seen. She must, Koesler assumed, be preparing for the arrival of the men. Or maybe she had just decided not to attend the rosary for Hunsinger.
The scene of relative inactivity had a soporific effect. Koesler’s mind wandered back to a similar scene many years earlier in this very home. His father had died after a long illness and his wake was held here at Hackett’s. Koesler had arrived to find a group of his friends gathered in the hallway. They were taking up a collection among themselves for stipends for Masses for his father. It had taken him several minutes to convince them that they were bringing coals to Newcastle. All of his many priest friends were offering Masses for the happy repose of his father’s soul; one thing no one needed to be concerned with was prayers for any priest’s relative.
Koesler was also reminded of the eve of his father’s funeral. That night, he and his mother were the last on hand at the funeral home. They stood alone beside the bier. He urged her to leave with him. She spoke, but not to him. To his father. That surprised him; he had never known his parents to be overtly affectionate with each other. “Good night, my darling,” she had said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the last time before we meet in heaven.” He nearly broke down.
The following year, his mother followed his father.
“What do you think of the house, Bob? Is this SRO or isn’t it?”
Koesler’s reverie was shattered. It was Father Peter Forbes, pastor of Holy Redeemer. They knew each other casually but with the familiarity almost completely reserved to priests.
“Yeah,” Koesler responded, “you’ve got a good crowd tonight. I was just remembering the wakes for my parents. They were held right here and with just about as many people as are here tonight.”
“But a different crowd, Bob.” Forbes had not been stationed at Redeemer when Koesler’s parents had died, but the Redemptorist spoke from experience. “Most of these folks are here out of curiosity. The death got lots of publicity. And after all, Hank Hunsinger was a celebrity, especially in this town. These folks want to tell their friends they attended the Hun’s funeral. Some of them just want to see a celebrity-even a dead one. Besides, there’s a live one over there.” Forbes nodded in the direction of Bobby Cobb.
Cobb and his wife were among the very few blacks in the crowd. Besides being a celebrity in his own right, Cobb and his wife were so outrageously attractive that they were the object of many a surreptitious glance.
“There are some genuine mourners here, of course,” Forbes continued, “but I’m sure most of them are curiosity seekers. Even though I wasn’t here for your parents’ funerals, I’m sure you had a big turnout of people who were genuinely sympathetic and supportive.”
Koesler nodded affirmation. It was always thus with parents or close relatives of a priest. Besides the relatives and friends of the family, there were many parishioners and former parishioners, as well as priestly classmates and friends, to swell the total. And always they formed a group of sincere and sympathetic mourners.
“Was there a problem with the funeral?” Koesler inquired.
“Problem?”
“I mean with Christian burial. I got to know Hunsinger only over the past couple of months or so. But I got the impression he hadn’t seen the inside of a Catholic church-or any church, for that matter-in a great number of years.”
“It’s true; that could have been a problem,” Forbes reflected. “There is one overwhelming reason we really went to bat for this one: Mrs. Hunsinger. She has been so faithful and exemplary a Catholic all her life, we just couldn’t let her down. Hell, even the Chancery guys got the point after I explained it to them.”
“But they did give you a hard time?”
Forbes gave a low, almost soundless whistle. “Oh, my, yes. They were concerned with scandal. I must say I don’t much blame them. Hunsinger has always gotten a lot of publicity. Just about everybody knew what his private life was like. And it was also common knowledge that he couldn’t have cared less about church. If the guys downtown had known Mrs. Hunsinger, maybe they wouldn’t have been so stubborn.”
“Maybe. But I doubt it.”
“Anyway, I must admit a few hot words were exchanged before they finally gave in and let us have the funeral. Mrs. Hunsinger has been so good and faithful for so long, I just couldn’t let her down. I think I might have been tempted to just outright disobey the Chancery if they hadn’t given in. Thank God I wasn’t forced into that position.”
“How’s she taking it?”
Forbes and Koesler had not yet moved from the doorway. So Koesler had still not met Mrs. Hunsinger.
“Pretty hard.” Forbes shook his head. “Not unexpected. Parents just don’t envision burying their children. When it happens, especially suddenly and tragically like this, it’s a double shock. But she’s holding up pretty good through it all. I’ve been trying to keep her busy. . as busy as possible, anyway. Earlier today, we went over the Scripture readings for the Mass tomorrow. I don’t know why I should have been surprised at her knowledge of the Bible; she’s been reading it all her life the way other people read novels. After the funeral, I think I’m going to try to get her involved again in the parish. She’s been a kind of recluse over the past several years. Be good for her to get outside herself. Be good for the parish, in fact.”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Really! Now that surprises me. . your growing up in the parish and all. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”
Koesler, by far the taller of the two priests, took on the blocking role as he led the way toward the casket.
As soon as he saw her seated in the front row, pencil-thin yet exuding an inner strength, Koesler recognized her. He had never known her name. But he remembered that familiar face from all those years he had served at daily Mass and all those years he’d come from the seminary on vacations. So she was Mrs. Hunsinger. It was the queen of cliches, but it was all that came to mind: small world. He was yet to discover just how small.
Father Forbes, arriving on the scene in Koesler’s wake, was just about to begin introductions when Koesler abruptly sat down next to her. “You’re Mrs. Hunsinger, aren’t you?”
She smiled, pleased that he recognized her. These were the first words he’d ever spoken to her. “Yes. And you’re Father Koesler.”
Introductions being unexpectedly unnecessary, Forbes moved off to greet and console, if consolation were called for, some of the aunts and uncles of the deceased, Mrs. Hunsinger’s sisters and brothers.
“I used to see you in church all the time,” said Koesler. “You used to sit in the back of the transept on the Epistle side.”
“Yes.” She nodded, still wearing an attractive if shy smile. “I always knew you would be a good priest. You were a very good altar boy. Always so reverent and attentive. Even through your final years in the seminary.”
Only now did it occur to Koesler just how long a period they had been wordlessly watching each other. Almost twenty years from the time he first began serving at Mass in the primary grades, through high school, college, and the four years of theology.
The thought crossed his mind that this would not likely have happened if they had been Protestants. The Separated Brethren, as they were now called, with their custom of congregating, mingling, offering “the hand of fellowship,” never would have let nearly two decades pass without even a greeting. Only in the Catholic Church. .
But this was not why he had come to the funeral home.
“I’m so sorry about the death of your son,” said Koesler, coming to the point. “I hadn’t known him very long-”
“We were at your first Mass.”
“Pardon?”
“Henry and I attended your first solemn Mass right here in Holy Redeemer; in June of ’54, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but-”
“If only I could have somehow gotten him to follow in your footsteps, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault, you know.”
Koesler recalled Inspector Koznicki’s saying that during her interrogation Mrs. Hunsinger had lapsed into the self-blame that so often afflicts parents when a child doesn’t live up to their expectations. Mrs. Hunsinger’s confession of guilt brought to mind a very similar statement made by the father of the young man who had shot President Reagan and three others. At the ensuing trial, the father said, “I am the cause of my son’s tragedy.”
