The Gathering (42 page)

“But,” Koesler continued, “there wasn’t any specified penalty to illegitimacy. Illegitimates were termed ‘irregular.’ They could be dispensed by a bishop. It was as simple as that.” Now Koesler knew what had distracted him a few minutes before. It was Stan’s statement that his illegitimacy had blocked his possible ordination.

“Then what about my illegitimate cousin in Ohio?” Stan’s voice was challenging; he wanted to be permanently rid of his doubts. “He was told in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t go to the seminary because his father had been divorced and his parents hadn’t been able to marry in the Church. So he couldn’t be a priest … and that was the only thing he wanted.”

Koesler shrugged. It had gotten too dark for Stan to see the gesture.

“Lots of people made up their minds that illegitimates were banned from the priesthood,” Koesler said. “If you believed this hard enough, it came true. Your cousin got bad advice—undoubtedly from some priest … maybe some priest who even believed it himself. But in any case, when the guy was told by a priest that his illegitimacy barred him from the priesthood, well, of course he believed it. And so it became a fact.

“And you believed the same thing. And it became a fact for you too—at least until Father Simpson made you believe that he could ‘fix’ it.” Koesler shook his head again. “Stan, illegitimacy isn’t even mentioned in connection with Orders in the new 1983 Code.”

“Then …” So heavily had Stan perspired that his clothes were clinging to him. “ … nothing terrible happened? I mean, I ruined my life, but nothing else bad happened?” He felt a wave of relief wash over him—much like the patient who feared having a fatal illness only to find his condition benign. He felt like going out to celebrate. He felt like baying at the moon. He felt like leaping off the ground.

Gradually, Stan sensed that Bob Koesler was not sharing in this elation, this relief, this ebullience. Doubts began to creep into his troubled conscience. “Bob, what’s wrong? You just gave me terrific news. You couldn’t have made me happier. Can’t you share in my happiness?”

Try as he might, for Stan’s sake, Koesler could not. He stood silent.

“What is it, Bob? Tell me!”

Koesler sighed. “I suppose I must …” He hesitated. “But … well, once your awareness settles … uh … you’d probably figure it out for yourself. Or somebody would bring it up in casual conversation. So we should try now to figure some way out of it—”

“For the love of God, Bob,” Stan’s voice was rising again, “what are you talking about?”

Koesler steered Stan to a nearby bench, and the two sat down.

“Stan,” Koesler began, “you feared there would be dire consequences to your becoming a priest because you were—or are—illegitimate. There aren’t any such consequences. And for that I rejoice with you. But—”

“But what!?”

“Okay. You’ve heard of a shotgun wedding?”

“Of course. It doesn’t have to be a real gun. Just something that forces …” Stan’s voice trailed off. “Just something that forces …” He saw clearly where this was heading. He didn’t want to go there.

“One of the questions,” Koesler said, “that we probe when we are preparing a couple for marriage is whether each of them is entering this life together willingly, under absolutely no force or coercion, or fear. Not infrequently, when someone challenges the validity of a marriage, the contention is that he or she got married to please parents. Or because someone or something was threatening them.

“Now if that’s really the case, the marriage can be declared null and void. In other words, from the very beginning of the couple’s life together, there was no marriage … all because of force and fear.”

Stan’s head drooped until it was almost touching his chest.

Koesler wondered whether he should have brought this up. He tried to convince himself it was better that Stan learn it from a friend than from anyone else. Worse still if Stan had come to this realization himself. And he likely would have; Stan was the type who, if he could dismiss a worrisome concern, would find another one as a replacement.

“What does this mean?” Stan murmured. “I gave my mother a happy life she wouldn’t otherwise have had. I gave Father Simpson whatever—whatever the hell—he was looking for. But at what cost? At … what … cost?”

They sat in silence for what seemed a very long time.

“You didn’t have a chance, Stan,” Koesler said finally, trying to console his friend. “Whichever way you turned, you were boxed in. Your mother was the innocent in all this. She received a bogus miracle from Simpson. You alone could destroy it. And you wouldn’t do that. You
couldn’t
do that. Not many feeling human beings could destroy their own mother.”

Koesler knew he was talking in circles now. Always returning to Lily Benson and the love between mother and son. Mother was able to assist son in what she thought was his undying desire to be a priest. Son could not turn down her gift and lead the sort of life he really wanted. A perfect dilemma.

“At what cost? At what cost?” Stan kept repeating the question like a mantra.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Koesler said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s not a matter of whose fault it is. I am not a priest. I never was a priest. I was forced into a false ordination.”

“Don’t go on like this!” Koesler admonished. “Maybe we can work out something. There is a law—
Ecclesia supplet
—that the Church supplies what is needed. The Church can take care of canonical glitches when there’s been a blunder committed. Like when a canonical detail has been forgotten or overlooked and the bride is about to walk down the aisle. The Church can supply the proper jurisidiction or permission—or whatever is missing. Maybe we can work out something like that.”

So concerned was Koesler about his friend’s emotional health that he was grasping at straws.

“It’s one thing,” Benson said softly, “to build on a mistake. It’s something else to work with nothing.

“The hundreds, thousands, of Masses!” He spoke as if to himself. “The hundreds of thousands of absolutions I’ve given! The marriages I’ve witnessed! Can the Church supply validity for all these?”

He turned to look at his friend, although it was too dark to see Koesler’s face. “Bob, it’s not that I forgot something on the way to the altar. It’s more like Joe Blow stepped into a Confessional and began giving absolution. I am not a priest. I never was. I’ve never wanted to be a priest. And I never was.”

