Till Death (21 page)

Dressed clerically in his cassock, he greeted three members of the Oliverio family: Federico, the father; Louisa, the mother—both in their mid-sixties—and Carmen, the daughter, in her mid-thirties and unmarried.

He greeted them in his best friendly mood reserved for faithful parishioners. In her phone call, Louisa had stated that they wanted to arrange for a funeral. She would not go into any detail. She wanted to discuss the arrangements in a face-to-face meeting.

Morgan got his visitors settled in the dining room. Neither of the two offices was large enough to accommodate a foursome. He then waited expectantly.

“Father,” Louisa began, “my dear brother passed away day before yesterday.”

“Sorry.” He uttered it with the same sincerity as the automated, Have a nice day.

Louisa nodded. “We want to arrange for the funeral, Father.”

“There are a few questions before we get to that.” Morgan shifted in his chair. After a great many years of doing this, boredom had to be suppressed. “The deceased … his name?”

Louisa took a frilly handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

Carmen, the daughter, spoke. “My mama is under a lot of strain. She and my uncle were real close. My uncle’s name was Alfredo Salvia.” Clearly, Carmen was going to do the talking. Federico, the father, gave every evidence that this was torture he was being forced to undergo. And Louisa was emotionally overcome.

Morgan turned toward the daughter. “Where did your uncle live?”

“With us.” “Of course” was left unsaid.

“I was just wondering,” Morgan pursued. “I am familiar with you and your mother. But it’s always just the two of you. I see your father, but it’s only Christmas and Easter. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your uncle.”

“Uncle ’Fredo didn’t go to church much. Maybe never.”

Morgan was sizing up Carmen. She should get married, have an army of kids, and rule the roost. She was a natural for the part of matriarch. “Well, if your uncle never went to church, why should we take him there now?”

Carmen shrugged. “Because it would break Mama’s heart if he didn’t have a church funeral.”

Fortunately, Morgan knew exactly how to deal with these people. He had been carefully taught by the master himself, Father Angelico.

Angelico was Italian, of course. He knew their ultimate fear was being denied a church funeral. Morgan literally had heard Angelico’s threat: “And when you die, you will be buried like a dog!” Morgan had seen the “conversions” after that.

“Sometimes,” Morgan said, “hearts have to be broken before worse things happen. Like hellfire!”

Louisa burst into deep sobs. The sound would have melted a flinty heart. But not Morgan’s. Better some pain now than later. “We will not force Alfredo into a place he would not visit if he were alive. As he lived, so shall he die.”

Louisa was near collapse. Carmen had her hands full supporting her mother, assisting the older woman to rise as she herself shouted curses in Italian. Federico was stumbling about. He had knocked over a chair trying to rise and escape this damned place.

“And you!” Morgan extended an arm and pointed like the avenging angel at Federico. “You had better change your life and come to the church as you should. Or you too will be buried like a dog!”

As Carmen, the last of the threesome out the door, turned back to face Morgan, she exclaimed, “You have seen the last of us. You pig-headed jackass!”

Morgan closed the door behind them.

He had done the right thing. Shock them into the faith now rather than watch them sink into hell.

He had done as Father Angelico would have. And he was confident that Koesler would have done just the opposite.

Koesler buries everybody.

Fourteen

The boat was impressive. It was a Regal Commodore 322. Length 32 feet, dry weight 11,800 pounds, and fuel capacity 172 gallons. Tom Becker insisted that the tank be refilled after each use.

There were three keys. Tom had one. His wife had none. One of the maintenance men had one. Tom had given the third to Rick Casserly.

It was one indication of the trust and friendship Tom had for Rick. The craft cost in excess of one hundred thousand dollars. Although it was fully insured, one did not give carte blanche access to one’s dream boat—literally—unless the trust was complete.

Throughout the morning of this first Wednesday in June, the maintenance man and his crew had given the boat a thorough checkup. They didn’t leave until all was well. But they left in plenty of time for Rick Casserly and Lil Niedermier to board for a leisurely afternoon cruising the Detroit River and Lake St. Clair.

