The Gathering (11 page)

O
UR LADY OF GUADALUPE
parish encompassed a neighborhood of near valueless homes close to the heart of downtown Detroit.

One of the area’s few boasts was the Olympia, a gigantic indoor sports arena. Primarily, the Olympia was home ice for the Red Wings, Detroit’s professional hockey team.

Originally, the National Hockey League comprised only six professional teams. Though most of the players were born and bred in icebound Canada, four of the six teams represented U.S. cities.

It seemed a happy compromise; Canadian youth learned to ice skate before learning to walk. But the money to support the teams and their league was found in New York, Chicago, Boston, and Detroit. Toronto and Montreal completed the roster.

Even areas that had no hockey teams were familiar with the names Howe, Abel, and Lindsay. These three were dubbed the Production Line—as in what Detroit made: automobiles built on production lines.

Hockey nights at the Olympia created an anomaly: The neighborhood made money providing parking for fans who otherwise would never have darkened the neigborhood’s streets.

The Olympia also hosted events such as wrestling, boxing, and basketball, all of which featured fighting, sometimes in the arena, sometimes in the stands.

Our Lady of Guadalupe boasted few parishioners. So only one priest was assigned to that church … popularly, if incorrectly, pronounced Guadaloop. Although Archbishop Mooney kept harping on the paucity of priestly vocations for Detroit, most parishes had at least two priests, and many had even more.

Measured by this scale, Guadalupe could hope for no more than one lone pastor. And that’s what it got, along with the veiled threat that it might well be closed entirely.

The present pastor, Father Ed Simpson, knew—if by no other sign than that he was assigned to hold the fort here—that he was low in the archdiocesan pecking order. Thus, he was forever looking for ways to improve his image and thereby climb at least a few rungs.

He was the butt of many a put-down by his clerical colleagues. He tried to remove some of the sting by joining in the lighthearted camaraderie. On such occasions, he was wont to fall back on the phrase used by earlier pastors assigned to less-than-optimum parishes: “a little wrinkled, but a plum.”

Try as he might, Father Simpson was unable to scare up more than one or two new families per year. Actually, he was more apt to lose one or two.

Man did not live by Olympia events alone. Whenever a breadwinner could earn a little more bread, the moving van—or, more likely a friend with a pickup—would empty the house, and the erstwhile resident would never look back.

Unsuccessful at drumming up added parishioners and equally ineffective at increasing weekly contributions, Father Simpson grubbed for some means to improve his profile.

The only possibility of attracting a favorable chancery eye would be to come up with a candidate for the seminary or the convent.

The likelihood of sending some girl to the convent was ever so much more realizable than coming up with a seminarian. But he would just be providing another woman who would not be under archdiocesan control. The various religious orders of women serving in Detroit were managed and directed by superiors of their own order.

However, sending a boy to Sacred Heart Seminary would be furnishing a greatly desirable commodity: Diocesan priests belonged to the local bishop and, as such, were definitely prized.

Granted, some much larger and more viable Detroit parishes had not fostered even a single seminarian in a good many years. But these other parishes achieved such other commendable deeds as adding new members to the parish lists, thus delivering in a timely fashion their quota of diocesan taxes and generally evidencing life and growth.

It seemed that parishes staffed by charismatic priests contributed the majority of the seminarians. But charismatic priests seemed to skip over “the parish next to the Olympia.” Concisely, nobody wanted to be like Father Ed Simpson. Bing Crosby’s Father O’Malley, yes; Ed Simpson, no.

But now old Ed had an idea—an idea that, if it worked, might bail him out of this moribund parish.

Even registered parishioners of Guadaloop rarely attended Mass regularly. It was next to impossible to come up with lads to serve as altar boys at Mass.

With one exception.

Little Stanley Benson was fidelity personified. No matter what the occasion—Mass, Benediction, Rosary, Novenas—even periodic celebrations: Forty Hours, Parish Missions, Confirmations—there was Stanley Benson, scrubbed clean, resplendent in laundered and pressed cassock and surplice. Often his cheek or neck was blotched with red—the lipstick smudge of a mother’s fond kiss.

