The Gathering (33 page)

Her twin, as well as Manny Tocco and Stanley Benson, entered St. John’s Provincial Seminary in Plymouth, Michigan, for the final four years of theology.

Bob Koesler was in his second year of the theologate. The scholastic year began with a bishop clipping a few strands of crown hair. The ceremony, called tonsure (a hair cut), symbolically made him a cleric, a clergyman.

Future ceremonies would promote the candidates to the minor orders of porter (gatekeeper), lector (reader), exorcist (one who has power over the devil), acolyte (altar server); and the major orders of subdeacon (who functions as such at solemn Masses and incurs the promise of celibacy and the monastic prayer of the breviary), deacon (who functions as such in a solemn Mass and may preach and baptize), and, finally, priest.

For these seminarians, things were getting serious.

Bob Koesler, for the first time, was aware that the priesthood was a definite possibility. Before these final steps loomed, he had doubted he was worthy of the calling he’d desired from the memories of his earliest days. The prospect awed him, and gave him sobering considerations.

Time for the final decision neared.

Mike Smith had no troubling doubts. He had just entered the major seminary and already he was living up to the promise he had shown at Sacred Heart. Time dragged for Mike. He was eager to get through these “preliminaries” and get on with saving the world. He felt he could learn all he needed to be an exemplary priest in far less than the appointed four years. He filled the empty moments by tutoring Manny Tocco, who did not particularly need the help. But it did sharpen Manny’s grasp of ancient and now all-but-buried heresies. The doubts he harbored about the final steps of his vocation were deep. He kept them in his heart and told no one. He still had four years before a final decision. In the meantime, he wondered. Time was closing in on Manny.

Then there was Stanley Benson. For him, time was running ahead of itself. His seminary career had been passingly successful based on his academic record and evidence of his spiritual life. His teachers and guides saw little to recommend and even less to criticize. Stanley had been the very personification of mediocrity. That had not been easy. He was far brighter than anyone—except for Bob Koesler, who remained Stan’s confidant—could have guessed.

Now Stan was in the major seminary. His mother was overjoyed. Even his father felt a deepening pride in his son. At one time, Stan’s parents, especially his father, had feared he would amount to nothing much. They recalled mention of a secretarial future. Thank God and Father Ed Simpson that Stan had recognized his sublime vocation and was following the road. Please, his mother prayed, give me at least four years so I can share his triumph.

Stan wished time would stop dead in its tracks. He knew it would not.

Time was deceiving Alice McMann.

She had completed her business course at St. Mary’s and gone on to take a bachelor’s degree in Liberal Arts. She was now Alice McMann, B.A. Prospects would have been bleak for a prestigious position as secretary had it not been for two developments. One, she had specialized in the legal field. Two, she had the backing and endorsement of Henry Smith, father of Mike and Rose. She put together this package and took it to the legal firm of Schoenherr, Brady, and Rostovitch, one of Michigan’s most prestigious law firms. She was interviewed by Johnny Piccolo, an up-and-coming young member of the firm.

The interview went well. Piccolo was a bit puzzled over Alice’s seeming lack of ambition. But that, he thought, was all to the good: He wouldn’t have to worry about her leaving him and trying to work her way up to being secretary to the head of the firm.

Technically, Alice was a dream come true. This was a day when, if there was a typographical error on a Last Will and Testament, no erasures were allowed; the typist had to start from scratch. Alice knew about the demands of this profession; the better the firm the less tolerance of imperfection. She was up to that and any other demand the firm—or John Piccolo, her boss, might make.

And there were some demands that would be made later on.

Time seemed to be on her side. She was only twenty-one. Her whole adult life was ahead of her.

Her social life was blossoming as well. The firm’s other secretaries knew it long before Alice was aware of it. John Piccolo was putting the full court press on Alice. It seemed she was the last to realize what was going on.

It started with working after hours. Then late-night dinners. Then weekends aboard a friend’s yacht on the Detroit River, Lake St. Clair, or Lake Huron. Few would believe this relationship remained platonic. But it did. Perhaps not in the strictest sense … but there was no intimate sexual contact.

Alice began to wonder whether John might be homosexual. But a couple of his former girlfriends assured her that was not the case. They also implied that there were things that were worse than being homosexual. Either these friends were not convincing, or Alice was blinded by the respect John showed her.

In any case, he proposed, and Alice accepted.

Before even her parents, Alice told Rose—Sister Marie Agnes—who was pleased that Alice was so happy. But Rose had reservations—reservations she did not share with Alice.

Of course Rose could not attend the wedding. But she asked for—and received—all the details.

Italians tend toward Catholicism. So it was no surprise that Piccolo was Catholic. The wedding and nuptial Mass was celebrated at Old Saint Mary’s downtown. Bob Koesler organized the liturgy insofar as arranging for himself, Mike, Manny, and Stan to serve the Mass. Since the theologate students were permitted to wear cassock, surplice, and clerical collar, it looked for all the world as if four priests were playing the part of altar boys.

The wedding brunch was held at Roma Café near Farmers’ Market. There were toasts, an open bar, an Italian buffet, and plenty of Chianti.

The couple spent the night at a downtown hotel, and in the morning they were off to Acapulco. Then they virtually dropped out of sight.

When Alice quit her job, John Piccolo lost the best secretary in the firm.

