The Greatest Evil (31 page)

“I want you to have this parish. There’s no reason, outside of Vinnie’s stubbornness, that you shouldn’t be pastor of St. Joe’s.

“Besides, it’s time someone talked some sense into him. He doesn’t have to be so by-the-book. Sometimes the book slams down hard on legitimate human freedom.

“And I think I’m the person who should reason with him. And now’s the time to do it. I’m retiring and I’m his friend. And, sad to say, there aren’t many who would call themselves his friend.”

“Well, that seems to be true,” Tully commented. “I guess he doesn’t even have many friends in the hierarchy or he’d be an Ordinary—have his own diocese by now.”

“I don’t know about that.” Koesler moved to the pool table and racked the balls for another game. “I don’t think friendship has all that much to do with moving onward and upward in the hierarchy. Although,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I suppose the popular concept is that all auxiliary bishops eventually get their own dioceses.”

“Well, that’s certainly not true.” Tully examined each cue stick in turn, hoping a change would bring better luck. “Lord, there are so many auxiliaries in these large metropolitan dioceses that they all couldn’t live long enough to become Ordinaries.”

“I don’t really know all that much about Church politics,” Koesler confessed. “But I would put my last dollar on Delvecchio’s breakdown as the impediment that’s blocking his advancement. He’s certainly conservative enough. The Vatican probably just won’t gamble on that breakdown.”

“Like he’s in limbo …” Tully offered to break. Koesler did not object. Tully’s break shot spread balls all over the table, but nothing fell.

Koesler sank a stripe and the game was on.

“Let’s see,” Tully said, “a brother, a sister, an aunt; his parents dead: That’s not much to count on for friendship.”

Distracted, Koesler missed an easy shot. “If you’re looking for Delvecchio’s friends, don’t start with his family.”

“No? You’re kidding?”

“Definitely not!”

“Well, okay, according to what you told me earlier, he wasn’t particularly close to his brother. But the sister: He got along fine with her … no?”

“To a point. The last thing I told you about their relationship was when their mother died.”

“Something happen to mess things up after that?”

“I’ll say! It was a big news story here … although probably not where you were.” Koesler reflected, then smiled. “I have a tendency to assume that news that’s big locally gets some play nationally—or, at least regionally. Of course realistically that’s not so.”

“Well, what happened to them?” Tully began to line up a shot.

“Lucy was about to graduate from high school when her mother died …”

“I remember. Of all of them, she seemed to keep a good head on her shoulders.”

“Well, after Mrs. Delvecchio died, the focus was pretty much on Vince and his condition. But life went on. Lucy graduated. So did Tony.

“Lucy transferred in college to premed. She was a terrific athlete. Unfortunately for her—and maybe for everyone then—she was a female and women’s sports were not taken seriously. Otherwise, she could have had a free ride. As it was, she won an academic scholarship that helped a lot.

“She graduated summa cum laude, went on to medical school, and became a doctor.”

Tully whistled softly. He missed a shot and leaned back against the wall. “Good for her.”

“After her internship, she got a lot of offers. But she chose the Emergency Room at Detroit’s Receiving Hospital. She wanted action and plenty of experience at healing just about everything. And she certainly got it at Receiving.

25

“This story goes back … what? … about twenty-five years—Lord, how time flies when you reach Senior Priest status.” Koesler chuckled. “A quarter of a century! It seems like last month. And part of this story is well known and remembered by anyone who was following local news around that time.

“I got some of the details later … and only because of my special contact with the Delvecchio family.”

1973

Monsignor Vincent Delvecchio was several minutes early for his luncheon date with Merl Goldbaum, who also was early. The two met four or five times a year. It was habitual for each to be early for appointments.

The two men could not be described as friends; more on the order of good acquaintances. They had met originally under the auspices of Father Robert Koesler.

At the time Koesler was editor of the
Detroit Catholic,
Goldbaum was a crack reporter for one of Detroit’s metropolitan newspapers. Their position at their respective papers, one Catholic, the other secular, had brought them together.

Goldbaum was no longer with the newspaper. Building on his journalism experience and contacts, he had launched his own firm and now headed one of the most respected public relations companies in the Detroit area.

