The Greatest Evil (18 page)

Father Koesler had been unable to convince his pastor to mobilize a prayer campaign. But Koesler enlisted the prayer and concern of many friends and/or parishioners. Together, he and they learned a lot about prayer through this experience.

Koesler, who talked with Tony from time to time, knew that the young man was neither supportive nor productive—or even encouraging, for that matter. The priest knew that Lucy was doing literally all she could. So there was not all the prayer they had anticipated in the beginning. Still, many good people were storming heaven for Louise’s sake.

The anchor of all this dedicated prayer was Vincent. No one else had his confidence, his faith. He was in the seminary chapel whenever he was not called to another duty. He spent an unaccustomed amount of time with his Bible. He repeatedly called up passages that spoke to him of requited prayer.

With this in mind, it seemed that the entire Bible was a romance between God and mankind, and that the language of this romance was prayer.

Vincent was encouraged by the frequency of prayer stories in the New Testament. It seemed that Jesus was always assuring His disciples that anything they asked the Father for they would receive if they had faith. Jesus Himself, when performing his miracles, would express His faith. Anything, everything was possible through faith.

And Vincent had faith.

He prayed, “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” But there was little unbelief in Vincent’s prayer.

He believed. He had faith.

All those marvelous people were a source of encouragement and support.

But this was Vincent’s miracle.

Vincent’s life of prayer and faith so impressed the rector that he relaxed his previous restriction for a one-day-a-week home visitation. Now Vinnie was home from Friday night to Sunday night each week.

Though Vincent was not notably popular among his fellow students and classmates, a goodly number of them caught his fervor and began praying for his mother’s cure.

Each Sunday evening when he returned from home, many, faculty and students alike, asked after his mother. He never tired of explaining that while she seemed to be failing, her faith was strong. The miracle could happen any time now. And the miracle, by definition, could happen no matter how frail she was. Indeed, the more that physical hope declined, the more appropriate would be God’s merciful intervention.

So he encouraged them to continue his prayer with him.

But, without doubt, it was Vincent’s show.

16

Palm Sunday

The gangbusters church congregations for Holy Week had begun. Attendance at Mass this morning at St. Norbert’s was up markedly from what could be expected on an ordinary Sunday. Father Koesler knew the other parishes were experiencing the same phenomenon as his small suburban parish.

He knew also that he could anticipate a full week of virtually nothing but eating, sleeping, conducting liturgies, and hearing confessions.

Confessions would be by far the heaviest burden.

“The Box,” as the confessional was called by some, was not designed for comfort. In many cases it was more a torture chamber.

Penitents knelt in murky obscurity on an unyielding board set below a shelf on which one could rest one’s elbows—depending on one’s size. Short people had better luck resting their chins on the support while tall people could distort their spines trying to lean down. At least the penitents were captive for a relatively short period.

Not so the priest confessor. His center booth shared the musty darkness. His chair, more often than not, was uncomfortable—extremely so. Usually, his hole-in-the-wall cavity was too small for comfort. So there he sat, cramped, conducting business in whispers. He whispered and the penitent whispered, as they blew germs at each other through a tatty, unwashed curtain. He sat in the center compartment of the box for hours. During the Christmas season and during Holy Week, he sat there for days on end. His end.

St. Norbert’s added one additional torment. The church was heated through blowers in the ceiling. No matter that heat rises. Some pseudoarchitect, probably the founding pastor, thought this method of heating, by having warmth fight against its natural direction, inventive.

As a consequence, the congregation’s feet were colder than their heads. Meanwhile, in the Box, heat poured down on the priest confessor from the blower just above his head until the box reached a saunalike temperature—at which point the blower would automatically quit, allowing the cold air to rush upward from beneath the door.

Such was Father Koesler’s prospect for the coming week. And, short of falling grievously ill, there was no escaping it.

All this, of course, paled before the greater pain and fear that held Louise Delvecchio in their grip.

Koesler had mixed feelings as he sat in his car in front of Louise’s house. In a way, Louise was an inspiration. Even if she could no longer care for her family, still she fought to at least care for herself. She tried to be a burden to no one, particularly to Lucy, who was by far her most constant companion.

