automatically respond to the celebrant’s invocations, as he just had to the opening prayer, but his mind was far from prayer and God.

Rather, he was planning his next move.

Things were falling into place rather nicely, all things considered. He needed only a little more time to tie up a few loose ends. Then, with any luck at all, his plan would be complete and ready to be put into action.

As he carefully studied the priest, Bush realized that their features were not by any means identical. Oh, they were about the same height and build; blond-haired, fair-complexioned. The likeness, such as it was, would not stand the test of close scrutiny. But to the casual passerby the similarity was enough. Yes, Arnold Bush would stake his future, his freedom, on that.

“Let us proclaim the mystery of faith,” Father Kramer invited.

“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again,” the congregation responded.

Christ died for sinners, thought Bush. It was only fit and proper that sinners should die for Christ.

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