Requiem for Moses

Chapter Two

Father Koesler was still standing at the door when he heard a sound behind him. Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary and factotum, had cleared her throat for no other reason than to attract his attention. He turned to face her.

“While you were with that lady, your five o’clock appointment called to cancel.”

He nodded.

“If it’s okay with you,” she said, “I’ll leave now. Everything is taken care of in the office and I left a tuna casserole in the oven for you. All you have to do is heat it. I’ve got the timer set. Just push the start button.”

He laughed. “Did you write my homily for next Sunday?”

“We all have our special talents.”

“Yeah: I preach and you do everything else.”

Her smile seemed to indicate that he was not far wrong. She slipped into her coat and out the door. As she reached the sidewalk, he called out, “Safe home.”

She looked back and waved.

No five o’clock appointment and too early to push the start button. Time to kill. He went upstairs to the den adjoining his bedroom. With this unexpected break he would be able to get several pages into Tom Harpur’s latest book. Koesler greatly admired Harpur’s concept of religion in general and Christianity in particular. Harpur was an interesting man: Anglican priest, Rhodes scholar, now a full-time writer.

Koesler eased into his favorite chair, adjusted the light, and opened the book.

The phone rang.

“Can you tell me, is there gonna be a service for Doc Green at your church tonight?”

“Well, not a service.”

“Didn’t he die?”

“I’ve been told that.”

“What then? He’s not gonna be at your place?”

At this point, Koesler strongly wished he had simply said yes, there would be a service. But it was important that if the chancery got word of this, everyone be in agreement that there was no service, just a wake. “The body will be in state here. It’s a wake, not a service or a funeral.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Not quite.”

“Well, what time is the wake then?”

“You can visit anytime between about 6:30 and whenever Aunt Sophie gets here … say about nine to be safe.”

“Sophie’s gonna be there! In a Catholic church! You gotta be kiddin’.”

“I sincerely wish I were. But, all that aside, would you tell me how you learned of this wake?”

“A friend of mine, one of Doc’s patients, called.”

“Not one of his children.”

“Short notice. They got everybody helping. I forgot to ask the lady who called me about the time. So I thought I’d go right to the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

Koesler hoped his caller did not intend the allusion. He bade farewell and hung up.

Koesler clearly recalled his conversation with Mrs. Green. He had asked how she expected to notify friends and relatives about the wake on such short notice. She had replied that her children, David and Judith, were even then calling people.

At the time, everything seemed to be on a small scale. Two people were making phone calls. That only two were involved in this task surely limited the number who could be notified.

Until this moment, Koesler had been at ease at least as to the size of this evening’s attendance.

It was so obvious. It was so inevitable. And he had been so slow. Of course David and Judith during each call would ask the notified party to pass it on …

Now he wondered and he worried. How successful would this monument to communications be? It was all growing like a worm in compost. How large would his simple but potentially explosive little favor become?

Once again he picked up Harpur’s book and found his place.

The phone rang.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“This is St. Joseph’s Catholic Church?”

“Yes.”

“Somebody called me and said you were going to have the funeral of one Dr. Moses Green. That can’t be true!”

“It isn’t.”

“That’s what I thought. So, the son-of-a-bitch didn’t die.”

“Oh, Dr. Green died all right. And we are going to have a viewing of the body this evening. But we aren’t going to have his funeral.”

“I’ll be damned! He is dead, eh?”

“Did you want to attend this evening?”

“You’re not going to plant him?”

“No, just a wake service.”

“Then tell me this if you can: When and where is he going to be buried?”

“The body will be at McGovern Funeral Home tomorrow morning. I don’t know the time or the place of burial. Somebody at McGovern’s should be able to give you that information.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there. I want to be sure they bury this jerk.”

What an odd call, thought Koesler as he hung up. So much for nil nisi bonum de mortuis-say nothing but good about the dead.

Was this an isolated call, or were there more out there-a legion? — who had no love lost for the doctor. And what could cause a hatred so intense that it transcended death?

These calls that David and Judith were engendering were, Koesler assumed, going out to relatives and friends. Whoever had just called St. Joseph’s clearly was no friend. Why would he be notified? Who would notify him?

This was puzzling.

The phone rang.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“Excuse me, Father …” It was a woman’s voice. “I heard that Dr. Green passed away today. And I also heard he is going to be waked at your parish this evening.”

Finally, somebody’d gotten it right.

“That’s true. Did you want to attend?”

“I was thinking of it.”

“Then you might plan on coming sometime between 6:30 and 9:00.”

“Thank you, Father.” A pause. “I’m a nurse. I work mostly in the OR. I used to assist the doctor in some of his operations.”

“Used to? You haven’t for sometime?”

“Sorry, I thought you knew.”

I’m beginning to think there are lots of things I don’t know. How many of these things I need to know is anybody’s guess, thought Koesler.

