Till Death (3 page)

Becker’s only regret was the pressure Rick and Lil were under to keep secret their … what?… common law marriage.

“We can have the boat all to ourselves this afternoon?” Lil’s eyes danced.

“It’s ours. The boat is booked for tonight; otherwise we could have had it all the way through this evening.”

“Honey, no,” Lil cautioned.

“No? No what? No boat? No afternoon? No evening?”

“We’ve got an engagement this evening. Don’t you remember?”

Rick’s brow furrowed. “Oh yeah: the St. Ursula party. That’s tonight?”

“The first Wednesday in June. That’s today. The annual bash is tonight.”

“Well,” Rick reflected, “you could hardly call it a bash.”

“True. It’s more like the remnant returning … like the Jews coming out of the Babylonian Captivity.”

“Time takes its toll,” Rick said. “The number of guys and gals who served their term under dear old Father Angelico has dwindled. So many have moved away. Some died. Some just lost interest over the years.”

“Refresh me: How long has this commemoration been going on?”

“Oh, wow! Let’s see: I think it was Bob Koesler who started the thing. Must be almost forty years now. And he was just in residence there while he was editor of the
Detroit Catholic
. He didn’t have to take all that crap from Angelico. Observing it was medicine enough for him”

“Forty years! I had no idea it’s been around that long.”

“It was a cathexis. You needed at least a once-a-year day to blow off steam. Even after the assignment board moved you the hell out of there, it still helped. Sort of like getting together to nurse old wounds.

“Over time it got to be a kind of convivial gathering—especially once the old tyrant died. It’s been thirteen years now. He died after you got a new job at another parish.” He grinned. “Somehow, you must’ve killed him.”

Lil smiled. How easy it was to call to mind her years with the second-graders at St. Ursula’s. How impressionable were their innocent minds! And how legalistic and dour were the regular visits to her class by the pastor, Father Angelico. It seemed his aim was to block every direction set by the Council.

Typical was the battle over the order of confession and Communion. In pre-Vatican II times, Catholic children were introduced first to confession—then known more properly as the Sacrament of Penance, now called the Sacrament of Reconciliation—closely followed by Communion—then, as now, more properly termed Holy Eucharist.

However, after the Council and before a Vatican ruling, most parishes reversed the order.

In the prior practice, a mistaken connection was drawn between confession and Communion. Catholic children, most of them second-graders, were prepared for these two sacraments almost simultaneously.

So, most Catholic adults carried over what they’d learned as children. Many felt unworthy to receive Communion without first going to confession.

It led to confusion on a massive scale.

Children, whose peccadilloes could not rank with the transgressions of the occasional serious sinner, were making up sins for the confessional because—well, because they had to say
something
to prompt the priest to give them absolution.

Adults grew up with this routine of going to confession on a Saturday and Communion the next day. This was followed by three communion-less Sundays until time for the monthly confession.

After the Council, parishes regularly prepared children to receive Communion. Then, after a period of a year or more, the youngsters were taught to appreciate the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Some of the fire and brimstone doctrine disappeared, to be missed only by a very vocal traditionalist minority.

Short of some interferences from the Vatican, children were welcomed to Communion at every Mass in which they participated. To attend Mass without receiving Communion was compared to going to a banquet and not eating. Confession was another matter entirely.

But not at St. Ursula’s. Not under the regime of Father Angelico. This, as well as so many other anchors driven into the past, was brought home to the fledgling teacher Lillian Neidermier once she learned that she was expected to teach from the Baltimore Catechism, a book of religious questions and answers. The questions were fundamental. So were the answers.

“Who made you?”

“God made me.”

Everybody studied and learned from the Baltimore Catechism. Among other frightening bits of doctrine was the view of God that held our Creator as a harsh judge ready and able to snatch our lives an instant after the commitment of a mortal sin (a pork chop on Friday), and consign us to eternal damnation.

