Till Death (35 page)

The more he chased these events through his mind, the more questions remained, multiplied and crescendoed.

As he listened to the four rehash, rework, restate, rework, rework, restate, elaborate, and repeat, new answers popped into Koesler’s mind. Along with new questions.

At long last, he thought he saw light at the end of this maze.

The question that continued to nag at him was: What, if anything, was he going to do with this new insight?

Twenty-four

This was what early October in Michigan should be. Brisk, with the smack of footballs in the air. The leaves had begun to turn. Soon they would fall.

Ideal weather for a funeral. The mourners would not be inconvenienced by rain or snow or any sort of punishing weather.

It was Thursday, five days after the storm. A drawn-out interval made advisable by Rick Casserly’s recovery time. The other three survivors, in bandages and immobilized to whatever degree necessary, were in attendance.

The autopsy revealed that Dora had drowned. Her unborn infant was male.

None of the four survivors would talk about the accident. Immediately after their rescue they had given statements to the police. After which they had not been able to restrain themselves from running on to Fathers Koesler and Tully. After that, though, there was no expressed consensus, they refused to say more.

Pat Lennon had tried in vain to coax Jerry Anderson into doing a first-person piece for the magazine. Lil Niedermier said she needed virtually complete bed rest. Casserly and Becker refused to answer either bell, door, or phone.

The incident was a major news story for twenty-four hours. Then, as with almost all news, once the sun guns and mikes were turned off and the notepads tucked away, the affair suffered a lingering death.

The funeral site was chosen mostly by elimination. St. William’s, Casserly’s former parish, was rejected because it held too many conflicting memories for him. In the end, they settled on St. Joseph’s downtown.

As pastor of the parish, Father Tully would be the principal celebrant of the Mass of Resurrection. Fathers Koesler and Morgan were invited to concelebrate. Koesler accepted readily. Morgan declined. Dora and Rick were “living in sin.” So, in Father Morgan’s version of Christianity, Dora did not deserve the rite of Christian burial.

A sizable crowd filled roughly three quarters of St. Joe’s capacity.

Dora had lain in state since yesterday afternoon. Now, just at 10 A.M., the lid to her coffin was closed for the final time. The pallbearers accompanied the casket down the middle aisle while everyone was encouraged to sing the hymn “Grant Them Eternal Rest.” The pall, a large, rectangular white cloth, was spread over the coffin and Mass began with the traditional Penitential Rite. Father Tully led the congregation, as all read from the missal: “I confess to Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.”

A muffled sob came from Rick Casserly. The sound was particularly poignant; he had held up so strongly through this entire ordeal—to this point.

The Mass proceeded. To Catholics the familiar words were consoling.

Since Father Tully had barely known Dora, Father Koesler gave the eulogy. He spoke of the dedicated years she had given to teaching children, in a parochial setting, not only the three R’s but of Jesus who was their Lord and brother. He spoke of the special sorrow in her death: She had been about to give birth to a child whose future opened wide before him—only to be crushed before it was begun. He ended by commending the souls of Dora and her son to the welcoming arms of their God.

The Mass proceeded in the familiar traditional universal form. At Communion time, the four principals, along with most of the congregation, presented themselves. All four happened to be in the line leading to Koesler, who gave a consecrated host to each. While some might have questioned his decision, he felt it was thoroughly justified. He would not and could not be each one’s conscience.

Harry Morgan would not have been pleased.

At the conclusion of the service, the organist led the congregation in the hymn “On Eagle’s Wings,” and then the Latin
In Paradisum:
“May angels guide you and bring you to paradise; and may all the martyrs come forth to welcome you home; and may they lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the angel chorus sing to welcome you, and, like Lazarus, forgotten and poor, you shall have everlasting rest.”

And that was it.

It was a small procession to the cemetery and a lonely burial. Dora’s parents, her only close relatives, were dead. Six young men who worked for Tom Becker and with Rick Casserly acted as pallbearers. The undertaker, his assistant, and the four survivors attended. Fathers Tully and Koesler presided. A few prayers, the sprinkling of holy water, and it was over. Without another word each went his or her separate way.

Father Koesler was one piece shy of completing this jigsaw puzzle of a mystery. He knew full well that whether or not he was able to put it together to his satisfaction, he might well carry the secret to his grave.

The next several months passed quickly. It was January. Those who favored winter sports were delighted. Snow continued to fall in abundance. Michigan’s ski resorts did not even need to “make snow.” Those interested in and/or captivated by football had their fill of the college bowl variety over the New Year’s holiday. And there was still more to come from the postseason pro games.

Most of the rest of humanity was in the doldrums, waiting for Lent to pass, Easter to come, and spring to arrive.

One distinctly bright spot had been the marriage of Jerry Anderson and Lillian Niedermier. Father Robert Koesler had witnessed the ceremony, which took place in St. Joseph’s—downtown—church just before Christmas.

Lil’s maid of honor was her friend and assistant principal. Most of the school staff, as well as many of the students, attended. Nearly the entire editorial staff of
Oakland Monthly
was there, led by editor Pat Lennon.

Conspicuous by his absence was Rick Casserly who had not been invited and would not have participated in any event. He had just barely gotten over the pain of thinking about Lil with another man; he did not need to be reminded so vividly by the reality of her marriage.

For Lil and Jerry this Christmas was the happiest of their lives. They had each other. They loved each other. And neither would ever have to be lonely again.

Jerry’s mother was a bit confused by this turn of events. One day, her little boy was a priest—the answer to a mother’s prayers. Then suddenly, he was no longer a priest—even though he was “a priest forever.” Then that was okay because the Pope let him be a layman again. Now he was married—even though he had a lifelong commitment to celibacy. But it must be all right since it had happened in a Catholic church with many of Jerry’s priest friends and classmates in attendance.

