Till Death (25 page)

Tom proved himself a leader. Everyone began preparations for leaving. There was a lot of handshaking—even on Father Morgan’s part—and promises—mostly empty—to get together again soon.

Fathers Tully and Koesler led the way up the stairs and to the kitchen door, which opened to the lighted parking lot. When the last of the departing guests had gotten into their cars, Koesler noted they were two shy. “Did you notice,” he said to Father Tully, “that only seven people have left?”

“Who’s missing?”

Koesler needed only a moment. “Rick Casserly and Dora Riccardo.”

“I wonder what’s keeping them?”

“Let’s see.”

In no particular haste, the two priests ambled back to the basement. There they found Rick and Dora still seated where they had been throughout the dinner. To Koesler’s shock, Casserly was sipping from a freshly filled glass. But it wasn’t Scotch, his booze du soir. Wrong color; this was darker. “Watcha got there, Rick?”

Koesler affected joviality in order to disarm Casserly.

“Johnnie Walker Black.” Casserly raised his glass aloft as if making a toast.

“What happened to the Scotch?” Koesler moved in slowly. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and placed it far back on the shelf.

“You ran out of Scotch,” Casserly explained. “Not exactly the wise thing to do—especially when you invite priests to a party. Fortunately, there was this full bottle of Walker. Fortunately, because if you had run out completely”—he wagged his finger at Koesler—“word would have gotten out!”

“Well, we’ve learned one thing, anyway,” Tully said.

“What’s that?” Koesler was moving cautiously toward Casserly’s glass.

“When Rick gets loaded,” Tully said, “he is a happy drunk.”

“Hey!” Casserly looked in astonishment at his empty hand.

“You’ve had more than enough, my friend,” Koesler said.

“I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this.” Dora spoke for the first time.

“Of course not.” Tully was reassuring. “Things just got out of control for Rick.”

“If it just hadn’t been for that damn boat!” Rick said, slightly slurring the words. He shook his head and lost a few of the cobwebs.

“Boat? What boat?”

“Keep it going,” Koesler stage-whispered. “While you keep him occupied, I’ll get these bottles put away.”

“The boat, the boat, the boat!” He had made an original ditty to go with his original lyric. Neither was very good.

“Were you on a boat, Rick?” Dora prodded. “Is that where you got that sunburn?”

“I should have stayed home. Then none of this would have happened.” He was growing maudlin.

“Let’s get him home now,” Tully said.

“No need for you to get involved in that,” Koesler said. “You’re home now. All you’ve got to do is go to bed. No sense in your driving way out to the far east side and back.”

“For all practical purposes, you’re home too, Bob,” Tully said. “This is your home away from home. You’ve got some of your stuff upstairs. You can stay here tonight.”

“Why can’t everybody go away and leave us alone?” Casserly was trying to hold on to some measure of sobriety.

Dora’s eyes darted from Koesler to Tully and back again. “Why don’t I take him home? Neither of you needs to go anywhere. I live out in his direction. I can drive him home. He can figure out how to get his car from your parking lot in the morning.”

“Well,” Tully said slowly, “this is an awful imposition on you.”

“Are you sure you can do it?” Koesler asked.

“Of course. Nothing to it. I’m going in that direction anyway.”

“You can get him into the rectory?”

“I don’t think there’ll be any trouble. I’ll leave the car. windows open on the way. The fresh air will help.”

“Well,” Tully hesitated, “if you’re sure …”

“I say,” Koesler said, “thanks a heap, and safe home. Come on, Zack. let’s load our friend in Dora’s car.”

They did not have to carry Casserly. But they did support him from either side. Meanwhile, Dora opened her car’s four windows and helped settle the priest in the passenger seat.

Like an odd couple, the two priests stood in the parking lot, waving good-bye until the car turned the corner.

Tired and somewhat exhausted, Tully and Koesler bade each other good night and retired to their rooms on the rectory’s second floor.

Once upon a time, this rectory and this parish had been Koesler’s responsibility. For years he had slowly but surely increased the parishioners until what had been a virtual relic had become a thriving parish—at least by inner-city standards.