It was unfortunate that Lil left St. Ursula’s before Father Angelico died. Otherwise she might have come to understand that religion could be a loving experience.

Eventually, of course, her knowledge of God as Love did come about. But how neat it would have been to experience this in a St. Ursula’s newly bereft of Father Angelico.

“It wasn’t a case of my killing Father Angelico …” Lil laughed lightly. “I always thought if we both stayed in the same parish long enough, he would kill
me
. That look! When the skin stretched across his bony face, I could never guess whether he was smiling or furious. I learned in the school of hard knocks that most of the time he was barely containing rage.”

Rick’s brow was knit as if he were thinking through a complex problem. “To understand Father Angelico properly you should remember that if you were convicted of heresy, Father Angelico would have accompanied you to the pyre. He would have prayed with you, and then he would have lit the fire.”

She laughed heartily. But, as her chuckles subsided, her face grew thoughtful. “By the way, honey, you do want to go to the party tonight, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure. I just forgot.”

“We each got an invitation—sent to our separate residences naturally.”

“What can I say after I say I’m sorry? I forgot. I barely remember getting the invite. Where’s it supposed to be?”

“Old St. Joe’s downtown.”

“Hmm. I wonder why.”

“Well, for one thing St. Ursula’s is no more. We couldn’t have it there.”

“Did you ever think”—Rick stretched elaborately—“when you worked there that the day would come when the old place would be closed?”

“Mmm”—she pondered—“I guess I wondered why they bothered building it.” She smiled. “But not why they would bury it.”

“But the memory lingers on. Thus, tonight’s party.” He rose from the, table and slipped out of his robe. “We’ve got plenty of time before we can get the boat. What do you want to do?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she replied impishly. “But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Two

“What day of the week is this?” Jerry Anderson asked loudly.

“Wednesday,” Dora Riccardo answered just as forcefully.

“Then don’t get sick.”

“Because all the doctors and priests will be out golfing?”

“You got it!”

In her office at the far end of the editorial room, Patricia Lennon looked up, startled. Then she smiled. She hadn’t heard that old bromide since her days at Marygrove, then a Catholic college for young women. Now it was coed but still very much alive deep into Detroit’s northwest side.

Pat Lennon was continuing her long and distinguished journalism career in Detroit. She’d been at it approximately thirty-five years.

In her time she had worked at both Detroit daily newspapers, establishing a reputation of excellence. In a profession where bylines on news stories were routinely overlooked, her authorship was consistently recognized.

But when she reached age fifty and looked back at thirty years of pressure, deadlines, and the gradual demise of professionalism among many of the younger crop of journalists, she decided to pack it in. With very few regrets, she gladly accepted the golden parachute and was off on a leisurely, extended vacation.

No sooner did she return to her high-rise apartment in downtown Detroit than she was contacted by a man she knew all too well.

Chris Reynolds was considered by many as Michigan’s Donald Trump. Responsible for the proliferation of strip malls throughout the state, he also owned chains of movie houses and many varied publications.

Whenever possible he was a hands-on manager. But the sheer number of his enterprises made it impossible for him to attend to everything personally.

At the time Pat Lennon called it a day in newspaper journalism, Reynolds was on the brink of closing his
Oakland Monthly
. The magazine primarily served Oakland County, the third wealthiest county in the United States. Oakland County provided a substantial answer to, Where do all those fabulously rich auto giants, high-priced lawyers, inheritance-heavy people live? Some of the old money dug in at one or another of the Grosse Pointes. Much of the fast-lane wealthy staked out Oakland County.

So, Reynolds asked himself, why should a magazine featuring this toddlin’ county fare so poorly in circulation and advertising revenue? No one seemed to have the answer. But Chris Reynolds was determined to solve the puzzle before or instead of shelving the magazine.

One of his many vice presidents informed him that Pat Lennon was voluntarily unemployed.

