Chameleon (41 page)

She sat up straight, head erect. “Oh, yes, I accomplished some things. I signed up to teach, and I taught. That’s not the point. The point is I wasted my life. The life I should have lived. The things I should have done … they’re gone. They will never come back.”

Koesler reckoned that nothing would be accomplished by trying to find a silver lining in the seemingly impenetrable cloud she had made of her years as a nun. Not now in any case.

He led her through a confession that revealed little beyond her having been a careless Catholic—missing Sunday Mass, neglecting any sort of purposeful spiritual life, and the like. For a penance, he urged her to try to set aside a regular time to read and meditate on the Bible. She expressed sorrow for sin. He absolved her and, seemingly somewhat mellowed, she left.

Strange: consecutive penitents, women of approximately the same age, yet how different from each other. They were almost the embodiment of the present delicate state of the Church, the disparate byproducts of that Second Vatican Council.

For some Catholics, the Council had not come anywhere near to achieving what it had set out to do. Penitent “A” would be one product of that.

For others, the Council had virtually destroyed the Church they loved. Penitent “B” fell into that category. For the rest—the passive majority?—something had happened, they knew not what. But give them a relatively quiet Sunday liturgy without too many demands made of them, and they would go along with most of this foolishness—even the handshake of peace.

Koesler’s mental ramblings were cut short by the sound of someone entering the opposite confessional, the one labeled “private confessions.”

Actually, the “private confessions” confessional essentially was no different from the ones Catholics had been used to for centuries. Equipped with a kneeler and an armrest fixed to the wall facing the priest, the cubicle had a rectangular opening fitted with a curtain and/or screen and a sliding panel that could be opened and closed by the priest. The purpose of this arrangement was to offer anonymity to the penitent, who waited, in the dark—there was no light fixture—for the priest to open the panel, at which point the penitent was instructed to speak in whispers. Thus unseen and speaking only in a whisper, the penitent’s anonymity was virtually guaranteed. Almost all Catholic churches were now well equipped with the “face-to-face” setup as well as some form of the earlier confidential facility.

In Old St. Joe’s, one of the former private cubicles had been remodeled and outfitted with the penitent’s chair, the table holding the Bible, a candle, and, in this case, the execrable plant.

Koesler could hear the unseen penitent’s fumbling footsteps as he felt his way in the dark before dropping to his knees on the low step. Without bothering to turn his head toward the curtain and screen that separated him from the penitent, Koesler slid open the panel.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the whisper. “My last confession was about a month ago.”

Seems like old times—the whispered voice, the monthly confession.

“I was angry at work a few times. And a couple of times I blew up at my secretary. But she is incompetent. Only I can’t fire her. And … here’s the one that’s got me puzzled: My wife says I’m creating a wrong attitude in my son … giving him a false set of values.”

“Oh?”

“See, one day last week, my son’s school showed a movie on Nelson Mandela. The kids who went to the movie were supposed to donate a dollar. The proceeds were to go to the Afro-American Museum. I made sure he had the dollar before I left for work. So when he got home from school, my wife asked him about the movie. He told her that the projector broke down in the middle of the first reel. And, he said, they didn’t even give his dollar back. Then my wife bawled him out for being so stingy. She told him how the dollar went to a good cause and he shouldn’t even think about getting it back.

“But I didn’t know about any of this. So when I got home from work, I asked him how the movie was. And he told me how the projector broke down so he didn’t get to see the movie. And then I asked him if they gave him his dollar back.”

Father Koesler’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter. Gently, he sided with the man’s wife, while sympathizing with the penitent’s initial reaction to the contribution with no dividend. After issuing a penance, as the penitent recited the prayer of contrition, Koesler absolved him.

After a few moments, Koesler heard the front door of the church clang shut. Which meant that the man who’d just confessed had departed, or that a new penitent had arrived—or both. From inside the confessional, there was no way the priest could tell.

Koesler leaned back in his chair and again became lost in thought. His memory stretched back into the days before the Council.

