Sudden Death

4

Hackett’s funeral home was, especially for this early in the day, unusually packed.

Seated next to each other in front of the wall near the still open casket were Niall Murray and Kit Hoffer. Each wore a black suit, with white shirt and black tie. They were two of the six pallbearers.

They were waiting while Father Peter Forbes completed the wake prayers. When he had finished, the ceremony would move to the church. Murray and Hoffer conversed sporadically in whispers.

“I don’t fancy tryin’ to lug that casket up all them steps of the church,” said Murray.

“Me neither,” Hoffer replied. “That coffin plus the Hun must weigh a ton.”

“You’re a poet as well.”

Both successfully smothered snickers.

“Beats practice,” Murray commented after a period of silence.

“Beats practice?”

“Just sitting here.”

“We’ll pay for it later this morning. You can bet on that altogether.”

“You know, I was kind of surprised the coach let us off to come to the funeral. After all, this is Wednesday. Should be a full day of work. Especially with New York coming up. I mean, like, we are really going to be behind.”

“Put your trust in Coach Bradford, will ya now, man? Even as we speak, he is probably sittin’ in this very funeral parlor plannin’ on how he is goin’ to sweat our asses off this afternoon. Besides, we are here for one reason and one reason alone. It would look very bad indeed in the papers and on TV if we hadn’t shown up for the Hun’s funeral.”

“Like, so much for respect for the dead.”

Once again, they successfully stifled a laugh.

Father Forbes finished the prayers and left immediately for the church to prepare for the funeral Mass, known since Vatican II as the Mass of Resurrection.

Mrs. Hunsinger’s brothers and sisters and Mrs. Quinn gathered about her and assisted her into the waiting limousine for the extremely short trip to the church.

Father Forbes found himself pressed for time. He had to hurry back to the church, vest for Mass, and be ready to greet the cortege as it reached the church doors. Ordinarily, it was not his custom to visit the funeral home just before the funeral. He’d done so this morning as a special courtesy to Mrs. Hunsinger.

He was surprised when he entered the huge sacristy to find Father Koesler waiting and completely vested for Mass. It was just a couple of minutes before nine and the funeral bell was tolling. “Bob! What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to concelebrate the Mass with you.” It was Koesler’s turn to be surprised. He had taken it for granted that Forbes would assume he would come to concelebrate. Before the Second Vatican Council, for priests to concelebrate a Mass was most rare. It would be difficult to think of any occasion besides a priest’s ordination Mass when there was a concelebration. But after Vatican II, concelebration became extremely widespread. Nearly every time more than one priest was present for a Mass, it became a concelebrated Mass.

“But you can’t,” said Forbes.

“I can’t?” Koesler’s mind went through a quick computer check looking for a reason why he could not concelebrate. He found none.

“While granting permission for Church burial for Hunsinger, the Chancery specifically forbade that there be a concelebration.”

“What! They can’t do that!”

Forbes smiled. “They can do just about anything they want.”

“But they gave permission for Church burial. And that’s that. They can’t tack on any other conditions.”

“It was a quid pro quo. I had to plead with them for permission to bury. They were most reluctant. I hunted all over the place to find someone, anyone, who would testify that Hunsinger had gone to Mass in recent memory. Or that he had even tipped his hat while passing a church. Nobody. I’m afraid that Hunsinger just gave up on the Church. So now, of course, the Church, in the form of the Chancery, has the opportunity to give up on Hunsinger. So, initially, they denied him Church burial.

“I guess when they finally gave in, they felt they had to get something in return. So they imposed the condition that it not be concelebrated. I don’t even know whether they thought there was a chance that another priest would show up. I know it didn’t cross my mind until I saw you vested and ready to go.”

“Okay, okay. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” Koesler began to divest.

“But there’s nothing in the Chancery’s regulation says you can’t assist at the Mass.” Forbes quickly began to put on the vestments that had been set out for him on the vestment case. “Would you take care of the first two readings?”

“Sure.” Koesler left his cassock on and slipped a white linen surplice over his shoulders.

Forbes indicated the selected readings in the lectionary.

The procession started down the aisle toward the front doors of the church where the cortege was awaiting the clergy’s greeting. Forbes and Koesler were preceded by four small altar boys, two carrying lighted candles, one carrying a processional crucifix, and the fourth carrying an aspersorium-popularly referred to by the priests as a bucket-in which rested the aspersorium and the holy water.

Forbes sprinkled the casket with the holy water, then, assisted by the attending morticians, spread an ornate white cloth over the casket, meanwhile praying, from the Ritual, that as Henry Hunsinger had been buried with Christ in baptism, he might now be clothed in the white robe of the Resurrection.

The procession returned to the altar area. The mourners, participants, or just curious were handed liturgical leaflets enabling them if they were so inclined to follow the service and join in the prayers and hymns. Very few would do so. Thus, having invited the community to sing the entrance song, the organist sang in solo voice, “God loved the world so much, he gave his only Son, that all who believe in him might not perish, but might have eternal life.”

The Mass began with Father Forbes leading the brief introductory rites.

