Man Who Loved God (10 page)

“I know you,” Anne Marie said. “If you’re pondering my question that long, you don’t think it’s all that cut and dried. But your answer would be, Yes, you would certainly call him and expect him to come running home … wouldn’t you?”

“Well … yes, I would. I know what I’m supposed to say. But this is how I feel.”

Zack waved a chicken wing lightly. “We’re getting sidetracked. I want to get up to date with you folks. And here we are trying to provide for something that has little chance of happening.”

“No, Zack. I know the lieutenant.”

“I like to be prepared,” Zoo explained.

‘“Chance favors the prepared mind,’” Anne Marie quoted.

“That’s good,” Zack said. “Original?”

Anne Marie swallowed and smiled. “No. Louis Pasteur. But it is good, isn’t it?”

“I thought if Pasteur said something it would have to be, ‘Wash up.’”

“But,” Anne Marie said, “it does highlight Zoo’s approach to life … at least to his work—which is sort of his life.”

“That’s it,” Zoo affirmed. “I want to be ready for anything and everything. I’m in a business of reacting to things I have no control over. I mean, we’re sitting here eating and talking while somewhere in this city some guy is getting worked up enough to kill his enemy. Or he got burned in a drug deal. Or he thinks his woman is dissing him. Or his baby is making too much noise.

“And there are hundreds of like scenarios. He’s gonna shoot or stab or strangle or run over.

“But I don’t know this till we get called to the scene. We look at what he’s done. Then we’ve got to play catch-up. We’ve got to react to what he’s done. Already we’re behind. And the longer it takes us to track down the guy who did it and collect enough evidence to take to the prosecutor, the less likely we are to finish our operation successfully.

“So,” Zoo concluded, “the more I can depend on sources—like Father Koesler, or technicians, or. snitches—the faster I can make progress in wrapping up the case.”

“That makes sense,” his brother allowed.

“Right. See, I pretty much know by now how Koesler’s brain works. You’re unknown territory.”

“So you want to see beforehand what areas, if any, I could help you in before you need me. I’m maybe one of the ways you can be prepared. If I could be a good resource … if I could help you prepare your mind … chance or accidental slipups could favor you. Something like that?”

“Something like that.”

Father Tully laid his utensils on his plate. He had finished the main course, which had not been preceded by four other courses. “What can I tell you that will help you know whether or not I could be of any assistance to you?”

“I don’t know.” Zoo finished his meal. “Well … okay: Father Koesler keeps mentioning a Church council that changed everything—or at least lots” of things—for Catholics. It’s nothing that happened ages ago … more kind of recent.”

“Gotta be Vatican II.”

“That’s it,” Anne Marie affirmed.

“Okay,” Zack said.

“I’ll get dessert. Everyone for ice cream on your apple pie?”

Two nods favored à la mode.

“Okay. I think I’ve got what you want to know.

“First off, I’m forty-five—which I used to think was old. But not anymore. Bob Koesler is sixty-nine. Which from where I’m sitting looks pretty old. But Koesler doesn’t strike me as being old. Everybody’s different, I guess.

“Vatican II ran from 1962 to ’65. I was about thirteen when it ended. So, among other things, I was used to segregated rest rooms and drinking fountains, the back of the bus, theater balconies, and lots of other things for ‘colored only.’

“Of course we didn’t have a parochial school. But I went to catechism regularly—Mama saw to that. And I went with her to Sunday Mass, which was in Latin. And we went to Forty Hours devotions. And benediction Sunday afternoons.

“I learned Latin responses so I could be an altar boy I learned the fundamentals of my religion out of a little book called The
Baltimore Catechism.
I thought that the only reason so many of my buddies were Baptist was because they weren’t smart enough to see that my Catholic Church was ‘The One, True Church.’

“And then, as I went through my teen years in the Josephite seminary, I saw all those Catholic things—those things that I was brought up to believe could never change—change.

“Mass and the other sacraments were in English. Soon enough the
Baltimore Catechism
became a collector’s item. My Baptist buddies were going to heaven just like that tiny elite minority of Catholics in our neighborhood.

