Requiem for Moses (25 page)

“Is Dr. Green’s physician here?” the reporter asked. “Is he on the dais?”

Bradley had inadvertently given the reporters, by reference, just what they wanted.

Bradley turned almost helplessly to those on the dais. This was not what had been planned. Bradley was to host the entire briefing. Would the doctor be willing to subject himself to questions?

Not to worry; the doctor flashed a smile of confidence at Bradley, rose, and strode toward the microphone. Bradley shrugged and stepped aside.

“My name is Garnet Fox. I am Dr. Green’s physician. How may I help you?”

Again, many voices asked many questions.

Bradley stepped forward and pointed at one reporter. Because he wasn’t standing in the glare, Koesler could make him out. It was WWJ radio personality Ed Breslin.

“How ’bout it, Doc: Is Green alive?”

“Very much so. Yes.”

“How about the chronic back problem? Has he still got it?”

“It’s a little early to say. At this time, he’s just lucky he’s even breathing. We are moving very slowly. Eventually, of course, we’ll know the answer to your question. And all the other questions.” Fox exuded confidence, self-confidence.

“You said ‘He’s just lucky he’s even breathing.’ What does that mean? Did he stop breathing at any time? Was he dead?”

The room was suddenly, startlingly quiet. Fox’s smile faded. “I … I didn’t mean it that way,” he fumbled. “Not literally. We … we don’t know exactly what happened. We need time to examine, to evaluate. But, in a little while—”

“If he never stopped breathing—and I guess that’s what you meant when you just told us not to take you literally when you say he’s grateful to be breathing again—if he didn’t stop breathing at any time, then you signed a death certificate for a living man. Would you care to comment on that?”

Fox was as sorry as he had ever been about anything that he had let himself in for this. “It … it was a … mistake,” he mumbled. But then, more forcefully, “But very understandable.” He recovered his brio. “Listen, this sort of thing goes on all the time. Do you realize the pressure physicians face nowadays? How many doctors do you know that make house calls? We used to. Today, too much pressure, too much paperwork. And, as medical technology expands, too many decisions on extremely pressing matters. Matters of life and death!”

“Exactly.” Another reporter had taken the floor. “That’s what we’re talking about: matters of life and death. Has medical technology progressed so little that you can’t tell the difference between a dead man and a live man?”

“You’re taking this completely out of context. It wasn’t as if I was actually present—”

“You weren’t there!”

The rustle as notepad pages were flipped. This was turning into a reporter’s dream come true.

As for Dr. Fox, all he could see as he stood blinded by the powerful lights, was L
AW
S
UIT
—M
ALPRACTICE.
The imaginary sign was in flashing neon.

“You were saying,” the reporter probed, “that you were not present at the bedside of Dr. Green when you pronounced him dead.”

“I didn’t pronounce him dead.”

“Does the death certificate bear your signature?”

“Yes.” Dejectedly.

“Then we’re dealing with the same thing, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not.” Fox was no longer focusing on the questions. He was searching for a way to get out from under the cemetery marker that identified his career as a physician.

Bradley could stand it no longer. He stepped to the microphone, politely replacing the flustered doctor. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that the things that happened a couple of days ago concerning Dr. Green are not that rare. And I think we ought to get past some of the more bizarre circumstances and concentrate on the heart of the matter.

“What we have here is a man in almost constant excruciating pain, who expresses no joy in his life, rather a wish to die. His doctor does not expect him to survive much longer. Aware of that, the man’s wife comes home to find her husband apparently dead. She calls the physician and describes what she sees. The doctor, having anticipated this turn of events, accepts this description and, with considerable experience in this sort of thing, offers to help with a necessarily hasty burial. He will sign the death certificate and contact the medical examiner to get a release of the body.

“The police are called in. They are informed of the pending death certificate. They observe the same condition the wife did. The police notify the Homicide Division. To Homicide—as to everyone involved in this from the beginning—it is a run-of-the-mill death from natural causes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it happens quite often.