Moonlight shone into Benson’s eyes. They were moist with tears and somehow childlike. “I’ve wasted my life and brought nothing good into anyone else’s life.”

“That’s not true, Stan. God would never let it be true.”

“We’re not talking about God, Bob. We’re talking about law.”

Silence.

“There’s a rollaway bed in my apartment, Stan. Why don’t you stay with me for a while? Until we straighten this all out?”

Benson shook his head. “I’ve got some thinking to do. Don’t worry about me, Bob. I’ll be all right.”

“Stan …”

“Please, Bob: It’ll be okay. I’ve just got to be by myself. I’ll be in touch.

“And, Bob: Don’t feel bad that you were the one to open my eyes. If you hadn’t done it, I’d have done it myself in time. And it was so much better to have you around when I found out. Besides, I asked you for a rundown on my status. I’m grateful. Honest.”

“Stan …”

Benson chuckled. “I’m a big boy. I’ll be okay. Go home. I’ll be in touch.”

Most reluctantly, Koesler departed, but not before he placed his hand on Benson’s shoulder and gave what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

Father Koesler was engaged in one of his favorite forms of relaxation. Eyes closed, stretched out in a recliner, he was enjoying the glorious voice of Jonathan Swift. Koesler had filled the CD player with Swift’s recordings, from operatic selections to songs of the tenor’s birthplace, Scotland. Scenes of the breathtakingly beautiful Scottish highlands filled his mind’s eye, as Swift’s rendition of “Loch Lomond” wafted throughout Koesler’s living quarters.

The priest smiled, recalling his own visit to Loch Lomond many autumns ago. He almost chuckled aloud, recalling how he had sat below in the cabin, while a boatload of tourists faced the loch breeze above on the deck. Finding himself alone, Koesler had broken into his own rendition of “Loch Lomond.” He had sung at the top of his lungs, confident that the grating rattle of the boat’s engine would provide cover for his frivolous action.

Frivolous action
. Had Stan Benson ever enjoyed anything frivolous? Koesler wondered. He tried to think back over what he knew of Stan’s life. He couldn’t recall Stan ever doing anything frivolous or being anything but serious and sober. Now that he thought of it, he realized that Stan had always seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Koesler had never before adverted to this. He was reasonably sure that none of the others in the circle of six had ever adverted to it either; all of them had been too busy making their own way through life.

The CD player had switched to “Songs of Italy,” an early recording, made before Swift’s light baritone had evolved into a liquid tenor.

Italy.
Once more, scenes of yore crowded into Koesler’s mind. His trip to Rome when Cardinal Boyle had received the red hat. Rome, the mountaintop of Catholicism … whence had been handed down the 2,414 laws that had ruled so many lives … and ruined not a few. Like that of Stan Benson.

Stan.
Koesler brought his recliner up to sitting position. His brow knitted. Three days had passed since his meeting with Stan at St. John’s Center. Koesler had been expecting a call from Benson, and if truth be known, as the day wore on he had become increasingly anxious. Funny, under ordinary circumstances, Koesler would think nothing of it if he and Stan didn’t meet or even speak for months. But now, given the fraught nature of their recent conversation, Koesler felt that contact was overdue.

Koesler resolved that if he did not hear from Stan by this afternoon …

As if on cue, the phone rang. Startled, Koesler almost leaped out of his chair in his haste to answer it.

“Father Koesler? This is Mrs. Schultz.”

Koesler’s gorge rose. He had to fight back nausea. He knew Mrs. Schultz, although he had met her only a few times. She was Stan’s occasional housekeeper. That she should be calling now …

“I hate to be the one to tell you,” she said. “It’s Father Benson.”

“How bad is it?”

“He has expired.”

“Oh, God!” Koesler pulled himself together. “Can you tell me—uh, how did it happen?”

“I can’t tell you much of anything, Father. I found him this morning. The police came. And I don’t know what all …” Her voice betrayed her anxiety.

“I’ll be right over.”

“Before you come, Father, you should know: The police found Father’s Last Will, and you’re the executive.”

“Executor,” Koesler corrected. “He never mentioned that. But I’m not surprised. Is … is Father’s body still at home?”

“They took him downtown … to the morgue.”

Good, thought Koesler. He and Dr. Moellmann, the County Medical Examiner, were friends. Dr. Moellmann would have, literally, the last word on the cause of death.

Father Koesler arrived at Our Lady of Guadalupe to find the neighbors, such as they were, gathered in front of the rectory. Whatever had happened, they figured it must be important. After all, a couple of marked Detroit police cars, as well as a couple of unmarked ones, were parked at the curb. And—the real drawing card—a television van had just pulled up. Maybe Father Benson’s neighbors would find themselves on TV tonight! They would have to settle for considerably less than fifteen minutes of fame.

Koesler had placed a call and left a message for Dr. Moellmann, who was busy even then with Father’s Benson’s autopsy.

In the meantime, the priest found the will. Koesler marveled at how little Stan Benson had possessed. Obviously he had wanted little from life. And life had given him little. Everything was to go to Maryknoll, a missionary order. The Order would never survive solely on Stan’s bequest.

As executor, Koesler felt he should be doing something; he wasn’t quite sure what. He rummaged perfunctorily through a chest of drawers. He was brought up short when he came across a hairshirt, an item worn as a means of self-inflicted penance. The priest quickly decided to dispose of it. Stan would not want it known that he had a medieval monastic bent.