Little Stanley, Father Simpson reasoned, was in church so often … why not? Maybe he could become a priest. Maybe he could be Father Simpson’s ticket out of Guadaloop and onto the upward ladder.

One morning Father Simpson broke one of his own nonnegotiable rules: He invited someone to the rectory for no more than a social event. At least it seemed to Stanley and his mother that there were no strings attached.

What they did not know was that Father Simpson subscribed to the axiom “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Or, in this case, breakfast. So, at the appointed hour, Stanley, freshly cleaned and pressed, showed up at Father Simpson’s doorstep.

Father Simpson invited him in the front door, ushered him into the kitchen, and sat him down at the kitchen table. The priest then proceeded to whip up some eggs and fry some bacon. He had no full-time housekeeper; the tortured budget held no money for such a post. And, for most prospective housekeepers, there wasn’t enough gold in Fort Knox to woo them into working at Guadaloop.

Stanley was particularly well turned out for this morning’s rare invitation. His mother had run down the articles of polite behavior so that Stanley would not shame the Bensons.

“So, Stanley,” Father Simpson opened, “what grade are you going into this year?”

“Eighth, Father.” Stanley’s hands were folded and placed on the edge of the table.

“Eighth!” Simpson enthused. “Why, it’s just about time for you to make up your mind about what you’re going to do when you grow up.”

Silence. Stanley could see no question to be fielded.

“So,” Simpson solicited, “have you made up your mind? Got any ideas?”

“I don’t know, Father. I’d like to be a secretary, I think.”

“A secretary!” Father Simpson exploded. He did that well.

“Or not,” said Stanley agreeably.

“Girls become secretaries. Men
have
secretaries.”

Stanley wondered where was the secretary for Father Simpson. But he didn’t ask.

After piling three quarters of the bacon and eggs on his own plate, Simpson slid the rest onto Stanley’s plate. “You know you’re the best altar boy we’ve got,” the priest observed.

“Yes, Father.” There was no doubt in Stanley’s mind; he had been sole server too often to wonder if all those absentees were in the running for fidelity.

“You know, Stanley, we old bucks start looking for someone to take our place when we begin to run out of steam.”

“Yes, Father.” Actually, the lad had given no thought to the matter of succession. Now that his attention had been called to it, he wondered what this had to do with anything.

The toast popped up. Simpson took a piece, hesitated, and looked at Stanley’s plate. The boy had consumed only a meager amount of food. The priest took both slices of toast for himself.

“What gets me wondering, Stanley, is why I never hear you talk about becoming a priest.”

“A priest!” It was as if Stanley had never before heard the word.

“Yes, my boy. You must’ve pictured yourself saying Mass someday. Don’t tell me the thought has never crossed your mind.”

“Sure, Father. But I can’t be.”

“Can’t be a priest! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“My father isn’t Catholic.”

“That probably explains why I never see him in church. But what’s that got to do with your becoming a priest?”

“’Cause my folks weren’t married in church.”

“They weren’t?”

“A justice of the peace.”

“Well, well.”

“My mother and I talked this over before. She told me she was proud of me—serving Mass and all—and did I ever think of being a priest. I told her no. I like serving Mass, but I don’t want to say Mass.”

“You don’t!”

“No, Father. Then she told me that was good because Church law said I couldn’t qualify for the vocation.”

“She did?”

“She told me about my cousin in Ohio …” Stanley nodded vigorously. “My cousin wanted to be a priest but he was turned down by his pastor.”

“Because his parents weren’t married in church?”

Stanley nodded again. “My mother told me about all this because she said she didn’t want me to be disappointed. And I told her not to worry because I would offer it up.”

“What if we got your folks married by a priest? By me?”

“I haven’t told you the whole story, Father. My dad was married before. The pastor—the one who was here before you?—well, he told them they couldn’t get their marriage blessed because my dad was married before. That’s what made it impossible for my cousin. The difference is that my cousin wanted to be a priest. I don’t.” Stanley went on eating slowly.

