The Sacrifice (21 page)

And those kids with their drums and guitars, jazzing up what should have been a respectful few minutes with God.

As for the greeting of peace—-well! It grew to be out of hand—just completely out of hand. Everybody—except Leon—milling about, talking loudly, hugging instead of merely shaking hands.

What had old St. Joe's done to deserve these desecrations? It had housed a black man in a white man's color.

Oh, he was black all right. Father Tully was black. Leon knew all about that. If he hadn't learned it on the streets of Detroit, he surely was exposed to the culture in all his years of working side by side with blacks, and, more to the point, blacks who were trying to pass. With their do-rags and their lotions and creams. Oh yes, as much as Father Tully tried to pass himself off as a white man, Leon could tell: This was a black man. Oddly, the term mulatto never crossed his mind.

From time to time, Leon thought something really ought to be done about the disgrace that went on there week after week.

But what?

He began his crusade by writing letters to the priest who headed the Downtown Vicariate.

At first he received personalized responses from the Vicariate office. Letters from a Sister Somebody … one of the few women religious left. His only contact was by mail; he hadn't a clue as to what she looked like.

Her handwriting was tiny but extremely legible. He guessed she was elderly; that would explain the small script. Saving paper, saving money. Older nuns would have had such habits—and probably still did.

Her letters attempted to address his complaints. She explained—again and again—that St. Joseph's Liturgy was well within the rubrics. There were—yes, there really were—limitations on what was permitted in today's Church. But due to questions regarding the Masses at St. Joe's—particularly the folk Masses—the parish had been monitored—several times—and all was kosher (“liturgically correct” were her exact words).

She suggested that he try another parish, perhaps one in the suburbs. It certainly wasn't that the sort of Mass he was comfortable with wasn't being offered in many Detroit-area churches. They were out there and since he felt so strongly about it he certainly was free to join just about any parish he wished.

She wrote some seven consecutive responses to his objections. She searched for different ways of saying the same thing. Finally, she had to conclude that Leon Harkins was not going to be satisfied until St. Joseph's Liturgies conformed to the hyperorthodox standards set by Rome. She also knew that as long as Father Tully was pastor, St. Joe's would be faithful to the minimum standards set by the Vatican.

So the response to Leon's complaints to the Vicariate office metamorphosed into nothing more than a series of form letters. Leon was disgusted.

There was a hiatus during which Leon seethed. Nonetheless he continued to attend Mass at St. Joe's. Not often; he couldn't stand the racket and what he considered the offhand approach to this core sacrament of the Roman Catholic Church

Like an itchy scab, St. Joe's Liturgy was a magnet that lured him back time and time again to survey and assess the damage.

Of course not all the Masses were of the folk variety. On Sundays at least one Liturgy was offered in a staid fashion—occasionally even both Liturgies fell within a decent parameter. Still, enough liberties were taken—by Leon's lights—in the Saturday Mass to satisfy the casual, less finicky Catholic.

Leon began writing to Father Tully. He mentioned his correspondence on the Vicariate level—hoping that such a record would demonstrate the dedication and resolve of the writer.

History repeated itself. At first, Father Tully replied in a sympathetic, understanding way. Encouraged by Tully's responsiveness, Leon fully expected things to change. But nothing did. If anything, there was even more noise and commotion than before … if that was possible.

It surely seemed a lost cause. Leon could think of no other course than appealing to the head honcho himself, the Cardinal Archbishop.

Contacting the Vatican would only be a waste of postage. Even Leon realized the Pope had many concerns far more pressing than how a Mass was being offered in an insignificant parish in the heart of Detroit. If anyone asked the Pope about the state of the Church in this core city parish, he would respond with a wrinkled brow and the word, “
Where?
”

But it stood to reason that a bishop—for that was what Mark Boyle was beneath the red silken robes, a bishop—would be both informed and concerned over what was going on in one of his parishes. He was the shepherd, and one of his sheep, in the form of a single parish, was lost.