“You see,” the nurse explained, “Dr. Green has been ill, very, very ill for at least the past six months. A great deal of back pain. Quite intolerable. He was hospitalized, but the specialists were unable to identify what the trouble was. There was only one certainty, and that was his pain. At times it was unbearable. Eventually, there was general agreement-in which even Dr. Green shared-that he might just as well return home. There was nothing hospital confinement could do for him. From that time on, it was just a case of managing-or trying to manage-the pain.

“So you see, it’s been a long time since we worked together. It’s been a long time since I’ve even seen him.”

“You’ll be coming tonight?” Koesler asked.

“I think so.”

“Fine. If you get here before about seven o’clock, look me up. I’ll be in church trying to get some ideas so I can deliver a very brief eulogy. You could help me.” He heard her gasp. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t think you’d want me to do that, Father.”

“Why ever not?”

“I was calling and planning on attending only out of respect for the dead. Now that you’re pressing me, I’ve got to tell you that I would have a very difficult time telling you anything you’d care to mention in a eulogy. In fact, the best suggestion I can give you is … how shall I put it?… uh, try to stay generic.”

“Generic?”

“I may be wrong, but I don’t think anyone could tell you many uplifting examples from the life of Dr. Green. He was not a very … moral man. Certainly not a moral doctor. But, if I stay on this subject, I’m only going to regret the things I’ll say. Thank you for your information, Father. And good luck in your eulogy.”

What have I gotten myself into? thought Koesler as he hung up.

He started to add up the score. Widow seemingly in husband’s corner. Ditto the first caller. Though, on recollection, neither had much specifically positive to say about the deceased. Of course the widow was juggling a series of deadlines. So her apparent lack of distress and mourning was in keeping. …

But these last two calls painted a dismal picture.

Normally, there was not this much phone activity at St. Joe’s. The parish did subscribe to an answering service. But that was only because Father Koesler was the lone priest stationed here full-time.

He decided to ask the service to cover the phones. The bother of answering all these calls played a minor role in his decision. He was more concerned that something he might say could exacerbate the situation.

As he reached for the receiver to call the service, the phone rang. Too late. He would answer this one and then have the service take over.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“That you, Bob?”

Koesler hesitated. He did not immediately recognize the caller’s voice and he was a little guarded about the use of his first name. Though he did not insist on formality, he was old school enough not to invite informality. “Yes …. Who is this?”

“You don’t recognize me? You should; this is Dan Reichert.”

Dan Reichert. Koesler winced. Even on splendid, carefree days, when his immune system was working on all eight cylinders he never wanted to chat with Dan Reichert.

Reichert was a retired Detroit priest living and helping out somewhat at suburban Our Lady of Sorrows parish. Theologically and philosophically, Reichert was to the right of the late Father Charles E. Coughlin, controversial radio priest of the ’30s, as he was nearly always identified.

Right now, Koesler had enough emotional baggage without adding Father Reichert to the top of the mess. But Reichert was, by definition, a colleague, and his priestly office merited respect. And, as a priest and colleague, it was perfectly natural to be on a first-name basis. “Hi, Dan. What’s on your mind?”

“What’s on my mind is what’s going on in your church this evening.”

How on God’s green earth did Reichert know about that? Before acknowledging the wake, Koesler decided to test the waters. Maybe Reichert was referring to something else … something he only thought would be going on tonight. “What’s that, Dan?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m referring to ….”

He knows. If only I had called the answering service seconds earlier.

“I’m referring,” Reichert said, “to that abomination that you’re allowing to take place in a church. In a consecrated church, God save the mark!”

“Wait a minute, Dan. Just what do you think is going to happen?”

“You’re going to have some sort of service for this doctor. This Jewish doctor! This abortionist!”

Koesler felt as if he’d been hit by shotgun pellets and that he would have a most arduous time trying to dig them out.

“Wait … first, who told you this?”

“It doesn’t matter. If you must know, one of Sorrows’ parishioners got a call inviting him to your insidious-your bacchanal!”

“Bacchanal? Hardly, Dan. Besides, we’re not going to have a service.”

“What then?” truculently.

“An opportunity for the late doctor’s friends and relatives to view the body.”

“What happened to all the Jewish funeral homes?”

“The widow is a Catholic. This is her wish.”

“Worse yet! You’re granting favors to a Catholic woman who denied-spit on-her faith to marry a heathen!”

“Hey, Dan, you’re way out of line. It happens that the Greens were married in the Church. And the doctor lived up to his part of the bargain; he not only permitted his two children to be raised as Catholics, but even sent them to parochial schools. And, bottom line, the marriage was sanctioned by the Catholic Church.”

“And for this-just for keeping his word-you give him Christian burial!” It was more spat than spoken.

Koesler’s patience was growing thinner than his hair. “I already told you: We’re not having a service, let alone a Mass.”