Koesler sat on a straight-back chair in front of which was a kneeler. Briefly, he consulted the lectionary to refamiliarize himself with the Biblical texts he would read.

After Father Forbes read the collect prayer, it was time for the first two Scripture readings. Koesler mounted the pulpit.

“The first reading is taken from the Old Testament, Second Book of Maccabees, from the seventh chapter:

“It also happened that seven brothers with their mother were arrested and tortured with whips and scourges by the king, to force them to eat pork in violation of God’s law. Most admirable and worthy of everlasting remembrance was the mother, who saw her seven sons perish in a single day, yet bore it courageously because of her hope in the Lord. Filled with a noble spirit that stirred her womanly heart with manly courage, she exhorted each of them in the language of their forefathers with these words: ‘I do not know how you came into existence in my womb; it was not I who gave you the breath of life, nor was it I who set in order the elements of which each of you is composed. Therefore, since it is the creator of the universe who shapes each man’s beginning, as he brings about the origin of everything, he, in his mercy, will give you back both breath and life, because you now disregard yourselves for the sake of his law.’

“This is the word of the Lord.”

A few scattered voices responded, “Thanks be to God.”

The organist essayed “The Lord Is My Light and My Salvation” as a psalm response, but, again, it became virtually a solo.

Koesler began the second reading. “This is a reading from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans, the sixth chapter:

“Are you not aware that we who were baptised into Christ Jesus were baptised into his death? Through baptism into his death we were buried with him, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we, too, might live a new life. If we have been united with him through likeness to his death, so shall we be through a like resurrection. This we know; our old self was crucified with him so that the sinful body might be destroyed and we might be slaves to sin no longer. A man who is dead has been freed from sin. If we have died with Christ we believe that we are also to live with him. We know that Christ, once raised from the dead, will never die again; death has no more power over him.

“This is the word of the Lord. “

Again, a few voices: “Thanks be to God.”

Koesler left the pulpit.

Forbes entered it to read the Gospel. “A reading from the Holy Gospel According to Mark:

“His mother and his brothers arrived, and as they stood outside they sent word to him to come out. The crowd seated around him told him, ‘Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside asking for you.’ He said in reply, ‘Who are my mother and brothers?’ and gazing around at those seated in the circle he continued, ‘These are my mother and brothers. Whoever does the will of God is brother and sister and mother to me.’

“This is the Gospel of the Lord.”

A few scattered voices: “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.”

It was time for the homily.

Father Forbes began in time-honored fashion. He offered the condolences of everyone he could think of to everyone he could think of.

Koesler, one of those in whose name sympathy had been offered, scanned the group being singled out for condolences.

“Mrs. Grace Hunsinger,” began Forbes. She sat ramrod straight, looking neither right nor left; her face was covered by a black veil. You can’t hardly find that kind of mourning any more, thought Koesler.

“Mrs. Hunsinger’s many brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts of the deceased,” Father Forbes intoned. They looked like hardy stock, judged Koesler. They’re probably still wondering why such a sturdy, healthy young relative lies dead.

Forbes continued his enumeration. “Mrs. Quinn, long-time companion and friend of Mrs. Hunsinger. .”At mention of her name, Mrs. Quinn’s head bobbed upright. She had nearly fallen asleep. Koesler hoped, rather absently, that she would not have one of her habitual dreams and wake up shouting “bingo” in the middle of the Mass.

Koesler would not fall asleep. He scarcely ever did during the homilies of others. But neither did he pay attention. He scarcely ever did that either. He would mentally compose his own homily. He almost always did, amid many digressions and distractions.

Yes, homilies had changed since Vatican II, even for a funeral or, more currently, the Mass of Resurrection. Before the Council, eulogies containing personal praise of the deceased were discouraged. One was expected to preach on such eschatological themes as death, judgment, heaven, hell, purgatory; the possibility of the Church Militant (those yet alive) helping the Church Suffering (those in purgatory) by prayer. Now, whenever the priest knew the deceased, a eulogy, mixed with a bit of eschatology, was the order of the day.

There was a distinction too, at least in Koesler’s mind, between pre- and post-Vatican II preaching. The preaching common during his early priestly years he would have called sermons. These had had little if anything to do with the Scripture readings of the Mass. If it was decided that now was the time to inveigh against the evils of steady dating or French kissing, then that was what the sermon was about.

After the Council, more and more priests were led to link their preaching to the subject of the Scripture readings of the Mass. It was a style Koesler liked. When there were two readings (or, more commonly, on Sundays or special occasions such as funerals or weddings, three), the initial trick was to find some connection between the readings and develop that as the homiletic theme.

Thus, as Father Forbes began his homily, Father Koesler mentally began his.

The three readings of this Mass put Koesler in mind of a valiant mother, faced with the sudden death of her sons, who comforts herself, first with St. Paul’s sublime insistence on the fact of Christ’s Resurrection and ours through Him. And her second consolation comes from the evenhandedness of God’s mercy. Anyone who wishes to do the will of the Father is mother, brother, or sister to Christ.

Of course, putting Henry Hunsinger in the company of those who wanted to do God’s will was stretching things a bit. But that was the very point of the Christian understanding of death and judgment: that God does not judge by human standards. Koesler would never forget the simple words he had seen stenciled on the wall of Detroit’s Carmelite convent: “When you die you will be judged by Love.”

