Till Death (11 page)

She said nothing. She searched in her purse, found a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. “I understand, Father,” she said. “And I agree with everything you said. But there’s something …”

“What is it, Irish?”

“My upbringing, I guess, Father. Marriage, a priest, and a church all go together—if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. It’s the way I was raised too.” Anderson turned to Dea. “What do you think of all this?”

Dea shrugged. “None of this matters much, as far as I’m concerned. I never even think of my first wedding as a marriage. It collapsed. You could hardly even say it was a good try. We had a good … physical relationship. I think we thought it would get better if we got married. It got worse.” He grimaced. “I don’t want to go into all the lurid details. It just didn’t work. We were driving each other nuts.

“So, it was a … it was a surprise to me when the priest said I’d have to prove that wreck was a wreck. And he, just like you, went through all the possible reasons why the Church might agree it was a wreck. Neither of you found anything that would make the Church agree that the marriage was a farce.

“On top of that, if we did get this cripple up and off the ground, we’d have to get testimony from a whole bunch of relatives and friends and especially from my ex.

“My conscience was clear going into this that I am free to marry. I must admit I am surprised that we found you and that you agree with us.

“I’m clear on this deal. And I’m grateful. But, then, there’s Trish. She grew up Catholic—I guess you’d say traditional Catholic. She’s used to having a priest around for the big events of her life. Marriage certainly would qualify as a major event.” He looked at Trish, then turned back to the priest. “Maybe I can get her to change her mind. But I doubt it. You gave it a pretty good shot.”

All three were silent for several moments.

Anderson knew what step had to follow. He could understand Irish’s reaction to attempting marriage without benefit of a priest.

Some Catholics who seldom if ever attend Mass—which is the core of the faith—wanted—demanded—a priest to baptize their children, to give them absolution, to anoint them when they were sick or dying—and to witness their marriage.

Trish gave evidence of being a far more faithful Catholic than that. She desperately wanted a priest to witness her marriage.

But Anderson was loath to get more deeply involved than he already was.

Again, the problem was their celebrity. They were not ordinary people. They were, at least on the local scene, Very Important People.

Indeed, he had performed marriage services for people who were canonically barred from a Church wedding. However, no way would those weddings have attracted any public attention.

But Anderson had to be open and honest with this couple. That’s the way he was.

“There …” He paused. “There is another way. If I am going to be forthright with you and apply the same standard to myself as I have to you, I must admit that my conscience speaks to me too. From your attitude and all you’ve told me, I must confess I believe you. Specifically, I believe that you can be married validly. No more validly, mark you, than if the ceremony were to be witnessed by a judge. That last statement is true only because Church law doesn’t recognize your freedom to marry. That circumstantial technicality allows you to marry validly even if your marriage is performed by a judge. Naturally you would be validly married also if a priest performed it. Except that Church law not only prevents you from having such a marriage, it also specifically forbids a priest from witnessing it.” He paused to let this be assimilated. To this couple, what he had just explained must seem like tortuous Byzantine complexities.

Dea broke the silence. “Have you ever done it? Performed a ceremony like this?”

Anderson nodded slowly. “I have. Not often. Usually people are content with the internal forum solution. And I include myself among the people who are happy when that does the trick.”

“Well,” Dea said, “let me ask you this. I don’t want to insult you, but are you reluctant to perform the ceremony because deep down you really don’t believe in this conscience thing we’ve been talking about? You don’t want to get involved … you want the couple to be totally responsible?”

“No, Dana.” There was a touch of impatience in Anderson’s voice. “I don’t want to actively participate in the wedding because I want to cover my ass. Pardon my French!” Turnabout not only was fair play, it brought a sense of satisfaction.

It was clear that Dana and Trish were momentarily shocked.

“The people,” Anderson continued, “who are members of, this parish, who live in these neighborhoods, don’t travel in the fast lane. They live quiet lives far from a spotlight. It’s less than likely that a wedding in this parish would attract any publicity. But there’s always a chance. That’s why I’m reluctant to take an active role in one of these noncanonical weddings.”

