Dead Wrong (3 page)

“‘Are you sorry for all those affairs?’ the priest asked. The sailor thought for a moment. ‘No, can’t say I am.’

“The priest thought about that a while. ‘Well, are you sorry you’re not sorry?’ ‘Yes,’ said the sailor, ‘I guess so.’

“‘Well,’ said the priest, ‘I guess that’s good enough.’” Koesler laughed at his own anecdote. “Of course the old salt was at the end of the line. He didn’t have to worry about sin in the future.” Koesler’s unspoken thought was,…
and probably neither do you.

Nash looked at the priest. The old man’s eyes may have been laughing, but nothing else was.

After a moment’s silence, Koesler said, “Well?”

“Well?” Nash responded.

“Well, can you go at least that far in repentance? That you’re sorry you can’t be more completely sorry?”

Nash shrugged, glanced out the window, then turned back to Koesler and said, “You really want to save me, don’tcha?”

“You sent for me,” Koesler said. “What other reason could there have been? I can’t help you in any other way but spiritually.”

The priest was baffled. Perhaps Nash wanted to test the waters, as it were. Maybe to make sure this confessor would not be judgmental. Koesler had had many such penitents in the past—people who wanted, sometimes desperately, to get something off their chest, some shameful failure in their past perhaps. But they were afraid they would be misunderstood, that they would be embarrassed by the harsh reaction of a confessor. So they would waltz around the principal problem until they were fairly sure of an understanding and receptive ear.

Could that be Charlie Nash’s problem?

“How long you been a priest?”

“Uh … thirty-nine years—and counting.”

“Uh-huh. You always been a Detroiter?”

“Yep. Born in old St. Joseph Hospital on the Boulevard.”

“Where the GM Cadillac plant is now.”

“Exactly.” Maybe this was Nash’s way of establishing his confidence in a confessor, but Koesler felt as if he were interviewing for a job.

“So, all that time in Detroit.”

“Well, in Detroit and environs. Before I was ordained, yes, I lived in the city exclusively. Since I’ve been a priest, I’ve been assigned to a bunch of different parishes, some in the city, some suburban—but always in the archdiocese of Detroit.”

“Uh. Family? You got family?”

“Not much anymore. Parents are gone. No brothers or sisters.”

“No cousins? No close cousins?”

“Well, yes. My mother’s only sister had three daughters. We kind of grew up together. They still live here. They’re about the only cousins that still live here. But where is this leading? I mean …”

“I’m interested in your background. The reason will get clear later on. I’m interested in your cousins. What about them?”

Koesler was beginning to feel a lurking touch of claustrophobia. It was not uncommon for him to become defensive whenever anyone impinged on his private life. Such a mechanism might have been anachronistic in the nineties—indeed, any time after the sixties and the Second Vatican Council.

By the seventies, a great deal of the mystic cultic character of the priesthood had vanished. Priests were now frequently on a first-name basis with their flock. “Father Jack” was one of the boys who happened to be ordained and had a supernatural aura only when vested and supervising worship.

Koesler, however, could not be or become “Bob” or even “Father Bob.” His clerical roots were deep in the pre-conciliar Church. From his seminary days on, he saw the priesthood in an extraterrestrial dimension. Priesthood for Koesler—and for many of his contemporaries—shared in the mission of Jesus Christ and was a sublime vehicle for helping others. Emphasis was on the role and not on the individual. So he was uncomfortable when anyone attempted to burrow into his personal life. Not that there was anything in it of which he was ashamed. But the intrusion seemed to him counterproductive. The familiar level was completely open to his family, and fellow priests and personal friends. But when he was operating professionally, as he was now with Charles Nash, he was more comfortable with recognition of his professional character.

However, in the hope that Nash’s promise or relevancy would finally emerge, Koesler was now willing to humor the man and follow his lead. “What was it again you wanted to know?”

“Your cousins … tell me about them.”

“Uh … okay. There are three of them—about my age, in their fifties and sixties.”

“Old maids.”

“Maiden ladies. They never married.”

“Names?”

“Oona, Eileen, and Maureen Monahan.”

“Irish.”

“My mother’s family was Irish.”

“Children?”

“They’re unmarried.”

“Doesn’t mean they couldn’t have children.”