Not only that, but the archbishop could, with a single sweep of his pen, rid St. Joseph's of that fraudulent priest. No one need know that the priest was black masquerading as white. Leon would not be vindictive. He just wanted that priest out and the parish to return to its proper state of orthodoxy.

Trying to make contact with the Cardinal did not prove effective. Age had sapped the elderly prelate of any inclination to enter this combat zone. He passed Leon's letter along to his secretary, who, in turn, sent it on to the Office for Christian Worship.

That left the matter back at square one.

The official for Liturgy sent Leon a covering letter along with numerous small pamphlets spelling out orthodoxy in the varieties of worship available in this post-Vatican II Church.

Leon bothered to finger through the pamphlets, even though he foresaw their contents. The problem with all these bureaucrats is that they never lift themselves off their chairs and go out to see what's going on and who's doing it!

All they had to do was to attend the Saturday afternoon mockeries and watch this distraction of a priest pass himself off as white. But no, all these uppity churchmen and churchwomen could do was write generic gobbledygook communications, and when they'd exhausted that, send form letters and mindless publications!

It was so simple; Leon just wanted to do the will of God. God surely frowned on what was going on in that historic church.

He was about to regretfully take himself out of the game when one evening while watching a rerun of the TV drama
Law and Order
he was inspired.

The plot revolved around a stalker. The viewer was encouraged to view the stalker as the villain. Leon had to rejigger that plot. Sometimes—and this was one of those times—it became necessary to right wrongs. And if anyone were to rise to correct the wrongs in that parish, the authorities had made it clear none of them would do the job. The hero of this real-life situation would have to be Leon Harkins or no one.

He watched that episode carefully in the best spirit of emulation.

How did the protagonist—the villain in this telecast scenario—carry out his campaign?

For one, he assembled a multitude of publications—magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, etc. Get one's message in order, then play cutout, pasting letters on notepaper to spell out bold threats.

Also the stalker needed pictures—mostly, it seemed, to allow him to stay fixed on his target.

There were few pictures of Father Tully available. There were plenty of pictures of St. Joseph's church. Some he photocopied at the library. Some he took from brochures.

As for the quarry himself, Leon surreptitiously took photos. This was the most thrilling part of his adventure. Sneaking around, aiming the camera, and pushing the button was the next best thing to sneaking up, aiming a gun, and pulling the trigger.

Then there were the phone calls. Leon found a spy store that sold a voice-altering device. It could speed up or slow down the sound of one's voice, completely masking the identity of the speaker. Leon had seen devices like this used on TV shows. He hadn't realized he could actually buy one. But, sure enough, for a little more than sixty bucks, he could play in the major leagues of spydom.

So far the threats had proved empty. They fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. Most frustrating of all, Leon couldn't tell for sure whether they were even reaching Father Tully.

Of course, Leon had no knowledge of the possible effect of the threatening letters. He couldn't be present when—or if—they were opened.

Were they opened? Were they just thrown in the wastebasket? Were they thrown in the wastebasket unopened? Did Tully laugh at the threats? Had he gone through this before? Was he frightened by them?

As for the phone calls, at first, Tully had merely seemed concerned, although impressed at the professional manner in which the caller masked his identity. Eventually it became obvious to Tully that the caller was not going to lighten up. It was then that Leon noted, to his satisfaction, an apprehensive tone creeping into the priest's voice. And now, lately, after hearing only a few guttural words, Tully would hang up, slamming the phone down on its receiver.

That encouraged Leon greatly. He knew then he was reaching Tully. Yet still nothing happened to that cursed Saturday Mass that so displeased Our Lord.

Nonetheless, Leon vowed to continue. Nothing would stop him. He would keep it up until he wore down the priest and forced him to pull up stakes and Go!

But in his inner heart, Leon knew this priest was not going to give up. No, he could and would wait Leon out.

Leon tried not to think of this inconclusive future. This priest held all the important cards. He had no intention of straightening up, reforming, or mending his ways. He was leading the parish down a primrose path, and no one was going to stop him. Leon was self-condemned to frustrating failure.