This was the theme he would have developed had he been delivering the homily this morning. It was the theme of the homily he now preached to himself. He did not even wonder what Father Forbes had preached.

After the homily, the Mass of Resurrection proceeded without incident. Occasionally, Koesler looked about the crowded church. He had seldom seen so many extremely large men in church at the same time. The Cougars were in attendance to a man. He was reminded of the comment made by President John Kennedy when awarding a medal to one of the astronauts at a White House ceremony. He said, in effect, that one could tell the difference between the astronauts and the politicians assembled for the ceremony; the astronauts were the tan and healthy ones.

Similarly, one could distinguish the football players from the ordinary humans; the players were the ones with no necks, just huge shoulders sloping upward into large heads.

Father Forbes reached that part of the Mass called the consecration. According to Catholic faith, when the priest repeated the words of Jesus at the Last Supper, the bread and wine again were changed into the reality of Christ come again as food for the soul. As Forbes pronounced the words of consecration, so did Koesler in a whisper. Thus, Koesler managed to foil the capricious decision of the Chancery forbidding concelebration at this Mass. It was such an absurd, childish dictum that he felt rather good about violating it.

From his vantage in the sanctuary, somewhat elevated above the floor of the body of the church, Father Koesler could easily see the people in the pews. As Mass proceeded toward communion, he tried to pick out the suspects.

You couldn’t miss Kit Hoffer and Bobby Cobb. Not only were they large; they were both pallbearers and thus in the front row. Hoffer was kneeling; Cobb was seated. Another distinguishing point: non-Catholics seldom knelt in church. Kneeling, for most of them, was foreign to their worship experience. So, while Catholics knelt, non-Catholics sat.

Jack Brown was in the second row, just behind the pallbearers. He seemed ill at ease. Koesler wondered why. Did he find the Catholic ceremony awkward, or was something else troubling him?

The Galloways were seated in about the fourth or fifth row, Koesler could not quite tell which. Jay Galloway seemed. . what? Self-satisfied?

Marj Galloway was not satisfied. That was obvious and so was her reason for being upset. Koesler was certain that if she could have carried it off without attracting too much notice, she would not be here. And if she could have helped it, she would not be sitting next to a man she no longer loved. Had Koesler been present at the epilogue to last night’s meeting, he would have understood just how much in fact she despised her husband.

Koesler could not locate Dave Whitman, though undoubtedly he was somewhere in the congregation. Koesler wondered if it would be possible for Whitman and Galloway to continue to work together after the words they had exchanged last night.

The congregation stood for the Lord’s Prayer. Non-Catholics generally have no objections to standing. Then most everyone knelt again as communion time arrived.

Koesler assisted Forbes in distributing communion. Thus he was nearby when Grace Hunsinger received communion from Father Forbes. And thus Koesler was startled when, having received communion, she began to sob and almost collapsed. Instinctively, he moved as if to assist her. But her relatives were quick to come to her aid and support her.

The weeping of this brokenhearted mother finally supplied the somber, bleak character this funeral, until now, had lacked. Hardly anyone in this church lamented Hunsinger’s death. They were surprised, yes, but hardly heartbroken. So, till now, it had been a rather bland occasion at which a number of people were expected to be in attendance and to which many others were drawn by curiosity.

Now, hearing the heart-rending sobs of Grace Hunsinger, everyone was deeply affected. Who could remain unmoved in the presence of a grieving mother?

Koesler could sense, almost tangibly feel, a new awareness of death and grief in the congregation. Somewhere in this church, he was now certain, was the murderer of Hank Hunsinger. Could he or she not be affected by this mother’s desolate tears? Would this not alter the status quo? Would the murderer’s defenses not be lowered? Alight the guilty person not actually be moved to confess?

Although he had not intended to do so, Koesler at that moment resolved to return to the Hunsinger home after accompanying the casket to the cemetery.

Indeed, the priest concluded, it was long past time when he must stop thinking of Henry Hunsinger’s death as a murder investigation in which, by pure accident, he himself was involved. Leave the solution of crime to the experts. One of his duties as a priest, a duty he entirely welcomed, was to at least try to console those who mourn.

The return drive from Holy Sepulchre Cemetery to Holy Redeemer was a long one. Father Koesler had lots of time to think. Deliberately, he forced out of his mind thoughts of the ongoing murder investigation and concentrated on the business at hand: death and dying.

It was in one of the Epistles-Koesler thought it might be Paul’s letter to the Hebrews-but in any case, the Bible stated it clearly: “It is appointed for each man once to die. And after death the judgment.”

After death the judgment.

After death, what?

The question thoughtful humans had been asking through the ages. There could be no doubt that each of us who live will die. Then what? Nothing? Anything? Reincarnation? As a lower form of life? As another human? Or, as the Bible clearly teaches, judgment? Then, heaven? Hell? Purgatory?

No living person, pondered Koesler, can prove the answer to any of those questions. It’s a matter of choosing something in which to believe.