The threesome had first come together during the mid-sixties. Goldbaum had phoned Koesler with an invitation to lunch on a day when Koesler and Delvecchio already had lunch scheduled. Koesler cleared the water with the two—neither of whom objected to the other. So it became a movable ménage à trois.

It worked out this way: The ball remained in Goldbaum’s court. He did the calling—and picked up the tab. He counted Koesler a friend; Delvecchio was a resource. From time to time he wanted from both priests insights, clarifications, explanations, and the like regarding Church teachings and customs.

From Koesler, Goldbaum expected reliable replies tempered by an innate kindness. But there were times when he sought the “authentic word” undiluted by a humane reaction. For the
vera doctrina,
Goldbaum turned to the monsignor.

And so this day, Goldbaum and Delvecchio met at a few minutes before noon in the foyer of Meriwether’s on Telegraph Road. They were familiar patrons of this popular eatery and were greeted as such by personable manager Jim McIntyre.

They were immediately seated in a secluded booth. Decades-old volumes lined—and were glued to—time-eaten shelves. Both books and shelves were cleaned periodically, but their antiquarian nature gave the impression that they bore the dust of Caesar. From time to time Father Koesler wondered how much a decorator had charged the Muer chain to achieve this Old English effect—an effect heightened by the framed Victorian prints and the witty quotations in old-time script that adorned the walls.

But Koesler wasn’t here today, so no one wondered about those things.

Neither Goldbaum nor Delvecchio ordered drinks; both ordered fish.

As they enjoyed the restaurant’s signature teacup bread, they engaged in small talk. The dreariness of a Michigan winter. (It was February, the meanest month of the year, unrelieved by any celebratory occasion—unless one counted Presidents’ Day.) The PR firm was doing quite well, thank you. PR was such a competitive business that one had to constantly be on one’s toes and on the ball. Phyllis and the girls were well, thank you.

That took them through the salad course.

With the arrival of the piéce de résistance, Delvecchio expected to learn the purpose of this luncheon meeting. He knew from experience that in good time, Merl would get around to it, but in his own inimitable circuitous fashion.

“So,” Goldbaum said, “how’s your sister doing?”

“As well as can be expected,” replied Delvecchio, borrowing the hospital catchphrase.

Goldbaum grinned. “I mean, it must be something to have a medical doctor in the family—a close relative, I mean.”

“There are perks.” Delvecchio hadn’t the slightest idea where this conversation was going.

“I mean, what do you do if you get sick? Does your sister take care of you?”

Delvecchio shrugged. “I guess I haven’t been sick … at least not since she finished her internship. I suppose she’d step in: What are sisters for?”

“What if you—or your brother, for that matter—had something that was out of her field. She’s in ER, isn’t she?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, s’posin’ you needed something that called for a specialist … say, a bypass operation: What then?”

“Hmmm. I suppose I’d ask her whom she’d have operate on her. One thing about doctors: They get to know one another, and each other’s strengths and weaknesses.”

Goldbaum chewed on that for a while.

Finally, having finished the main course, Delvecchio leaned back, smiled, and said, “Merl, I’m very proud of Lucy. She’s not only a physician, she’s terrific in her field. I’ve got a feeling that everything she touches will be gold. If I got sick or was carried into the Emergency Room, Lucy would be there for me.

“That pretty well takes care of Dr. Lucy Delvecchio.

“Now, Merl, you may think that I pay no mind to the fact that every time we meet for lunch or whatever, you always have something ‘Catholic’ that you need or want explained …” Delvecchio glanced at his watch. “Both of us are going to have to get back to work soon. What, I pray thee, is the problem area?”

Goldbaum did not meet Delvecchio’s gaze. He carefully compressed his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “Diaphragms, condoms, contraceptives.”

Delvecchio was taken aback. “Well, that’s sort of off-the-beaten-path from where you began. So, what about them?”

“Your Church is against their use … right?”

“Yes.”

“No exceptions?”

Delvecchio tilted his head. “You mean, could Father Koesler find an exception? Probably. Well …” He almost smiled. “Maybe.”

“But the straight word: No exceptions?”

“None.”