There was only one alternative: If the priest would not leave voluntarily, he would have to be forced to vacate. And how, Leon asked himself, do you do that?

The day had long since passed when an undesirable was ridden out of town on a rail, tarred and feathered. There was a great deal to say for the Ku Klux Klan. But the organization had lost all or most of its clout. Too bad; this—a black man posturing as white—was right up the KKK's alley.

Father Tully seemed impervious to every removal plan Leon could imagine. The priest couldn't be intimidated or scared off. Leon's best efforts, his most zealous threats at terrorizing, did no more than make Tully angry. Taking the priest by the scruff of the neck and marching him back to Dallas—or anything in that vein—well, the very idea was impractical and silly.

Of course Tully might die …

When he was feeling especially frustrated, Harkins would consider murder. But he never entertained the thought for more than a few seconds at a time. One did not kill anyone, much less a priest.

It will happen. If you wait long enough, Leon told himself,
everything
happens. But to have to wait that long—well, that was impractical to a practical man like Leon.

Somebody was yelling. It was the TV announcer. Some golfer had come within an inch or so of a hole in one. Leon wiggled in his chair. The dog lifted his head from Leon's slipper, looked around, and saw Puss's paw emerging from the bottom layer of Mrs. Harkins's knitting. All was well. He lowered his head again into the instep curve of Leon's footwear.

Barely roused by the momentary excitement, Leon opened his eyelids a crack to see the fans gathered around the green. They had witnessed what was almost history being made.

Suddenly, the golf scene vanished from the screen. Gone was the peaceful setting, the vivid green of the manicured grass, the bright golfing attire. Instead there was the interior of some building. It looked as if there had been a fire. Plenty of dust and rubble.

Grace Harkins emitted a startled squeal. “Is that what I think it is?” She pointed at the screen.

“What?” Leon shook off his torpor. “What happened?”

“Shhh,” Grace stage-whispered. “I want to find out what happened.”

The camera panned over the area, pausing to focus on a poignant scene. The solemn tones of an unseen reporter were heard. “Floyd”—evidently directed at the anchorman back at the studio—”we're here at historic old St. Joseph's church on the northeast outskirts of downtown Detroit.

“Just a short time ago, this was to have been the scene of a ceremony welcoming George Wheatley, the popular Episcopal priest and preacher, into the Roman Catholic priesthood. He was to be ordained here in this church. But as the ceremony was about to begin, a bomb exploded in the sanctuary …” The camera played about the broken, toppled statues, and the rent and blackened paintings.

“The police,” the now visible reporter said, “tell us that there has been one fatality, a visiting priest …” He consulted his notes. “As far as we know, there were no other injuries. That alone may qualify as a miracle. And what better place for a miracle than in this ancient parish church. St. Joseph's parish—in an earlier building—was one of the first churches established by Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac in Detroit.

“I have with me, Floyd”—the picture widened to include an obviously shaken man—“an eyewitness who was seated near the area where the bomb exploded. He is Thomas McNerney, of Rochester.

“Mr. McNerney, tell us, please, in your own words, what you experienced here today.”

McNerney's eyes were wide with shock. “It was awful! I was talking to a guy from my home parish in Rochester. Then I heard this horrible roar. I had a ringing in my ears for a long time. Matter of fact, I still hear the damn ring—oh, pardon my French.”

The reporter shrugged the impropriety away. “And then …?”

“And then I turned around so I could face the altar. Statues were falling and smashing. It was awful! It made me think of hell.”

“Did you see the priest who was felled by the explosion?”

“There was so much smoke … I guess I was more interested in the statues and the paintings. But then I did see this figure in black … in the corner. I could tell it wasn't no statue. But I didn't realize it was a human being until this Father and another guy, I guess it was a cop—anyway they came running into the sanctuary here and went right to him—I mean to the body.” He shuddered as if with cold. “It was awful.”