“What would they do to you?” Trish seemed genuinely concerned.

“I’m not sure. It would depend on the circumstances. From what I know of Cardinal Boyle, he wouldn’t want to have to do anything, like leveling some kind of penalty. He might even be sympathetic—although that I’m not at all sure of. But none of that matters. He is a loyal Churchman; if he had to act, he would—and he has done so in the past.”

“What do you think would make him act?” Trish asked.

“If knowledge of the situation became public. I don’t anticipate this—but it’s always possible. As I said, it’s happened in the past.” Anderson shook his head as he recalled a couple of cases that had resulted in Boyle’s suspending a priest who had performed “scandalous” marriages.

“Publicity about your wedding would not only be possible … it would be probable. And that is exactly what I want to avoid.”

“I understand.” Trish appeared resigned.

“Does this mean,” Anderson asked, “that you agree to no Catholic wedding but, following your conscience, you will continue with your faith?”

Trish hesitated. “No. I don’t think I can do that. I’ll have to think this through. Either we will be married in the Church or we won’t be married at all. I can’t think of marrying anyone without a priest performing the ceremony.”

Anderson cringed inwardly.

“Look”—Dea was trying to control his temper—“to me this is a tempest in a teapot. I want to marry this woman. I
really
want to marry her. I couldn’t care less how we get married. “But you’ve seen how much she needs to have her priest there. Look, Father, it’s not our fault we’re well known. Isn’t this a classic case of reverse discrimination? Okay, you’re reluctant to do this for your parishioners. But you will do it if your people want you there. If they
really
want you. If they want you as much as Trish wants you. But lots of people have seen her in ads. Lots of people see my mug on the local news. Is it fair that you would grant a couple’s request because they’re not celebrities and refuse us because we’re well known? Is that fair?”

Anderson did not reply. But he thought hard.

“Dana,” Trish said softly, “it’s the man’s career at stake.”

Anderson sat silent.

“Come on, Trish …” Dea started to rise from his chair.

“Wait,” Anderson said. “Wait a minute. Can you guarantee there’ll be no publicity?”

Trish brightened.

“The word I’m uncomfortable with is ‘guarantee,’” Dea said. “There’s a limited number of things I can cast-iron guarantee.”

“I’m not talking about guaranteeing the sun will rise tomorrow. You know what I’m asking.”

Trish spoke with feeling. “I can’t guarantee that no one will know any details about this internal/external business. But I can promise we will do everything we can to help you ‘cover your ass.’” She smiled—a model’s disarmingly jaunty smile.

Anderson tapped his pen against the desk thoughtfully. He would have laughed at “Trish’s usage of his colloquialism, but this decision was too important. The consequences could run from zero to God knew what.

This was dangerous territory. But he was moved by Dana Dea’s argument. There definitely was something to be said as far as reverse discrimination was concerned. No, withholding his presence at their wedding would be cowardly.

He dropped the pen on his desk and looked at them. Both wore expressions of hopeful anticipation.

“Okay” Anderson said. “Let’s do it. Your place or mine?”

Nine

Quite naturally, they first considered Nativity church for the wedding. But true to their promise to maintain a low profile, they decided to invite a minimum number of relatives and friends. Such a small group would rattle around in the mammoth edifice. So the wedding would take place in a friend’s suburban apartment. It was spacious and could easily accommodate the small group.

At two in the afternoon of an overcast Sunday, everyone had assembled.

As one of the talented guests played the “Wedding March” on the grand piano, the assemblage fell silent. Father Anderson stood before a window wall that displayed a typical suburban panorama of trees interrupted by strip malls and parking lots.

He was thinking of how egregiously illegal this entire procedure was. At the root of its illegality was Dana’s first marriage—nonannulled. Following that, Anderson had not requested delegation from the priest at St. Michael’s parish within whose boundaries this ceremony was taking place. Plus by Church law the engaged couple were supposed to live apart for nine months before a marriage. Anderson had not explored their living arrangements. Obviously they had been cohabiting for some time.