Rick was at the helm, letting the craft virtually idle. He was content just to know the cruiser was capable of better than 50 mph.

Lil was in the galley whipping up a snack that would serve as lunch and hold them over until dinner. She shook her head when she recalled that the word “galley” was often associated with the word “slave.” She certainly didn’t consider herself a galley slave. How could you when culinary facilities on board this boat were better than what she had in her own kitchen?

She looked about her as the hot dogs sizzled in the microwave. Stainless sink, two-burner electric stove, coffeemaker, concealed refrigerator, and Corian countertop set off the open salon. In all, not an inch of space was wasted. It was a happy blend of luxury, utility, and efficiency.

Lil brought the hot dogs on deck. Two for Rick, one for herself. “There’s more,” she announced.

“Lemme get these down and we’ll see.”

The river was so calm and the boat was moving so slowly that Lil climbed upon the forward deck and sat at the tip of the prow like the figurehead on a sailing ship of yore. Or the heroine of the movie
Titanic
.

She was directly in front of Rick, who sat at the helm and steered with one finger. She did not block his view. On the contrary, he loved to look at her. Now in her mid-thirties, she probably would always look young.

She finished her hot dog and crumpled the paper napkin in her fist. She did not toss it into the water. The river appeared too pristine to defile.

Why was she depressed?

The weather was picture-perfect. For this afternoon at least she could pretend they were wealthy enough to actually afford a cabin cruiser this grand. She and Rick had their health, and each other. She was more or less looking forward to this evening’s party. She wasn’t overjoyed with the entire cast of characters. But it was a singular occasion when she and Rick could be together with others legitimately. Both of them qualified as members of that exclusive club—people who had served time at St. Ursula’s under Father Angelico. In only a few more days her school would close for the summer. God was in Her heaven, all was right with the world.

So, why was she depressed?

Could it be because her life seemed to be drifting toward a dead end?

She should be married. She should be a mother several times over. Well, at least once. She should be living in a neighborhood. Not an apartment complex where people shuffled off to work only to drag themselves home each day. She should be free to walk openly with her husband arm in arm. They ought to be able to attend concerts, movies, exhibitions, parties together. They shouldn’t have to be vigilant all the time, worried sick that someone might recognize and report them.

Complicating everything was the outlook that their situation was more like hell than purgatory; these conditions would endure for the length of their lives, not just for a few years. Experts conceded that under the present Pope the Church laws regarding a celibate clergy—with exceptions that would not include Rick—would not be changed.

But none of these considerations ever seemed to bother Rick.

Of course, he had just entered his sixties. She had no idea what that might be like. But from her vantage point sixty seemed almost ancient. In that age bracket one ought to be approaching life’s end.

Maybe, she thought, that’s why none of these depressing considerations seemed to bother him: From this point on, he did not have as long to live as she.

Why was she depressed? It was the whole damn thing!

This is the sort of day to drift down the Detroit River and come back again upstream into Lake St. Clair. This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

What could be nicer? Absorbing the sun’s warm rays. Not a care in the world. Some satisfying disputation and debates with the gang this evening. Watching, with controlled amusement, Harry Morgan take on the whole, changing world.

Everything going well in his parish, everything under control. The gym and auditorium, contained in one building, had been completed just before Rick’s predecessor had retired, leaving Rick with the bill for construction. But he’d paid it off.

In short, he felt good—maybe even great.

He was just entering his sixties. He remembered how foolishly concerned he’d been when he had hit various milestones. Thirty, the credibility gap. Thirty-three, the biblical number of years, reputed to be the age at which Jesus had finished his salvific work on earth. Forty, when certain aches and pains became noticeable. Fifty—half a century.

Now, sixty. It hadn’t laid a glove on him. If anything, he had a better appreciation for things than ever before. Chief among those things was that glorious creature just now rising from where she’d been sitting on the boat’s prow. His life had been sweetened immeasurably by her presence.

