No Greater Love (6 page)

McNiff shook his head and gestured: “You're it.”

“I can see why.”

McNiff nodded. “It would have been counterproductive. We felt that the longer the faculty—and the students, for that matter—were in the dark about the real reason I'm here, the more chance of success I'd have.”

“You couldn't even let the minority liberals in on it?”

“Uh-uh. They might have reacted with some wink-and-nod body language that would have tipped the whole thing off. This transformation had to be imperceptible, not apparent … you know, just a gradual kind of thing, for it to work.”

“Well, I'll give you that.…” Koesler leaned back in his chair. “It's going so gradually that no one in the diocese seems to be detecting it. You've been here over five years and I haven't heard anyone comment on any kind of change going on here whatsoever.”

“There have been changes.” McNiff sounded a whit defensive. “I admit they're subtle. A couple of the priest faculty are gone—one to a pastorate, the other to Senior Priesthood. Three of the lay staff have left. And I've replaced them all. No …” McNiff shook his head and waved his hand in a negative gesture in response to Koesler's obvious heightened interest. “… not with crashing liberals, but with conservatives who have that needed touch of tolerance.”

McNiff began to cough, blessedly not in the direction of Father Koesler, who felt he would be fortunate to escape this bug-filled space without contracting pneumonia.

“So,” Koesler said finally, “as far as you know, there are two, and only two, who are in on your secret mission: you and the Cardinal.”

“Until this moment, yes.”

“Okay, you've told me. Now, isn't it possible that the Cardinal has let someone else in on it?”

“The understanding is that we would share this knowledge with no one without informing each other. And the agreement affects me mainly. I'm the one on the firing line. I need more mobility in handling this policy.”

“So you've told Boyle about our meeting tonight?”

“I'll tell him tomorrow.”

Koesler paused, giving himself time to assimilate all this. “Okay,” he said, finally, “I guess that brings us logically to the ultimate question: Why me?”

“Exactly.”

Koesler noticed that McNiff's eyes were bloodshot and his face was puffy. He wondered whether this cold, or flu—whatever—had been at least partially brought on by the stress of this assignment. He was beginning to feel sorry for his classmate. Boyle had given McNiff a rugged row to hoe. Considering his age and physical condition, McNiff might well be flirting with death.

“I need help, Bob. And I need it bad.”

Koesler could tell, both from this plea and from his longtime familiarity with his classmate, that the situation was taking a lot out of the man. McNiff was not one to ask for help. Knowing this, Koesler was motivated to supply whatever help he could. “In what way? How can I help you?”

McNiff shook his head. This was draining him. “I need someone to confide in. I need to bounce ideas off someone I can trust. I need someone I can relax with. I need a friend—preferably someone who knows and understands my assignment here. And, to top everything off, someone who agrees with the need for this mission.

“Also,” he added parenthetically, “someone who's got the time to do all this. Someone”—he winked one bloodshot eye—maybe who is retired.”

Koesler chuckled. “Did you gerrymander these criteria to fit perfectly my present lifestyle, or do I just happen to fit the bill?”

“Would I do anything underhanded to you?”

“Yes.”

McNiff barely smiled.

“But,” Koesler said, “I'm still not clear on what you expect of me. Do you see this as-yet-anonymous ‘helper' as someone who responds to your decisions on a full-time basis?”

“No, not at all. Let's say for sake of argument that you were this as-yet-anonymous helper. I envision it this way. You'd have a suite here in the seminary. It would be yours to use as you will: complete freedom to come and go as you wish.

“It would be nice if you would attend—concelebrate—our daily liturgies. If you wished, you could also help out at the parish of your choice on a daily basis or on weekends.

“If you wanted, you could teach a class here. You'd get to know some of the students better. And you'd be sitting in on the faculty meetings, since you would be, in effect, an adjunct professor—”

“Of what?”

“I've given that some thought—”

“You've given some thought to everything.”

McNiff was undeterred. “You spent some years at the diocesan paper. You could teach a course in journalism … or maybe creative writing.”

“My career in journalism was at a small weekly paper that specialized in Catholic news and opinion. That's not a lot of background for a course. As to ‘creative writing,' what's the opposite—'destructive writing'?

“I don't mean to put you down, Little Pat; I just don't think I'm qualified to teach one of your standard subjects.”

McNiff sighed impatiently. “Look, Bob, within limitations, we can do pretty much what we want in creating and staffing classes. You could float a bit. Drop into the Homiletics class occasionally. You're a good speaker; for the love of Pete, I asked you to give the eulogy for both my parents. I didn't ask for you at that important time in my life because you were chopped liver!

“Hey, you've been a parish priest for forty-five years. For a dozen of those years you were also editor of the
Detroit Catholic.
Bob”—McNiff was both pleading and exhorting—“give the kids the benefit of your experience.”

Koesler looked out the window in deep thought. “If I give them the benefit of my experience,” he said, finally, “won't they begin to tumble to what you're doing? I mean, I am not now, not have I been for a very long time, a member of the conservative wing of the Church. Nor do I even fit in with those conservatives that you're looking for now—the ones with a high degree of tolerance. I'm a liberal who tolerates conservatives—at least the ones who tolerate back.”

“I don't see the problem, Bobby. You're retired. You're not on the firing line anymore. That's the image you've got. They—the faculty and the students—don't know that by joining me you've gone back to that front line.

“You'll see: You'll be venerated; you'll be a figure who's been, through the battles. You'll be like the old professors here when we were students: a Father Klenner, a Father Leo Ward, a Father Stitt—”

“Wait a minute, Pat. I'm not a relic these kids will reverence after breakfast.”

