The Greatest Evil (30 page)

He looked deeply into her eyes. “Very much so.”

She put her arms around his neck. He put his around her back.

After a few seconds, he released her. She did not release him. So he put his arms back around her.

He felt her tongue against his lips.

She was lost in the kiss.

He was thinking.

French kissing.
He’d first heard of it in moral theology. When entered into willingly and when prolonged, it was a mortal sin.
Oh, my God: a mortal sin!
Now that he was experiencing it for the first time, he didn’t think it was worth being a mortal sin.

But he was firmly wrapped up in it.

Her arms remained locked around his neck. They had no place else to go.

His arms and hands were free to roam. And they did.

Consumed by the passion of the moment, his hand touched her knee, then slipped beneath the hem of her dress. Soon his hand fondled a firm, smooth thigh.

Suddenly, she stood up. She straightened her dress. She looked at him, inhaled deeply, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Bewildered, he remained seated.

Immediately after thinking that he must at all costs avoid any stupid errors on his road to becoming a bishop, he had blundered.

Thank God it had gone no further.

He stood. He prepared to leave.

His trousers were wrinkled. He had been seriously aroused. But that was gone now.

She reentered.

She had bought two items during her brief shopping expedition. One was the dress she was no longer wearing. The other was the diaphanous robe she
was
wearing.

In but a few moments, he drank into his memory bank her every bodily feature. She was offering him her very self.

Part of him urged a shout of ecstasy and welcome. Part of him wanted to burn her at the stake. What triumphed was the outraged, Victorian Vincent Delvecchio.

“How—dare—you!” He shouted every drawn-out syllable.

Her shock and embarrassment was such that she grabbed a chair covering and quickly drew it around herself.

“But …”

“We were building what could have been …”

“You kissed me
…
”

“A platonic …”

They were shouting over one another. Their voices carried into adjacent apartments.

“And your hand …”

“Our friendship could have grown …”

“You were feeling me …”

“Into something beautiful …”

“You made me believe …”

“All of this could have been …”

“You wanted me …”

“You ruined everything …” He slipped into his coat, grabbed his hat, and made for the door.

“What was I to think …?”

“And it’s all your fault!” With that shouted crusher he slammed the door behind him.

She stood sobbing and trembling, then, with a howl, she threw herself on the couch. Tears flowed hot and copious. She couldn’t come close to calm consideration.

How could I have been so wrong? I tried to let things happen naturally. I didn’t try, to force anything.

We’ve known each other just two days. And it’s over now?

The archbishop told me to help him. He asked for my help. I gave it to him. No strings attached. I really did help him. He learned quickly. The way he reacted when I was near him. I thought he was hungry for a woman. Did I think that because I was hungry for a man?

That dress, that robe … I bought them today. Was I trying to force things? Subconsciously?

That kiss! I was the one who started that. I was the one who started the French kiss. I don’t think he even knew what it was.

No! Dammit! It wasn’t the kiss. We could have kept control if it had just been the kiss.

But not when he put his hand on my thigh and started to caress it. That was the message. It was unmistakable. We had to get out of our clothes then. It was our only direction then.

My fault! That’s a laugh.

This was an angry thought that turned almost immediately defensive.

What am I going to do now?

Can I go back to work at the chancery? Just like nothing happened?

He’ll be there! Only one wall between us. One constructed wall. The emotional wall will be much more powerful than one of plaster.

What if he tells the others? Men do that. I’ll be laughed out of the building.

I can’t go back. I simply can’t.

I’ll call in sick tomorrow. Later I’ll send them a noncommittal letter of resignation.

Where will I go?

To another city. Smaller.

I can get a letter of recommendation from Archbishop Boyle.

This part of my life is over. If I’m not careful, I may just wrap my car around a tree. Then all of my life will be over.

He thought:

Damn! I’ve got to get control of myself. I just ran a red light.

What an evening!

