The Gathering (38 page)

F
ATHER ALAN STATNER
had been a seminary classmate of Manny. Earlier he had tried to work out a solution to the Toccos’ strained relation with the Church, but without success. Manny had seen Rose burned years previously in the Tribunal’s Marriage Court. He wasn’t about to go through that again, even with reassurance that processes had improved. Nor would he accept the “Pastoral Solution” wherein estranged Catholics could return to the Sacraments without going through a formal trial. It was against Manny’s nature to take an easy way out.

Besides, Father Statner would not offer a Pastoral Solution. He had allowed Vatican II to wash over him and leave him gasping for fresh air that did not originate with Pope John’s
aggiornamento
.

At the outset, Alice explained Louise’s condition. The atmosphere was pleasant. There was no tension or sense of impending doom. Father Statner was familiar with the problem of gluten in celiac disease and its relationship to Communion.

“You see,” Statner said, after Alice had made her point that a substitute for a wafer of bread with gluten would have to be used, “this question has been addressed by a document from the Vatican.”

The Toccos found that mildly interesting.

“No substitute,” Statner stated, “may be made.”

“What!” Manny’s fabled temper flared.

In response, Statner’s back stiffened. “This isn’t something I made up, Manny. It’s the official stand on this question. After all, we are simply doing as Jesus instructed. ‘Do what I have done,’ He said when He gave His apostles the first ever Communion. And what He did was to change the substance of bread and wine into the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Himself. And the bread He used undoubtedly contained gluten.”

Manny’s knuckles were white as he clutched the arms of his chair. “Tell me, Father,” he said from between clenched teeth, “did any of Christ’s apostles have celiac disease?”

“That’s casuistry of the worse order!” Statner said. “But wait,” he continued, “before we get carried away, there’s a solution to this problem—”

“If you’re going to suggest that we put a nongluten wafer aside in the ciborium with the other wafers, forget it. We’ve been down that road: the slightest crumb will set off a reaction in Louise.”

“As it turns out,” Statner said, “I wasn’t going to suggest that. Let me call your attention to our belief that Communion now can be received under either or both species of bread and/or wine.

“The children will receive their First Holy Communion under both bread and wine. However, lots of Catholics receive only the bread. Most of them simply don’t want to receive from a common cup.”

“I think I know where you’re going with this,” Manny said. “You’re going to tell us that Louise should receive only the wine, and skip the bread.”

“Exactly.”

Alice could almost accept the compromise. But she knew her husband well. She knew he would not. “I don’t think we can tell Louise to do this, Father,” she said.

“Every time Louise would attend Mass, she would be the only one to pass up the bread and receive only the wine.
The only one
,” Alice emphasized. “She already is set apart from ‘normal’ people in the care she must use in choosing her food.

“Now, to make a spectacle of her illness … no, we can’t expose her to that.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“I think we can all see,” Manny said finally, “that neither of us is going to change our position—”

“Manny,” Statner interrupted, “this is not
my
opinion. It is the official word on the matter from our Holy, Catholic Church. Ours is not to quibble or disagreee. Ours is to follow our faith.”

“Well”—Manny helped Alice to her feet—“in this position, our Church is being silly at the expense of a little girl who has been hurt by nature and now is going to be hurt again by our Church.”

By the time they left the rectory, Alice was afraid her husband’s temper might be approaching the boiling point. She turned to Manny. “What’ll we do? What
can
we do?”

“What we should have done in the first place.” Manny’s jaw was set uncompromisingly.

Father Statner dabbed at his eyes. He was not going to cry. Men don’t cry. But he felt very low.

These people—his friends—probably could find a priest who, one way or another, would fulfill their wish and find a way to give Communion to their precious granddaughter under the form of bread that did not contain wheat.

It wasn’t that Statner dismissed Vatican II out of hand. He went along with Conciliar changes to the letter. And that was the problem: Where many other priests had gone on to what they called the “spirit” of the Council, Father Statner continued to stick to the Letter of the Law.

The Council didn’t ratify things like artificial birth control or back the idea of women priests, among many other practices that defied Church law. The New Age priests did that, pushed forward by a newly arrived laity.