Reynolds was familiar with Lennon’s high standards and professionalism. He discovered that she had next to no managerial experience. Reynolds had no problem with that; lots of managers he knew could not manage.

After considerable thought, he decided that for weal or woe Lennon would be the ultimate answer to the survival of
Oakland Monthly
. So he put on the full-court press.

A personally conducted tour of the wonderful world of Reynolds’ kingdom; done lunches; invitations to wheeler-and-dealer parties; a most generous salary offer with incentives, and, finally, a free hand in editorial decisions.

Pat smiled her way through it all. Never before had she been the target of such a cunningly contrived campaign.

In the end, she was won over mainly by the opportunity to run this organization—especially with no one peering over her shoulder.

She made certain she would not be second-guessed by Reynolds or any of his lackeys. She had established some ground rules in their relationship several years before when she’d done a feature on him for the paper.

The feature had run as a series. So she’d had to spend a generous amount of time with him. That time, for her, was strictly business. But Reynolds had had something more in mind.

It happened toward the end of their time together. He invited her to his headquarters. She intended to track statistically his far-flung empire. He intended to give her a scenic tour of a lavishly elaborate office that, with the push of several buttons, transformed into a seductive bedroom.

This was by no means the first pass she had fielded cleanly. Afterward she had to admit that he
could
take no for an answer.

So their negotiations were all business—if friendly business—and she accepted the role of editor-in-chief and associate publisher of
Oakland Monthly
magazine.

It was now five years into her contract. Reynolds had been true to his word; he had been an absentee owner. One of his lieutenants had stopped by early on to check on progress or lack of such. But a word to the boss from Pat had put an end to that.

Besides, she
had
turned the business around.
Oakland Monthly
was operating in the black.

Having been distracted by the interplay of Jerry and Dora, Pat gazed out of her glassed-in office. Things in editorial were bustling. Everyone seemed busy. Just as it should be.

In the beginning, Pat had cleaned house and hired her own people. She particularly had confidence in the woman she had brought on board as advertising manager. Her confidence was not misplaced; ad sales had soared.

Pat allowed herself a few moments to reminisce.

Early on she had been aware that she was strikingly beautiful, first as a child, then as a teenager, then as a mature woman. All along, she had remained determined that her good looks would not undermine her intelligence nor her abilities.

She married early and, as it happened, not wisely. One tragic mistake was quite enough. In her dealings with men, she was never casually romantic. There were several liaisons, none of them close to onenighters—more like significant commitments.

A talented colleague, Joe Cox, had come closest to becoming a spouse. His immaturity eventually was his Achilles’ heel. Currently he was seeded highly as a reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
.

Out of sight, out of mind; they no longer even exchanged Christmas cards.

As good a journalist and writer as Joe Cox was, his personality type was what Pat most wanted to avoid in her search for new talent.

The magazine’s previous administration had been in the habit of hiring, mostly as freelancers, everything from college students to fledgling writers with no training and/or experience. Too often most of the freelancers turned in generally unacceptable work. But they did come cheap. The unused money in the editorial budget found its way into administrative staff pockets.

No wonder the publication had been on its final glide path.

Early on, Pat had hired first Dora Riccardo, then Jerry Anderson. These two and those who followed them into
Oakland Monthly
fit Lennon’s standard, to wit: A professional in journalism—or any like field—having accepted an assignment, turns it in (a) on time and (b) in acceptable condition.

The freelancers who had been used before Lennon’s arrival—and only briefly after she took charge—were the antithesis of this. They needed to be cajoled, coaxed, wheedled, humored, threatened, warned, intimidated, scared, bullied, yelled at—in short treated like any badly behaved two-year-old.

Pat Lennon had no children and she was not about to take any on now.

However, Jerry Anderson and Dora Riccardo were just the type Lennon wanted. While neither had an extensive background in journalism, both were strong academically in English, and Anderson had experience in creative writing, and in directing small publications.