No Greater Love (42 page)

Compared with what other bishops in other dioceses would do in this situation, temporary suspension was pretty mild. That was because Boyle was not confrontational. He would level such a penalty only if backed into a canonical corner with the media’s glare turned on.

All of this, she thought, Rick could take.

But there was more.

The authorities would insist that their relationship be terminated. And that, Lil was convinced, Rick would refuse out of hand. In that sort of confrontation, Rick didn’t have a ghost of a chance. Whatever form of penalty would follow—suspension, excommunication, laicization—he would face the loss of his priesthood, undoubtedly permanently.

The priesthood or Lil. It would be a gut-wrenching decision for Rick.

Frequently both would reminisce about how this had begun. The thread that bound them had originated at St. Ursula’s, Rick’s first assignment after his ordination in 1965. Rick became a popular priest in the inner-city parish that had for some time been held captive by a despotic pastor.

Against the pastor’s wishes—he could not make them orders since his policies were even more harsh than restrictive Church law—the attractive, young Father Casserly had instituted an athletic program in the parish high school, regularly visited the grade school, preached well, and was as open and as healing as possible.

So popular was he that years after his hitch at St. Ursula’s he was still called back to witness weddings and perform funerals for the friends he had made there.

It was impossible for the pastor to overlook Rick’s profound popularity. And so he was welcomed back only reluctantly for such parish events as confirmation, Forty Hours, and the parish festival.

On many such occasions Father Casserly would meet and greet both the old and new parochial employees. One of these was Lillian Niedermier, who taught in the parish school from 1984 to 1987.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was respect, interest, and appreciation. The relationship deepened slowly. At the time she was nearly twenty, he in his mid-forties. He tended to treat her as a daughter, a chronological possibility.

Metaphorical incest never crossed her mind. He had an aura of wit, good humor, and intelligence, as well as physical attractiveness and an Irish gift of gab that charmed her completely if gradually.

For him, being a priest in the eighties was vastly different from being a priest in the fifties; for her, being a parochial teacher in the eighties contrasted greatly with being a Catholic schoolgirl in the seventies.

In the sixties, both priests and nuns were slowly emerging from their cocoon of clerical clothing. The Catholic Church, as well as the country, was in turmoil. But tradition, along with a residual discipline, held most of the Catholic clergy in place.

However, by the time Lil was in high school, the priest drain was in full force.

Still, even in the eighties, when Lil began teaching, Rick was very much a priest and Lillian was in awe of his priesthood.

So they began by being peripherally aware of each other and conscious of the comfortable feeling they had with each other. On rare occasions they might take in a movie or a concert. They took pains not to appear to be together, often even sitting apart in the theater.

The more they knew of and about each other, the more their initially platonic attraction grew and evolved.

By 1990, their love had become physical and total. Three years later, he moved some of his effects into her small apartment, while maintaining his residence in the rectory.

They were together almost every moment they were not on duty: evenings when he had no meetings or sacramental responsibilities; Saturday mornings and early afternoons; Sundays after morning Masses; Tuesday nights and—his regular day off—Wednesdays all day.

Nothing in Lil’s schedule conflicted with his availability except Wednesday, when, of course, St. Enda’s school was open for business as usual. She was able to clear her Wednesdays only because she was principal and had complete confidence in her assistant principal.

Indeed, the two educators were so close Lil almost shared her deepest secret. But in the end she could not break the
omerta
even with her best friend. That was the gigantic fly in her ointment. She could share her secret, her happiness, with no one—not her family, not her friends, not even her closest confidante.

She was beginning to feel sorry for herself. That would never do. It was a fine day; the forecast was sunny skies with a high in the mid- to upper seventies. She didn’t have to go to work. Neither did her sweetheart. But even with a beautiful outdoors beckoning, they probably would spend the day in the apartment. That was their usual M.O. It was easier than being tensely on guard.

As long as they were together. She had her man.

She heard the bathroom door quietly close.