Father Statner wanted to help anyone who needed help. But not by flouting Church law. How many times had he watched in sorrow as people like the Toccos walked away from him in distress. He found it particularly painful, as he knew his people would go on a priest-search. More than likely they would find someone who would satisfy their requests.

A growing number of the new, younger priests wanted to retreat to the pre-Conciliar era that Father Statner had experienced early in his own priesthood. He would not join them. He was in the middle. And he would stay there. But it was not comfortable.

   
TWENTY-NINE
   

T
HE NEIGHBORHOOD
looked as if it might implode. Most of the buildings appeared to be leaning on other buildings. It resembled a house of cards: Pull one out and all would come tumbling down.

This section of the city did not even have a nickname like so many other areas of Detroit: Greektown, Poletown, Black Bottom, Indian Village, Rosedale, Corktown, and so on.

Its only claim to fame had been the once-proud Olympia, the huge building that showcased celebrity boxing matches, the Pistons basketball team, and the Detroit Red Wings hockey team.

Once also, there’d been a parish here: Our Lady of Guadalupe, known simply as “Guadaloop.” The church building itself still functioned as a place of worship: Truth in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The rectory, oddly, was still a rectory, in that there was a priest in residence.

Father Ed Simpson had been the previous resident priest, the last pastor Guadalupe would have. It was common knowledge among “the boys” that old Ed had coveted a parish “worthy of his pastoral ministry.” Everyone but Ed knew that was not going to happen.

No one else knew to what extremes he had gone in an attempt to win the Chancery’s favor. There were times that Father Simpson felt like Dr. Frankenstein—except that Ed’s “monster” was a pussycat who’d become expert at straddling fences.

Whatever—Stan Benson had been picked, plucked, stuffed, and delivered. A real live priest from Guadalupe. Few could fault Father Simpson on that. He had created what no one had thought possible: not just producing a priest out of Guadalupe, but a priest out of someone who didn’t want to be a priest.

Father Simpson might have lived out his days in an alcoholic fog had it not occurred to the disciples of change that, while priests just go on and on, real people retire. The subsequent trickle of priestly retirees opened the door to a groundswell of discontented and/or ill priests.

They retired in droves. And one of them was Father Simpson. Unfortunately, he lived just long enough to acquire a Florida tan before joining that Great Offertory Procession in the Sky.

The rectory at Guadalupe survived, though it had ceased to function as anything official. It wasn’t even vandalized; why not, no one seemed to know.

When it came time for Father Stan Benson to retire, he leaped at the opportunity. He returned to Guadalupe, moving his few possessions into the rectory that held so many memories. His father had died many years before. His mother, now in her nineties, but quite coherent, still gloried in her son’s priesthood. He visited her regularly. She lived in an excellent nursing home, which provided the best care money could buy. Stanley had scrimped and saved, and now used those savings to ensure that his mother would want for nothing.

When Manny called for an appointment, Stanley was delighted. It was an occasion to celebrate, especially since Manny was a longtime friend and former classmate.

The Toccos parked in front of the rectory. It was early evening, but it had been overcast for several days, with intermittent showers.

“It looks,” Alice said, “like the setting for one of those English murder movies. I’m actually afraid to get out of the car.”

Manny smiled. “No need to be afraid, gal. I’ll take care of you.”

Of course you will, she thought. There had been no further temper explosions since the time her present husband had almost killed her former husband. But if there were provocation …

Actually, she felt very secure leaning against him.

Manny pressed the doorbell. He almost expected the chimes to sound the
Dies Irae
or some other spooky theme. But the sound was an innocuous buzz.

The door was opened promptly by an ebullient Stan Benson. “Come in. Come in. It’s so good to have you here.”

Alice reflected that he was among those of the six who had not been judgmental at the news of their marriage. Thinking back on it now, she couldn’t remember that Stan had expressed himself at all regarding the marriage. But without committing himself in any fashion, he had seemed supportive.

As they were ushered into the living room, the Toccos were surprised to note that the interior of this ancient rectory was well kept up. Stan noticed their wonderment and was pleased. “We’ve put a lot of work into this place.” He made it sound as if a crew had descended on the building and cleaned and maintained it. Actually, he had done it virtually by himself.

In response to Stan’s offer, the couple requested white wine.