Twenty-five or thirty or more years ago, Saturday afternoons usually found an unending line of kids streaming in and out of the confessional. All said virtually the same thing: They “just obeyed” their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, baby-sitters, garbage collectors—casual strangers, for that matter. Not only were they habitually disobedient, they also committed “adultry” before they knew what it was or what it involved.

Then there was always the kid whose previous confession had been just last week, but in that time, he’d missed Sunday Mass four times.

Don’t ask! Interrupt the little ones in their by-rote recitations of memorized sins, and the computers in their little heads would shortcircuit, reducing them to impenetrable silence. Then how to get them to finish the list and conclude the confession?

In this, Koesler had proved a quick learner—uncharacteristically. After only a couple of minor disasters with kids stopped dead in their tracks because he sought clarification, he just accepted whatever they said—no matter how contradictory or impossible—issued a penance of a certain number of prayers, and absolved them from their fancied transgressions or peccadillos.

At one time during his early years as a priest, Koesler figured that was how he would die: on a Saturday afternoon, listening to the repetitive confessions of children—from boredom.

But in all likelihood it was not to be. Kids were no longer coming to confession weekly, daily. Adults did not come. Nobody came. Not as they had. The weeks before Christmas and Easter had once been Monday-through-Saturday, dawn-till-night confessions. Now a few hours would take care of the entire load.

Abruptly, the door to the open confessional was flung back. There stood—no, towered—one of the largest men Koesler had ever seen. His body was mountainous. His head was huge. His lips, his mouth, his teeth, raised visions of
Jaws.
His ears were sagging shutters; his bulbous off-centered nose seemed to have been smashed many times over. His eyes seemed to have been put in his face as an afterthought; so small were they that had it not been for their beadiness they would have almost disappeared in the moon-crater face.

Why did he have the feeling he had seen this man before? In a previous parish? At a meeting? In a gathering? The news media, television, the newspapers? The boxing ring? The movies?

The man seemed as startled to see Koesler as Koesler was to see him. “What the hell! What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m …” Koesler had to think about this one, “I’m hearing confessions.”

“Then where’s the wall? Where’s the goddam window?”

Ah, that was it. “It’s on the other side. You came in the wrong door. Go in the other door … the one that’s marked ‘private confessions.’”

The door slammed shut. Koesler could hear him grousing as he barged through the other door; the entire cubicle shook as that too slammed in the behemoth’s wake.

Koesler slid the small window open. He could hear the man groping his way toward the kneeler. Koesler could hear it all but could make out nothing in the dark. But of course he had already seen the man. So much for anonymity.

Finally, the man was kneeling—and grunting. Then, after several extended moments of silence, “How do you start this thing again?”

“
Blessme, Father
…” Koesler prompted.

“Bless me, Father …” Silence. “Then what?”

“…
for I have sinned.
”

“… for I have sinned. Oh, yeah: Bless me. Father, for I have sinned. That’s right.”

Another silence.

“
My last confession.
…”

“My last confession … ?” the man wondered.

“How long has it been since you went to confession last?”

“Oh. Oh … oh … I guess my last confession was the first time.”

“Your last confession was your first confession? When you were a child?”

“Near as I can figure.”

“Not even when you were confirmed?”

“What’s that?”

“Confirmation. When a bishop confirms you. You weren’t confirmed?”

“I don’t think so. I would have remembered that, I guess.”

This, thought Koesler, was one of God’s neglected children. The man’s swarthy cast, together with his features and pronounced accent, suggested a Mediterranean heritage, possibly Sicilian. In Koesler’s experience, such people frequently were either extremely religious or total strangers to church. He recalled the man who had stopped in at a Detroit rectory and asked for Monsignor Vizmara, only to be told that monsignor had died five years previously. “Oh, that’ sa too bad,” the man said, “he was-a my regular confessor.”

In any case, something extraordinary must have happened for this man to have come in after all these years. What?