The Christian is offered the Resurrection in which to believe. The Christian is supposed to put all his or her chips on Christ. If Christ did not rise from the dead, then, in St. Paul’s opinion, we are the most to be pitied because our faith is in vain. But, the Apostle goes on to write, the most important reality of all is that Christ did rise from the dead. And if He, human as well as divine, is alive, overcame death, then everyone lives after death. A most consoling faith.

What sort of belief would a person such as Hank Hunsinger have about a life after death? From the little Koesler had been able to learn, he doubted that Hunsinger had given much if any thought to the question. Even though he had somehow found his way into a Bible study group, there was little indication that he thought about death and its consequences at all. It probably was the combination of not being religious along with being young and, though periodically injured, healthy. The Hun would have had no occasion to ponder death and a hereafter.

No matter. Now he knows all the answers.

Although Koesler did not often find himself on the southwest side of Detroit these days, it was easy and reassuring to recognize and remember the old neighborhood. As he drove down Junction Avenue, he passed the stately St. Hedwig’s Church, a Polish parish. Amazing how well the neighborhood had been preserved! So many Detroit neighborhoods had been allowed to deteriorate and decay.

Finally he reached the celebrated intersection of Vernor and Junction and the familiar sprawling brick buildings that were part of the vast plant that was Holy Redeemer. He found a parking space just across the street from the Hunsinger home.

The doorbell was answered by a woman who identified herself as Rose Walker, one of Mrs. Hunsinger’s sisters. Koesler could see the resemblance. “It’s so good of you to come back, Father. We have a buffet set up in the kitchen. Would you like something to eat?”

“Maybe a little later. Right now I’d like to talk with Mrs. Hunsinger for a few minutes, if that’s all right. “

“Of course. I’ll take you to her, Father. She’ll be pleased to see you.”

Mrs. Walker led the way into the living room. Koesler located Mrs. Hunsinger immediately. She was seated near the large front window. Near her sat a man in a straight-back chair. Neither was speaking. Again, from the family resemblance, Koesler guessed it might be her brother.

Mrs. Walker made introductions. Suspicions confirmed; the man was one of Mrs. Hunsinger’s brothers. He excused himself to let the priest be alone with Grace.

Koesler was very glad he had decided to return to the home after the ceremonies. There was almost no one here besides Grace Hunsinger’s immediate family. For most, the special occasion of a funeral had given way to an ordinary Wednesday, and work was waiting. For others, the show was over.

Mrs. Hunsinger appeared to be very calm, but also very remote, as if contemplating some tranquil mystery. She had held up well at the mausoleum too. Just that one moment at communion when she had been overcome by emotion.

He could understand that. For many Catholics, himself included, communion was a time of the most intense prayer and communication with God. It was not at all uncommon for one, in a stressful demanding moment such as the funeral of a loved one, to find the intense emotional impact of communion overwhelming.

“Mrs. Hunsinger?”

“Oh? Oh, Father Koesler.” She had been unaware of his presence. A brief smile of recognition and welcome crossed her face.

“I thought we could talk a little bit.”

She nodded, but without animation.

“How are you feeling?” Koesler felt like taking her hand in his as a consoling gesture. But, as was his wont, he remained reserved.

“All right now, I suppose.”

She was dry-eyed. If he had not witnessed her breakdown in church, he would have found it difficult to believe it had happened.

“You know, Mrs. Hunsinger, according to our faith, it’s all over now.”

“What’s that?”

“Henry. It’s three days since he died. He is well into eternal life.”

“That’s what troubles me.”

“You shouldn’t be troubled. The way you and I were raised and the way we were taught our catechism, death and judgment were presented in a more frightening way than they are today.”

Even though a good number of years separated the two, Koesler could be fairly certain that both he and Grace Hunsinger had been taught identical Catholic doctrine. So little of that doctrine had been changed before the Second Vatican Council.

“Our early impression of God,” Koesler continued, “was heavy with vengeance. We could lead decent lives in the state of sanctifying grace and then maybe slip and eat one pork chop on a Friday and if we died before getting to confession God would zap us into hell. And, while that oversimplifies things a bit, it is pretty much the way we were taught.

“Now, I think, we tend to view the morality of a life as a whole rather than consider its individual episodes. Not that an act of theft is good. But that the act of theft flows from a lifestyle where an individual act of thievery might be more a mistake than typical of the way that person would ordinarily operate.”

“But Henry’s lifestyle was not all that good-”

“Perhaps not. . at least not as far as we can judge. But Henry has been judged by God. . by an all-loving and forgiving and understanding God. We musn’t lose faith that Henry has found that God can find ways unknown to humans to forgive. We leave Henry to our Father in heaven with great confidence and hope. It’s all we can do.”

They were quiet. Koesler was content to allow his words to sink in. He sought only to give Mrs. Hunsinger confidence to help her over her terrible loss. It would do Henry’s mother no earthly good to remain tortured by her son’s sudden death following upon-to be kind-a not exemplary life. He hoped he had given her some reason for optimism.

“You walked right along there.” Mrs. Hunsinger was staring out the front window.

“Pardon?”

