The Greatest Evil (21 page)

“Not all of us,” Tony said bitterly.

“I asked you to call Dr. Schmidt,” Koesler said, in explanation of Tony’s absence at the end.

“I didn’t come back.”

“This is never easy,” Schmidt said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“My sister stuck it out!” The statement reflected a chauvinistic spirit; Tony had not lived up to a demand answered by a “mere girl.”

The priest and the doctor let Tony’s charge stand. Both felt that in time the young man would have a more mature attitude.

Schmidt turned his attention to the medication and supplements on the nightstand. “You said that until near the end she exhibited no apparent pain?”

“No,” Koesler responded. “Tired … she seemed very tired. But no pain that I could detect.”

“Well, this probably is the answer.” Schmidt held up the small morphine bottle. It was empty. “For the life of me, I couldn’t get her to use a painkiller. I don’t know why. Well, evidently, she changed her mind.”

“She had joined her suffering to that of Christ,” Koesler murmured. He felt that his mind was becoming numb.

Schmidt looked at him sharply. “I don’t understand that at all!”

Koesler sighed. “It made sense to her.”

When Louise had explained her intention regarding the morphine, Koesler had thought of a sermon given about a hundred years ago by John Henry Cardinal Newman. Newman’s homily addressed Mary’s presence at the crucifixion of her son. It was an involved theological speculation that began with the hypothesis that Jesus was one person and that was divine. He was God. However, He also possessed two natures: human and divine. Not only was He a human man, He also was God. He lacked, then, a human personality. This absent human personality could not participate in the total suffering that ended in His death. Newman’s point was that Jesus’ mother contributed—offered—her human personality to complete her son’s redemptive act.

It was a most complex concept … a theological clutter.

Koesler was certain Louise had never read or even heard of the sermon preached so long ago. And yet that, in effect, was what she had done in joining her suffering with the terminal pain of Jesus Christ.

Now, gazing at the empty bottle, Koesler began to comprehend how intense her pain must have been—so great that she was forced to abandon her resolution.

But he was glad she had done it. It had been the certainty of the painful effects of the radiation, along with the hopelessness of the treatment, that had prompted the decision to forgo therapy.

Without radiation, morphine became the prescribed antidote for the pain of her cancer. Thank God she had finally made use of it.

Schmidt closed his bag, then stopped and looked around the room. “Something’s missing.”

“What?”

“Vincent. I haven’t seen him since I arrived. Surely he’s here! He couldn’t still be at the seminary, could he?”

“That’s strange,” Koesler said. “Of course he’s here. He’s been here since yesterday. After Louise died, Lucy and I left him here with her. He seemed to want to stay near the body. With all that’s been happening, I’m afraid I forgot all about him.” He turned to Tony, still standing in the doorway. “Do you know where Vinnie is?”

It was as if Tony had suddenly wakened. “No … no, I don’t. I’ll go find him.” He disappeared down the hall.

“Can you stay with them for a while at least?” Schmidt asked Koesler.

“I’ll stay. They’re expecting some relatives and friends later. The original plan was for visitors to come and go without sticking around to tire her. Now, of course …” Koesler looked at the outline of Louise’s slight form. “… there’s no reason for them to leave. I’m sure they’ll stay to comfort the children and each other. But I’ll hang around until the crowd grows a bit.”

There was movement at the bedroom door. Tony had returned from somewhere, but Vincent wasn’t with him. The boy was ashen.

“What is it?” Koesler asked.

“You’d better come.” He turned and led them down the hall to the guest room—the bedroom that Vincent and Tony had shared when they were children.

All Koesler saw was a well-kept room … until Tony pointed to the far corner beyond the bed.

Koesler, following Tony’s pointing finger, took a few steps around the side of the bed. There, on the floor, curled in a fetal position, was Vincent. He was not moving.

“Oh, my God!” Koesler exclaimed.

The Present

“Oh, my God!” Father Tully breathed.

Neither priest spoke for several moments.

“This is playing out like a Greek tragedy,” Tully said finally. “An excommunicated aunt; a failed nullity decree; a suicide; sisterly enmity; terminal cancer at the worst time for the children; and now … what? A catatonic young man on the verge of ordination to the priesthood?” He shook his head. “Incredible!”

