herself who had given Father Koesler directions on how to bypass all the locked doors in the basement of Mother of Sorrows church. Father Kramer had few friends, as far as Therese knew, at least among fellow priests. But who more than a fellow priest could better understand the predicament faced by Kramer? Priests understand priests.
Then there was the very special relationship Father Koesler had built up with Detroit’s police department over the years. Some were prone to forget Koesler’s many interventions. But Therese had not forgotten.
So there he was—a confrere of Dick Kramer’s with friends in the police department. And now that she was considering it, she could not recall a single incident she had heard about when Koesler’s involvement with investigations had not been with the Homicide Division. Perfect! Dick Kramer was accused of homicide. Certainly Father Koesler would know his way around that department.
Hope rebounded. She freely attributed her newfound solution to the power of prayer. As quickly as she found the listing of Koesler’s parish in the Detroit Catholic Directory, she dialed the number.
24
The phone rang just as Jerry Hodak was concluding his Channel 7 weather forecast. Father Koesler had just absorbed the informed opinion that tomorrow would be unseasonably warm. His head jerked at the first ring. Experience had taught him that usually anyone calling a rectory at this hour had trouble and it most likely was an emergency. He felt a little queasy as he answered the phone. “St Anselm’s.”
“Father Koesler?”
“Yes.” He almost placed the voice.
“Sister Therese—at Mother of Sorrows.”
“Oh, yes.” That had not been his guess. “I’m sorry about Father Kramer. I just heard about it on the news. But I’m sure that . . .”
“That’s what I’m calling about.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to see you.”
“Oh. Well, I have some time in the morning.”
“Now.”
“Now! Do you know what time it is?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see you.”
“Are you sure we can’t do this in the morning?”
“Father, if we don’t talk tonight, you will be able to see me tomorrow in the psycho ward at Lafayette Clinic.”
“Uh, well . . . can we do it on the phone?”
“I’ve got to
He glanced at his watch—11:32. The recap of the day’s ABC network news was on. In Koesler’s plan, this was to be the final conscious event of the day, to be followed by sleep. But . . . there didn’t appear to be any way out. “Oh, very well. How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’m on my way. About fifteen, twenty minutes . . . and . . . thanks.”
Koesler looked at his watch again. It would be almost midnight by the time she got here. Good grief.
Robert Koesler had lived almost sixty years. And, having paid attention, he knew himself pretty well. He was a creature of habit, even more of routine. Years before, he’d read one of those articles that purported to describe the differences between men and women. The example he best recalled had to do with housecleaning. Women, the article held, tend to go about cleaning a room with no particular order in mind, simply moving from one piece of furniture to the next.
Men, on the other hand, tend to make a plan before beginning, which was fine unless something interfered with or voided the plan. For example, on second thought it made more sense to clean the fireplace before cleaning the floor. At which point, the plan would be destroyed and the man would have to sit down and make up a new plan. Koesler knew he was that man.
And so it went on Sundays.
The compulsory routines on Sundays tended to drain most priests. Offering two, possibly three, Masses was not a major problem. It was the preaching. If they invested in a serious attempt to hold the congregation’s attention while communicating the Gospel message, few priests had much physical or emotional stamina left by Sunday afternoon.
From afternoon on, each priest was pretty much on his own. Occasionally, there might be baptisms to perform. But usually the remainder of the day was free.
Koesler, after the morning Masses, liked to relax. Perhaps a concert or a movie or a visit with friends. Sunday evenings were for reading, listening to records, or extending the friendly visits.
As with most evenings, things wound down for Koesler about eleven o’clock at night. The routine was the news at eleven o’clock, with a mild highball or glass of wine. After local news, another fourteen minutes, perhaps, of sports or the network news, and then to bed.
Thus he could not help grousing about this upset in routine. Attired in pajamas and robe, he’d gotten almost through the news program, had taken a few sips of scotch and water, and was drifting toward sleep when the damn phone rang.
He would not have minded so much if it had been a sick call. One can’t help what time one gets sick—or dies. Though, God knows, most sick people in need of spiritual ministration of a priest were in a hospital.
It wasn’t that he did not sympathize with Sister Therese. He knew she was close to Dick Kramer. And there was no doubt that what had happened to the poor man was a tragedy. But did she really have to do this tonight?
His routine!
Well, there was nothing for it but to get ready. He went to the bedroom, where he slipped trousers and shirt over the pajamas. Then the clerical collar and cassock over that, muttering all the while. Thus proving that grousing can be audible even if there is no one else around to hear it.
25
The thought had crossed Father Koesler’s mind many times before. And it occurred again as he helped Sister Therese take off her overcoat.
She was wearing a trim suit that nicely accentuated her trim figure. The only bow made to the fact that she was a religious was a small silver cross on the lapel of her jacket. The color of her suit also was a clue, but only to the practiced eye. Among the few contemporary Catholics who were able to distinguish it, the color was called IHM blue. The reference was to the distinctive dark blue that was the traditional habit of the Sisters Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary—the IHMs, headquartered in Monroe, Michigan, whose other claim to fame was that it had once been home to General George Armstrong Custer.
Sister Therese was a member of the IHMs. Not too many years earlier, she had worn the full traditional habit of her religious order. For most of her years as a religious, all people saw of her was a face and hands. The rest was covered by either starched linen or the IHM blue wool. Now she wore modest lay clothing, albeit usually IHM blue, and a small cross. And here he was in cassock and roman collar, a uniform that was old when America was discovered.
The first time a similar thought occurred was shortly after he’d been ordained some thirty years previous. During summer in a suburban parish, it had dawned on him, as he walked around perspiring freely under a black cassock, that he was somewhat overdressed compared with the common garb of shorts and halter worn by most of the neighborhood women.
It seemed to him that everything in the concept was reversed. It was common knowledge that, since Adam, men were stimulated by the sight of women. The more they see, the greater the stimulation. Whereas Eve and her daughters were stirred by deeper and more subtle qualities.
However.
It would not do to invite Sister Therese into one of the offices, although the thought occurred to him. She was, all things considered, a colleague. So he ushered her into the living room.
No, she would not have a drink. And yes, she was nervous and upset.