“On the day of your first Mass. The procession came out of the rectory and went down the street and up the steps into the church. I was standing right there.” She pointed, Koesler had no idea where. Somewhere along the route the procession had taken. He remembered the day clearly.

“It was a warm, sunny day. I was standing there holding little Henry’s hand. Then we went into the church for your first solemn Mass. It was beautiful and you sang so well.

“Then after the Mass, we came outside again and waited while the procession returned to the rectory. When you passed by, all recollected and pious, I remember I squeezed little Henry’s hand and told him he should grow up and be just like you.

“But,” she sighed deeply, “it was not to be.”

Koesler looked at her for a long time. She continued to gaze through the window at the facade of Holy Redeemer Church, lost in her memories. He took one of her hands in both of his and pressed gently. She did not react. She continued to sit and gaze.

Finally, he rose and stepped away. He was startled to find that he had almost backed into Mrs. Quinn. He was additionally surprised to find Mrs. Quinn fully awake.

“How is she, Father?”

“I think she’s all right. I wish I could have been better able to comfort her, though.”

“Time, Father. It’ll take time. It always does. Both of us have lost our husbands. And we know only time can heal a wound like that. It’s probably worse with the loss of a child, even if the child is a grown man. That I wouldn’t know; I’ve not lost any of my children, praise God.”

All the while Mrs. Quinn talked she was leading Koesler toward the kitchen. As he passed through the various rooms in the old house, he was impressed with how neat and tastefully decorated they were and how well kept up. He commented on this.

“Well, thank you, Father. It’s kind of you to notice. Grace and I do our best and we try to make up for each other. And Henry provided handsomely. He wanted us to move. He was willing to buy us a house or build one wherever we wanted. But Grace wanted to stay close to her Holy Redeemer. And I can’t say I disagree with that.

“That would be a point in his favor, wouldn’t it, Father. . I mean, as he stands before our Savior in judgment. . that he was kind to his mother?”

“I’m sure it would be,” Koesler assured. Somehow, he’d found himself doing a lot of consoling, particularly in view of the fact that this funeral had not been his responsibility.

Mrs. Quinn led him into the kitchen, where a buffet consisting mainly of sandwich ingredients had been laid out.

In the kitchen was a considerable crowd; almost everyone who had returned here from the cemetery. Koesler guessed, after a cursory study, that most of the people were relatives of Mrs. Hunsinger.

Awkward. He definitely was odd man out. Oh, the group was respectful enough, but he was not family. What had been a rather lively conversation before he entered was now somewhat subdued.

As speedily as he could, Koesler worked his way through the crowd, made himself a modest ham and cheese sandwich, and worked his way out of the kitchen to an empty corner of the dining room. There, alone, he wolfed down the sandwich.

One thing was certain, he had to get out of there.

Suddenly it occurred to him that this was his day off. Or at least what was left of it. He found Mrs. Quinn and asked if he might use the phone. She showed him to a small desk in an alcove beneath the staircase. Fortunately, no one else was in the area. He dialed a number from memory.

“St. Clement’s,” a matronly voice answered.

“I’d like to speak to Father McNiff, if he’s available.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

After several long moments: “Father McNiff.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you physically resemble Carroll O’Connor?”

“A few.” McNiff s voice revealed he knew the caller.

“Anybody ever tell you that your philosophy of life resembles Archie Bunker’s?”

“Not to my face they don’t.” McNiff chuckled.

“Patrick, old fellow, why did I know that you’d be hard at work at the rectory on your day off?”

“The work of the Lord must be done in season and out of season. We who have put our hands to the plow must not turn back.”

“How very Biblical of you.”

“And you, Robert, are you calling from some sleazy bar while your hirelings keep St. Anselm’s together?”

“No, I’m calling from a private home,” he admitted with some embarrassment. Until having made the indictment against McNiff, Koesler hadn’t realized that he had, in effect, been working on his day off. “And what I’m calling about,” he hurried on, “is to ask you to join me for dinner.”

“Sure. When and where?”

“How about Carl’s Chop House about six?”

“Done.”

“Don’t work too hard.”

“Don’t play too hard.”

Koesler arrived at Carl’s at twenty minutes to six. Early again! Well, he would go to prepare a place for McNiff.

He asked the hostess if he could be seated in the Executive Room, and told her he was expecting McNiff. She asked if Father McNiff would also be wearing a clerical uniform. If McNiff were not in clericals, Koesler replied, the next Pope would not be a Catholic.

The Executive Room was cozier but not substantially different from the other two large dining rooms. But the Executive Room featured Kay Marie, the redhaired queen of waitresses, who had been at Carl’s since the Year I, and whose aunt was a nun, which always gave Kay Marie and Father Koesler something to talk about.

The busboy brought the extremely generous relish tray, breadbasket, cottage cheese, and creamed herring. Koesler began to wonder if he’d been too hasty in designating Carl’s as their rendezvous. Ordinarily he dined here only as a special celebration or after a significant weight loss. Carl’s portions were bigger than life. It was a classic place for a pigout. He promised himself that he’d get some exercise tomorrow. Where, he did not know. Maybe he’d go for a walk.

“Evening, Father. Alone tonight?” Kay Marie brought him out of his dietetic reverie.