“It does have a cumulative effect, doesn’t it?” Father Koesler agreed. “Although I’m the storyteller, I’ve never considered the events of the Delvecchio family’s tragedy in one continuous chronological line before.”

He thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s because I’m not dwelling on many of the happy, upbeat, positive things that happened to them. But then, it was this accumulation of really bad fortune that transformed the family—especially Vincent. As I said before, seeing the story this way is giving me a much different perspective.” He tilted his head slightly. “Interesting.”

During Koesler’s lengthy narration, Tully, not consciously, had inched forward until now he was perched on the edge of his chair almost like a bird in a cage.

Aware now that he had become physically involved in the Delvecchio chronicles, he pushed himself back in his seat. “But what happened to Vincent?” he asked. “Obviously, he didn’t die. On top of that, he was ordained; my God, he’s a bishop!”

Koesler looked grave. “That undoubtedly was a pivotal time in Delvecchio’s life. Fate might have taken him in almost any direction. At least for a while, his life’s course was not in his hands. Others took on that responsibility for him.

“Looking back on it now, I don’t know how those kids got through it. But somehow they did. The funeral for Louise was Easter Wednesday. I gave the eulogy. Ordinarily it would have been one of the St. William’s priests. And Frank Henry was
not
happy that Father Walsh actually asked me to do it.

“Easter Sunday evening Vincent was admitted to St. John’s Hospital. The day of his mother’s funeral, he was transferred to St. Joseph’s Retreat.”

“St. Joseph’s Retreat? What’s that?”

“Nothing now. It was a Catholic sanatorium in Dearborn, staffed by the Sisters of Charity—you know, the ones who used to wear the winged bonnets—”

“Like the Flying Nun.”

“Pretty close. I was kind of familiar with the place before Vince was committed. For one thing, while I was at St. Norbert’s, St. Joe’s was only about a ten-minute drive away. When we were shorthanded—usually because the pastor was on vacation—we used to get from St. Joe’s one or another of the priests who weren’t too far removed from reality to help us with Mass …” Koesler smiled, remembering. “One older guy really was memorable. Each time he’d say Mass for us, he’d steal a vestment. When I drove him back to St. Joe’s, I’d always try to find a way of retrieving it.

“One day I was driving him back and he started reminiscing about how terribly his bishop had treated him. And, believe me, he had a long litany of complaints. Then he said, ‘I just had it with the man. So I went right up to him and told him to go to hell.’

“‘Did he go?’ I asked him.

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘he sent me.’”

Tully chuckled. “But Vincent … what happened to Vincent?”

“I think he was virtually a prisoner in the Retreat. No visitors—not even a priest. I tried to see him and couldn’t. That was almost unheard of … I mean, I’ve been admitted to hospital rooms where the patient is so ill a spouse is denied entry.”

“No one knew what was happening to him?”

“Sure. Guys in the chancery knew. The seminary faculty was kept informed. Of course both those groups could be very close-mouthed about things. And in Vinnie’s case they were. I was eager to find out what was happening. But I didn’t have a clue … until the meeting.”

Koesler had been sitting too long. He got up and started pacing.

“What meeting? What happened?”

“The meeting was the second Sunday after Easter, at St. John’s Seminary. The rector and his faculty; Monsignor Jake Donovan from the Detroit chancery; Father Walsh—as Delvecchio’s pastor; Bobby Bear, Vincent’s psychiatrist; and I—at Walsh’s invitation.” Koesler was silent for a moment. “Seems they had been treating Vince with electroshock.”

Tully shuddered. “They used that a lot back then, didn’t they …”

Koesler nodded. “With a lot of therapists it was the treatment of choice. And then, much more than now, being confined in a sanatorium was almost a badge of shame that was difficult to live down. Especially if you were a seminarian. They had awfully tight standards then: Any deformity or questionable health could be cause for dismissal. If this had happened to just about any other seminarian, it would have been curtains for his vocation.