On the other hand, Koesler was angry, so very angry with this disease that seemed to be eating away at Louise from inside. In the face of such ravages, how could he give any thought whatsoever to the minor inconveniences in his own life? They seemed so inconsequential in light of the load Louise carried.

But he hadn’t traveled from Inkster to Detroit’s east side to sit in his car and give free rein to his stream of consciousness.

In response to the bell, the door was opened by Vincent, done up like a good seminarian: black trousers, black shoes and socks, and a white collarless shirt into which a clerical collar would fit easily.

As he entered the house, Koesler noted fresh palm fronds hung from wall decorations. Nodding at the display, he said, “Who let you guys play in the palm fields? You got enough to plait a South Seas hut.”

Vincent smiled. “St. William’s is generous when you ask nicely.”

Koesler wondered at Vinnie’s good humor. Then he remembered the miracle and Vincent’s faith. Why not be happy? Vincent’s mood was comparable to one standing near Lazarus’s tomb while knowing how the story would end.

Lucy appeared from the kitchen. An apron covered most of a pretty spring dress.

“The little homemaker getting supper ready?” Koesler asked.

Lucy nodded. “Can you stay?”

“I don’t want to be the Man Who Came to Dinner.”

“Don’t worry: It’s spaghetti and meatballs. That stretches forever.”

“Okay then. Is Tony here?”

Neither Vincent nor Lucy responded immediately.

“No,” Vincent said, finally. “He won’t be here today.”

Lucy snorted. “He won’t be here
any
day.”

“Lucy!” Vincent chided.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Father’s practically one of the family … he ought to be plugged in on our dirty laundry.”

“Lucy, you shouldn’t—”

“Lucy’s right, I think,” Koesler broke in. “I’m too close to this not to be allowed to know what’s going on.”

“I can be brief,” Lucy said. “I think that Tony thinks Mama’s process of dying is going way too slow.”

Vincent, about to say something, decided to let the remark pass.

“Tony doesn’t come home at all?” Koesler asked.

“Yeah,” Lucy said, “he does … once in a while. But not for very long. What I really think is that he doesn’t know how to handle this. I don’t know why. People get sick.” She was about to add that not only do they get sick, they die. But in deference to the expected miracle, she didn’t.

“You have to keep in mind where Tony’s coming from,” Vincent said. “His world is built around physical fitness. For him there can be little or no compromise with sickness. He never, not for an instant, bought our decision to reject therapy. Besides, it’s hard to watch your mother be so ill. However”—he looked almost beatific—“that will make the miracle all the more joyous.”

Rather than have to respond to the possibility of a coming miracle, Lucy quickly said, “By the way, Father, Mama wants to talk to you. We’ve got a while till supper. Maybe you could see her now … before we eat?”

“Of course.”

“She’s upstairs in her bedroom.”

“Is it okay if I just go up?”

“Sure.”

Before entering, Koesler peered around the edge of the door. Louise, completely clothed, lay atop the bedclothes. She was so frail she almost blended into the quilt; Koesler didn’t find her immediately. She seemed to be napping. He might have let her sleep, but she
had
asked to see him …

“Louise …?”

Instantly she was awake and smiling. “Father, come in …” She gestured to a rocking chair near the bed.

Koesler pulled the chair closer and sat down. “How are you feeling, Louise?”

Slowly she turned on her side to see him better. “So-so.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. No, thank you; I’m all right. I was just napping. Father, I want to go to confession.”

Why? was his only thought. She had confessed almost every week since her diagnosis. Some of these confessions Koesler had heard. She had nothing to tell. Impatience. A little anger. Questioning God’s will.

But if it would make her feel better …

Koesler removed a silk cloth from his breast pocket. It was perhaps twenty inches long and two inches wide. Purple on one side for confession or the last rites, white on the other for Communion. Koesler routinely carried the cloth, called a stole, with him. One never knew.

