No Greater Love (29 page)

Father Koesler sank back into his chair. He was tired to the point of exhaustion. It had been a long day, capped by the drain of this evening's unexpected visit. An intensive counseling session always depleted his physical and emotional energy.

He didn't envy young Al Cody's upcoming bout with himself. In this corner was Al the seminarian. His goal, the priesthood. At this point the goal was eminently attainable. But was that his real calling?

In that corner was Al the bright young man whose father had so pressured his son toward the priesthood that no one, least of all Al, could tell where one's aspiration began and the other's ended.

Yet, let events take their course and Al would be a priest. A casual observer would find it incredible that the young man could at this stage harbor any doubt whatsoever about his future.

From his own experience, Koesler knew that life as a priest was unpredictable. To a greater or lesser degree the same could be said of any of life's vehicles.

But at this stage there should be no doubts.

If, in a few months he were going to be married, he might well be tortured by doubt. There is no specific training for the role of husband or wife, father or mother. One marries, then wings it; there is ample room for serious doubt about one's qualifications.

However, Al had been contemplating the priesthood all his life. And for the past eight years he had been trained for that role almost exclusively.

That he could still wonder about his future was thanks to his father's overwhelmingly pervasive influence.

At least Al was on the right track now, Koesler felt. The lad must put his future to the test of intense prayer.

In prayer he would not be alone. Father Koesler would join him.

Al Cody slowly made his way to the chapel. He had a lot to ponder.

Earlier this evening he'd gone to visit Father Koesler in order to get help on his homily There had been no ulterior motive—at least none that came to his conscious mind.

It was in the development of the sermon topic that the emphasis on commitment came. And then the thought turned in on him.

Doubt! It had become a way of life for him.

He entered the chapel. It was so dark and so peaceful, at least at first. He knelt and waited. Sure enough, once you were quiet you became aware of the sounds. Creaking, grating, squeaking—the sounds belonged to the chapel. You heard them only if you were alone and still.

There was no doubt about it, he felt better. And he had not even been aware that he was as deeply troubled as his conversation with Koesler had revealed. It had all come out in a stream of consciousness.

Psychology suggested the talking cure. To suppress threatening thoughts and feelings one had to exert pressure. And that pressure took its toll of psychic energy.

But if you could bring it out, the stress tended to release, and you felt better. It was thought by many that that was the miracle of confession—the sacrament of penance.

Most of the time, among Catholics, confession became a routine exercise, a pointless recitation of peccadilloes offered for the confessor's consideration.

But once in a while a conscience held the secret of something terribly embarrassing or, for one reason or another, troubling. Speaking of this matter, expressing it verbally, would reduce the painful secret's threat. It didn't hurt that the Catholic understanding of confession not only involved the talking cure but also the belief that the sin was forgiven.

Something like that had happened in Father Koesler's room just a few minutes ago. And even though Al understood that he still had a lot of thinking and praying to do, he felt better.

It was a gift to have someone like Father Koesler around. Undoubtedly there were other priests as approachable, experienced, charitable, and caring as he, but Al knew he personally would never experience another priest quite like Robert Koesler.

And what did that portend?

Father Koesler was seventy years old. Cody was twenty-five. A forty-five-year gap. It certainly seemed safe to predict that Al Cody would be alive a lot longer than this aging priest.

In other words, Cody could not count on Koesler's presence and help for as long as the young man might need it. Whatever resolution his prayer would reach, Cody realistically would have to learn to handle doubts on his own.

He was so confused that he had no idea how to pray, or for what to pray. He tried to compose an outline. An outline for God? Well, he had to start somewhere.

God … Jesus, I want to be a priest. I think. My father wants me to be a priest. Does he want this more than I? Does he want it so much that he has absorbed my willpower into his?

Maybe it would be better if I didn't consider my father at all. Just the two of us, Jesus. You know the good I could accomplish as a priest. You also know the harm I could do if I were not a good priest.

All right. I am on a different level. I've taken a major step. Canceling my fathers influence over my decision helps. It helps a lot. I can see a little bit of light at the end of this road.

This, plus what Father Koesler told me, gives me maybe my first decent chance at making a decision. Making a decision on my own.

Jesus, you knew you had made the right decision when you were at peace
w
ithin yourself. Just as the fictional Carton knew he was doing the right thing when he was at peace with himself.

That's what Father Koesler told me. And it makes sense.

Except that if I must be at peace with myself I've got a long way to go.

Twenty-two

March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Or it comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion. Or any of the other variables. Michigan's March weather is unpredictable even by those whose job is to predict the weather.

This day, near the end of March, featured February-like weather. It was overcast, cold, and blustery, plunging the windchill factor to barely ten degrees above zero.

Nevertheless, Deacon Bill Page had been briskly walking around the fenced-in seminary grounds. On his final turn he picked up the pace. He could hardly wait to get back into the warmth of the building.