“Since we have not completely ruled out a miraculous event—that is, after all, what the Church panel is supposed to investigate—we do not know that any of the principals in this event were negligent. It is possible—possible, I emphasize—that Dr. Green was … dead.”

Bradley almost choked on the last word. Soft-pedaling the notion of some sort of resurrection was the prime desired goal of this news conference. Now he was forced to introduce the notion in order to escape the conference in one piece.

Immediately, voices were raised. Just about every reporter was shouting the single question on everyone’s mind. “Ned, do you mean to tell us that Green came back from the dead?”

Koesler turned impatiently as someone touched his shoulder. The young man was probably a seminarian. “You are Father Koesler, aren’t you?”

Koesler nodded and the young man handed him a phone message.

It read:
Father Koesler, would you please see me at my apartment?
It was signed,
Margie Green.

This news conference was heating up. Koesler would have preferred to take it in right to the end. But, not knowing why Mrs. Green wanted to see him, he decided to go immediately. With everything around Margie Green in disarray, this well could be an emergency of great importance.

Chapter Eighteen

She seemed surprised to see him. But she graciously invited him into the apartment.

Margie Green took Father Koesler’s hat and coat. “I didn’t know whether you did this sort of thing. And I certainly didn’t expect you so soon.”

Koesler tipped his head slightly, “Didn’t do
what
sort of thing?”

Now she seemed embarrassed. “This is silly. Of course you would. Come to an apartment at the invitation of a woman, I mean. I don’t know what I’m thinking half the time.”

Koesler smiled. “At this stage in my life, I can’t think too many women would be concerned about that.”

She put his hat and coat in the closet and turned to him. “May I get you something to drink? A little wine, maybe?”

“Don’t go to any trouble. But maybe some coffee or tea?”

“I just brewed some coffee.” She disappeared into what he assumed was the kitchen.

Left alone, Koesler walked through the open areas, which turned out to be the living room and the dining room. Both had swinging doors to the kitchen; but in both cases the doors were closed.

Running from the dining room was a corridor. Koesler assumed that led to bedrooms, bathrooms, perhaps dens. He pictured them in plurals since the areas he could see were so spacious. And very bright.

Huge windows covered an immense amount of wall space encompassing an arresting vista. Particularly dramatic was the view of what had given Detroit its name: the river. That this eighteenth-floor apartment was lavishly furnished and clearly expensive did not surprise him. From all the hearsay shared with him at the wake, Koesler would have been surprised only if this setting were not opulent.

Margie reentered the room, bearing a silver tray holding two filled cups, cream and sugar, and a small plate with cookies. She placed the tray on a low table between two couches. She sat at one couch while he took the other facing her.

Koesler tasted the coffee. Very hot with excellent flavor. Whenever he tasted exceptional coffee, he had an urge to share his own brew with whoever served him. Perhaps one day—one never knew—he would have an opportunity to make coffee for Margie Green.

“I don’t know whether I should feel awkward,” she said.

“Now what?”

“Well, I phoned you at St. Joseph’s earlier this morning. Your … secretary, is it? She identified herself as Mrs. O’Connor … she said you were out. She remembered me.”

How could she possibly forget?
thought Koesler.

“She said,” Margie continued, “that you were at a news conference at the seminary, and that I could try there. So I phoned and left a message. There was nothing urgent about it. I mean you got here so soon after I phoned. I hope I didn’t take you away from something important.”

Her misgiving was well placed, he reflected. He’d hated having to leave the conference just when things were beginning to pop. And all because he’d assumed there was some sort of emergency. But he would not further embarrass her. “No. No, what was going on there could get along very well without me.”

Koesler picked up a cookie. In the process of breaking it in two, a crumb took flight and buried itself in the shag rug. Why did this seem to happen to him whenever he felt out of his milieu? Sometimes it was an antique chair coming apart under his weight. Sometimes it was an errant crumb. Always it was somewhat humiliating. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t think of it. The cleaning woman will be here later.”

Koesler brightened. “Lucky today was her day to come in.”

