Till Death (36 page)

They said their farewells. Koesler urged his visitor to “Keep in touch.” And then watched as Casserly went weaving down the walk to his car.

Suddenly the final piece in Koesler’s jigsaw puzzle fell into place. In fact, he might even have a couple of pieces in reserve.

Twenty-five

Rick Casserly not only thought mightily about his future and the Catholic Church; he prayed over it.

Something about Koesler’s explanation of how reentry into the active ministry worked suggested that the procedure might not be identical in every diocese. At least that’s the way it seemed to Casserly. Sometimes things happened so quickly or abruptly that it took Mother Church by surprise—before She could make up any governing rules and regulations. Wandering in and out of the ministry just might be one of those instances.

Just about every diocese was hurting for priests. But not to the same degree.

The longer he thought about these possible differences, the more convinced he was that he wanted to test his theory. And his theory definitely did not include the Detroit archdiocese. Not after hearing what Fred Doyle had gone through.

Casserly considered that he himself might not live long enough to qualify for reentry. Not to mention the serious possibility that his own diocese might not welcome his return.

In the state of Michigan there were eight dioceses, Detroit being the chief or metropolitan diocese, and Flint the most recently created diocese. Casserly wanted to stay in the state if possible, though not in Detroit. The question was, Which of these sees was most desperate for priests? If the rules for reentry were uniform, it would make no great difference where one applied. But if his hypothesis was accurate, he should at least try to find the weak link.

After study, research, and prayer, he picked the runt of the litter—Flint. That diocese had been created, largely, by taking a small chunk of the Lansing diocese and a big bite of the Saginaw diocese. Priests in the affected areas were given a small window of opportunity to remain in their original, now shrunk, dioceses. Otherwise they would belong to Flint. Most chose to depart Flint and relocate in either a Lansing or a Saginaw parish. Thus leaving Flint with the majority of its clergy on the brink of retirement and not at all disposed to work twice as hard as they had hitherto.

Flint it would be.

The first bishop of the neonatal diocese of Flint was the Most Reverend Harold J. Waldo, former auxiliary bishop of Grand Rapids, home of Gerald R. Ford, once President of the United States. The bishop, in his forty-five years as a priest, had been stationed all over the large Grand Rapids diocese. It was the rare parish that hadn’t been served by him. This peripatetic history, along with the popular book, prompted the sobriquet “Where’s Waldo?” He had five years to retirement—and everyone, including the Pope, was counting. He made a nice interim Ordinary. Those who created bishops were sure they could find a decent replacement in five years. Just hang in there, Waldo, they prayed, until we cut you out to pasture.

Rick Casserly knew who the bishop was, but knew nothing about him. Detroiters, particularly Detroit priests, tended to know nothing about the rest of Michigan, including where anyone else was located.

Casserly made his appointment with Waldo for 1
P.M.
Holy Thursday. Tradition had it that this was the day Jesus instituted the priesthood of the Apostles during the Last Supper. Appropriate, Rick thought.

The bishop himself opened the door and invited Casserly in. They settled in the kitchen over coffee and cake.

“Now,” the bishop opened, “what was it again that you were interested in?” He was wearing black trousers, not well pressed, and an open-collared white shirt.

“I want to be a priest in your diocese.”

As far as Bishop Waldo was concerned, this was a by-damn miracle. This man, to all appearances in full command of his faculties, wanted to be a priest. In this diocese. And on Holy Thursday. There must be some catch. The bishop was soon to discover there was.

Casserly held nothing back. He was loath to go over his time with Lil when they’d lived in fear that someone would discover their secret. But—no more secrets. When he finished his autobiographical sketch the two men sat in mutual silence.

“As I understand it,” Waldo said, after a thoughtful minute, “you left the priesthood to marry. That was about ten months ago. You didn’t petition for laicization, nor were you granted it. A few months ago, your wife died in a tragic accident. So, now you want to return to the active ministry. But not in your home diocese, Detroit. How so?”

“Too many memories. Too many explanations.” These reasons were valid even if they weren’t the essential cause of his leave. Of course, if this request to belong to Flint required the time and effort of that Detroit rigmarole, it would be back to the secular workforce for Rick Casserly.