“No; expecting a colleague. How’s your aunt?”

“She’s thinking of retiring.”

“Oh? How old is she?”

“Eighty-four.”

“It’s a thought.”

“What’ll it be tonight?”

“How about a martini, up?”

“Different. You’re usually a manhattan. Bourbon manhattan.”

“Great memory, Kay. I’m going to leave the manhattans to my companion this evening.”

He had filled his salad plate with the first of the preprandial delicacies and was gnawing on a bread stick when McNiff arrived.

“Good!” said Koesler. “Now the next Pope can be a Catholic.”

“What?” McNiff seated himself. “This isn’t going to be another of those nights where you pick on the Pope, is it?”

“Absolutely not. Going to leave the Holy Pope of God-your phrase-out of it entirely.”

“Good!”

Kay Marie returned. McNiff would have a manhattan. All was well.

“Remember your first drink, Pat?”

“At your hand. Of course. There’s been many a sip since then.”

“You’re lucky you laid off those first ten years. By now your liver would be embalmed.”

“See the remarkable prescience of Holy Mother Church.”

They understood each other’s hyperbole.

Kay Marie took their orders. McNiff would have Dover sole. Koesler would have the ground round. Kay Marie sighed. She could have brought Koesler’s entree without asking.

“Wasn’t that something,” said McNiff, “about Hank Hunsinger! Who woulda thought when we saw him play last Sunday that he’d be dead that night?”

“A real surprise.”

“Say, I hadn’t thought about this before, but what does that do to that Bible discussion group-what did you call it?”

“The God Squad. I don’t know, Pat. We met last night. But I’d bet that group, qua group, never meets again. So I don’t think I’ll get the chance to introduce you to the bunch.”

“That’s all right.” It wasn’t, but McNiff wouldn’t admit it. “I’ve got plenty to do.”

“Matter of fact, I went to the funeral this morning.”

“Hunsinger’s?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How was it?”

“Not particularly sad until his mother broke up.”

“That’ll do it.”

“It was from her house that I phoned you.”

“So, working on your day off! Physician, heal thyself.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Kay Marie brought the salads. Both McNiff and Koesler would have another drink.

“Say, remember Robideau?”

“Sure.” Koesler was grateful for the turn in their conversation. He was trying to forget the funeral, the investigation, the whole Hunsinger affair.

“He was notorious for not paying attention to whom he was burying or marrying. He got help with the weddings because he could carry their marriage license along with him. But he had real trouble with funerals.

“Well, one day he had this funeral and not only did he not know whom he was burying, he forgot whether it was a man or a woman. He had a devil of a time preaching. He used phrases like ‘the loved one,’ Our dear, departed friend,’ ‘the deceased.’ Finally, he decided to get off the fence; after all, he had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. So he said, ‘We must remember to keep him in our prayers.’ At that, he became aware that one of the pallbearers was shaking his head no.”

“Good old Robideau.” Koesler laughed. “He preceded me by several years at St. David’s. They said they were always afraid he would start a fire in the confessional because of the speed with which he kept opening and closing the confessional screens. Someone once accused him of absolving with both hands and both feet.”

They ate steadily. Their drinks would do them little harm. And the entrees had not yet arrived.

“There was a hypochondriac in the parish,” Koesler continued, “who was also really ill-”

“Sort of like the paranoid guy whom everybody actually does hate,” McNiff interjected.

“Right. Well, it was the feast of St. Blaise and this lady called Robideau and actually asked him to come to her house, since she was bedridden, and bless her throat. Robideau of course was not about to do any such thing. He told her to prop the phone between her ear and the pillow, pretend her arms were blessed candles, and cross them underneath her chin, and he would give her the blessing over the phone.”

McNiff snickered. “Reminds me of an incident they tell about that happened in Grand Rapids. This lady’s husband died. They had bought a couple of lots in a public cemetery and she couldn’t get anyone to come and bless the grave. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get anyone to get off his ass and go bless the grave; the guys who were willing to go would check with the Chancery and discover that the Chancery wasn’t giving permission to bless graves then.

“But she finally finds this one guy-must have been a clone of Robideau’s-and pleads with him. So he asks her which way is the cemetery. North, she says. So the guy swings his chair around so it’s facing north and he traces a large sign of the cross in the air.

“The good news is he didn’t charge her a stipend.”

They both chuckled.

The busboy cleared away the dishes and trays and Kay Marie served the entrees. A huge amandine fish. The largest hamburger steak in captivity, smothered in mushroom gravy. And mounds of French fries.

Oh, yes, thought Koesler; a very long walk tomorrow.

As the two got down to serious eating, Koesler reflected on the stories they had exchanged and undoubtedly would continue to recount.

As long as he could remember, at least among his peers in the sacerdotal fraternity, priests were wont to recall and recount stories of the past. Some more than others. The recent phenomenon of Catholic nostalgia had led to such books as the popular The Last Catholic in America and the spinoff play, Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up? In all probability, had there been no Vatican II, there would not be this wave of Catholic nostalgia because everything would still be pretty much the same. Very little would have changed. Most Catholics would not know or would not be informed that many of the things they had done seriously a quarter of a century earlier were now considered funny.