A couple of years ago he had reached the magic age of seventy and had retired. But, as was his intention, he stayed active in the diocese. There was a crying need for priests, and he could at least answer a whimper. He even managed to help the police with their investigations into “Catholic homicides” when possible.

Father Koesler was remembering all of this as he climbed the creaking stairs to what, when he was pastor, had been the guest room. At Father Tully’s gracious invitation, Koesler kept some clothing, pajamas, and toiletries here.

Now, he seated himself in the room’s one and only upholstered chair and mentally ran over the evening’s proceedings. He had, he thought, been accurate in predicting that this would be the final meeting of the St. Ursula survivors. There weren’t that many participants left. And tonight’s near fiasco could quite logically be the capper.

The conversation regarding memories of Ursula and Father Angelico had faded quickly and descended into the never-ending controversy over the Second Vatican Council. It had even led to name-calling. Though Father Harry Morgan had attended all the previous meetings, he had never been so belligerent. Much of this, Koesler thought, was triggered by the presence of a freshly unfrocked priest.

Koesler was in no way surprised that almost all the conversation involved the clergy present. That’s the way it invariably developed when priests were the principal guests.

Topics tended toward religion and the back-room machinations of the clergy and—especially juicy—the hierarchy. Add to the priests—Koesler, Tully Casserly, Anderson, and Morgan—Tom and Peggy Becker, who were most at ease in this sort of setting, and you had practically all of tonight’s conversationalists.

He hadn’t expected a lot of participation from Zoo and Anne Marie Tully. But the virtual silence of Lil and Dora had not been expected. Each of the two women had seemed to be in her own, separate world this evening.

Dora had listened to all that transpired—how would one describe it?—aggressively. She hung on every word. Her eyes darted from side to side. She contributed only sparingly during the early light conversation. But once the heavy artillery began, she had reacted like an eager student hungering for everything that each speaker revealed about himself or, in the case of Peggy Becker, herself.

Lil, on the other hand, seemed to be pouting. She gave every indication that she would rather be almost anywhere else in the world but here.

This struck Father Koesler as odd. At previous gatherings when Lil was present, she had always emerged as the life of the party.

Some sort of chemistry was going on in that basement room tonight. Something he felt sure was in the developmental stage. This chemistry would need a catalyst. It would be Dora or Lil or both. This situation needed watching.

But not tonight. He was tired. He hadn’t done all that much today. But he’d been a priest for almost fifty years; the old energy just wasn’t there. His get up and go had just about got up and went.

He turned out the light and safely found the welcome bed by the light of the street lamp.

His last conscious thoughts concerned Dora and Rick. He hoped and prayed she would have no trouble getting him home.

Sixteen

The fresh, late spring breeze did not seem to be doing much for Father Casserly. His head lolled against his chest. Every so often he would awaken, look out the open car window, mumble something, and drop off to sleep again.

Dora Riccardo drove up well-traveled Gratiot Avenue only hazily aware of the passing scene.

Gratiot was a mockery of its former self. Dora wondered at the percentage of closed businesses and boarded-up shops. The present mayor of Detroit was doing yeoman’s work in waking up the city. But he had a long way to go.

She glanced at her sleeping passenger. Ordinarily, in a situation like tonight’s, she would have had eyes for no one but Rick Casserly. But the items being debated this evening she had found arresting. So, until nearly the end of the conversation, she was unaware that Rick had been drinking so much. By the time she did notice it was too late for her to do anything about it—if indeed, she had been able to alter the course of tonight’s events.

At the close of the evening when the hosts and their guests were filing out of the basement, she noticed that Rick seemed determined to stay right where he was.

She watched as he refilled his glass, chugalugging the booze until the glass was only half full—to the eyes of an optimist. At that point, she guided Rick to his seat and managed to distract him from downing the rest.

Then, mercifully, Tully and Koesler returned and at least put an end to any further alcoholic damage self-inflicted by Rick.