“And eventually, as I grew to manhood, mostly in a seminary, I saw a Protestant minister—of all things—begin to free our people.

“So, Zoo: That’s where I am.

“And here’s where Father Koesler is: he was ordained in 1954, two years after I was born. He became a priest in a Church where nearly everybody believed—incorrectly—that nothing had ever changed and nothing would ever change. I was ordained in 1977, after everything changed. And everything would continue to change.”

Anne Marie brought dessert and coffee.

Zoo flattened the ice cream into a glob, covering the warm surface of his pie. “Then … you’re sort of a new breed of Catholic clergy?”

“Once upon a time I was.”

“Once upon a time! How could that be?” Anne Marie exclaimed.

“There’s a wave that came, after us,” the priest explained. “And, oddly enough, this latest wave pretty much resembles the earlier breed.”

“What?” Zoo and Anne Marie chimed.

Father Tully sipped his coffee. Since sampling Father Koesler’s brew, every other cup of coffee had been delicious by comparison. It couldn’t be the Detroit water. “I hope I can clear this up. Father Koesler is among the last of a long, long line of priests that goes back almost as far as the mind can imagine. He’s the kind of dedicated priest who attracted kids like me to follow him:

“I know you’ve heard about the council, Zoo, ’cause you just got done telling me that Father Koesler had told you about it. It really hit old-time priests hard. Koesler and guys like him landed on their feet. Some others didn’t. Some didn’t read the documents that came from the council. They didn’t understand the changes. They grew to hate and ignore everything conciliar. Most of all, they never grasped the special ‘spirit’ that came from the council.

“By and large, we, the new breed who matured in the wake of the council, were infected with the council and its spirit. Then a lot of the priests in Koesler’s age group and older got fed up. By their actions—and their attitude—they were saying, ‘Okay, it’s your Church now. It doesn’t resemble my Church. So, you can have it.’

“Some of these priests resigned their, positions as pastors and marked time until it was okay to retire. And that was another change that happened as a remote result of the council. Before this, priests didn’t retire; they died in harness.

“Some of the priests of my group got impatient with Church leaders who were scared by what was happening in all facets of theology, Church law, and, mostly, liturgy. Those leaders wanted to dig in and recapture whatever was salvageable from the past.

“That did two things: It discouraged my crowd; but they were too young to retire, so many of them left the priesthood outright. And it managed to turn seminarians around till they became more like the priests who are now retiring: they’re just marking time.

“So, Zoo, that’s the long way around answering your question of whether I represent the new wave or new breed. It’s a three-layer cake and my gang is the middle.

“Now you’ve learned something more about me: ask me the time and I’ll tell you how to make a clock.

“But it also should indicate that I’m not all that different from Bob Koesler. I wasn’t a priest before the council. But I was a Catholic who lived before, during, and after it.” He shook his head. “Just listen to me: I’m not asking for an extra job,” he explained. “I only thought I could put you at ease during what I’m sure will be a very brief vacation for one of your valued sources, Father Koesler. The way I’ve run on, anyone could swear that I was interviewing for the job.”

Now that dessert was finished they were on coffee refills.

Anne Marie smiled sweetly, leaned forward, and patted the priest’s arm. “Zachary, it helped. Believe me it did. I like to think I’m a pretty plugged-in Catholic. But some of what you said was new to me. Besides, it helped us understand what makes you you.”

“What about going into the living room? Let’s get comfy,” Zoo said.

Zachary felt reluctant to leave the intimacy of the kitchen. But, in the long run, it worked. The three newly introduced kinfolk talked far into the evening. They had so much to learn of each other. Anne Marie recounted her life before and since becoming a teacher. She spoke movingly of her first meeting with Zoo … how he had rescued her from a purse-snatcher. She counted the incident a product of Divine Providence. The priest found no reason to doubt that.

Zoo, ordinarily not garrulous, spoke sketchily of life in a large family—eight children. All the while his father was with them, they lived in modest lower-middle-class comfort. But after his unexpected departure, life hardened considerably. Now, five of the children had passed on. The remainder, aside from Zoo, lived in distant states. Anne Marie promised to give Father Tully addresses and phone numbers.

