No Greater Love (33 page)

Bishop McNiff was preparing a talk on spirituality that he would deliver to the students. That was a regular feature of his routine.

He put his notes aside when Gretchen reluctantly explained her mission. She gave him the letter, then hurriedly left.

There are various forms of sexual activity that are condemned by church teaching. And Patrick McNiff agreed with each and every condemnation. He was outraged by the contents of the letter.

Immediately, he summoned the principals: Gretchen O'Keefe, Andrea Zawalich, and, by no means least, William Page.

McNiff interviewed each of them separately, then sent them to their rooms, where they were to remain—alone—even for meals, until tomorrow afternoon when this matter would be submitted to the faculty for resolution.

Gretchen, the innocent bystander dragged into a messy situation by sheer accident and bad luck, was miserable.

Andrea regretted that it had to come to this. But she was satisfied that in good conscience she had done the right thing. Page in her view, was a cancer on the priesthood. He had to be abscised for the health of the whole body. Beyond that, she was evening the score for her friend Patty.

Bill Page was bewildered. Since he'd had no personal communication with either Andrea or Gretchen, he had to presume that he had somehow slipped the letter into the wrong box—though how he could've done so eluded him.

In any event, the three followed their incarceration rules to the letter. They were already on dangerous ground; no use pushing matters to the edge.

Of course this extraordinary situation involving three of their fellow students was bound to have its effect on the others. Rumors flew.

At five in the afternoon—normally a predinner happy hour, the, deprivation of which did nothing to better their humor—the entire full-time faculty, plus Father Koesler, assembled in the faculty lounge.

Bishop McNiff explained why he had not settled the matter on his own. There were so many shadowy sides to this affair and since two senior students were implicated he felt that a faculty decision was called for.

Then, one by one, those involved were called in to present their cases.

Consensus promptly exonerated Gretchen, who by this time could have used either a physician or a counselor or both to bring down her blood pressure and calm her nerves. She got neither.

Andrea, as she had planned, told the simple truth. She explained her reasoning and her justification completely. She was convinced her actions had been fitting and appropriate. And she was certain the faculty would be understanding and in agreement that she had done what needed to be done.

Bill Page, when summoned to McNiff's office the previous night, had been grateful he would have almost twenty-four hours to come up with a defense. However, as time passed, it became clear to Page that no exculpatory explanation would hold water. At best he would buy a little time, delay the inevitable.

His only possible escape would be to claim he hadn't written the note. He hadn't signed it. But he had written it. And any handwriting analyst worth her salt could testify that Bill Page was indeed the author of the infamous note.

After long thought, and even a little prayer—there are no atheists in the sex crime defendant's dock—he decided in effect to throw himself on the mercy of the faculty.

Thus, in his testimony he described Andrea as a seductress—an agent provocateur. She had started the whole affair. She had entrapped him with her promises of sexual favors. It was outrageous conduct for someone who was about to be awarded a diploma in Pastoral Ministry.

He was weak—but not evil. He begged the faculty to take into consideration his conduct throughout his career, delayed though it was, in the seminary. He asked for mercy.

He had been eloquent. And, if one were to overlook Andrea's very strong motive, much of his defense was accurate.

Andrea and Page were sent to their respective rooms under the same rule of isolation as before. They were assured they would learn the verdict as soon as it was rendered. Before this evening, if possible.

The doors to the faculty lounge were closed and locked. Those within were in conclave.

Bishop McNiff swore the faculty members to a secrecy that would prevent them from divulging the details of the deliberation to the extent of identifying a particular speaker with his or her opinion. They could reveal the total number of votes. But again, they were not to identify an individual with his or her vote.

McNiff then led them in a prayer to the Holy Spirit for enlightenment and guidance.

The future of two students—one young, one close to ordination—was at stake. The welfare and integrity of the seminary were on the line.

Finally, votes might be cast by each and every member of the faculty present, including the rector. Father Koesler was there only as an observer.

Koesler was not wild about being the permanent dummy in this bridge game. On the other hand, he thought that the debate and the voting would be instructive and interesting.

Early discussion centered on William Page and his apologia for his admittedly crude overture to Andrea.

“He confessed to being weak. What are we about here? Do we ordain only saints, or are we, all of us, sinners who need forgiveness?” So spoke Father Frank Grasso. In most formalistic settings such as the present, Grasso was the principal spokesperson for the conservative side.

“Being weak is one thing,” Father Paul Burke, a progressive, said. “We're talking about conduct you probably wouldn't find even in one of those X-rated movies!”

“You've been to one? Some?” Grasso challenged.

“Don't be a blithering idiot, Frank,” Burke shot back. “We've all read Page's letter. Any redeeming social value there?”

“Follow Page's argument,” Father Laurence Duross, a traditionalist, said. “It was no more than a slip … a
lapsus linguae.
He has an unblemished record in this seminary. Doesn't that count for, anything?”

“Is his record unblemished because his heart was pure all this time?” said Father Cliff Rogers, Burke's buddy. “Or has this basically blemished character been there all the while, and did it surface when invited to show itself?”

“Look at the record,” Duross remonstrated. “He's been an exemplary student and seminarian.”

“Meaning he follows every dictate of the magisterium as if it were God sending down the tablets?” Burke said.

“The magisterium is God's word and God's will,” Grasso declared.

“Says who?” Burke snapped.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen …” McNiff called for everyone's attention. “Please, let us not get into a theological donnybrook. We're trying to deal with some very serious conduct on the part of two of our senior students. Shall we confine ourselves to the issues at hand?”