“She comes in every day … at least lately. Moe developed an allergy to dust … or, at least, so he said. So we upped her schedule to every day. The place is clean. God, is it clean! And he’s quiet about that anyway.”

Koesler never ceased to wonder at the chemistry that developed between married couples. The relationship began, for him at least, when a man and a woman, usually young, showed up at the rectory to arrange for their wedding. Almost without exception, the chemistry was perfect. They sat close to each other. They held hands. They stole glances at each other. Sometimes they were embarrassingly affectionate.

And so they were married.

Then the chemistry really went to work. Often, at least from what he’d seen, not only did the fires of passion cool, but the two seemed to treat each other with disrespect and scorn. Take Margie’s statement that her husband’s allergy complaint might be imaginary and that only daily cleaning would satisfy him. The opposite reaction—genuine concern for the comfort and well-being of the spouse—happened rarely.

Koesler wanted to ask about her husband. But first on his agenda was to discover why she had called him and had gone to the trouble of tracking him down at the seminary. All right, so it wasn’t an emergency. What then?

“Mrs. Green, your coffee is excellent, as is your company. And we have established that you asked me here for something less than an emergency. Just what is it you want of me?”

“Oh …” She displayed a combination of dismay and self-deprecation. “… of course. How silly of me.” She went to a nearby secretary. She took out a checkbook and began writing. “I told you when you agreed to hold the wake service that I would try to express my gratitude.” She ripped the check free and handed it to him.

It was made out to him personally for three thousand dollars.

He was dumbfounded. “Mrs. Green, this is impossible!”

Her brow furrowed. “Not enough?” she asked, sincerely.

He shook his head. “Way too much. You see, the archdiocese sets an amount—called a stipend—for services such as funerals and weddings. What the stipend means is that this represents the maximum a priest may accept. The local amount of stipends is fifty dollars for a wedding or a funeral.

“But there are a couple of other considerations,” he said, as he laid the check on the table between them. “You made the check out to me. If there were an offering due, it would be made out to the parish, and for no more than the stipend calls for.

“Secondly, we didn’t have a funeral. We didn’t even have the wake we had agreed upon.

“What it comes down to, Mrs. Green, is that you owe neither me nor the parish anything.”

It seemed he might as well be speaking in a foreign and unintelligible tongue. Margie pushed the check toward him. “Why don’t you just keep it, Father? I really want you to have it. You really went out on a limb for me. I feel I owe you. And I want you to have this as a freewill donation—or whatever. What I want to say is, It’s yours.”

Gently, he eased the check back in her direction. It was, he thought, like playing checkers or chess—or a Ouija board. “I can’t take it … for a great number of reasons. If you feel some compulsion to donate, send whatever you wish to the parish. Or, better yet”—his face broke into a grin—“drop it into the collection at Sunday Mass.”

She shrugged and picked up the check. “You’ve got a point.” She smiled. “I should start going to church again.”

He broke another cookie, carefully. “I came here primarily because you asked for me. I would never have imposed on you. But, now that I’m here, I have been wondering: How is your husband? At the news conference, some of the reporters wondered if he was really alive.”

She made a face. “Oh, he’s alive all right.”

“I don’t hear anyone stirring.”

“The only time he makes any noise—lately, at least—is when he wants something.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Green—”

“Oh, please: Call me Margie.”

“Margie. But I thought you would be much more impressed than you seem to be with what’s happened to your husband.”

“Oh, I was impressed all right. Monday night I was impressed as all hell. And I was pretty overwhelmed Tuesday morning. Then I had to admit that what was holding most of my interest was whether he would be much changed by what had happened. It was sort of like watching a cocoon to see what kind of butterfly will develop and emerge.”

“You don’t seem terribly pleased by what came out.”

She sighed. “He hasn’t completely recovered yet. But the signs are that it’s going to be the same old Moe.”

“How’s his back?”

“He isn’t moving around much yet. It’s hard to tell. So far, he hasn’t made life too hectic. But I guess it’s early.”