Zoo spoke of his life as a police officer and how he’d been “discovered” by Walt Koznicki and how close they’d grown. Koznicki had been Zoo’s sponsor in the Homicide Division—then the major league of the department.

Father Tully had already given a bit of a biographical sketch in trying to convince Zoo that there was life before and after Father Koesler. Now, he filled in the gaps.

So absorbed were they no one had thought to turn on any lights. They became aware of this only when it grew so dark they could scarcely see each other.

“Well,” Zoo slapped his knees as he stood, “it’s getting late. And I’ve got an early morning. What say I drive you home, Zack?”

“Good idea.” The priest felt stiff from sitting so long. “That way I’ll be up nice and early to take Father Koesler’s first call of the day.”

They laughed at the thought of Koesler’s lack of total confidence in his parish sitter. He was like a nervous parent phoning home repeatedly to make sure the children were still alive.

As Zachary prepared to leave, Anne Marie hugged him, then kissed his cheek affectionately. That one simple gesture more than anything else this evening made him feel as if he had found his family.

The two men entered Zoo’s car for the brief ride to St. Joseph’s rectory.

Zoo started the engine, but before he put the car in gear he turned and said, “This is good. I really didn’t know how it was going to go. But it was better than I hoped.” He extended his hand. “Welcome home.”

Zachary took his brother’s hand. “It feels almost as if we’ve grown up together, instead of just discovering each other. Tonight, I’m a happy camper.”

“Mind if I catch up on the news?” Zoo said, as he turned on the radio.

The lead story on the eleven o’clock newscast shattered the evening’s homey warmth. A police officer had been shot on the Lodge Freeway, not far from where they were now.

A car had apparently stalled on the shoulder of the freeway. A young woman had stood near the rear of the vehicle, in obvious distress.

A lone officer in a blue-and-white had pulled up behind the car. He’d got out and as he’d approached the seemingly empty vehicle, two men had jumped out. The first one had fired a single shot and the officer had gone down.

Several passing cars slowed as they reached the scene. The occupants saw clearly what had happened. With good reason, none of them stopped. But several with cellular phones immediately called 911. Some were so nervous and upset that they were not much help in identifying either what had happened or where. But one caller, who was regularly scolded for watching too much television, relied on what he had seen so often on cops-and-robbers TV. “Officer down,” he said tersely. Then he gave a calm description of the location. He answered all the questions asked him by the operator.

Zoo started his flasher and sped down the nearly empty surface street. His police band caught the organized chaos as his fellow officers operated on adrenaline. The police took care of their own in very special ways.

Father Tully volunteered to get out and hail a cab. At the very least, he urged his brother to drop him at the rectory and take off immediately. Zoo took the second option. Seldom had Zachary Tully ever been delivered and dropped so speedily and abruptly.

The priest preferred not to linger on a dark, abandoned street on the fringe of downtown Detroit. He hastened into the rectory, where he turned on the TV news to see if there was any more on the shooting.

Obviously, the shooting had been the lead story on the telecast. Father Tully recalled the TV news maxim: if it bleeds, it leads. Now the newscasters were reporting less momentous and lighter news items. Father Tully hoped they would return to the police shooting before they wrapped things up.

Just before sports and weather the anchorwoman announced that the new and controversial branch of Adams Bank and Trust would be opened for the first time and for the first customers at 9:30
A.M.
Friday, the day after tomorrow. And, in a move that surprised many in the banking industry, CEO Thomas A. Adams had named Allan Ulrich as general manager of the new branch.

Until today, the anchor continued, front-runner for this position had been Nancy Groggins, wife of construction entrepreneur Joel Groggins. Mrs. Groggins, who also possessed many of the credentials of Al Ulrich, was African-American and a woman, which prompted some to speculate that she might have related better to the neighborhood.

There followed film of a smiling Nancy Groggins refusing to be baited by reporters and congratulating Al Ulrich.

The next shot featured Ulrich stating that he felt fortunate to be selected by Tom Adams, a man and a business leader respected by his employees and the city at large.

Next there was the mayor with characteristic enthusiasm—so completely absent in his predecessor—marking the launching of this bank branch as turning another corner in the rebuilding of Detroit.