Their laughter was cut short by McNiff's coughing spell. Koesler rose, crossed over, and pounded McNiff's back. “Lay off,” McNiff managed to gasp through his coughs. “You're gonna kill me!”

Koesler backed away and seated himself again.

McNiff grabbed some Kleenex and dabbed at his eyes. Finally, back in control, the bishop spoke. “Listen, Bob, we can work this out. I've given it a lot of thought. And you've had only a few minutes to let it sink in.”

Koesler nodded. “You're right, Pat. What was the time limit the Cardinal gave you originally? A week or so, no? How 'bout I give you my answer before this week is out?”

“Great!”

Koesler rose, got his coat and hat, and insisted that he could see himself out. “Take care of yourself,” he admonished. “You don't want to celebrate your victory at St. Joe's by dying.”

“Don't worry about me, Bob. Oh, and by the way, if you should come across anyone in the hallway, would you ask them to clean up that door? And Bob: About tonight—”

“It's our secret.”

After closing the door, Koesler took one more look at it.

Disgusting.

As he turned the corner at the staircase, he almost literally bumped into a young woman carrying a bucket of water with soapsuds popping on the surface, and a sponge.

She gave a startled little squeal. Koesler thought it a cute sound. “Let me guess: You must be Patty Donnelly.”

She shook her head. “A friend.”

“Are you about to clean the bishop's door?”

“Yes, Father.” Although she didn't recognize him, she gave the title to his clerical collar.

“Then you are a friend in deed and indeed.”

As Koesler drove to Old St. Joseph's, he reflected on how the parish and the seminary shared the same name. He wondered whether this was an omen. He also reflected on the conversation he'd just had with Pat McNiff.

Koesler felt privileged and gratified to have been let in on easily the most analyzed and most baffling puzzle in Catholic Detroit. Certainly the hot stove topic among Detroit's clergy.

He had put McNiff on hold as far as his participating part in the St. Joe's mission. Now, in the shelter of his car, Koesler knew that he would go along with the bishop's proposition. But Koesler would wait until the weekend to make his acceptance official.

Meanwhile, he would work things out with Father Zachary Tully, the pastor of St. Joe's.

Koesler would have lodging—he was reluctant to call it a suite, even though it would be a couple of rooms and a bath—in the seminary. But if Zack wanted his presence in his former parish, Koesler would not refuse. The same would apply to weekend liturgies.

Any priest—in the world, practically—who could play free safety, to borrow a football metaphor, was welcome as the first flowers of spring to fill in on weekends. So if, for any reason, Zack did not need Koesler's help, there were plenty of other pastors who would grab him up thinking they had gone to heaven without benefit of dying.

In talking this over with Zack Tully, Koesler would have to be careful not to leak in any way the confidence he had agreed to keep. He knew that he need only indicate that certain questions were out of bounds and Zack would respect that.

It wasn't a long drive home. Both the parish and the seminary were not far from the heart of downtown Detroit, the parish being the nearer of the two. If he chose to live at the parish it would be only a short drive to the seminary. And, of course, vice versa.

He continued to mull over his meeting with McNiff.

Good Lord, it was tough to think of Pat McNiff as a bishop!

In their youth, Koesler and McNiff had been counselors together at a Catholic boys' camp. That, as well as being classmates for twelve years, had bonded them tightly. About the only thing they'd never tried was sharing the same assignment as priests. Now they would turn that page by working together at the seminary.

Koesler smiled, recalling the image of Pat McNiff at the door of his room, disheveled in Salvation Army pajamas and robe … not to mention slippers with a toe hole.

Koesler was reminded of the old story about a prodigal son-type priest. Having spent all of his pittance on wine, women, and song, the priest, who now looks and acts like a down-and-out bum, calls at a rectory and says to the priest who answers the door,
“Sum sacerdos
[I am a priest]”—to which the dapper, clean-shaven priest responds, “Some
sacerdos!
“

In the case of Pat McNiff: some bishop!

However, giving credit where it was due, McNiff, in accepting this assignment, had exhibited a significant measure of clerical obedience if not downright bravery.

Which reminded Koesler to guard against any move to make him some sort of coadjutor to McNiff with right of succession. He could admire McNiff while having no intention of following in his footsteps.

McNiff had an extremely narrow line to walk. He had to move an ostensibly immovable culture several delicate degrees to the left. All the while the immovable object must remain unaware that it is sideslipping.

The purpose: to transform a faculty that had become largely closed-minded to one that was open-minded.

Koesler felt that Bishop McNiff was going about the task in the only possible way: gradually replacing the personnel. It was Koesler's experience that once a person either closed or opened his or her mind, it was likely to remain in that position forever and ever. Amen.

He did worry about McNiff's health. Those heart attacks, the quadruple bypass, and, most of all, the time bomb aneurysm—each and every one was a realistic cause for concern.

Koesler resolved that, insofar as he was able, he would try to be a buffer, protecting his friend from the powder keg of stress and hazard. If he could help it, Bishop McNiff would not die on Koesler's watch.

Seven

Patty Donnelly had forced down a simple dinner. She knew exactly when her appetite had vanished.

It wasn't the slopping of Bishop McNiff's food all over his door. That was boneheaded, not like her at all.

It was one of those embarrassing moments that would return periodically to memory, each time causing her to wince. Everyone has such uncomfortable memories that haunt and scar. Patty could have laughed the incident away had it not been for the seminarians—Reverend Mr. Horses' Asses—who made a laughingstock of her and turned her away from their august table.