After that Dora determined to play whatever cards were dealt her. This device—opening oneself to chance or divine providence, depending on one’s faith—was something she practiced often. So it was that her heart skipped a beat or so as both sober priests excused each other from any obligation to leave the rectory confines to drive Rick home.

Even their disclaimers were amusing. They wanted to be sure that if there was any problem with her being chauffeur, it would be her responsibility, not theirs. Only when their hands were squeaky-clean would they load Rick into her car. As she drove Rick home, she made it perfectly clear to God that this was His scenario. She would just follow in any divinely sponsored direction.

As she swung her car onto Outer Drive she marveled again at the size of the church, let alone the rectory. One priest rattling around in that huge home seemed completely out of proportion.

She parked next to the garage. She could not enter and park in there. The door was automatic and she had forgotten to take the remote control from his car. That would be okay as long as Rick could at least try to help himself from the car to the rectory. She no longer had a man assisting on either side of him. She would miss Tully and Koesler. They would be self-tucked-in for the night. Nothing was too good for Father.

She took the keys from Rick’s pocket and opened the rectory’s front door. So much for the remote preparation. Now to accomplish the deed. “Come on, Rick …” She eased him out of the car. She draped his right arm over her shoulders and wrapped her left arm around his waist. It was dark. No nearby lights, not even any moonlight. It was possible that some neighbor might see them. But that chance was remote.

She progressed well enough, despite all the while swaying from one side of the walkway to the other.

They entered the rectory as one. They did it relatively smoothly. On the second floor were five bedrooms, each with a sitting room and bath. Once they had all been occupied. Now they spoke of a day gone by and likely never to come again.

They reached the first-floor master suite. The bed had not been made up. Clothes were draped on chairs rather than hung in closets. Dora could not know that Rick seldom slept here. For her, this was a typical bachelor’s apartment. She didn’t know for sure, but she figured there were far more Oscars than Felixes in the world.

Now what, God? Better undress him. If he becomes sick during the night, at least he won’t soil his clothes.

She sat him down on the bed. He promptly collapsed supinely on it. This would not be as easy as it first seemed. Maybe it would be better to try to bring him to. He could contribute something to the process if he were even just a little more conscious.

Maybe talking would help. Just a few minutes ago she had successfully talked him out of the car and into the house. Talking couldn’t hurt. “Come on, Rick, you’ve got to help me a little if you’re going to hit the hay. And, God knows, you’ve made yourself quite a bundle of hay.”

He stood up. A little wobbly, but he was standing. She began to unbutton, unzip, and discard.

He was struggling for consciousness. “That’s it, Rick,” she encouraged, “try and help me.”

“You got a problem?”

She giggled. She couldn’t help it. She wondered if he was remembering a time when he had been her spiritual director. Little had she known that one day she would be disrobing him and tucking him into bed.

“No,” she said. “For a change, I haven’t got the problem. You do.”

“What? What’s my problem?”

“You’ve had a little too much to drink. Well, actually, you’ve had way too much to drink.”

“That’s okay. The potatoes will sop up the booze.”

My God, she thought, he doesn’t know the drinking and eating are in the past. “The party’s over, Rick. There’s nothing more to eat or drink.”

“Sad. Now that’s sad.”

He reached for her and fumbled with the buttons of her blouse.

She was startled. She pushed his hands away.

Smiling crookedly, he persisted.

Memory clicked in. She recalled when she had come to him clad in the outer garments of her religious habit, and beneath that only a bathing suit. What was happening now had been one of her fantasies then.

A romantic interlude was not God’s will then. But it appeared to be His will now.

She stopped pushing his hands away. She removed the last of his clothing. Encouraged, he now worked feverishly to disrobe her. It wasn’t a smooth operation for him. He was still fighting the insensibility of drunkenness.

Together they tumbled onto the bed. His hands were all over her. He concluded through a drunken haze that women built larger than Lil could also be more curvaceous.

Their frantic foreplay gave new meaning to the phrase, a roll in the hay.

In moments it was over.

He lay on his back, snoring softly.

She was no longer a virgin.