Koesler suppressed irritation. “Not these women!”

“How about the last one? Maureen?”

Koesler tipped his head sideways, as if taking a fresh look at Nash. “This is where you’ve been going all the while, isn’t it? You already know about Maureen—and her two girls. Maureen took them in to live with her. If you knew of their existence, you have to know they were adopted—maybe not technically, but for all intents and purposes.”

“I want to know more about them. Then you’ll know why I sent for you.”

Koesler knew he’d reached the end of his tether. “I think we’ve delved into my life far enough, Mr. Nash,” he said firmly. “I don’t know what there is about me or my relatives that piqued your curiosity, but I see no point in continuing this conversation.” He stood up. “If ever I can really help you sometime, feel free to call. Or,” he added, “you might consider calling the parish that serves this area. Which, incidentally, is St. Charles—”

“Wait!” Nash said, with more animation than he’d shown previously. “Wait, don’t go.” He turned his head and looked out the window for a moment. Then he turned back to Koesler. “All right, all right: I know your background. I know about your cousins. And I know about the young ones—Maureen’s children.”

Koesler sat back down, but he still was far from satisfied with continuing this conversation. “They’re not Maureen’s children—not her natural children; they’re adopted.”

Nash hesitated. “I know about that. But they’re as good as hers. She raised them.”

“Not from their earliest years. They were foundlings. No actual parent can be completely responsible for every decision children make, especially as they become adults. Still less if the child is not in the care of the adopting parent during the child’s early, most formative years.”

Nash almost smiled. “You know where I’m heading, don’t you?”

“You’re going toward a rumor, nothing more.” Koesler had been maneuvered into a defensive position, and he did not like it at all.

Nash spread his hands, palms up, as if he were speaking an irrefutable if unpleasant truth. “It is no rumor, Father Koesler. Your cousin Brenda is the paramour of my son Teddy. You know that’s true, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t
know
it’s true. I have heard the gossip. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all it is—gossip. It isn’t even reliable enough for this hearsay to appear in print. We have our share of gossip columnists locally as well as nationally. From time to time, one or another of them will climb out on a limb and publish or broadcast a thoroughly scurrilous story. But nothing—nothing!—about Ted Nash and Brenda Monahan!”

Nash sank back into his chair. “My son is a powerful man—even though he has little more power than what came from me. But above all, Teddy is cautious, I’ll give him that. Anyone who published a word of his affair would be hard-pressed to prove anything. And any publisher who okayed the story would be flirting with a serious lawsuit. But it’s real, Father Koesler; put your bottom dollar on it: It’s true.”

Nash fished through the pouch on the side of his wheelchair until he came up with a pack of cigarettes. Koesler could hardly believe his eyes. Most probably, Nash owed his emphysema—the disease that likely would kill him—to smoking. He needed an inhaler just to breathe normally … or what passed for normally.

Koesler had been a smoker. In his youth, he, like many smokers of his era, had lit up one or another of the unfiltered cigarette brands. There were no filter tips in those days. Nor, he noticed, was Nash’s cigarette filtered. In later years before he quit, Koesler could not bring himself to smoke any but the most thoroughly filtered of brands. And now here was Charles Nash delivering an almost self-inflicted coup, de grâce.

The priest leaned back in a futile attempt to get as far away as possible from secondary smoke inhalation. “Suppose … just suppose, I grant for a moment that my foster cousin and your son are— and I really don’t admit this—having … an affair. So what? It may or may not be of concern to you. But … me? If I wanted to intrude unasked into someone else’s life—which I seldom if ever do … but, say I did: What could I do about it?”

“We’re talking adultery here!” Nash’s raised voice was forceful. “Your cousin may not be married. But my son, by God, is very much married. He’s got a family, for God’s sake!”

Two thoughts occurred to Koesler almost simultaneously. If anyone should be an expert in adultery, surely Charles Nash would be that person. At least so spoke his universally accepted reputation. Plus, why should his son’s adulterous affair bother this old master of infidelity? By Nashian standards, merely one woman on the side was hardly even getting into the game. Neither of these unspoken considerations, thought Koesler, deserved airing.