Early May 1954. Only one month before the Class of ’55 would receive the first of the major orders: the subdiaconate. In June, the Reverend Mr. Robert Koesler would become Father Robert Koesler. And Smith, Tocco, and Benson would become Reverend Misters.

Koesler was on cloud nine. Smith was in seventh heaven. Benson was resigned. And Tocco was uncertain.

Just as it was markedly easier for Alice to quit the convent while still a postulant without having taken vows, similarly it was far easier to leave the seminary before the subdiaconate and its commitment to celibacy. This was Manny’s last chance. The subdiaconate was a commitment, not an empty ceremony.

Ordinarily, a candidate for Holy Orders who was doubtful at this stage would have a most serious talk with his spiritual director. However, peculiar circumstances led Manny to consult with his small but tight clique. He revealed and explained his uncertainty.

Koesler and Smith were shocked. Benson was envious. Backing away from the priesthood at this stage might devastate Manny’s parents. Whereas, were Benson to follow suit, his parents would be rendered somewhere between psychotic and comatose.

In the end, Manny’s advisers would agree that such doubts called for a request for a leave of absence. Manny concurred. He asked for the leave. The faculty thought it a wise move. The leave was granted. If Manny were to return after such a late decision, his would be a most rare case. Meanwhile, his parents would hang in, hoping against hope that he would go back and go on.

Back in “the world,” Manny learned that there was no significant demand in business or industry for a theology major. But he applied to and interviewed with as many as possible. His parents provided some monetary help. But they did not encourage, nor did Manny want domestic welfare.

He was twenty-four and had never been on an actual date. He was attractive to the biologically eager females. But he didn’t know that. He tried several dates with the young journalism major. Now a staff writer at the
Detroit Free Press,
she set up an interview with the paper’s city editor. It didn’t hurt that this editor happened to be Catholic.

Manny had an extensive background in English. Even Latin took a backseat to English in the seminary. It also didn’t hurt that the city editor had just dealt with a tryout reporter who turned in abysmal copy. To the degree that on one occasion, the editor snarled, “Boy, you have misspelled Cincinnati so badly it can’t be fixed!”

Manny was aware of and good at correct English. Finally, it didn’t hurt that he’d been recommended by a competent reporter. He was hired.

With a job of which he could be proud, things began to look up.

Feeling a little carefree, he phoned Alice Piccolo. He brought her up to speed. He talked to her quite a while and he wondered that she didn’t invite him over for dinner. He was about to hang up when the invitation was extended. More curious than offended, he accepted.

He arrived at 8
P.M.
She opened the door. He was jolted. Her left cheek was bruised and her left eye was on its way to being swollen shut.

He stood in the doorway holding a bottle of wine. At sight of her injuries the normal amenities had stalled. He became aware that he was staring. Pulling himself together, he thrust the bottle at her.

She thanked him awkwardly. She seemed to find speech difficult. Perhaps there was more damage to her cheek than was obvious.

“Alice, what happened—” Manny was interrupted by a presence at her shoulder. It was John Piccolo, drink in hand.

“Well,” Piccolo said, “if it isn’t the Knight’n Shining Armor!”

Manny had met his host fleetingly at the McMann-Piccolo nuptials. He hadn’t seen him since. Now he measured the man. A bit larger than Manny, Piccolo looked as if he worked out regularly. He was well proportioned. But, thought Manny, based on Piccolo’s slurred speech, he sure didn’t need that drink. Uncertain how to respond to his host’s ambiguous welcome, Manny said nothing.

Piccolo addressed his wife. “Arnsha gonna invite your Sirlanslot in?”

Manny began to feel extremely awkward. He had expected to find adoring newlyweds, sharing a love that was exclusive and blossoming. He was finding its antithesis.

Johnny grabbed the bottle from Alice’s hands. “Jus’ what we need,” he gurgled, “more booze.” He shoved his wife toward the kitchen. “Go on! Get supp’r onna table. Show your ers’while boyfriend you’re good for somethin’.”

Alice stumbled from the shove and almost fell. But, wordlessly, she made it to the kitchen and quickly became absorbed in what she was doing.

“C’mon in.” Johnny led the way into a living room that screamed of conspicuous consumption. He walked easily, in a controlled manner. Obviously, he hadn’t had enough alcohol to affect his gait, but if his speech was any indication, he was getting there.

Manny stepped onto the carpet and sank into the deep pile. It would be years—if ever—before he would be able to afford such luxury. He hoped that when he reached that level of income he would have the good taste and common sense to be less pretentious.

Johnny dropped heavily onto the white-on-white couch and waved toward a nearby companion chair. Manny sat down, facing him.

“Alice told me about the time you saved her from the proverbial ‘fate worse’n death’ in the movie house. I guess I oughtta thank you.” He chuckled without mirth. “It helped our honeymoon that she was a virgin. And, believe me, our honeymoon needed all the help it could get.”

Whether or not this line of chatter was embarrassing Manny, Johnny’s tasteless remarks were having that effect.

“Then,” Johnny continued, “there was the other time, when you saved the virginal ears of that reporter on the streetcar. Alice didn’t have to lecture me on that. I ’member reading about it. The newspaper account didn’t say whether you got a roll in the hay for that one. You just go around getting girls ready for real men with your extravagant foreplay, dontcha, now?”

Manny, drawing on all the self-discipline he’d learned in the seminary, restrained himself before remarking, “You forgot the Viking.”