“That right? Nobody’s going to do anything? Just the body in the church? Nothing at all added?”

Is he fishing? He couldn’t know about the eulogy. That was the final item on Mrs. Green’s list of favors as well as the last request Koesler had granted. It didn’t much matter: A few words were to be spoken, and if Dan Reichert didn’t know that now, he soon would. Might as well get it over with. “Okay,” Koesler admitted, “I agreed to say a few words. A brief eulogy. That’s it.”

“What are you going to tell that bunch of Christ-killers? About all the unborn babies the good doctor murdered?”

“What is this about abortions? Where did you hear about anything like that?”

“He’s a Jew!”

“So?”

“If it weren’t for the Jews, abortion in this country would be a bad memory. Not only is your man Jewish, but he’s a doctor. That he performed abortions is a given.”

“This is crazy, Dan. You’re talking nonsense. You called the doctor a heathen. A heathen doesn’t believe in the God of the Bible. The whole Bible. And one and the same God is in both Testaments, Old and New. And placing responsibility for abortion on Jews is the same sort of thinking that caused the Holocaust.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that you believe in the Holocaust.”

Koesler couldn’t believe his ears. “Until this moment, I didn’t realize that you are actually dangerous,” he said wonderingly.

“I’m dangerous?! You’re the one who’s inviting a crowd of Jews into a consecrated church. And I don’t suppose you consulted the Code of Canon Law before agreeing to this blasphemy?”

“I did. And I found nothing that would prohibit what we’re doing this evening.”

“But you did find, didn’t you”-Reichert’s voice took on a tone of triumph-“provisions in case of doubt. In doubt we are directed to consult with the ordinary. Can you tell me, in all honesty and candor, that there isn’t at least a small but substantial doubt over what you’re planning?”

In all honesty and candor, of course there was some doubt. He’d gone through that while he was considering Mrs. Green’s request. “Yes,” Koesler admitted, “there was some doubt. But the code adds the proviso that there be time. The Cardinal’s out of the country. And Dr. Green is to be buried tomorrow morning.”

“Surely you are aware of land-to-plane phones. He’s flying back from Rome right now. You could have called. You could have consulted him. You could have followed the law.”

“You have one opinion on the law. I have another.”

“Is that so! Just ‘opinions,’ is it? Well, I intend to be in St. Joseph’s tonight and see for myself what unholy hell you’re going to commit in your consecrated church. I intend to make sure this is brought to the attention of His Eminence. And you had better just pray that nothing happens that will force this out of the confines of St. Joe’s. I almost wish the news media would inform everyone of what you are doing! Watch for me. I’ll be there!”

With that, Reichert did not exactly place the receiver in its cradle. He slam-dunked it.

Koesler hesitated no longer. He rang the answering service and asked that they take all calls. He did not inform the service of this evening’s wake. Thus, the service would be unable to answer any pertinent questions. This had gone far enough.

No. It had gone way too far.

In his lifetime, Father Koesler had been the cause of things hitting the fan more than once. But never had anything escalated as rapidly as this simple wake that he had agreed to host.

Reichert was some six years older than Koesler. They were, at best, acquainted. Definitely not fast friends. He knew, mostly by reputation, of Reichert’s sharply conservative leanings. But some of the things Reichert had just said, the charges he’d made, were beyond any rational extreme. There was no question that Reichert meant what he said. With that, there was no question the man was dangerous.

The thought that such a man still officiated at a parish Mass sent chills through Koesler.

There was no doubt that the Catholic Church was running short of priests. The crisis was worldwide. Nor was there any doubt that many parishes were in critical need of priests. Some priests were suffering burnout. Like everything else in this vocation crisis, the phenomenon was comparatively recent. Parishes that had been served by three or four priests now generally had one, only rarely two.

The overriding tendency was to accept any offer of help. And the pool of available help was deepest among the retirees.

It was in this atmosphere that a priest so flawed in personal theology and philosophy, not to mention Christian charity, was welcomed in a parish. A body temperature in the neighborhood of 98.6 degrees was sufficient qualification. Even if he would have made an effective Nazi.

When Koesler had decided not to phone Cardinal Boyle in transit, he had given little thought to the possibility that the matter would be brought to the Cardinal’s attention. Or that, if he did hear about it, that much would be made of it.

Now Koesler was certain that neither the Cardinal nor he himself would be allowed to sweep the matter under any rug. Father Dan Reichert would see to that in spades.

It was time to push the start button under the casserole Mary O’Connor had left for him. He wasn’t sure he had any appetite. One ought to more eagerly anticipate one’s last meal.

Since Reichert’s call, the phone had not ceased ringing. The answering service, from the questions asked, must be wondering what was going on at St. Joe’s this evening. Just as well they didn’t know. This communications gap might possibly hold down the crowd.