isolate that woman’s uterus.”
Haroldson shook his head. “I don’t care. I’m just glad I’ve lived my life at a time when Church teaching was clear and objective and dependable. Today’s young priests are creating their own Church. And they can have it.”
“As hard as it probably is for you to believe this, I don’t disagree with you all that much. But I’ve got to hand it to you, John; you have an excellent understanding of moral theology. Usually, when I get into a discussion with a layperson, the main problem is that we’re not talking about the same thing. Usually, our disagreement rests with the layperson’s misunderstanding of traditional theology. That certainly is not the case with you. You have an excellent grasp of systematic theology. I can’t help wondering where you got it.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I beg to differ. And you couldn’t have picked it up in just any parochial school. Where?”
Haroldson sipped his coffee as if trying to decide whether to get into this. “The seminary.”
“The seminary! I didn’t know. Tell me about it. How far did you go?”
Haroldson smiled grimly. “From the very beginning to the very end.”
“The very end! I don’t understand: You weren’t ordained a priest?”
“No.”
“Then . . .”
Haroldson hesitated. “The thing is, you see, Father, I’m an ecclesiastical bastard.”
Koesler was neither shocked nor surprised. There were lots of ecclesiastical bastards around. This was not caused by an unmarried mother. It was a case of one’s parents not having their marriage witnessed by a priest. And this was the result of one or both parents opting out of a Catholic wedding; or one or both parents had been previously married and not in possession of the required declaration of nullity for the previous marriage.
“And that,” Haroldson continued, “is an impediment to Holy Orders.”
“Well, yes. But a dispensation is possible. Now it’s routine. “
“Not then. Not when I was a seminarian. Oh, the dispensation from the impediment of illegitimacy was possible. But the petition for the dispensation was by no means routinely made. And in my case, the bishop simply decided not to petition. And that was that.”
“But the bishop must have known the problem of illegitimacy was there. Why would he let you go all the way through the seminary if he wasn’t going to ask for a dispensation?”
Haroldson shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always thought that he let me complete my seminary education because it certainly couldn’t hurt me even if I lived the rest of my life as a lay Catholic. In retrospect, I’d have to agree with that. And I suppose he spent some of his time during all those years praying for guidance. The answer to his prayers must have been not to process my case to Rome.”
“My God!” Koesler was appalled. “All those years! You were no better than a puppet. And the bishop was playing puppeteer!”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad! You spent nearly twelve years preparing for the priesthood. Early on, the bishop could have told you he wasn’t going to do anything about an impediment that was no more than a Church law that could have been suspended. If nothing else, you could have been freed to find a bishop who would have gone to bat for you.”
“You’re building this up larger than life, Father. I wasn’t blindfolded during all those years. I knew about the impediment and I knew the decision was entirely in the hands of the bishop. You see, for me, the bishop’s decision in the matter was the will of God. I entered the seminary intent only on knowing whether the priesthood was, for me, God’s will. As it turned out, it wasn’t.”
Koesler looked at Haroldson as if for the first time. “I admire your faith, I really do. But I think I would have to look well beyond the whim of a bishop for an expression of God’s will.”
“For me, that was it. Besides, all those years of a fine liberal arts education paved the way for my premed.”
“You were premed!”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t complete it. You didn’t become a doctor.”
“No, one more incomplete endeavor.”
“But why?”
“No money. Or, rather, I ran out of money. There were no government loans. Nor any other, for that matter, for someone of most modest means. But,” Haroldson began arranging his tray, “neither experience was a failure as far as I’m concerned. Since both of them led to this hospital. This,” he said it fondly, “this Catholic hospital. The seminary trained me in things Catholic. And medical school gave me a special preparation for the hospital. And this has been my life . . . my very life.”
Koesler noticed the slightest quiver at the corners of Haroldson’s mouth. The priest was touched at this sign of emotion.
“And now,” Haroldson continued, “they expect me to leave it. Just, one day soon, stay home instead of coming to where my life is. Just because a man reaches an arbitrary age, he is expected to die.”
Strange, thought Koesler, the similarity of reaction to retirement on the part of Haroldson and Sister Rosamunda. “Oh, come now, John,”Koesler said, “that’s painting it rather more bleakly than necessary, don’t you think? Especially with your background, there must be any number of fulfilling things you could do. Teach, for instance.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Who?”
“Sister Eileen.” Haroldson almost spat the name. “She doesn’t understand. You don’t understand. Nobody understands. A man can die when he’s forced out of his life’s purpose. Father, I’m fighting for my life!”
“John, I’ve known people who dreaded retirement every bit as much as you do. And they managed to live through it. Even thrive on it.”
“You don’t understand. You just don’t understand . . .” Haroldson picked up his tray with its now-empty dishes and left.
Easily half of Koesler’s lunch remained. It was cold and now unappetizing. That was all right, he thought. Selecting that much food had been an imprudent whim. It was just as well to leave half of it uneaten.
He sat for a few minutes pondering his conversation with Haroldson. Koesler had learned much. Perhaps it was true that every organization needed at least one hatchet man. And perhaps John Haroldson was that man on behalf of St. Vincent’s Hospital.
On the other hand, it might be true that to understand was to forgive all.
* * *
“Aren’t you finished with this story yet?”
The peevish tone took Pat Lennon back to her youth when, as she liked to joke now, nuns were nuns and religious sisters were prone to admonish young Catholic students to “cast down your bold eyes!” But she was utterly unprepared for any harsh statement from Sister Eileen Monahan. So, Lennon was startled by the question.
“Why . . . yes, as a matter of fact,” she replied, “I am almost finished. Another interview or two and I’ll have all the information I need. Then there’s writing it up for the magazine. But that’s a rather flexible deadline. Was there some hurry, Sister? I wasn’t aware of any.”
“It just seems that it’s taking an awful lot of time.”
Lennon hesitated. “Is there something wrong, Sister?”
“Wrong?”
“You don’t seem yourself.”
Eileen pinched her brow just over the bridge of her nose. “I have been abrupt, haven’t I? Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. On the contrary, you’ve been most patient and cooperative. Everybody at St. Vincent’s has been. Especially you. That’s why I was surprised just now. It is perfectly reasonable for you to want me out of your way. But it seemed sort of . . . out of character for you.”
Eileen smiled, it seemed in spite of herself. “Well, I’m glad we’ve managed to give you a good impression of St. Vlncent’s. All the more reason I feel ashamed I was short with you just then.”
