Till Death (23 page)

As if in response to his declaration of faith, the doorbell rang. The priests could hear the scurrying of feet against the ancient floors of this old house. That sound was followed by the banter of mixed voices. One of the caterers evidently had admitted some of the guests.

By the time Alonzo and Anne Marie Tully and Tom and Peggy Becker reached the basement, the couples had introduced themselves. Everyone in the foursome already knew the two priests. Alonzo and Zachary Tully were brothers.

After greetings were exchanged, the group split into threesomes: Zoo with Zack and Tom Becker, Koesler with Anne Marie and Peggy.

Zoo was the glue that held his group together. Becker was fascinated by Zoo’s police work. And Zack, as usual, could not get enough of his brother. Becker’s questions grew longer as Zoo’s answers become more concise. The officer was a man of few words.

Koesler, despite his resolution to remain in the background, found himself chattering to fill in awkward silences of two women who had little in common. Peggy was a homemaker, while Anne Marie was an employed and very active teacher.

The remaining guests soon straggled in. Koesler noted the arrival of Father Morgan—the fly in the ointment. However, once the crowd gathered, Koesler was able to retreat to his observation perch.

Predictably, Harry Morgan was the sole guest who was doing his best to be unconvivial.

Everyone was invited to concoct his or her own preprandial drink. These ranged from tonic water for Peggy Becker to a double Scotch for Father Casserly.

Koesler took note of the potency of Rick’s drink. It seemed awfully strong for this early in the evening, especially on an empty stomach.

Also, Casserly was rather sunburned, even for a red-haired Irishman. The only other guest nearly that red-skinned was Lillian Niedermier. That condition seemed a bit premature for early June. Odd perhaps that Lil and Rick were the only ones who’d had too much sun. Coincidence undoubtedly.

Little by little, small groups emerged from the conglomerate mass. Koesler, Niedermier, Casserly, Riccardo, Anderson, and Morgan were the core of the participants. They were those who at one time or another had been stationed at St. Ursula’s. They were those for whom these annual get-togethers were held. With rare exception they came together at least once a year—the first Wednesday of June.

There were others—many others—who qualified for membership. Some had never responded to the invitation. Others had attended for a while, only to tire, lose interest, or for any number of reasons simply let the occasion fade and die.

A caterer passed among the group, offering hors d’oeuvres.

Koesler alone wandered uncommitted. On his way, he picked up snatches of conversation.

Someone mentioned the concept of
ne potus noceat
. Koesler, of course, was asked to explain, since not everyone was conversant with Latin. The literal meaning was “lest the drink harm” and was an ancient fast day excuse for eating some solid food when drinking alcohol, rather than imbibing on an empty stomach.

Not a bad idea. Particularly at a party such as this with an open bar and various liquors and liqueurs available on an easily accessible shelf.

The caterer seemed similarly concerned as she moved swiftly among the group pushing trays of cheeses and crackers, followed by a tray of small shrimp and dip. What with one thing and another, all seemed to be holding themselves in check as far as sobriety was concerned.

In a group of six, Rick Casserly was reminiscing about the status of the census during his stay in the parish. “It was a joke to the priests. Word got around that St. Ursula’s parishioners were better counted and identified than the Jews under Caesar Augustus. But in reality, it wasn’t close to being complete, let alone perfect.”

Before Casserly could continue his attack against the storied lists, Father Morgan jumped in to defend Father Angelico. “Maybe it wasn’t completely perfect, but that wasn’t Father Angelico’s fault. It was the fault of the assistants. They failed to go house to house as they were instructed. The plan was for the assistant priests to take turns handling the census and, after the whole parish was canvassed, we were to start over.”

“We know what the plan was.” Casserly focused complete attention on Morgan. “You forget, Harry, that we were there. We weren’t getting this secondhand. We were told by the old man to hit the bricks. Otherwise we were supposed to confine ourselves to our rooms until needed.”

“But you didn’t do as you were told!” Morgan insisted. “I did. I obeyed my pastor, just as it says in Canon Law. If everybody had obeyed Father Angelico, the census would have been perfect!”