“But Vincent Delvecchio was not your run-of-the-mill candidate. The chancery had plans for Delvecchio. So the top brass had a bad case of mixed emotions. Thus the meeting …”

“I know the outcome,” Tully broke in. “They kept him in the seminary and ordained him. But I don’t exactly know why. I mean, I know it’s really rough when someone very close dies. But … catatonia? That sure would make me wonder …”

“Not so rare. A long time ago Detroit had an auxiliary bishop whose mother died at a very old age. And that bishop’s reaction almost set the standard for Vince’s. In time, the bishop got over it and functioned again. The difference here was that the precedent incident involved a bishop, whereas Vince was still a seminarian. What can you do with a bishop who’s gone haywire? Whatever else happens, he remains a bishop. But a seminarian? He has a breakdown, he can be dumped. Ordain him and you’ve created a problem that could haunt the diocese for as long as the illness continues … maybe for the sick priest’s entire life.

“And, I can assure you: If it hadn’t been Delvecchio, he would’ve been dumped even though he had already been ordained a deacon. They would just have applied for a laicization. He would’ve been reduced to the lay status and left to get along as best he could.

“But, of course, this wasn’t just any ordinary kid who wanted to be a priest. This was the Reverend Mr. Vincent Delvecchio. The archdiocese of Detroit had a lot invested in Vince: not only money but plans for administrative service.

“Thus, the conclave.”

“And,” Tully asked impatiently, “what happened at the meeting?”

“Oh, I can’t recall all of it …” Koesler paused to refresh his memory. “Well, first off, Monsignor Donovan identified the state of things. He was present in lieu of Archbishop Boyle. Boyle at this time”—he looked intently at Tully, who could not be expected to remember when the future Cardinal Boyle had succeeded Cardinal Edward Mooney—“had been in Detroit only some three months. He was installed in December 1958 and we’re talking about the spring of 1959.

“Donovan wanted to impress everyone that Boyle considered this decision concerning Delvecchio of prime importance—important enough that the archbishop himself would have attended. But since he was new to the diocese and was swamped, he couldn’t be there. Nonetheless, all were to understand that Donovan represented Boyle, the chief bishop of the state of Michigan.

“Then, as I recall, Dr. Bob Bear reported that Vince had suffered an extremely severe anxiety attack. He didn’t want to be overly technical nor could he reveal any information protected by physician-patient confidentiality, etcetera.

“Bear’s prognosis was guarded. With care and intensive therapy, Vince’s prospects were quite good. However, at this point, no predictions were ironclad. The doctor’s conclusion: One, that Vince not be ordained a priest until recovery was pronounced and solid; two, that during the time of Vince’s recuperation he be carefully monitored.

“Then the faculty had at it. It seemed obvious to me that the course the doctor had outlined made sense and that that’s what would happen. But I guess each of them felt impelled to contribute something. Father Walsh drew audible lines under some of the faculty’s comments. By the time it was my. turn, everything that could’ve been said had been. So, I passed.

“The responsibility for the final, word seemed to be shared by Father Finn and Monsignor Donovan. And basically, they pretty much followed the doctor’s suggestion.

“Finn said that no matter how quickly Vince might recover, ordination was out of the question this year. He said that no final decision should be made until at least a year from now and maybe longer. But Finn was concerned that Delvecchio not be put upon a shelf somewhere and periodically studied like an insect under a microscope.

“At the same time, it might be counterproductive to take Vince back at St. John’s Seminary. Of course he could continue in some sort of graduate work. But he would have to do so on his own. And that would not be feasible in this institution’s makeup. With all the other students from the first year of theology to the fourth, Vince would, in effect, be in a fifth year of theology—a class unto himself, as it were.

“Then Monsignor Donovan spoke up. He noted that originally Delvecchio had been scheduled to study theology in Rome. At almost the last instant, another student, who happened to be the nephew of a bishop, had been substituted for Vincent.

“‘Why not,’ the monsignor said, ‘use that appointment now?’ So Donovan suggested—with all the clout of the archbishop of Detroit—that Delvecchio be sent off to Rome for … the duration, however long that would be. Donovan said he had several personal friends in Rome, who, he was sure, would monitor Vince’s progress, behavior, and so forth.

“As a fringe benefit, while he convalesced Vince could be taking some graduate courses in Rome. He could end with a leg up on a master’s or a doctoral degree.

“All in all,” Koesler concluded, “it seemed like a happy solution to’ the whole problem.”

“So, he went off to Rome?”