Now I know. Now I know why seminarians and priests must separate themselves from females—girls, women.

Suddenly it’s clear that only marriage can contain the lust between men and women. Women are the great temptation.

Admit it! Face it! I came this close to making love to her. Going to bed with her. Sleeping with her. And any other euphemisms they use for sex.

Tonight I came this close to throwing away my entire career. And for what? A moment of pleasure. Intense pleasure—I admit it. But momentary.

That kiss! I was flooded with desire.

Maybe there’s some good in this. I’ve got à much better appreciation of St. Paul. He wished everyone could live in the celibate state like him. But he realized not everyone could resist the seductive wiles of women. He hit it on the head when he wrote that it was better to marry than to burn in hell.

Such was the power of women. Without half trying, they could and did pull men into hell.

Even now, as I drive away from that woman, I can still feel the urge to throw good sense away and plunge into her.

Again, like St. Paul, I can almost hear Jesus tell me that His grace was sufficient for me.

Thank God!

But there’s still something that has to be made right. I’m in mortal sin and I’ve got to say Mass tomorrow morning. I’ve got to get to confession.

What time is it?

Almost ten-thirty.

Who can I go to at this hour? Who would understand?

24

“That’s it?”

“Why, yes, that’s it.”

The philosophical if not theological approach to confession was tricky, Father Koesler had long thought.

The rule of thumb was clear enough: The confessor—the priest who hears the confession—is instructed to believe the penitent whether he or she speaks for or against him or herself. That’s simple enough:

But the confessor is not supposed to dispense absolution like an automaton. He is expected to help the penitent, be understanding, clarify things for the penitent if such is necessary, and, finally, make a judgment as to whether or not the penitent is truly sorry for sins committed.

It had been almost
11 P.M.
when the doorbell rang. That definitely was not a run-of-the-mill time to be calling at a rectory. Which someone had once defined as a home for unmarried Fathers.

It was with some apprehension that Koesler went to the door. Who knew what dire emergency needed a priest?

Koesler was surprised the caller was another priest—Vince Delvecchio, of all people.

When Vince announced that he wanted to go to confession, Koesler drew the natural conclusion that there was some sort of mortal sin that stood between Delvecchio and the celebration of Mass tomorrow morning.

In any case, Koesler was willing to do whatever he could to help his longtime friend.

As they climbed the stairs to Koesler’s room, he recalled the classic story—probably apocryphal—of priests on vacation together. One asks the other to hear his confession. He kneels at the chair of his friend and, before beginning his confession, admonishes the other to “just give me absolution, Fred; no
pia stercora.”
Which can be translated, “No pious shit.” Just absolution, no spiritual pep talk.

In similar situations, confession among priests, Koesler was amenable, to skipping the nosegays.

But Delvecchio’s was an odd confession. For one, he had gone into far greater detail than necessary: Koesler did not need to know the woman’s name. He was only barely acquainted with Jan. He’d had some chancery dealings with her, getting information and the like. But her identity was extraneous to the confession.

Secondly, Koesler had difficulty finding the mortal sin. “Excuse me, Vince, but I figure you’re here because you think you’re guilty of serious sin.”

“Yes, of course.”

“What?”

“Well, all that French kissing. And then my touching her leg.”

“The last time I read up on the theology of serious sin, there had to be some considerable deliberation there. Not anything done on the spur of the moment. As far as I can see, the two of you entered into this innocently and got carried away.”

“She didn’t! She seduced me!”

“I don’t think so. But, of course, that doesn’t matter. We’re talking about your confession exclusively. And, besides, my reading indicates that a woman’s thigh is not any part of her genitalia. Not even an erogenous zone.

“Much more serious, I think, is the way you treated her before you stormed out. But, then, again, you were swept away by spontaneous emotion.

“I think it would be good for everyone if you would help her feel better—or at least less bad—about what happened. It being nobody’s fault. Of course it would be wise for the two of you not to be together like you were this evening.”