Father Anderson was not overly concerned about such details. He was not about to tell the happy newlyweds that for two out of three reasons this ceremony was invalid; the unannulled marriage was enough to eclipse the other technicalities.

Dana wore a dinner jacket, as did the majority of the male guests. Trish eschewed a traditional wedding gown in favor of a simple white, calf-length sheath.

Accompanied by the pianist, a woman whom Frank Sinatra would have labeled a saloon singer rendered several appropriate popular songs. Between musical numbers, the priest offered pertinent Scripture texts.

The couple exchanged their consent in self-composed form.

The assembly applauded the newly joined couple, and the good times began to roll.

Anderson was unnerved when he caught sight of one of the guests recording the ceremony with a TV camera. His concern was further intensified when several other guests took photographs. But Dea reassured him that the pictures were for private use only. Shortly thereafter, the priest took his departure.

Even for someone who was used to flying in the face of Church laws that he regarded as antithetic to Christ’s command of love, this wedding was upsetting. Clearly, what tipped the scale was the celebrity status not only of the participants but also of many of the guests.

To ease his anxiety and help clear his mind, he joined a couple of priest friends for dinner at a Southfield restaurant. Never once during the meal did he mention this afternoon’s canonical crime.

The conversation bounced about, touching on such clerical topics as:

•   Who is next in line to become bishop? In 1978, there were 3,714 bishops worldwide. Soon there would be more than 4,000. The ratio between priest and bishop is narrowing to such a degree that it might call for giving more than one of the auxiliary bishops his own diocese before Detroit ended up having more bishops than priests.

•   If Detroit comes up with one more fund-raising project, we will find faithful Catholics in the poorhouse.

•   Clustering parishes is the latest reaction to the priest shortage. Already there’s about one-quarter of a priest per parish.

And last but not least:

•   What are we going to do about women?

The priests were gracious enough to leave the waitress a generous tip. She deserved it if only for all the trips she took to refill coffee cups.

Father Anderson arrived back at his rectory a little before 11 P.M. Just time to settle in for the late news, and then to sleep. He prepared a nightcap, fell exhaustedly into his recliner, and punched the remote switch. Two innocuous faces beamed at him from the small screen. Both newscasters, male and female, had lots of hair, prominent teeth, and seemingly sunny dispositions.

They grew quickly serious as they dug into the seamy side of the news. There had been a shooting—what else was new? There was a recapture of a fugitive who two days ago had conned his way out of the custody of the Detroit police.

There were commercials. Anderson yawned elaborately.

There was a weather forecast. Some areas would have precipitation. Others would be dry. It didn’t take a genius.

More commercials.

There was sports. Some teams won. Others lost.

The news had been read. The banter had been exchanged. There was time only for one last, light touch.

The male newscaster, smiling even more broadly than usual, began, “I’m sure all you fans of Dana Dea are wondering what happened to him. Ordinarily he would have occupied this chair for the weekend wrap-up. Well, Dana took a big step today—right into matrimony.”

There appeared on the screen Dana, Trish, a panorama of their guests, and, as one born out of due time, Father Jerry Anderson. The voice-over glided on as the camera continued to record the event. It was a short, good-night piece of fluff. Still, they managed to name the officiating priest.

In an instant, Anderson knew he would not sleep tonight. He got up and began to pace. The phone rang. Unusual for this late hour. He pressed the receiver to his ear. “Nativity.”

“Is this Father Anderson?”

“Yes. And you?”

“My name is Mike Geller. I’m director of the eleven o’clock news at Channel 5.”

The voice gave little provocation. Yet Anderson was seething. “Is Dea there? I want to talk to him!”

“He’s not here, Father. He and Trish are off on their honeymoon. He tried to reach you earlier but you weren’t in.”

“Go on.”

“He told me about the need to keep the wedding details secret. And we had it worked out to do just that. Then the station manager got wind of it. He found out we had pictures.