She removed the bacon from the pan, replacing it with the eggs. Scrambled eggs were her forte. Her recipe called for a humongous amount of milk to be added to the eggs and the whole scrambled vigorously until the mixture became fluffily firm.

She didn’t hear him approaching. So she was startled when she felt his lips on her neck—startled and pleased. She turned to him and they embraced. She leaned away from him. “Good morning. I love you.”

“Good morning. I love you,” he replied.

They grinned and kissed.

This morning ritual they had borrowed from one of their favorite movies,
Tarzan and His Mate
. The first time Rick and Lil saw that film together, they adopted Tarzan and Jane’s morning greeting for themselves. As it happened, Wednesdays were the only mornings they awoke to each other, apart from vacations and unforeseen good luck.

It had been Johnny Weissmuller’s second crack at playing the Ape Man. As far as Rick and Lil were concerned, the only authentic Tarzan was Weissmuller. Above and beyond his spine-tingling jungle call—later imitated repeatedly by Carol Burnett—Rick considered, “Me Tarzan. You Jane.” the two most perfect declarative sentences in the English language.

Rick seated himself as Lil served breakfast. Over his pajama bottoms he wore a robe. It was one of his many thoughtfulnesses that she prized. She would not have appreciated nor found appetizing a broad, hairy chest opposite her during meals. They had never discussed it, although coming from an all-macho environment, he might be expected to be oblivious of her sensibilities. But he was not like that. And she was grateful.

“These eggs are terrific,” he said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s the milk. Why won’t you believe me?”

“I know. I know. But when I see all that white milk in the pan barely diluted with a touch of egg yellow … I just can’t believe it.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

She finished eating well before Rick did. That was due to a combination of factors. Twelve years of his young life he had spent in a seminary where food was carefully measured out—never quite enough to satisfy hungry, growing boys. He often claimed that if it had not been for peanut butter, he might well have starved. When he was ordained, he was a reed-thin young man.

As a priest, he was served just about anything he wanted. Witness the stomach folds he now wore.

Lil, on the other hand, was never hungry; she ate only sparingly. Thus, she was likely to retain her perfect body indefinitely.

There were two elongated half windows in the apartment’s easterly exposure. The windows were half the normal height because that was all the space there was between the ground outside and the ceiling inside.

The casual passerby might have been able to peer in. But he would see nothing because Lil had had one-way glass installed. It gave them an extra measure of the privacy they desired.

Rick finished the toast. It was the last morsel on his plate. “Well, honey, what would you like to do?”

Lil yawned. “Oh, I don’t know. Hang around here. I’ve got some teacher evaluations to go over.” She lowered her eyes seductively. “We could squeeze in a little lovemaking, couldn’t we, Ollie?” She mimicked a character from Erich Segal’s
Love Story
.

“How pressing are the evaluations?”

“Not urgent.” Her brow knitted slightly. “You want to spend the entire, blessed day in bed?” She hesitated. “I mean it’s certainly all right with me …” Her voice faded.

“Looks like a super day.” He gazed at the filtered sunshine peeking through the wide, stunted windows.

She sighed. It
was
a super day. Her thoughts turned to the pool that had been open for a couple of weeks now. She used the facility only when he was not there. They tried—successfully, they believed—to avoid giving the impression that they lived together.

Rick had been a priest, functioning publicly, for thirty-five years. It was easily possible that someone who knew him as a priest might be living in this apartment complex. That he was residing both here and at the rectory was nothing to wonder at; lots of priests had abandoned rectory life in favor of a house, a condo, or an apartment. The practice left many rectories—and convents, for that matter—vacant.

So, if someone—a former parishioner for instance—were to meet and recognize Rick … well, it was not all that out of the ordinary—as long as he was by himself, or at least not with Lil. This huge complex did not invite much neighborly fraternizing. However, poolside togetherness might prove a giveaway.

“It
is
a super day” she replied. “But we can’t risk the pool.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the pool. I had something bigger in mind …” He halted, waiting to see if she would guess correctly.