But Waldo simply nodded, indicating understanding. He rubbed his hands together as if completely satisfied. “Well, since your impediment is deceased and you haven’t been laicized, I guess I’ll just incardinate you into the Flint diocese.”

Casserly was too stunned to utter a word.

“Wait a minute,” the bishop wondered aloud. “Can I do that? Just accept you into the diocese?”

As rapidly as Casserly’s heart had soared, that quickly did it plunge. Was this going to be another Detroit?

“Do you know anything about this, Richard?”

“Uh … no. I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I,” the bishop said. “It makes sense though, don’t you think?” he asked brightly.

Casserly nodded happily.

“After all,” Waldo continued, “you’re a validly ordained priest. You just don’t have any bishop’s permission to function. If there are any rules and regulations about how this is to be done, I’ve never seen them. Still, it does make sense. Rome probably will be making up some folderol about it in time. Why don’t we do this …” He rubbed his hands briskly again. “We’ll make all that you told me earlier your confession. I’ll give you absolution. And I’ll take care of that little matter of excommunication you incurred when you attempted matrimony. I know a couple of lovely canons that will do the trick. Then, just after Easter we’ll talk, and figure out what assignment will be best for you. Now, kneel down.”

Casserly did.

“God, the Father of mercies …” Waldo began the rite of absolution. After concluding, he held up a finger, indicating that Casserly should wait a minute or so. He then disappeared to another part of the rectory, shortly to reappear, bearing a sheet of paper that he handed to his still stunned guest. It was a document granting Rick power to again function as a priest. Once more Father Casserly was a priest in the active ministry.

Later, reflecting on what had transpired, Casserly thought it extremely odd that the bishop had referred to Dora as an “impediment.” However, Rick was not about to argue the point. He had learned to accept what was offered and be grateful.

Twenty-six

Liturgically it was still the Easter season, though it was now the middle of May. Spring, thus far, was mild and dry and extremely welcome after a harsh winter.

Father Koesler was still parish-sitting St. William’s. He had finished the weekday morning Mass and was sitting down to an oatmeal-and-banana breakfast when the phone rang. He almost jumped. This phone, unlike in former times, hardly ever rang.

“You told me to keep in touch.” Rick Casserly’s voice was oddly upbeat.

“Yes, indeed I did. The last time we talked was … what?… almost a month ago. Did you ever follow up on getting back into the active ministry?”

Rick, condensing as he went along, related what had happened in Flint with Bishop Waldo.

Koesler chuckled. “It reminds me of Pope John the Twenty-third. The Cardinals couldn’t agree on anyone in that consistory who was acceptable to the majority. So they elected that old man, who overturned everything.

“I remember when they made Flint a diocese. Neither the Michigan bishops nor the Vatican could agree on anyone, so they appointed Waldo to do nothing for five years. And then, good-bye. From what you two worked out, I’d say he’s going to make some pretty sizable changes in the time he has left until retirement.” He chuckled again. “Well, congratulations, Rick. Welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

“I thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”

“The bishop wanted to keep it quiet. There was a brief notice in the Flint paper. But if you weren’t a Flint priest, it well could slip by.” Casserly hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice seemed to have lost some of its buoyancy. “Say, Bob, I wonder if I could have some of your time? There’s something else I’d like to talk over with you.”

“Time is something I’ve got a lot of. You’re calling from Flint?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Suppose we make it late afternoon. Then maybe we can go out for dinner. You wouldn’t like what I could fix for you.”

“Sure. About four?”

“Fine.”

As time passed that day, Koesler grew somewhat uneasy. He thought he knew what Casserly wanted to discuss, and it would not be small talk. Koesler wished he had suggested a much earlier meeting. He would have had less time to be preoccupied about it.

At several minutes before four, Casserly arrived. They arranged themselves again in the spacious living room. “We could talk about how things are in Flint,” Koesler began. “But that’s probably not why you wanted to see me. So let’s start with that.”