But stories of “the good old days” had been and would remain favorites among priests, with or without Vatican II.

“You know,” said McNiff as he loaded tartar sauce on the fish, “I got a document yesterday in the mail from the Tribunal. They wanted the document to be put in the parish’s secret archives. Put me in mind of when I was at St. Mary Magdalen in Melvindale-”

“With old Jake Parker.” Koesler was relatively certain that McNiff would not be coming up with any old Jake Parker stories that hadn’t been told before. But, what the heck, they were good stories.

“Right.” McNiff warmed to the memory of old Jake Parker. “So, anyway, I got a document then, too, from the Tribunal, to be placed in the secret archives. So I went to Jake, told him the problem, and asked where the secret archives were. And he said, ‘Father, they’re so secret, even I don’t know where they are.’”

They laughed. Good for the digestion.

“Didn’t you miss Melvindale your first time out?” Koesler recalled.

“Yup. Drove right through the little suburb. Finally asked a cop where Melvindale was, and he said, ‘Father, you just left it.’

“But that’s the way Jake looked at it too. Once I got another missive from the Tribunal. This time they wanted me to do a notary job on a marriage case.”

“You don’t get those as much now as you used to. . at least I don’t.”

“That’s right. But back then, I was getting them almost every week. And I’d have to go out and call on somebody-who was usually pretty hostile-and ask a lot of personal questions. Well, anyway, I’d had it, so I went in to see Jake and I told him, ‘I’ve had it with these notary jobs. What would they do to me downtown if I don’t do it? If I just refuse to do it, what could they do to me downtown?’

“And Jake says. ‘Father, they couldn’t do anything to you; you’re already here.’”

They laughed again. As anticipated, Koesler had heard the story previously. But when consummate raconteurs such as Myron Cohen or Flip Wilson begin to tell their stories, one looked forward to hearing one of their familiar anecdotes.

“Actually”-McNiff had polished off the fish and was working on the few remaining fries-“I think old Jake was ashamed about being in Melvindale, though I don’t know why; it’s a nice enough little town. But for some reason, he just didn’t think anything good happened in Melvindale.

“Now that I think of it, it might just have been something in old Jake’s personality.

“I remember for years I used to get at him to ask for another assistant. We had almost three thousand families and there were just the two of us. But he wouldn’t do it because he was afraid of being turned down. Finally, one fall, he broke down and asked the Chancery for another priest. Well, his worst fears were realized: he didn’t get one. They turned him down. And those were the years when every September and June they shifted hundreds of priests to different parishes and all the new appointments were published in the Detroit Catholic.”

“I remember it well. I was the editor. I used to publish those new assignments. We’d start on page 1 with pastoral appointments, then stick all the assistant assignments on page 2. It always took at least the entire page. Sometimes they ran over onto page 3.

“I remember once our reporter wrote a mock account, which opened, ‘Seven tons of priests were transferred. .’”

“Exactly. Well, the day the new assignments were published-none of them being to St. Mary Magdalen, Melvindale-old Jake sat at the dining-room table all day long with the Detroit Catholic in front of him, opened to the assignment page. And every time somebody would pass by, old Jake would call him over and point to the page and say, ‘Look at that! Just look at that! You couldn’t put your finger on one of those assignments and say, ‘Now there was a smart move.’”

Koesler hadn’t heard that one before. “It’s rationalization like that that can lead to mental health.”

Having finished the ground round, Koesler was sloshing the fries in mushroom gravy. Oh, yes, it would have to be some walk tomorrow. “Reminds me of when I was at Patronage of St. Joseph parish. It was just me and the pastor, Father Pompilio. Then a monsignor from the Chancery was going to take up residence at Patronage. He was offered a single room, just like the one I had. But a Chancery monsignor wasn’t about to take that lying down-literally. So Pomps was obliged to surrender his very nice three-room pastoral suite to the monsignor. Later, he explained to me how, in the end, he had outsmarted the monsignor: The single room was closer to the ceiling fan in the hallway than the suite was.”

The busboy asked if they were finished. Silly question, thought Koesler; he knew he was supposed to ask, but still it seemed obvious that all that was left were the empty plates.

He cleared them away and Kay Marie ascertained that McNiff would have coffee and Koesler decaf and that neither would have dessert. Koesler considered the thought of dessert obscene.

McNiff patted his tummy appreciatively. “We haven’t got a corner on the sort of logic that, as you say, leads to mental health. Before we had our own school in Melvindale, a bunch of nuns used to come in several times a week to teach catechism in the church. And that, of course, was fine with me. I’ve always said the art of being a truly fine catechist is finding somebody else to teach catechism.”

Koesler nodded approval.

“But old Jake Parker insisted that we go over at least once and talk to the little kids who were going to make their first communion. So this one time I went over, reluctantly, and waited while this nun, their teacher, introduced me. She said, ‘Children, Father is going to talk to you now. And I want you to pay good attention to what he’s going to say. After all, he spent twelve years getting ready to teach you.’ I wondered why she brought that up and where she intended to go with it. Then she added, ‘Of course, I spent twenty-three years in preparation. . ‘ I felt like the village idiot. But I guess she managed to preserve her mental health.”