Her head was reeling.

In an undemanding moment, she decided that God was good. She’d had the button-popping pride of having her son a priest. And now, one of these days, maybe she’d be a grandma. The best of all possible worlds.

Tom and Peggy Becker thanked God every day they were together.

Tom decided it was past time to retire. He put his business up for sale and was considering the offers. Already he had enough money for the rest of his life. And with proceeds from the sale his children would be set till the end of their days.

Tom and Peggy cherished life after he had come so close to losing his. The boat was a total loss, but it had been completely insured. He would not buy or build another. From now on he would drink water, not travel on it.

Rick Casserly returned to work a month after his wife’s funeral. But his heart wasn’t really in it. And he had lost his angel/protector, Tom Becker. Becker could not guarantee that his present employees would be retained. To try to find a buyer who would agree to that might take more years than Tom had.

Casserly then, had to give some attention to his future. He spent the next few months debating within himself what he might do next. Clearly, he was at a crossroads. To stay with the present job with the strong possibility that new owners would clean house and bring in their own personnel. Or, to anticipate such a move and try another company.

Or …

Father Koesler would always remember that it was Palm Sunday when Rick Casserly called for an appointment. As luck would have it, Koesler happened to be helping during Holy Week at St. William’s, Casserly’s last parish. The chancery still had not found a permanent replacement for Rick.

They met that afternoon in St. William’s rectory. Casserly was unwilling to suffer the memories evoked by this building so he repressed them.

They sat in the living room, each with a cup of coffee fortunately not made by Koesler. Though a mite stale, still it was infinitely more potable than anything the elder priest would have brewed.

“Bob,” Casserly began, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I could use a little help. I’ve got a good job with excellent pay now, but once Tom sells the business, the new owners may want their own team. And sixty, leaning on sixty-one, isn’t the best time of life to start hunting for work.”

“I see what you mean.” Koesler nodded. “But if you wanted advice regarding the job market, you probably would have gone to some sort of employment agency. So, to make a long story short and to get down to what we might more realistically consider—you’re thinking of returning to the active ministry. You didn’t get laicized—and you figure that opens the door for you. Anything else you—or an agency—could have figured out. That about it?”

Casserly nodded and smiled. “In a nutshell, yes. Only thing is … I don’t know how to go about it. First, I wanted to know what you thought of the idea. Then, maybe you know something about the procedure.”

Koesler stood and began pacing the large living room. “If I can believe the
Detroit Catholic
, you are one of the many on ‘leave of absence.’ Few guys with that label ever return. Those who do generally are gone a short time, during which they do little or nothing to compromise the possibility of their returning. You weren’t gone long—so far so good—but you did get married.”

“But it was invalid and never convalidated.”

“Right. But you’d have to prove that. And, of course, you know that and you also know how to get a declaration of nullity. My point is, even ‘attempting a marriage’ kind of compromises the possibility of returning.”

For the first time, Casserly looked concerned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Koesler stood still, hands in pockets, looking down at Casserly. “It just so happens that I counseled one of the fellows who came back. So I have a pretty good idea of what to expect in this archdiocese. You know about Fred Doyle?”

“Only that he was activated after being gone a long time.”

“Twenty years.”

Casserly gave a low whistle. “That long!”

“Uh-huh. He tells his story to anybody who’s interested. So I don’t think he’d mind my telling you—so you know what’s ahead.”

Casserly sat back. “I’d appreciate knowing.”

“It starts,” Koesler began, “with Fred—or in this case, you—getting together with a chancery official. You formally state to him that you want to return to the active ministry—and that you want to be incardinated in the Detroit archdiocese. Then, after a couple of months you arrange for a conference with the chancery man and one of the auxiliary bishops.”

“Two months!”

“They’re in no hurry. If everything goes well up to that point, you take a semester to make sure your theology is kosher. If you’re still on track, you spend three days being interviewed by a psychiatrist or psychologist. That goes to a psychological evaluation. And you take tests: Rorschach, MMPI. Then …”

“There’s more?”

“Oh yes. The chancery people take all of this for their assessment.”

“And if they’re satisfied?”

“You make a thirty-day retreat at the retreat facility of your choice.”

“Holy cow!” Casserly breathed.

“One more thing,” Koesler pressed. “And this you’ve got to expect, I think: With Fred, somewhere during this procedure, they found out that he had gotten somewhat involved with the Episcopal Church.”

“He got ordained?”

“Not nearly that involved. Just received into that Church and became a Eucharistic Minister. Nothing more than that and that only for a short time. But the chancery people came this close”—Koesler held up his thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart—“to washing him out.”

“It sort of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If they get their noses out of shape because somebody is just distributing Communion for Episcopalians, what are they going to think about someone who ‘attempts’ marriage?”

They were silent for many long minutes. Koesler resumed his chair.

“I had no idea,” Casserly murmured finally. “My wedding was as clear-cut a case as you can think of for an invalid marriage. I had not been dispensed from the obligation of celibacy. I hadn’t even requested a dispensation. Any marriage I attempted in that state was invalid on the face of it. All I would have to do was prove I was an undispensed priest and I’d get an annulment in record time.”

“But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Koesler mused. “I mean, if you leave the active ministry and you are not laicized, theoretically you can return to the active ministry. Nowhere, however, does it say the Church has to take you back.

“But in the final analysis,” Koesler concluded, “I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone knows. Maybe there aren’t any cast-iron categories. Maybe it’s a fresh decision for each case. I just don’t know.” He looked at Casserly with great seriousness. “If I were you, I don’t think I would give up my day job.”

Casserly looked somewhat numb. Clearly he hadn’t expected any information resembling this.