“Okay.” Casserly’s hands were busy, fingering various parts of his suit. Fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve, touching his pockets, running a finger between his neck and the white, starched clerical collar. “I haven’t been feeling well, Bob.” He held up a hand. “And before you mention doctors, I’ve been to a few.”

Koesler didn’t respond. He sank deeper in his chair. “What’s the trouble?”

“It’s sleep—or rather the lack of it. I went to my G.P He sent me to a couple of specialists. Nothing. They didn’t find anything.”

“Tried a psychologist?”

“That’s next on my list if you can’t help.”

“Why me?”

“The trouble seems tied up with the priesthood. I thought you’d be more informed about that phase.”

“Okay. Let’s try it. You say it’s the lack of sleep and it’s tied up somehow with the priesthood. Let’s get specific.”

Casserly cleared his throat, stood, removed his suit coat, draped it over the chair and sat down again, this time on the couch. “It started sometime—maybe a week—after that storm and the accident.”

Koesler thought he knew where this was going and he feared the direction it would take.

“I started having these dreams—I guess you could call them nightmares. I never had problems with sleep before. But since the storm, I go to sleep, after a couple of hours I have the nightmare. Then I can’t get back to sleep. I’ve tried a nightcap. I go to sleep then, but it isn’t restful sleep. And after tossing and turning, I have the dream again. And I can’t get back to sleep.

“It’s driving me nutty, Bob. It’s getting so I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

“What’s the dream about?”

“It’s different every night. But basically it has the same theme. I’m supposed to do something—but I don’t know what … I don’t know how to do it. I wake up in a panic. I’m drenched.”

“Give me a for-instance.”

“Okay. I’m in the vestibule of a church. I’m familiar with the church. It’s one I worked in. But it’s a different church each night. I haven’t even read the Scripture readings for the day. I’m supposed to give a sermon based on those readings. It’s going to happen in a few minutes. But I can’t do it. I’m not going to do it.

“Or take another dream. I’m in a stage play. I’m standing backstage in the wings. I’m supposed to go on any minute. I don’t know what play it is. I don’t know my role. I don’t know any lines. The other actors are going to depend on me for cues. I can’t give them any help. And in neither of these dreams, or any others that are like them, can I leave the scene. The dream always ends with my failure. That’s when I wake up. It’s driving me crazy!”

“I can well imagine.”

“Have you ever had this happen to you? Dreams like these? I mean, you were in lots of plays in school. You’ve certainly been celebrant of a Mass when you weren’t as prepared for the homily as you’d want to be. Have these sorts of things ever been the manifest content of a dream or nightmare?”

“Maybe. I can’t think of one like you’re describing. But certainly I’ve never had it as bad as you have.” Koesler began to revise his thinking. Maybe Casserly had to go back through dangerous memories. Maybe his subconscious needed to face reality.

“Do you suppose,” Koesler said, “these dreams have anything to do with that storm?”

“Are you kidding? That’s the first thing I thought of. I went over it more than once, I can assure you. That’s not it. It was an accident. The storm itself they call an ‘Act of God.’ And the police officially declared Dora’s death an accident.”

“Would you mind,” Koesler said, “going over it one more time? With me leading the way?”

Casserly seemed a bit reluctant. But he was the one who’d asked for Koesler’s aid. “Okay, if you think it’ll help. I’ll try anything at this stage. ‘Once more unto the breach …’” He shook his head in irony. “Tonight I’ll probably be standing in the wings knowing nothing about Shakespeare’s
King Henry the Fifth
”

“The meeting we had at St. Joe’s almost a year ago seems to be the starting point of everything. Is that party clear in your mind?”

“Crystal.”

“You drank too much that night. Do you remember why? I mean, I’ve been with you many, many times, but you’ve never overindulged like that.”

“I was sore about a tiff I’d had with Lil earlier in the day.”

“Tully and I never should have sent you home in the care of Dora. Do you remember any of that episode?”

“Fuzzily. But clearly enough to know that I did what she accused me of.”

“Okay. Fast forward to the day of the storm. Why did you want to get together with the Beckers and Jerry and Lil?”

“It wasn’t my idea. Dora was upset that one-time friends were friends no more. This was supposed to be a healing experience.” Casserly snorted, “Some healing!”