For a few seconds she gazed at him, expecting to be told his plans. As she waited, she pondered. Then her eyes widened. “The boat!”

He nodded. “
Das Boot.
” He used the German title of the popular movie.

“Will Tom let us use it? You asked him! Why didn’t you tell me? We could have packed our stuff and been out of here long ago!” Unbridled enthusiasm from Lil.

“Take it easy, sweetie. Tom’s having some work done on it this morning. We can pick it up and take it out this afternoon. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Tom Becker, owner of the power boat in question, had been Casserly’s seminary classmate through high school and college. He had dropped out after his first year in the major seminary.

Indeed, that was the primary function of seminaries: to, on the one hand, enable students to choose whether to make a commitment to the priesthood and, on the other, enable the faculty to accept or reject the candidate for ordination.

After nine years, Tom Becker, following much prayer and soul-searching, decided the priestly life was not for him. Exceptionally talented as a carpenter and builder, he went on to study architecture at the Lawrence Technological University in Southfield, Michigan.

Dedicated to the poor, after graduation he began a career in housing restoration. He was a one-man army, going through run-down neighborhoods rehabilitating once-proud houses, making them sound and attractive again. Then, after selling them for a pittance to poor families, he taught the new owners the finer points of maintenance and repair.

In this he was years ahead of Jimmy Carter’s popularizing Habitat for Humanity.

His income came almost completely from various governmental grants and private foundations. This definitely did not make him a wealthy man. When he married and began a family, it was time to earn some real money.

He joined an architectural firm and quickly climbed the executive ladder. In less than fifteen years he founded his own company. He was, of course, president and CEO. He built an impeccable reputation and made millions. Along the way he offered employment to some men leaving the priesthood.

He retired astonishingly early, and almost immediately, to combat boredom, he planted roses and started a tree nursery, which he eventually expanded into a highly successful landscape business.

Through it all, Tom Becker and Rick Casserly remained close friends. Becker was the only person Casserly trusted enough to confide in. He proved a source of dependable support. As far as he was concerned, his friend was at most a bit premature. After all, married Episcopal priests as well as other married ministers were,
mutatis mutandis
, allowed to function as Catholic priests. Soon—and inevitably—in order to supply much-needed priests, the Church would be forced to offer ordination to married Catholic men.

Becker’s only regret was the pressure Rick and Lil were under to keep secret their … what?… common law marriage.

“We can have the boat all to ourselves this afternoon?” Lil’s eyes danced.

“It’s ours. The boat is booked for tonight; otherwise we could have had it all the way through this evening.”

“Honey, no,” Lil cautioned.

“No? No what? No boat? No afternoon? No evening?”

“We’ve got an engagement this evening. Don’t you remember?”

Rick’s brow furrowed. “Oh yeah: the St. Ursula party. That’s tonight?”

“The first Wednesday in June. That’s today. The annual bash is tonight.”

“Well,” Rick reflected, “you could hardly call it a bash.”

“True. It’s more like the remnant returning … like the Jews coming out of the Babylonian Captivity.”

“Time takes its toll,” Rick said. “The number of guys and gals who served their term under dear old Father Angelico has dwindled. So many have moved away. Some died. Some just lost interest over the years.”

“Refresh me: How long has this commemoration been going on?”

“Oh, wow! Let’s see: I think it was Bob Koesler who started the thing. Must be almost forty years now. And he was just in residence there while he was editor of the
Detroit Catholic
. He didn’t have to take all that crap from Angelico. Observing it was medicine enough for him”

“Forty years! I had no idea it’s been around that long.”

“It was a cathexis. You needed at least a once-a-year day to blow off steam. Even after the assignment board moved you the hell out of there, it still helped. Sort of like getting together to nurse old wounds.

“Over time it got to be a kind of convivial gathering—especially once the old tyrant died. It’s been thirteen years now. He died after you got a new job at another parish.” He grinned. “Somehow, you must’ve killed him.”