He draped the stole around his neck. “Okay, Louise, go ahead.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago.”

So traditional.

“Father, I would like to make a confession of my whole life. What’s that called? I forget.”

“It’s called a general confession, Louise. If you want to do this, it’s okay. You can pick up things you may have forgotten to confess. Or you can renew your sorrow for specific sins. The main thing is you want to feel good about your relationship with God.”

“Okay. Well, when I was growing up I used to have bad thoughts … sort of imagining what it would be like to be with a man. Then when I was engaged we used to neck and pet something fierce.”

The good old Catholic conscience, thought Koesler: worried sick about sex.

“And I did a lot of other things, like missing Mass when I wasn’t really ill. And, of course, being angry with the kids.

“And—and I’m really sorry for this—when my husband died I was real angry with God. Does God forgive you for that?”

“God forgave you before you even had that thought.”

“Now here’s something that really bothers me. I can’t get it off my conscience that I did something real bad to my sister when I tried to help get her marriage fixed. I didn’t know that Frank would kill himself. How could I have known that?”

“You couldn’t know that, Louise. You just tried to do a good thing for Frank and Martha. You can’t let yourself be disturbed by that. For heaven’s sake, I could feel as bad as you. Maybe if I had tried harder to discourage them from trying to get an annulment that was almost doomed from the beginning …

“We can’t torture ourselves over something we couldn’t control.”

“Did Martha talk to you after … after Frank …?”

“Yes. We’ve talked.”

“That’s more than she’s done with me.”

Koesler clenched his teeth. “I know. I’ve even talked to her about that. She just won’t. But you can’t blame yourself for that either. It’s simply not your fault.”

“She’s my sister!”

“But you feel no hatred toward her. You tried to help her. It didn’t work out. That she won’t talk to you is
her
problem.”

“But I thought … you know … the condition I’m in … I thought she’d make peace now.”

“So did I. But if it’ll make you feel any better, we’ll make it part of your confession. If you did anything wrong—and I assure you you didn’t—you’re sorry and God will forgive you.”

Louise was quiet.

“Is that it, Louise?”

“Yes. Mostly I wanted to get that off my mind—that part about Martha.”

“Okay. I’ll give you absolution now, Louise. And for your penance … well, uh …” What sort of penance might he add on to her present suffering, he asked himself. Nothing, he concluded.

“For your penance, Louise, offer your suffering to God.”

“Oh, I do, Father, I do.”

“Good.” He absolved her, then tucked the stole back in his pocket.

During Louise’s confession, Koesler had gazed absently at the variety of bottles and vials that nearly covered the nightstand.

“Is all this medication?”

“Most of it. There’s some vitamin supplements too.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Go ahead.”

Koesler began to finger the bottles, turning each to read the label. “Hmmm … looks like you’ve got a lot of vitamin C.”

“Good for cancer … at least that’s what I’ve read.”

He picked up a bottle to get a closer look. A very small bottle, he guessed it held fifteen or twenty pills. Even with so few pills the bottle seemed full. And that made it unique among all these medications and bottles.
Morphine,
the label read. “This for pain?”

She nodded.

“You’re not taking any? Or you just refilled the prescription?”

“I’ve taken one or two.”

“Don’t you need more than that?”

“Father, I haven’t told anyone. Will you keep a secret?”

“I’m good at that.”

“This may seem kind of silly … but all during Lent I’ve tried to unite my suffering with all that Jesus went through. I’m offering it up.”

“For what?”

“The kids, mostly. Lucy is so young and has such talent. She could throw it all away with maybe a bad marriage.

“And Tony’s a good boy. I think he’s going to get very rich. I pray he doesn’t let that go to his head. He could do so much good for others … as long as he doesn’t get sidetracked.

“And then …” She hesitated. “… there’s Vincent.” She hesitated again. “My priest son.” She smiled. “When he was little I’d take him to Mass with us. He took to it like a duck to water. I started way back then to pray for him. He seemed a natural to become a priest. But I didn’t want to push him. And I don’t think I did; he did it all on his own. I want him to be such a good priest …”