He pushed his way through the door and thanked whatever powers might be for heat.

He went directly to his room, where he turned his radiator on full and removed and hung up his outer clothing. He almost bonded with the iron pipes until he felt the chill start to depart from his bones.

He sat at his desk and pulled from the shelf the weighty Coriden, Green, and Heintschel edition of
The Code of Canon Law, A Text and Commentary.
He paged through the text until he came to the marriage laws, Canons 1055 to 1165. One hundred and ten laws to complicate the lives of those who wanted to get married, were married, or wanted to get out of marriage. All with or without benefit of Catholic clergy.

And that wasn't all. Later, in Canons 1671 to 1716, there were the procedures for granting or withholding decrees of nullity. Forty-five additional laws. And he had to know the content of all of them,

Why?

He wasn't going to use any of them. He was an unmarried deacon and soon-to-be priest. So he would never be allowed to marry. Or, rather, to be more precise, he could attempt marriage, but the Church had gotten there first and ruled all such attempts to be illicit and invalid.

Be that as it may. It mattered little. With the number of women he'd been involved with in the past, he could have married any number of times. And now he knew all the rules for marriage in the Church. As long as the prospective partner was free to marry and the happy couple exchanged consent in the presence of a duly authorized priest and the required witnesses, the two would be husband and wife—validly married. If the partner was—as was Page—baptized, it would be termed a sacramental marriage. Then, the easiest part, when they consummated the marriage, it would be about as unbreakable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

That would be that unless one or the other harbored some impediment such as serious and hopeless immaturity.

He shut the canonical textbook. He knew the stuff well enough. Besides, the final exam before priestly ordination would be oral. And Page considered himself one of the more suasive talkers of all time.

And don't bring up that business about not cutting it in the advertising game. He would have made it had not the other sales reps been jealous of his sexual successes. And well should they be—especially those with whose wives he had frolicked.

Just thinking these thoughts was warming him. But not enough. Some steaming coffee might help.

The snack room was otherwise unoccupied. But the coffee was steaming hot. He wrapped both hands around the Styrofoam cup and let the warmth penetrate his fingers.

To entertain himself while dispersing the chill, he called up a memory. There were so many to choose from but this had always been his favorite.

It happened during his junior year in high school. At his present age, with the wealth of experience he had built up over the years, it was hard for him to imagine how he had managed to remain a straight arrow all those early years.

He attributed it now, in a vague sense, to those hellfire and brim stone sermons with which the Catholic clergy had threatened him and everybody else. But everything has to begin sometime.

For him it began seriously on a chilly January evening after a sock hop.

Mary Lou.

He could not remember a time when he had not been fascinated by girls. Why did they wear dresses and he wear pants? Short pants, but pants.

Sometime during the first or second grade, a developing brazen hussy had lifted her skirt and dropped her panties. He was dumb founded. She didn't have anything! He began to feel proud and superior at having a penis.

Still, there was something mysteriously attractive about girls. They smelled different. Their hair was different. Their, eyes were different. Their voices were different. They played differently. They related to each other differently than they did to boys. They were
different.

At that tender age he had not yet heard the French phrase
Vive la différence.
Later it would become his motto.

But back to Mary Lou and that sock hop.

She was the first girl about whom he was serious. He was seriously interested in scoring with Mary Lou. And then all those lies he kept telling his buddies would finally be true.

Trouble was, he had been pursuing the girl for a matter of months. He had nothing to show for it except periodic cramps in his groin. Mary Lou was a tease.

A typical get-together at this time consisted of a double date featuring a guy who had a license and the use of a car. The destination: a drive-in movie. The goal: as much groping as circumstances allowed.

Funny how many movies he attended and afterward had no recollection of what they were about. His attention had not been on the big screen but on Mary Lou.

Years later, when one of those movies was on TV, it would be as if he'd never even heard of it.

One night, his buddy with the car drove to a lovers' lane. He told Bill and Mary Lou to get in the front seat, while he and his date used the backseat. Page felt awkward having the other two in back. It was as if he and Mary Lou were expected to perform for a couple of voyeurs who would be able to watch them fumble through a series of practiced but unsatisfactory maneuvers.

After some time, when Mary Lou turned her head to avoid another one of his kisses, Bill turned around to see what the couple in back were doing.

The couple in back were, for all intents and purposes, naked.

Bill gasped.

Attention attracted, Mary Lou followed Page's gaze. Quickly she turned his head back to her. She rewarded his renewed attention by kissing him passionately, voraciously. This impelled him to try diligently to remove at least some of her clothing, but to no avail. Somehow she managed to keep everything in place, if somewhat rumpled.

And he had missed the show in the back.

Gradually but eventually, Page realized he was doomed to repeated wrestling matches with Mary Lou, every one of which would end in a draw.