The Gathering (22 page)

Everyone but Judy and Stanley laughed. Judy did not want her brother brought home dead or buried in some distant land. On the other hand, she was not about to line up along Woodward Avenue to welcome him back.

For one thing, how could she throw up her arms in celebration if Jiggs started hitting her again? She’d be totally paralyzed.

Stan once again sat lost in thought, only vaguely aware of the table conversation. He apprehended enough to appreciate the billing he and his cousin were getting. There was measured praise for Stanley’s fidelity in Churchy things … mostly for his various services at the altar. And that was pretty much that.

Jiggs—Jerry—on the other hand, was a patriot whose lust for battle and killing was in the best tradition of Ethan Allen, General Grant, Admiral Perry, and the rest.

If Father Simpson was so gung-ho about the priesthood—ready and willing to ruin Stan’s life—how come there was no push to recruit young Jerry Trent to the seminary and the priesthood?

Stan was tormented by one question for which he had no answer: Why me?

It was as if this priest had diligently made plans that left Stan with no relief, loophole, or escape hatch. If this was a deliberate ploy, it was devilishly clever.

Father Simpson was basking in the glow that virtually every Catholic home would on occasion provide: Nothing is too good for Father.

Merry Christmas.

George and Lily Benson looked on the priest as if he were another Padre Pio, with the power and willingness to work miracles on behalf of an otherwise uncaring Church. George and Lily were blissfully at ease in their newly achieved state of grace.

Merry Christmas.

Dick and Peg Trent were happy for their friends. They were grateful to Father Simpson not only for what he had done to bring the Bensons to Communion in the Church, but also for the attention the priest paid to Jiggs and Judy.

Jiggs seemed particularly taken with Father Simpson. That was all to the good; the boy was not as strong in the faith as his parents prayed he would be.

Merry Christmas.

Jiggs had been dreading this dinner. He was certain he would be cast as Peck’s Bad Boy. After pussyfooting around for years, his cousin Stanley had apparently made up his mind to become a priest. How could Jiggs compete with that? In another setting, Jiggs’s willingness—eagerness—to march off to war would have taken precedence. Here the spotlight would be on Stan. And so it had been until this enlightened priest had praised Jiggs’s courage and patriotism.

Merry Christmas.

Judy had never expected to actually converse with a priest. Priests were so far above other people. In school, priests were known as “other Christs.” One does not share small talk with a Christ. But here was a priest who was emptying himself, lowering himself to give full attention to a mere young girl. He had even applauded her vow to help win the war.

Judy was concerned. Had she given the wrong response? Most priests would have reminded a young girl of her calling in life. The pinnacle a Catholic woman could reach would be as a good and faithful wife and a generous, caring mother. Judy had answered bravely if not cautiously when she had declared that she would be active in the war effort. A sort of Judy the Riveter.

Merry Christmas.

Finally, there was Stan. A lad whose life had been turned upside down. He was trapped into becoming a priest. There wasn’t even any doubt about his ability to achieve that goal.

Some seminarians had great difficulty meeting the academic standards of the seminary. Stan not only would not know that fate, he would have to compromise his own intelligence in order not to stand out. Even more would be required of him. He would have to adopt mediocrity as his way of life. All this so as not to risk arousing interest in his family history. His would be a lifelong concern, to hide from everyone his birth as an ecclesiastical bastard.

And once a bastard, always a bastard. The mere fact that, at this late date, his parents’ marriage had been legitimized did not change the fact that he had been conceived and born out of Church wedlock.

The documents that he would present to the seminary in about five months would indicate that:

(a) He had been baptized. (That was correct even unto the date.)

(b) He had been confirmed. (Which he had been on the date in question.)

(c) His parents had been married in the Church. (In ample time before Stanley’s birth.)

The marriage certificate would be a fraud, perpetrated by Father Simpson. And Stanley, unbeknownst to all but a few, would nonetheless be a bastard unworthy of and thus barred from the priesthood.

He was willing to accept Father Simpson’s pronouncement that the laws and rules governing marriage in the Church were silly. But they
were
the rules.

He would be carried forward by his mother’s happiness. That left Stanley in a dilemma too profound for one so young. It would take its toll on him.

Until now, Stanley had never hated anyone. He disliked his cousin Jiggs … but he did not hate him. Father Simpson stood alone as the object of Stanley’s hatred.

Merry Christmas.

   
SIXTEEN
   

N
INETEEN FORTY-FIVE
was a monumental year. World War II ended with the unconditional surrender of both Germany and Japan. It was a time and a cause for great celebration.

On a much smaller scale, our seminarians were progressing in their advancement to the priesthood.

In September, just after the close of the war, Bob Koesler entered his senior year of high school. In almost any other scholastic setting he would be king of the hill. But Sacred Heart Seminary was not the usual academic scene. After four years of high school, the students simply passed into the first year of college. No ceremony, not even a certificate of graduation. And, of course, no prom.

Bob Koesler and Patrick McNiff had been the earliest in their class to bond. All due to that mixup when they’d first come to enroll. However, the bonding had expanded into a sort of subculture at three Catholic summer camps staffed by students of Sacred Heart Seminary.

