No Greater Love (17 page)

Bishop McNiff had abandoned the simple black cassock in favor of his usual episcopal raiment. He might not have become so formalistic but for his position as rector of this very traditional seminary.

As he accepted a glass of wine from McNiff, Koesler, an amused smile on his face, looked down at his vertically challenged friend.

Crowning McNiff's abundant white hair was a red beanie, more properly called a zucchetto. Red piping set off the black cassock and cape. A string of red buttons ran the short distance from neck to pants cuffs. A wide red sash served as a belt. A silver cross suspended from a long silver chain completed the uniform.

McNiff's nonsensical grin mirrored a like, expression from Koesler. “So,” McNiff said, “what's your problem, tall, dark, and tall?”

“Nothing, really. It's just that every time I see you all dressed up, I can't help thinking of the Infant of Prague.”

“Listen,” McNiff said as if giving a command, “if I wore plain black like you, let alone what I'd rather wear—just pants and a T-shirt—they'd run me outta here in tar and feathers.”

“Come on,” Koesler chided, “this crowd wouldn't treat a bishop like that.”

“Like hell they wouldn't. Haven't you gotten to know them better than that by now?”

“Yeah, I have. And I suppose you're right.” Koesler apparently found something arresting about McNiff's footwear. “You're wearing white socks!”

“My feet have some kind of skin disorder. The doctor told me to wear white socks.”

“With a black outfit?”

“The doctor said.”

“Haven't you ever heard of socks that are white on the bottom half and black on the top?”

“What's wrong with what I'm wearing?” McNiff's tone was argumentative.

Koesler studied the white on black several long moments. “Nothing!” he said at length.

McNiff did not sit behind his desk. They took facing chairs. As they sipped their drinks, each was lost in his own thoughts.

At long last McNiff broke the silence. “Do you ever think about it? We go back a long way.”

Koesler did some mental arithmetic. “Almost sixty years!”

“That long!”

“We met for the first time in our freshman year in the seminary—1942,” Koesler said.

“How different everything is now. Today's kids can't even comprehend how things were back then.”

“The Church has changed several times over … and the seminary with it.”

McNiff gazed at his glass of Diet Coke. It didn't even resemble wine. “Any contacts with our students yet?”

“Bumped into a few. But nothing in depth … yet. I did, however, have a long chat with Mr. William Cody last night.”

“Oh, yeah: Albert's father … that the one?”

“Indeed.” Koesler went on to give the bishop the substance of what they'd discussed. Cody's fear that a student named Page might be a questionable influence on Al. And, second, Cody's distress over the newly introduced Folk Mass.

“Have you met Page?” McNiff asked.

“No. Not yet. But I plan on doing so … soon.”

“After you do, I'd like to know how he impresses you. He's a big question mark to me. I may be seriously mistaken about the young man. When I think of him, the image I get is a chameleon. He would've made his way safely through England with Henry VIII and his successors. For Henry, Page would belong to the schismatic Church of England. And for Bloody Mary, he'd be staunchly Catholic. Then back to Henry's Church under Elizabeth. As I say, I may be mistaken.…

“But, tell me: What was the other thing?”

“With Cody last night? The Folk Mass. I didn't mention it, but it's an Afro Folk Mass.”

“Oh, boy! The red flag and the bull. How did they ever get that past Cody? He's a vigilante. I picture him up on the ramparts guarding the Church from any breach in the wall around the fortress.”

Koesler chuckled. “A mighty fortress is our Church.”

“Who's the pastor there now? Your successor …”

“Zachary Tully.”

“Uh-huh. Came up from Texas?”

“Dallas.”

“Was a josephite?”

“Is.”

“His brother's a cop?”

“Half-brother.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right: The priest is mulatto.”

“Zack says his Mass is kosher. He invited me to come see. I think I will this Sunday.”

“Kosher or not”—McNiff set his now empty glass on the desk—“he's going to have one hell of a time selling the concept to Cody. I don't think it's possible.”

“I agree.” Koesler emptied his wineglass in a swallow. He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, Father Tully is scheduled to meet with his parish council in about an hour. And the Folk Mass certainly is going to be the first order of business.”

McNiff shook his head. “Poor guy! He must be sweating bullets about now.

“Well …” He stood. “It's beyond our power to help at this point. Let's eat.”

As the two left McNiff's suite, Koesler said, “I offered to be with him at tonight's council meeting. But he wanted to take them on himself.”

“That was good of you—to offer, I mean. The guy is either pretty brave or pretty stupid.”

“One thing I can attest to: He's not stupid.”

Father Tully shook the bottle. A small, white pill dropped to accompany the other two in his palm.

Ordinarily he could get by with just two aspirins. But this was no ordinary headache.

Father Tully was nervous—very nervous. And that disturbed him. He was not one to scare easily.

Everything had been fine until today's earlier visit with Bob Koesler.

Tully was well aware that the post-Folk Mass council meeting would probably be acrimonious. He was prepared to face the music.

Then came Koesler, whose foreboding about the meeting had proved contagious. As a result of Koesler's apprehensiveness, Tully now had misgivings.

He tried to settle himself, but, like many qualms, this one would not yield to rationalization. He tried first a book, then the newspaper, but found himself rereading the same paragraph over and over without comprehension.

Finally, at seven twenty-five, the doorbell rang. That would be Hans Kruger, typically just a bit early.

Tully opened the door. Kruger entered with his usual ebullience, which was dampened not a whit by Tully's consternated attitude. The priest let the council member find his way to the basement meeting room.