“Wasn’t there an attempt to change the rule sometime back?”

Delvecchio’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the commission that Pope Paul VI appointed to study the matter?”

Goldbaum nodded.

“You got that from Bob before you set up this lunch.”

Again Goldbaum nodded.

The monsignor shifted in his seat. “It’s true Pope Paul set up the commission and it did recommend some changes in the law. But the Pope said, ‘No,’ and wrote an encyclical on it—
Humanae Vitae.
And that was the end of that. We have an expression:
Roma locuta, causa finita.
”

“Yeah, I know that one: ‘Rome has spoken, the matter is closed.’”

“So?” Delvecchio spread his hands wide. “What is there to say when the matter is closed?”

The waiter appeared. They would have coffee, regular.

“See, Monsignor, I tend to look at things from a PR point of view. And that decision was very poor PR, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

Delvecchio obviously was not amused. He did not take Goldbaum’s remark personally. Long ago, the monsignor had concluded Goldbaum was not “convertible.” Nevertheless, Delvecchio didn’t enjoy having Church teaching questioned … no matter by whom.

“Well, Merl, the Catholic Church is not in the public relations business. Nor is the Church a democracy. In another—secular—society, you might expect an organization to follow the directives of a commission that the organization itself created. Not all the time, but most of the time. Now, the Vatican can consult with whomever it wishes. But the last word is still the Pope’s—”

“Even when poll after poll shows that the majority of Catholics in effect have rejected the Pope’s stand on this? Even when studies show there’s practically no difference between the percentages of Catholics and non-Catholics practicing contraception?”

“Merl, you’re not listening. It makes no difference.
Roma locuta, causa finita.
Finita
.”
Delvecchio leaned back again. “Now, maybe you’ll tell me why we’re talking about this”—he glanced at his watch—”interminably.”

The waiter brought coffee and the bill. As usual, Goldbaum picked up the check. He waited till the waiter left. Then he said, “Monsignor, there’s this guy in our office who has eight kids—”

“That’s a good-size family for these times. Let me guess: He’s Catholic.”

“Right!” Goldbaum nodded decisively. “It’s been a sort of joke in the office. At first, the guy went along with the ribbing. But lately it’s seemed to reach him.

“Well, to make a long story short, a couple of weeks ago, he went in for a vasectomy. It was like a last resort for him. His wife got tired of being the one who tried to prevent conception … and failing! So, he did it.

“Now, that doesn’t square with the Church, does it?”

“No. He’d have to be sorry he had that done. And he’d have to go to confession to have that serious sin—the sin of the mutilation of a sex organ—forgiven. But what’s that got to do with me? Do you want me to talk with him?”

“No.”

“Then …?”

“The guy’s wife has a favorite doctor. Even though this doctor does not have a private practice, his wife still goes to this doctor in a family clinic. The wife pushed her husband to go to this doctor for the vasectomy. And he did.”

Delvecchio was beginning to have an inkling. “And this doctor is …?”

“Lucy Delvecchio.”

“Oh!” The monsignor was afraid his fish luncheon would reappear.

“Like I said before, Monsignor, I tend to look at things from a PR standpoint. It’s not going to look good PR-wise that the sister of a monsignor performs vasectomies.”

Delvecchio did not reply.

“But there’s something more, Monsignor. Last month, the U.S. Supreme Court did away with state laws restricting abortions during the first six months of pregnancy.”

“I know that.”

Goldbaum leaned across the table and spoke as softly as possible while still able to be heard over the crowd’s noise. “Well, this clinic that I mentioned earlier—its main business is pregnancy counseling.”

“You mean …”

“Your sister handles abortions, although she restricts her practice to the first three months of pregnancy.”

Goldbaum was not sure Delvecchio was still listening. The monsignor’s face was ashen and his eyes appeared to have glazed over.

“Listen, Monsignor, I’m not telling you this for spite or like gossip, or to hurt you. First, I wanted to make sure that these things … procedures … contraception, vasectomy, were still against your Church’s teaching. I knew abortion was. You just confirmed what I suspected. This guy in my office, once he dropped the name of the doctor, I knew you were in a lot of trouble.”