Casserly drained his glass. All that remained of the double Scotch were a few impregnated ice cubes. His cheeks were slightly flushed. “Harry, Harry, the damn thing wouldn’t work because people moved in and out of that neighborhood faster than we could keep up with them.

“For the working-class family that moved into that neighborhood, it was a stepping-stone to better things. Most of the Italian and Polish parishioners were on their way up Gratiot from Ursula’s to upper-middle-class homes in parishes like Assumption Grotto. As soon as they could afford to, they got out of the
Caca Lupo
area.”

“
Caca Lupo?
” Peggy Becker asked. “What is that? I don’t think I ever heard of that.”

Her husband attempted to head off her question, but it was voiced quickly.

“
Caca Lupo?
” Casserly grinned. “It’s a pun in Italian. Either it refers to the corner where the streetcars used to turn around. Or, it can mean wolf shit.”

It was a mildly offensive word, one that Casserly ordinarily would have avoided in mixed company. Koesler wondered whether the liquor was reaching his younger friend. Fortunately the caterer was in the vicinity and Casserly accepted a couple of finger sandwiches.

Koesler, relieved that Casserly was taking food, immediately grew concerned when Casserly, having downed the canapés in just a couple of bites, moved to the liquor shelf and refilled his glass.

Fortunately at this point, Father Tully announced that dinner was ready. It was a buffet and well served. There were no place cards, so the guests seated themselves at either of two round tables in the haphazard order in which they filled their plates.

At the first table, in clockwise fashion sat: Tom Becker, Father Koesler, Peggy Becker, Father Tully, and Lillian Niedermier.

At the second table, again in clockwise order, were: Zoo Tully, Father Casserly, Dora Riccardo, Jerry Anderson, Anne Marie Tully, and Father Morgan.

Lieutenant Tully was about to dig in when he noticed that everyone else seemed to be hesitating. He aborted his movement and waited.

There was an awkward moment when no one did anything.

Father Morgan made as if to speak but was cut off at the pass by Father Koesler, who feared there might be a misunderstanding regarding who would offer the before-meal prayer.

“We have with us this evening,” Koesler said, “three active pastors, Father Casserly, Father Tully, and Father Morgan. How about we ask the resident pastor to say grace?”

Zack Tully caught the urgency of the moment and immediately offered the traditional prayer: “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord.”

“Amen,” all affirmed. Plates filled and no dishes to pass, everyone dug in. Koesler was glad to see the food being eaten. He resolved to talk to Father Tully about the questionable wisdom of an open bar.

Father Tully opened the conversation. “I know I’m the resident pastor. But if this dinner were being held back in the early sixties, I’m afraid I would be an assistant rather than a pastor.”

Koesler, having tucked away his first mouthful, smiled. “You’re right there, Zack. Back in the sixties even I would have been an assistant—if I hadn’t been assigned to the
Detroit Catholic.
”

“The sixties,” Tom Becker said in an almost reverential tone. “That was an exciting time. And you did a great job with the paper.”

Koesler waved off the compliment with an empty fork. “I had very little to do with it. I just happened to be there during the Council and all that civil unrest … Vietnam, the assassinations, the campus protests—all that and more. In a job like mine, all you really had to do was get out of the way and let the breaking news come in.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Becker insisted. “There were lots of Catholic papers that looked the other way when the Council was on.”

“Well …” Koesler intended the interjection to close the topic of his direction of the newspaper. “In any case—to get back to the original subject—that was the beginning of the end of the vocation glut.”

“Bob took me on a walking tour of the Detroit seminary.” Father Tully was referring to Koesler. “He darn near had me on the ropes, the place was so huge. But what really impressed me was not so much the old buildings—though they are spectacular. What I’ve never forgotten was the new building, the Cardinal Mooney Latin School. It was erected for the overflow of high school seminarians in 1962. The old buildings couldn’t hold the crowd anymore. And it boggled my mind that they were thinking of putting up a second gymnasium.”

“Yes,” Koesler said, “and in the next decade the seminary population began to drop. So there wasn’t any need for a new gym. Come to think of it, no need for the new high school building either. The boys just stopped coming.”