She was wearing brief white shorts, calling attention to her shapely long legs. A pity to have one’s attention arrested by just one aspect of her body. Everything was worthy of appreciation. However, he was well aware that Lil definitely was not all body and no brains. On the contrary, he valued their serious conversations, her insights, even her intuition.

If only he could convince her to relax more. These past few years, they might just as well have been married. All they lacked was some paperwork, a priest, and a very different Pope. The facts were that with the present Pope chugging along, no priest would dare try witnessing their marriage and there wasn’t enough paper in the world to fix things up and clear the way.

But, all in all, this was such a beautiful day and he was feeling so good that Rick believed he might prefer their present “third way” to a canonically approved marriage.

Lil climbed down from the prow and sat next to Rick. She further crushed the paper napkin in both hands and vehemently flung the wad into the cockpit. Clearly, she was not happy.

Sometimes when she was like this, Rick would suppress any comment that came to mind and wait for her to clear the air, get it off her chest. This was not such a time. Later he would wish he had followed his first instinct and waited her out.

“Something the matter?”

She didn’t respond.

He didn’t push. “A beautiful day.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It doesn’t do anything for you?”

“I’m feeling down.”

“A beautiful day gets you down?”

“I just decided … it’s the whole damn thing.”

“That’s funny. I just decided I was happy due to the whole damn thing.”

Silence. The boat’s engine purred.

“Honey …” Lil turned to him. “How many years do you figure I’ve got?”

“For what?”

“To live.” She was feeling some anger toward him. He was playing dumb. He knew damn well to what she was referring.

“What do you mean? How would anyone know?”

Silence. Eventually Rick felt he should say something. “Who knows? Forty years? Maybe more.” Pause. Then he said, “What’s bugging you, honey?”

A longer pause. Then she said, “I got my period yesterday.”

For the life of him, Rick could think of nothing to say. Except, So what? But that would not speak to the emphasis Lil was placing on
this
period. “Is there something special about this particular period?”

“I was thinking … Ever since I was twelve I’ve been having periods. Regular as rain. You could set your watch by them.”

Rick almost laughed out loud. Her metaphor was funny. But her tone and demeanor made it quite clear that she was not in the mood to be humorous. He remained silent.

“In ten or so years, I’ll go through menopause.”

“That’s a long way off. Are you scared? No need to be. I guess it affects different women differently. No way of knowing how it’ll be for you. It’s just too early to give much thought to it.”

“That’s not the point!” Lil said peevishly.
Men! Why do they have so much trouble understanding women?

Women!
Rick thought.
Why is a simple conversation such a guessing contest with them?

“You’ve heard of the ‘biological clock’?” She looked at him almost challengingly.

Aha!
He thought he understood. “Of course I have. After menopause there’s no fertility.”

“Exactly!”

“Honey, we’ve talked about this before. You want to go through it all again?”

“That’s just it: We talked about it a long, long time ago. I was lots younger and the reality of being childless didn’t hit me then. In just a few more years I’ll have sealed whatever chance I ever had to be a mother.”

Rick nodded. “That’s the conclusion we’ve reached whenever we discussed this.”

“Things change.” She turned away from him but spoke loudly enough to be heard. “Take your experience, for example.”

Briefly he wondered what in his experience had anything in common with menopause.

“When you were ordained, there was no doubt your life would be monastic as far as sex and women were concerned. And so it was until the Council happened and you no longer saw any value for you to live a celibate life.

“Just about then I came along. We fell in love and would have married but for Church law. You didn’t want to leave the priesthood and I didn’t want you to leave. So we got as married as we could get. And here we are.”

Pause.

“So?” Rick considered Lil’s little speech an accurate historical narrative. He just didn’t know where she was going with it.

“So,” she said, “you saw things one way when you were very young. But with age, more experience, and that redoubtable Council, you’ve changed your mind. And now, darling, I’m telling you that I’ve changed
my
mind. Or that I
am
changing it.”