Tully's stomach was. churning. He would not try another aspirin; it was too soon since he'd swallowed the previous three. He stood at his office window and stared into the gathering darkness.

The bell rang again. Tully checked his watch. Exactly seven-thirty. That would be the Codys. They always came on time and they always came together. As far as Tully could ascertain, that was the only thing they did together.

Tully admitted them.

Eileen was distracted when she greeted Tully. It appeared that husband and wife had been discussing something. Perhaps angrily—Bill's countenance was frozen. He gave no greeting.

The couple headed for the basement. Tully waited for more council people. Fervently, he hoped no more would show up.

The bylaws of the parish council called for six elected positions, with four members constituting a quorum.

As of this moment, there were three in the basement. Not enough for an official meeting.

Of course there was Mary O'Connor. But she was not an elected member. Her presence was as parish secretary and, as such, secretary to the council. She was waiting in the housekeeper's quarters. Waiting for word that the council was ready to start. Or that the meeting had been canceled.

Father Tully checked his watch again. He did not do this habitually as did Father Koesler. But this was not an ordinary evening.

Seven-forty. Five minutes to go. According to the bylaws, a quorum was needed and if a quorum wasn't achieved within fifteen minutes of scheduled starting time, the meeting could be postponed.

Seven-forty-three. Seven-forty-four.

The doorbell rang.

Tully exhaled, then realized he had been unconsciously holding his breath.

It was Molly Cronin. She was usually a few minutes late—a big family to care for. Tonight she was—for her—a bit early. Wouldn't you know! Otherwise Tully could have had a cold beer in his hand and his feet up on an ottoman.

But Molly was here and one couldn't even complain about the time; she had a minute to spare.

Tully gathered in Molly and Mary O'Connor and the three descended to the netherworld.

Hans Kruger greeted them cheerfully. Bill Cody still wore no appreciable expression. Eileen Cody seemed disappointed … as if she, like Tully, had hoped that the meeting would be postponed.

Once everyone was seated, Tully led them in a generic prayer.

Next, it was up to the president, Bill Cody, to set the agenda.

To just about everyone's surprise, the first item of business was not the Folk Mass. He must, thought Tully, be saving that for a fireworks conclusion.

Cody called on Kruger for a report on the repair of the rectory roof.

Kruger quoted figures and estimates and concluded that the main body of work would be completed on time and on budget. But a small section would have to wait for a special order of material that simply wasn't on hand.

Normally Cody would not have let such a foul-up go by without caustic comment. Tonight he seemed preoccupied.

Next he asked Molly Cronin how the church cleaning project was progressing.

She replied that a generous number of women
and
men had scheduled a floor cleaning a week from this Saturday. Little by little, they were getting the job done.

Cody thanked her.

He noted that since two members were missing, there would be no report from the Christian Service committee or the hospitality group.

He shifted in his seat to lean forward. He asked his wife for a report on the liturgy committee.

If it was going to happen, it probably would happen now.

Eileen shuffled a few papers, cleared her throat, and reported. “The new missalettes have arrived. They will be placed in the pews before the next weekend.” She paused. “The new extraordinary ministers of the eucharist and the new readers will be installed this weekend at the ten A.M. Sunday Mass.”

Unexpectedly, Hans Kruger objected. “I've been watching this for a long time. And since I'm now a member of the parish council, I want to say something about it.”

Cody nodded, silently giving Kroger the floor.

“Why? That's my question,” Kruger began. “Why do we have just ordinary people distributing Communion. And why do we have ordinary people doing the readings? That's what we've got priests for … isn't that right?”

No one replied. No one wanted to get involved in what was obviously a rhetorical matter.

“Well,” Kruger pressed, “isn't it?”

The others looked to Eileen. After all, the liturgy was her slice of the parish pie.

“Hans,” Eileen said, “the Council … the Vatican Council had a lot to say about the laity and the part they're supposed to play in the liturgy—the Mass. And it's because of what the Council said that we do more than we used to do. And a couple of those things are helping distribute Communion and doing the readings before the Gospel.”

Kruger's jovial demeanor had utterly disappeared. The burr had been under his saddle for roughly thirty years. This was his first opportunity to void his displeasure in an official—or quasi-official—capacity. He had a chance to say his piece, and by God he was going to say it.

“I don't know much about that Council. It seems to me that a bunch of Catholic mavericks just go around doing anything they want and blame it all on that damn Council—you'll pardon my French!”

Just about everyone else around the table seemed to appreciate, to some degree, this lone voice expressing his deep-seated objection to decisions that were very much a fait accompli. Tully, however, wondered: If this group was going to object to even the smallest changes that everyone else pretty much took for granted now, what would be the reaction of these people to an Afro Folk Mass?

The ball appeared to once again be in Eileen Cody's court. “Hans,” she said, “the questions you raise have been answered long ago. There's no argument left. The laity are not only permitted to read from the Bible as part of the Mass; they are encouraged to do it.”

“What about Communion?” Kruger grumbled. “That's certainly the priest's job. Why, shoot, I can remember when nobody could touch the host except the priest. Now every Tom, Dick, and Harry can handle the host!”

“There's a priest shortage, Hans,” Molly Cronin contributed. “If no one but a priest could touch the consecrated host, we'd be at Communion forever and ever, amen.”

More muttering and grousing from Kruger. “I don' know. I don' know. Okay, so there's not enough priests to go ‘round. We've got one right here: Father Tully.