Instead, Koesler said, “Mr. Nash, Ted’s wife must have at least heard the rumors. As far as I know, she hasn’t done anything about it.” Koesler could not imagine a woman of Mrs. Nash’s standing putting up with such a situation. Divorce was not uncommon even among Catholics now. And any financial settlement in such a case would leave her with a very comfortable future.

“Also,” Koesler added, “Ted is a businessman—a builder, a developer. His position in the business community could scarcely be changed, let alone damaged at all, merely by an extramarital affair.

“Don’t misunderstand me: I’m certainly not condoning adultery. I’m saying I don’t know this accusation to be true. How could I broach a matter like adultery to Brenda when it’s no more than a rumor? And even if it were true, Brenda knows I’m available if she wants to talk.”

“You don’t understand! You don’t understand, dammit!” Nash pounded feebly on the arm of his wheelchair. “Teddy has created the impression that he is more Catholic than the Pope—courtesy of the training his mother gave him. If the Vatican needs a new electronics system, they’ve got it, courtesy of Teddy. If this city gets into deficit spending over a visit from the Pope, Teddy picks up the tab. Christ, he’s even got his own goddam chapel and his own goddam priest! On top of all that crap, little Brenda works in the chancery for the archdiocese of Detroit.”

Koesler had to admit privately that all Nash said was true: Ted had indeed made himself the most “official” Catholic layman in Michigan—perhaps in the country—maybe even the world.

“The thing that’s gonna happen when Teddy’s affair becomes public …”—Koesler noted that Nash eschewed the conditional “if” for the more definite “when”—“the thing that’s gonna happen when Teddy’s affair becomes public,” Nash repeated, “is that this whole Catholic fable gets exposed and destroyed. And that means that Teddy’s whole world is gonna crumble and so is Teddy. If he can’t be Pope Teddy, he ain’t gonna be nobody. See?”

“Yes, but—”

“What you don’t see,” Nash continued as if Koesler had not spoken, “is that when this masquerade is over, Teddy is gonna be left impotent in every which way.

“And then … and then …”—Nash seemed to be unwinding like a tired spring—”my whole empire, everything I worked for, everything I built, is gonna be nothin’. All my enemies, all my competitors that’ve been snapping at my heels all these years, they’re gonna be all over Nash Enterprises. And there ain’t gonna be anything left of it. It’ll be gone. Everything.”

Koesler thought he saw a tear trickle from Nash’s eye. There was no way of being certain; if it was a tear, it vanished in one of the many wrinkles.

Ah, so that was it!
Koesler now thought he understood. This had absolutely nothing to do with religion, God, the sacraments—any sort of consolation or hope that Koesler could and was prepared to deliver. Nash couldn’t have cared less about the state of anybody’s soul: not his, not his son’s—certainly not about the soul of his son’s paramour. It was simply business as usual. Or, rather, keeping the business thriving as usual.

Not for nothing had Ted Nash created this image of himself as super-Catholic. Apparently and against all odds he saw himself as God’s embodiment of the One True Church—although how he was able to accomplish this, given his private life, Koesler had great difficulty imagining.

Charlie Nash could perceive, even predict, the outcome of this charade. Teddy would be unmasked—probably sooner rather than later. And when that happened, when his feet of clay were exposed, he would not have the bravura to tough it out, laugh it off.

And with Teddy frozen and vulnerable, the vultures would gather and devour about the only thing Charlie Nash valued in this life or the next: Nash Enterprises, Inc. And the news media—the news media! What a field day they would enjoy lampooning this holier-than-thou fraud! Not only would he be stripped of his every Catholic costume, but his girl-on-the-side would be revealed as an employee of the Church.

Among the avenues open to Charlie Nash to avert this catastrophe was the one he was now pursuing: Get to Father Koesler and convince him to in turn convince his cousin to break off her liaison with Ted.

So far, it did not seem to Nash that he was accomplishing his mission.

“Look …” If Nash had been a less formidable individual, one could almost have taken his tone as pleading. “It can’t be that hard. You can talk to your cousin—all right, your
foster
cousin. She got at least some Catholic school training; Maureen saw to that. She’s gotta know this is wrong. Besides, what kinda future is this for her? What’s she gonna get outta it? Teddy is not gonna leave Melissa and the kids. They’re his respectability. Brenda’s got hold of the short end of this stick and it isn’t gonna get any better. You’d be doing Brenda a favor—a very big favor.”