There was a brief pause, giving everyone an opportunity to refocus on what they were about.

“It comes down to this,” Rogers said. “Supposing we have Page ordained. He is sent to a parish—”

“St. Waldo's, I'm told,” Burke interrupted.

“It just so happens,” Grasso retorted, “that no other ordinand asked for that assignment.”

“So,” Burke argued, “we're supposed to feel very sorry because poor Page is slated to serve the wealthiest parish in the diocese?”

“Gentlemen!” McNiff intervened. “Father Rogers has the floor.”

“As I was saying,” Rogers proceeded, “supposing that Page is sent to Waldo's or just about any other assignment. It is not beyond reason that one or more of the ladies of the parish might find him debonair, mature, eloquent, even attractive. Supposing one or another of those women indulges in a little innocent flirting … you do see where this goes, don't you?”

“Directly,” Duross replied, “into the trash heap labeled hypothesis-speculation.”

“Not exactly,” Rogers corrected. “Remember what you read in that note, eminent colleagues. All that sickening sexual excess awaits the gentle flirt. Next, we will find Page being bounced around the diocese. Assigned to one parish after another. Leaving behind a mounting series of scandals.”

“I think,” said Duress, “that Father Rogers's imagination has run wild. To elicit that sort of response from Page, you'd need not a flirt but a provocateur. A Salomé. And you're not going to find such a woman in the Rosary Altar Society.”

“I submit,” Grasso said, “that we're concentrating on the wrong character in this little drama. Miss Zawalich orchestrated this entire gambit. If she hadn't dreamed up this scheme, nothing, absolutely nothing, would have happened.”

“Exactly,” Duress agreed. “She is what's termed a whistle-blower. What happens if we confer a degree on her? She goes to a parish and if the pastor doesn't suit her standards, she entraps the poor man. And one more parish desperately in need of a pastor has no one to turn to but Little Miss Mata Hari.”

“What's so bad about a whistle-blower?” Burke demanded. “It takes courage to take on any establishment or power-mad leader and expose the evil!”

“Doesn't anyone see,” Duross asked, “the resemblance between what we're debating now and one of the earliest stories in the Bible?”

“You don't mean—“Burke began.

“Of course I mean Adam and Eve. Paradise and the first sin. Adam would not have fallen if it had not been for Eve. It's the woman every time.
Cherchez la femme.”

“Well! Really!” Loretta Doyle breathed fire. She was that rare combination of liturgist, conservative, and feminist.

Duross and many of the other traditionalists knew they had just lost a sympathetic ear.

The debate continued for more than an hour, neither faction moving appreciably in their respective positions.

For some, Page was the victim. Trapped by a conniving female. To this camp, Andrea was all of the seducing, manipulative women in history.

Or, Andrea was willing to risk a Church career she'd been pursuing for the past eight years so that the Church would not be compromised by a totally unacceptable candidate for orders. To this camp, Page was a clear and certain danger. A time bomb set and ready to go off.

The debate slackened as all sensed that they were going over the same ground again and again. A motion was made and seconded that Page be given a reprimand and forgiven for all else. That was defeated 19-11.McNiff did not vote.

A motion was made and. seconded that Page be reprimanded, confined to campus until after the Easter holidays, and that his request for assignment to St. Waldo's be denied. The motion passed 17-13.

As to the matter of Andrea Zawalich:

A motion was made and seconded that her behavior in this matter be made a part of her permanent record and that she be placed on probation for a year after graduation. Anything of this nature in that period and she would be stripped of her academic degree. That motion was defeated 20-10.

The handwriting was on the wall: The majority wanted Andrea's head.

A motion was made and seconded that she be expelled and denied her degree. The motion passed 18-12.

The meeting was over. McNiff took on the unwanted task of informing the two principals of the faculty's verdict.

Father Koesler was disheartened by the entire affair. He barely knew either student. But this escapade bore the earmarks of adolescent behavior. Easier to forgive Andrea than Page, if only because the young woman was chronologically closer to adolescence.

But the faculty had debated and voted. As they say in Rome,
causa finita.

Twenty-five

With Bishop McNiff's message of the faculty vote, both the accused were freed from detention. Andrea, however, was told to pack and make arrangements to leave immediately.

As soon as McNiff left Andrea's room, Patty joined her. And the two had a wrenching cry. Some of that gloom lingered as Andrea began to pack.

“How are you going to leave?” Patty asked bleakly.

“My mom and dad are on the way. I've got my car, but I just don't feel up to driving right now. I'll go home with Mom, and Dad will take my car.”

“You did it for me, didn't you?” Patty asked, after a short silence.

“Partly …” Andrea thought for a moment. “Yes, only partly. The sleazeball did give you such a rotten time. I wouldn't have had any idea of the horrible things that he would do to the Church if I hadn't seen what he did, and what he tried to do, to you.”

Patty shook her head. “It's my fault. I can't help it; I feel I'm responsible for what's happened.”

Andrea stopped packing and sat on the bed. “Drive that out of your mind, honey.
I
did it. I did it all on my own. And it was stupid.”

“It wasn't!” Patty protested. “There was no other way. Face it: If you had told the faculty how unfit Bill Page is for the priesthood, they would never have believed you. Look at what actually happened: Page himself told the faculty how low he could stoop. And all they did was give him a slap on the wrist.”