Father Simpson was no expert on Church law. Few of his contemporary peers were. But the situation Stanley had described rang a bell. Things that might scandalize the Faithful—like a physical deformity, or being an ecclesiastical bastard—such circumstances formed an impediment to Holy Orders.

What to do about this?

Simpson was skidding emotionally from an ecstatic high to a depressing low. He had thought he’d stumbled across a ticket out of Guadaloop. Now it seemed the ticket had already been punched.

Things were so serious he put down his knife and fork. Then a light began to appear at the end of this tunnel. “Stanley, my boy, how would you like it if we could get your folks married?”

“You could do that?”

“I think so. There’s been a lot of movement lately in granting annulments. That would clear the path for your father to be freed from his previous marriage. Then he could marry your mother in the Church.”

Actually, the Church movement toward easier annulments was occurring only in Simpson’s imagination and desire.

Father Simpson was heading down an extremely risky road. Should he continue in this direction, he could find himself in a lot of trouble. But as protection, he was counting on location. After all, Guadaloop was not a Grosse Pointe address. Who cared what went on in this depressed neighborhood?

Was it worth a try? That depended on how badly one wanted to escape the slow quicksand of Guadaloop. This one, Father Simpson, wanted out enough to lie, simulate a sacrament, and engage in fraud.

Simpson’s only qualm was whether the mere fact that he had produced an honest-to-God seminarian from this parish might not be sufficient for the chancery to see him in a new light.

Would they delay recognition—make him wait for Stanley’s actual ordination? The boy was just entering the eighth grade. Plus twelve years in the seminary would make thirteen years all told.

Could Simpson hold on—could he abide for that length of time? Yes! Even thirteen years down the road was worth the investment. He would still have a few good years left, God willing. Years in which he could enjoy his just reward.

“You could do that?” Stanley’s face radiated happiness.

“I think we’ve got a good chance.”

“Would my father have to become a Catholic?” The boy’s brow knitted. “I don’t think he would go that far.”

“No, he wouldn’t have to convert,” Simpson assured him. “He would be happy to do this for your mother, wouldn’t he … don’t you think?”

“Oh yes! Sure! He would do anything for my mother.” Stanley hesitated. “He might even become a Catholic if he had to. He went that far before when they first got married. But the other priest said he couldn’t help even if Dad did want to … become Catholic, I mean.”

“Fine! Dandy!” Simpson enthused. “I’ll set up an appointment to meet with your parents. Then you can get busy with the eighth grade so you’ll be ready for the seminary’s entrance test.”

“Entrance test? I don’t understand, Father …”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re a smart lad. It’ll be a breeze … you’ll see.”

“But I don’t want to be a priest, Father. I told you.” Stanley felt close to tears.

“What can be so bad about a seminary? You’ll get a first-rate education. Besides, just entering a seminary doesn’t guarantee that you’re going to be ordained. It’s a time when you decide—
gradually
—if you really want to. And all the while the faculty has to decide whether you’re qualified.”

“But I don’t need to go there! I already know I don’t want to be a priest!”

Simpson took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Son,” he said gravely, “do you have any idea how much your mother wants you to be a priest? Do you know how happy you’d make her by becoming a priest? You must see that!”

Stanley’s tears overflowed.

“I’ve got a hunch,” Simpson, heedless, continued, “that you are going to be surprised at how much you’ll like the seminary. You’ll make friendships there that will last a lifetime.”

“But … but … my mother never said anything about my being able to be a priest—”

“That’s because before this it was an impossibility. But think: Now it’s going to be a possibility … a distinct possibility. Think how much it will hurt her when she knows that you refuse to go to the seminary even though you are free to do so. And suppose you make it all the way through and you’re ordained: Can you imagine how happy and pleased and enraptured she’ll be when you give her your first priestly blessing?

“That’s what it comes down to, Stanley. It comes down to: How much do you love your mother? Are you going to break her heart or are you going to make her one of the happiest women in the world?”

Silence.

“May I go now, Father?” Stanley’s words were a near gurgle through the sobs in his throat.