they remained very active in the parish.
Eventually, the last of their children married and, quite naturally, moved away. Then Rose became a widow. Still she would not move. If anything, she became more involved in the parish and very popular with the children.
Then, shortly after Therese came to the parish, Rose died. Because the children loved her so much, Therese decided to take a group of them to the funeral home to pay their respects. She loaded the parish station wagon with young black girls and boys, all dressed in their very best for the solemn occasion.
It was only after they entered the funeral home that Therese learned that the kids had no idea either of what they were doing or what was expected of them.
As soon as her group entered the foyer, the children spread out in every direction. Chased as closely as possible by Therese, the kids bolted from room to room, looking for their friend. Obviously, they did not know what it meant that she had died. Nor had they any notion of the decorum expected in a funeral home, particularly one whose clientele was nearly exclusively white.
One by one, Therese had collared and collected the children from the far reaches of the funeral home and shepherded them toward the parlor that held the mortal remains of Rose Bevilaqua.
When they reached the proper parlor, there was Rudy Taylor perched atop the casket, peering down into its open hatch. As the ragtag group entered the room, a triumphant Rudy pointed down into the casket and proudly announced, “There go Rose!”
And yet, that had by no means been Rudy’s most memorable performance.
Therese recalled a confirmation ceremony only a year or so previous when Rudy unintentionally became the star of the show. The confirming bishop had been Edwin Baldwin. That was important to the memory of the event due to the fact that Bishop Baldwin, one of Detroit’s auxiliaries, retained the custom of interrogating the children who were about to be confirmed. The other bishops had pretty well abandoned that practice in favor of a simple, routine, and thus usually boring, homily. However, asking leading questions of youngsters could prove hazardous, and had—many, many times.
It was Bishop Baldwin’s fey habit to start almost anywhere, then allow the children’s freewheeling stream of consciousness to go wherever it would.
On this evening, the bishop began at the beginning, Genesis, the Bible’s first book. Various youngsters gave a quite vivid, if fanciful, description of the Garden of Paradise and that frolicsome couple, Adam and Eve. From there, they leaped over the millennia to Noah and the Flood and, eventually, to Abraham. At that point, the bishop threw the conversational ball up for a center jump, as he asked, “And who was Abraham?” Rudy Taylor waved his arm wildly, was called on, and volunteered, “Abraham Lincoln was our first president!”
At which time, the eighth grade history teacher prayed that the earth would open up and swallow her.
A commotion in the vestibule of the church brought Therese back to the present. The majority of this small congregation arrived to the sound of coughing and stamping of feet to shake snow from boots.
Therese glanced at her watch—11:59. One minute before the noon Mass. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was daily or Sunday Mass, a movie, the theater, or a meeting: Most people timed their arrival for the last possible moment—or were stylishly late. Few came early—or even on time—for anything. Therese pitied those who missed coming early for Mass. There was no place more conducive to peaceful, quiet meditation than a church when no service was being conducted.
The usual ten to fifteen people scattered themselves throughout the vast church. Most huddled, almost for warmth, in the front near the altar. But there were those who did not cotton to the distinctively post-Conciliar notion of “community.” These made certain that lots of space separated them from those who clustered together. In the best spirit of laissez-faire, the “community” did not force those in the farflung reaches of the church to participate in communal liturgies such as the greeting of peace.
As Father Kramer entered the sanctuary from the sacristy, he rang the bell that announced the beginning of services. There was no altar boy. A deficiency that emphasized the role of the late Rudy Taylor. Not only were priests an endangered species; now, even altar boys were on the list.
Father Kramer kissed the center of the altar, reverencing the bone-relic of the martyr saint “buried” in the altar stone. He intoned, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”
“And also with you,” the congregation replied.
“And also with you,” said the man who had just entered the church.
Arnold Bush had timed his arrival carefully. He did not wish to be early and chance the others’ taking note of him. On the other hand, those who came in after him would be more concerned with discovering where Father was in the Mass than taking any interest in him.
Yes, this was the perfect time. Just a few seconds late and seated quite apart from anyone else. No one would bother him. No one would extend to him the greeting of peace. He was at leisure to study the priest, Father Richard Kramer.
It was not long ago that someone—he’d forgotten who—had told him he bore a striking resemblance to Father Kramer. Until then, Arnold Bush had never heard of Father Kramer. Nor, at that time, did the possibility that he had a lookalike in the priesthood much interest him. More recently, the possibility of such a resemblance took on a much more practical significance.
So, Bush, of late, spent one or two of his lunch hours each week driving out to Mother of Sorrows church to attend noonday Mass. As a rather intense Catholic, he did not mind attending Mass more often than just Sundays. But there was much more than mere devotion involved. In fact, at these Masses he seldom said an actual prayer. He would automatically respond to the celebrant’s invocations, as he just had to the opening prayer, but his mind was far from prayer and God.
Rather, he was planning his next move.
Things were falling into place rather nicely, all things considered. He needed only a little more time to tie up a few loose ends. Then, with any luck at all, his plan would be complete and ready to be put into action.
As he carefully studied the priest, Bush realized that their features were not by any means identical. Oh, they were about the same height and build; blond-haired, fair-complexioned. The likeness, such as it was, would not stand the test of close scrutiny. But to the casual passerby the similarity was enough. Yes, Arnold Bush would stake his future, his freedom, on that.
“Let us proclaim the mystery of faith,” Father Kramer invited.
“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again,” the congregation responded.
Christ died for sinners, thought Bush. It was only fit and proper that sinners should die for Christ.
17
Sister Mary Therese offered to show Father Koesler the way to the church basement, but he assured her he was familiar with the plant and could find the way. So she told him which doors were locked and which were not. And away he went.
She was surprised but pleased that Koesler had come to visit. She wished that her presence, support, and companionship were sufficient for Dick Kramer, but she knew that wasn’t so. There was just something about one priest that needed another. And Kramer did not have many priest friends, at least to the extent that any priest socialized with him, or he with any of them.
There was nothing she could do about this beyond encouraging him to give himself a break and party with the gang once in a while. He always seemed grateful for her solicitude, but he almost always begged off. Workaholism, a defect that Kramer had to a terminal degree, did not mix well with worry-free relaxation.
Thus she was happy that Koesler had come on what seemed to be a social call. Perhaps this could be the beginning of a new companionable dimension in Dick Kramer’s life. God knows he could use it.
Koesler of course had no way of knowing what was on Sister Therese’s mind. As far as he was concerned, this visit was the result of Monsignor Meehan’s request. The next time Koesler stopped by, he wanted to be able to give the monsignor some sort of report— positive, Koesler hoped—on the state of Richard Kramer.
It was not that Koesler was in any way opposed to the possibility that this visit might blossom into a deeper friendship more frequently renewed. Such, indeed, he would welcome. But it was not in Koesler’s nature to enter into another’s life uninvited. In truth, there was no way he would have undertaken this visit had it not been for