“That part about helping her feel better—you’re not making that a condition for granting me absolution! Are you?”

“Of course not. For one, I don’t think you’ve got a mortal sin here in the first place. You don’t have to do this. But I think it would be good of you. She probably feels terrible.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

As little thought as possible, Koesler suspected. There were loads of questions rattling around in his mind—the product of idle curiosity having nothing to do with the sacrament.

So he gave Delvecchio a small penance of prayer. Then Koesler absolved him. No
pia stercora.

As he showed Delvecchio to the door, Koesler thought he detected a sense of arrogance in the younger priest. If he had to guess, Koesler would bet that Delvecchio was guilty of the sin of pride.

In fact, of all the things bandied about as sins this evening, this—pride—easily could be the most damaging and dangerous.

The scenario was so clear now that Koesler was able to piece together this evening’s events.

While it was difficult to picture the controlled Delvecchio in the throes of sexual passion, according to the penitent himself, that’s where he’d been. When Jan appeared wearing practically nothing, sending out green “Go” rays, it must have been literally all he could do not to succumb. It must have taken almost superhuman control to walk away from an offer, a temptation like that.

But Delvecchio did it!

He walked away.

Koesler thought at the time that this pride could lead to a sense of moral superiority in Delvecchio: If he could survive the “ultimate test,” he could demand the same from every priest. And should a priest show any weakness in this or any other matter, such priest would be harshly dealt with.

Koesler tucked his well-founded speculation on the rear burner of his memory.

No one else would ever know. Unless Vince or Jan revealed the secret. And there was little chance of that.

The Present

So, Father Tully wishes Delvecchio had sometime in his life proved himself weak—even merely human would have been acceptable. Little did Tully know how close Vince had come to proving himself extremely human. And, consequently, having won out over that critical temptation, he was more stiff-necked than ever.

Whatever happened to Jan Olivier? A mystery.

Koesler had made no attempt to ascertain whether she was at her post the day after the “event.” But, in time, it was common knowledge that Jan had moved on, destination neither disclosed nor known.

Most everyone, if giving it any thought at all, probably surmised that she had left for a better-paying job. Generally, the various archdiocesan offices did not pay competitively. One did God a favor in working for the Church.

Others, while missing her cheerful voice and helpfulness, were vaguely happy she had found something better. But Koesler was saddened that nothing could have been done to heal her wounds.

Admittedly, “awkward” was not strong enough to describe what it would have been like for Jan and Vince to work together after what they’d put each other through. Still, Koesler believed that with a sincere concerted effort something could have been done. He supposed that Delvecchio had not had the opportunity to take the initiative in making peace. He also had his doubts as to whether Vince had any intention of trying.

However, as fate had it, Shanahan got the word that Delvecchio coveted the job of secretary. And Delvecchio got the job. A definite step on the road to the episcopacy.

The background of Delvecchio’s harsh treatment of priests in almost any problem or trouble would never be revealed to Father Tully or anyone else. It was protected by the king of all secrets, the Seal of Confession.

Just as well. It wasn’t the sort of example that Tully would find encouraging in his confrontation with the bishop.

Father Tully entered the room, shaking his head and smiling. “God bless ’em, the women are in the kitchen playing cards.”

“Cool,” Koesler observed.

“They say they’re ready whether or not Bishop Delvecchio stays for dinner. They have contingency plans.

“Personally”—Tully grimaced—“I’d just as soon he didn’t stay. I’d be happy if he just presented you with the papers, the documents … whatever, that make you a Senior Priest. If he leaves after that, he and I can argue this thing out later by ourselves. Better that way; this isn’t your fight.”

“No, no,” Koesler disagreed. “This parish is like my child. It’s got great potential. I doubt I’d be leaving it if I weren’t leaving it in your care. You’ve got the ability, experience, and talent to lead these people to a growingly Christian ideal.