These young men were together from September to June, studying, praying, engaging in athletics—all in intensely close quarters. Finishing their school year, the young men—now camp counselors—supervised, watched over, taught, and entertained campers from June through early August. Aside from special vacations such as Christmas and Easter, for these counselors late August was the only time to be with one’s family.

Koesler was brought by McNiff onto the staff of one of the three Catholic boys’ camps, Camp Ozanam. It was funded by the St. Vincent de Paul Society.

Meanwhile, Koesler brought his fellow Redeemerites into this tight-knit group. The three, Koesler, Mike Smith, and Manny Tocco, became newly appreciated in their home parish. One cause of their acceptance was a new pastor, who saw the priesthood in its universal oneness. Another reason for this open-door policy was the dearth of Redemptorist seminarians.

This situation made Koesler ever more grateful for the Maryknoll missionary priest who had steered the young man to Sacred Heart Seminary.

A singular event took place halfway through the season of Lent. Starting on Laetare Sunday, Sacred Heart High School seniors were given permission to smoke at specific times and in restricted areas. It got to be a rite of passage.

On that Sunday, students who had started smoking earlier had their habit ratified. Those who had waited for Laetare—meaning Rejoice—began their coughing introduction to adulthood. A few—Bob Koesler was not one of them—declined the honor, but almost no one wondered if the habit might prove dangerously unhealthy.

Early on, when Koesler was a sophomore and his Redeemer schoolmates were freshmen, their relationship was more precisely defined. Koesler, McNiff, and their buddies would teach underclassmen the importance of being even one year ahead. In the spirit of kindness that should characterize the priesthood, the upperclassmen would make themselves available to the younger seminarians.

Naturally, Koesler offered his services to Smith and Tocco. The offer was pro forma. Smith was a gifted student, with a history of tutoring Tocco.

It was just as well Koesler remained unencumbered. Another student needed him.

Stanley Benson, classmate of Smith and Tocco, was on the scene, having passed the entrance exam and interview. Thereafter, he became virtually invisible.

At this age, Benson was the epitome of the ordinary. Physically, he resembled a young Trotsky, while possessing none of the firebrand leadership of the Marxist martyr. His dark stringy hair looked as if he had combed it with an eggbeater after having survived a tornado.

Benson knew what was in his inmost mind. But he kept that a secret from everyone, including even his priest-confessor.

From his earliest days as a seminarian, Benson took stock of the dramatis personae.

The young man named Michael Smith would have been happy to add Benson to the list of those being tutored. But Benson knew the last thing he needed was help with his studies.

He had been careful to pass the entrance exam comfortably. Actually, he could have come close to perfection. But that would have attracted attention.

And that’s how it had continued to this day in the autumn of 1945.

The whirlpool hair and indifferent grooming were part of his plan. No one considered Stanley Benson prime material for the priesthood. Because he … well, he just didn’t look like a priest.

He had no need of academic help in any case. So he graciously turned aside Smith’s offer. Benson needed to soft-pedal his talents. If he needed anything, it was to present a mediocre personality … and he would have to form that himself.

There was a student, however, who appealed to Benson: Bob Koesler.

Left to himself, Benson would have died on the vine. He seemed to have no athletic skills whatever. And seminarians—particularly those at Sacred Heart—were expected to develop athletically.

Stan would have been happy to be covered with spiderwebs. But that would have seemed counterproductive to what the seminary wanted to produce as priests.

The consensus appeared to favor exercise.
Mens sana in corpore sano.
A healthy mind in a healthy body. Besides, the object all sublime was to build asexual macho men. Sports aided in the creation of that matrix.

From Benson’s observation, Koesler was a moderate to successful athlete, and he seemed genuinely eager to help.

Koesler, of course, was aware of Benson’s presence on campus. But if he had been even two years rather than one year behind Koesler’s class, Benson might well have disappeared in the mist. It came down to Koesler’s knowing Benson’s name and virtually nothing more.

But that was not Benson’s aim. Underexposure was as bad as overexposure when one intended to stay lost in the middle—the goal of mediocrity. And so Benson approached Koesler, wondering if the senior might act as a quasi-coach.

A cloud passed before Koesler’s eyes as he tried to place this scrawny kid coming toward him across the gymnasium floor. The face was familiar, but Koesler couldn’t come up with a name.

Benson could see—he had expected it—that Koesler was drawing a blank. “Stan Benson,” he identified.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Koesler extended his hand and gripped a weak fish.

There was a time-out on the floor and Koesler was toweling off perspiration. “Anything I can do for you, Stan?” If there was anything, Koesler couldn’t imagine what it might be.

Benson explained his plight. He knew, and basically agreed, that exercise was good. But for one reason or another—not health; his health was fine—he just couldn’t compete enough to participate in any of the demanding games that seemed so popular at Sacred Heart.

As Benson spoke, Koesler looked him over. He tried to imagine this lightweight in a football game. In time, a player might well wonder whether he should center the ball or Stanley.

Benson concluded with a plea. “Can you help me, Bob?”

Koesler looked him over once more. This was a case for Vince Lombardi. Except that Lombardi wouldn’t have taken on the challenge. To think of Benson as having a killer instinct was to think that lambs are ferocious. “I dunno …”