Kay Marie brought the beverages. McNiff asked for the bill.

“Well,” said Koesler, “I doubt you’d find many nuns that uptight today. Maybe it’s as simple as back then some said there were three sexes: men, women, and nuns. But today they know they’re women. They dress like women instead of like ancient statues. They’re permitted, even encouraged, to be mature, much more in charge of their own lives than ever before in history.

“But back then, you’re right: they could be a bit stiffnecked. One of the toughest groups I was ever associated with were the nuns at Patronage. Even for those days, those gals were on the strict side. I spent most of my time trying to talk our parochial kids into sticking it out and staying in school.

“Being with that group is probably what made the two funny ones stand out as much as they did.”

“You had two funny Salacians? That may be a record.”

McNiff began to compute the tip.

“Yup, two; count ‘em, two. One Tuesday, after Our Lady of Perpetual Help devotions, the two of them came back into the sacristy. They were the sacristans, which post became the only outlet they could find for their humor. One of them, a Sister Dulcilia-hard to forget a name like that-asked me if, when I blessed religious articles after the devotions, did the blessing include crosses. I said sure it did. So Dulcilia, pointing to her companion, said, ‘That’s fine; next week I hold Sister here on my lap.’

“Another time, I arrived in the sacristy to prepare for Perpetual Help devotions. As usual, the Sisters had laid out the appropriate vestments on the vestment case. I was already wearing my cassock and collar. So I put on the surplice and found that the Sisters had pinned to it one of those ribbons from a funeral floral arrangement with the word ‘Friends’ on it.

“I just left it that way and wore it for the devotions. All the nuns were sitting in the front pews. I wish you could have seen the faces of the two jokers when they saw I was wearing the funeral ribbon. They told me they got in a lot of trouble over that one. . ‘a scandal to the good people of the parish’ and all that.

“Now you’d think that might have cured them. But some time later, when they were certain I was scheduled for the early weekday Mass, they laid out the vestments the night before. They had a purple stole, a green maniple, and a black chasuble.”

“Don’t tell me,” McNiff interrupted, “you didn’t have the first Mass!”

“With their luck, it couldn’t have happened any other way. Father Pompilio wanted to go on an early morning fishing trip and traded Masses with me. Fortunately, he didn’t report them. But he was convinced they were certifiably insane.”

“Remember,” McNiff spoke through his laughter, “the time when everybody thought I was insane?”

“The time-? Hmmm. . there were so many. But since you’re talking about Melvindale, it’s probably the one where you came back for the parish fall festival.”

It would not occur to Koesler to head McNiff off at the pass merely because the anecdote was ancient and oft repeated. Good stories remained good even when retold.

“That’s the one. It was, O Lord, three or four months after I was transferred from Melvindale and I had nothing more to do with the parish. But old Jake Parker wasn’t feeling all that good and he asked me to come back and stand in for him at the fall festival. That’s where I was insane: in agreeing to do it.

“Well, it was just your ordinary parish festival with simple little games and prizes and a few rides. All except for the big card game in the rear of the tent. The ushers got kind of carried away and were hosting a full-scale gambling concern-poker, blackjack, that stuff. And that’s when the good old Melvindale police got into the act: closed us down, made some charges. Meanwhile, old Jake Parker is up in bed nursing a cold while I am trying to handle the cops.”

Purple stole, green maniple, and black chasuble. Why was this thought continuing to distract him? Koesler tried to pay attention to McNiff s story.

“And that wasn’t even the worst part. Who does the Free Press reporter call for a statement-Jake Parker, the pastor and the one responsible for it all? No, he calls me. And what do I say? I say, ‘Why don’t you tell your editor that you couldn’t find Father McNiff?’ And what does the Free Press reporter write in next morning’s paper? He writes, ‘A certain Father McNiff, when contacted about the police raid, stated, “Why don’t you tell your editor you couldn’t find Father McNiff?’”

“It was at that point that all my peers and classmates were willing to pronounce me certifiably insane.”

“And rightly so.”

They split the bill plus tip evenly. Kay Marie bade them good evening and asked them to pray for her aunt the nun. When McNiff, after asking, was informed that the nun was eighty-four and pondering retirement, he asked Kay Marie to have her aunt pray for them.

During his drive home, Father Koesler tried to listen to WQRS, the classical music station. But it was offering chamber music, which Koesler easily could live without. He switched off the radio and smiled as he recalled the stories, some old, some new, that McNiff had told. And he smiled as he recalled the stories, all old, that he had told.

But his preoccupation with the vestments of mixed colors still puzzled him. The problem was not intrinsic to the story. Koesler had told that story many times; never had he been troubled or puzzled by it.

From time to time he wondered if he were coming down with Alzheimer’s syndrome, or whether it was just the natural disintegration of the brain cells that accompanies aging. But then, in good time, it would all come together and make sense.

So he was confident that at some unpredictable time the elusive link between the color-confused vestments and whatever they reminded him of would be made clear. Probably it would happen while he was showering. For some strange reason, the routine of showering always cleared his mind for some of his better thinking.