So far, this, the principal conversation, emanated from table one. Lesser conversations involving chitchat went on among the others, in groups of twos and threes. But at this point, Father Morgan spoke up, forcefully challenging Koesler’s statement and, in so doing, uniting, for the moment, the two tables.

“It’s not so much that the young men stopped coming as it was that there were priests who backed away from their commitments and left the active ministry.” Morgan, eyes narrowed, looked directly at Jerry Anderson.

Of the multitude who had left the priesthood, Anderson was the only one in this room. He rose to the bait. “Oh, come on, Father. Even with all of us leaving the active ministry, it wasn’t the priest drain that caused the vocation crisis. It was all those empty places in the seminary. I don’t know that anyone has fingered the reason recruitment fell off. But the kids stopped coming.”

“I’m not so sure it was all that cut and dried,” Casserly said. It crossed his mind—which was a little clouded by Scotch—that he was agreeing with Harry Morgan. That was something he could not have anticipated.

“You take the sixties and seventies,” Casserly continued. “It seemed like every week, maybe every month, more and more priests were leaving. And their departure was euphemistically described as ‘taking a leave of absence.’ Call it what you will, it was a phenomenon that was well recognized by the people in the pews.”

“So,” Anderson defended his position, “what’s that got to do with the kids who were not showing up in the seminary?”

“Just this,” Casserly responded. “Who wants to book passage on the
Titanic?
”

“What?”

“Certainly. When we were growing up—and I’m sure Bob will corroborate this—when we were growing up, we saw priests confident and sure of themselves. They were satisfied and self-assured. That’s the image that the entertainment industry projected. You think Bing Crosby or Barry Fitzgerald had the slightest doubt about their vocation?

“Now, it’s just the opposite. For, I guess, a whole bunch of reasons, there’s no longer that permanence. I mean, the Church is still demanding a lifelong commitment, but that’s not the image that’s being projected by the guys who quit.”

“I think I have to agree with Rick,” Father Tully said from the other table. “Take for example law schools. They’re overflowing, just as seminaries used to be. Why do so many people want to become lawyers? Partly to serve the cause of justice. And partly to make a lot of money. The first part of that reason seems to be breaking down. Mind you, once either of those motivations begins to fragment, the law schools will be darn near as empty as the seminaries are now.”

All eyes turned to Jerry Anderson. He alone in this room was on “leave of absence” from the diocese. Everyone here was aware that his “leave” was permanent.

Father Koesler attempted to steer the conversation away from Anderson. “What would Father Angelico think?”

“If the dear Father were here and were still an active pastor,” Dora Riccardo said, “he probably would be wondering why he was working his parish alone and why the chancery couldn’t just send someone.”

“Sounds good,” Koesler said.

“By the way, Father Morgan,” Dora continued, “I suppose I and my inactive Sisters are responsible for the near death of religious life?”

“Out of your own mouth you have said it!” Morgan replied.

“Maybe …” Tom Becker’s tone was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he should be speaking now. “… maybe this is the beginning of something new. Maybe the era of the laity. Oh, I don’t mean that the laity will, or should, take over priestly tasks. But there are lots of administrative jobs that priests find themselves doing now that could be done better by the laity than by the ordained. Now maybe that’s not a permanent solution. But it could be something to tide us over until, in God’s good time, the situation corrects itself.”

“I’m not sure I have this all straight,” Peggy Becker said, “but isn’t that something that’s going on now? I don’t mean getting the laity more involved. Personally, I have lost enough of my husband to the Church. I do not intend to lose him completely.”

Unsure how irritated she was about her husband’s generous contribution in time and money, most of the guests chuckled politely.

“What I’m getting at,” Peggy continued, “is supplying instant priests.”

“Instant priests!” Tom exclaimed.

“Those Anglican or Episcopalian priests who are entering the Catholic Church. Aren’t many of them becoming Catholic priests?” Peggy said.

“The Anglican converts.” In Father Tully’s tone there was no question. “There aren’t that many of them. It’s sort of like applying a Band-Aid to a ruptured elephant.”