“All right, ” Koesler said, “it’s been a great number of years since you’ve been to confession. What brings you back?”

“Well, see, I killed a priest.”

“You what!?” Koesler suddenly realized that not only had he and his penitent been speaking aloud instead of whispering, but that he himself had just shouted. Koesler was embarrassed. “You what?” he repeated in a whisper.

“I said I killed a priest. You hard of hearing?”

“No. And you should whisper, like I am … now.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“You killed a priest, ” Koesler repeated, his tone a mixture of wonderment and near astonishment.

“That’s what I did all right.” He was not whispering.

“Well … why?”

“A contract.”

“A contract?”

“Yeah. A contract. Somebody put out a contract on him. They gave it to me. I felt bad about it. I never wasted a priest before.”

“You never wasted … uh … killed a priest before. Does that mean you have killed others—others who were not priests?”

“Oh, yeah. But never a priest. This was my first time.” His tone communicated pride in his achievement.

In all his years as a priest, Koesler had heard murder confessed only a couple of times. He considered murder the ultimate crime, if not sin, and he was shocked. But he tried to regain his composure as he forced himself to consider the theological implications of murder.

Obviously, no matter how repentant a murderer might be, there was nothing he could do for his victim. There were other considerations though.
Damnum emergens—as
a result of the murder, were there any ramifications, complications, consequences?

“Did anyone depend on this priest?” Koesler asked in a whisper. “I mean, was he supporting anyone, as far as you know?”

“He wasn’t married.” The man was definitely not whispering. “At least I don’t think he was married. He couldna been married, could he … I mean, he was a priest after all!”

“You should whisper, ” Koesler admonished. “I mean, was he supporting any relative—a mother, sister, something like that? Did anyone rely on him for support—financial support?” The implication being that if anyone suffered as a consequence of this killing, the murderer would incur that responsibility.

“Geez, I don’t think so.”

“Has any innocent person been accused of the crime?”

“Are you kiddin’? I just did it yesterday. What’s with all these questions?”

“I’m trying to cover all the possibilities. For you to be truly sorry for what you did you have, to be willing to make reparations for any evil consequences—any bad things that happen because you killed this man, this priest. For instance, if an innocent person were to be accused of this crime—especially if an innocent person were convicted of the crime—you would have to come forward and confess publicly. Would you do that?”

Pause.

“That’s a safe enough bet, ” the man said finally. “If they tagged somebody, I’d sing. But I wouldn’t put my last chip on that happening.” Pause. Then, “These are crazy questions. I thought you’d want to know who bought it.”

“Who bought it? You mean who got killed? Well, it’s not absolutely necessary for your confession. But, yes, of course, I’d like very much to know the name.”

“Keating.”

“Keating? John Keating? The pastor of St. Waldo’s?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But why? Why would you want to kill Father Keating? No, wait: You don’t have to answer that. I just got a bit carried away.”

“That’s okay. Like I told you, he had a contract on him. He had too many markers he couldn’t buy back.”

“Markers … ?”

“Debts. Gambling debts. Everything. Horses, football, basketball, baseball, hockey, numbers … you name it, he had a piece of it. Only he wasn’t too savvy. He ran up some steep bills. He couldn’t make good—so, the contract.”

The penitent couldn’t see Koesler shaking his head. “This is hard to take, ” the priest whispered. “Poor Jake …”

“There’s something else, ” the penitent said.

Koesler shook himself as if to clear his head. “More?”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s a sin the way we stashed him. I dunno. I don’t think so. But maybe. I was gonna ask …”

“The way you stashed him?”

“I had him buried with Father Kern.”

“Kern? Monsignor Clem Kern?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, he was a whatchamacallit—a monsignor.”

“You had Father Keating buried with Clem Kern? I don’t understand. Why? How?”

“How? We just went to the cemetery last night, slipped the guard a mickey, dug up Father Kern, opened the coffin, put Keating in with him—Father Kern wasn’t all that big, there was room—and planted the box again. It was very smooth. No one would tumble.”