Anyone who could locate downtown Detroit should be able to find St. Joseph’s easily. It saddened Koesler to conclude that a lot of suburbanites could not locate, or were completely unfamiliar with Detroit’s downtown.
Spread out before him on the dining table was the
He was so caught up with his own thoughts that he was startled when he realized Mary O’Connor was standing in the doorway, smiling as she waited for him to return to the present.
“Yes, Mary?”
“This call you really ought to take. It’s that Mr. Bradley from the Communications Office.”
He picked up the phone. “Father Koesler.”
“Father, Ned Bradley. We’re holding a news conference this afternoon at four. I’d like it if you could come.”
“But you had a conference this morning!” This was an invitation he didn’t want to accept.
“Yes, but there have been some developments since then. It’s important for us to stay on top of this. If we don’t, the media will take the driver’s seat.”
“Well, that’s nice, I guess. But I was there this morning.”
“You were?” Bradley was so taken aback that he asked a foolish question. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure. I left a little early; but I was there.”
“Oh. Well, that works to our advantage. You’ll be familiar with what went on then. It’ll be a good context for this afternoon.”
“Ned, I don’t want to give you the impression that all I’ve got to do is attend news conferences.”
Bradley was becoming accustomed to dealing with defensive priests. He considered this a case in point. He was wrong; Koesler was being neither evasive nor defensive. He meant simply that there was enough going on in his life without needlessly attending a news conference.
Without realizing it, Bradley spoke to Koesler’s reservation. “We need you this afternoon. After all, this whole thing began in your parish. We need you for some backgrounding and for questions concerning the parish.”
“I don’t know. This morning I saw a doctor come apart under questioning.”
“He was way too overconfident in handling the reporters. Reporters get into a feeding frenzy when they get their teeth into a guy who’s being careless with them. But you’ve got some journalistic experience. Besides, people who know you say you can handle it.” When there was no response from Koesler, Bradley put on his prize-winning petitionary tone. “Please.”
“I’ll be there at four.”
In the seminary’s huge parlor, things were much as they’d been that morning, except for the pastry. Apparently, seminary authorities had budgetary limits when it came to providing snacks more than once a day. However, there was plenty of coffee on hand.
Not having had a good look at them this morning, Koesler couldn’t tell whether the same reporters were here, held over for a second big conference. The usual paraphernalia was at the ready. He looked for Pat Lennon, but in the face of the blinding lights he couldn’t have picked out his own mother. Of course, Pat had told him she couldn’t make it, but there was always the possibility that her plans had changed.
In addition to Ned Bradley, Koesler shared the dais with the three-priest committee appointed by the Cardinal.
The committee was both diverse and complementary. Koesler knew all three priests.
There was Art Grimes, formally a seminary teacher specializing in ascetic theology. Miracles would be right up his alley.
Pete McKeever was a civil as well as a canon lawyer and a former defender of the bond for the marriage tribunal-in Koesler’s view, the worst of all possible combinations. Canon law, particularly, was stiff and unyielding, as was Pete. His job in the tribunal was to do his best to see that impossible marriages were preserved no matter the emotional cost to two miserable people.
Ralph Shuler rounded out the threesome. Like Gamaliel of the Old Testament, this pastor of St. Valentine’s parish was open to all things. And if for no other reason, Koesler liked him.
Bradley stepped to the microphone. “There’s been some movement today. And that movement is the result of the Cardinal’s committee. I’d like Father Grimes to explain.”
Bradley moved from the mike and stood to one side. He wanted to be ready to step in and head off any repeat of this morning’s fiasco.
Father Grimes approached the mike almost bashfully. From force of habit, he tapped it several times, to make sure it was on and projecting.
Bradley moved forward. “It’s okay, Father. Just speak in a conversational tone.”
“Yes,” Grimes said. “Well, we were able to visit with the Zabola family and Mrs. Zabola’s sister, Theresa Waleski.”
There was a murmur among the reporters. Waleski was a good sidebar. But they wanted to get into the main event: the resurrection of Moses Green.
Bradley raised a quieting hand.
Grimes continued as if nothing had happened or threatened to happen. “We ascertained that Theresa has been unable to use her legs since her sister’s wedding. She has been a paraplegic. She has had good medical care. Yet with all of this, the doctors have agreed in their diagnosis that there is no physical cause for her paraplegic state. In their collective and unanimous opinion, Theresa’s illness is psychosomatic.
“We are dependent on medical science to tell us what is going on. We are not physicians. We represent the Church … or, more specifically, the Church in the archdiocese of Detroit.
“The physicians also are unanimous on the prognosis of Theresa’s condition. Since her illness seems to be, in popular expression, all in her mind, a deeply moving emotional trauma could remove the internal blocks that cause her paralysis, and she would be cured.
“That is what we believe happened.” And Grimes turned and took his seat.
“There’s more,” Bradley said. “But before we move on, are there any questions? Yes, Andy ….”
“Unless I missed something in all the briefing we’ve had, doesn’t time have something to do with this?”
Monsignor McKeever moved toward the microphone as the question continued.
“I mean,” the reporter specified, “somebody said that for an authentic miracle the recovery couldn’t be reversible. I mean, if all the other criteria were met, you’d still have to wait a very long while to make sure the illness didn’t come back. Well, what if this woman, Theresa Waleski, what if her crippled condition never returns? Wouldn’t that count?”
“No,” McKeever stated succinctly. “It doesn’t make any difference how long the woman stays healthy. As long as the official diagnosis is psychosomatic, the apparent cure will never be recognized as a miracle. Suppose a person says she doesn’t feel good. And then she says she does. There is no way to measure feeling. And an imagined illness is not the substance of a miracle.” Monsignor McKeever more marched than walked to his chair and sat.
“Anything else?” Bradley asked.
A couple of hands toyed with being raised. But those reporters quickly got the message that the majority did not want to diddle with the sidebar. Not when there was a chance for something new on the resurrection story.
“Very well,” Bradley said. “I’ll just ask Father Ralph Shuler to bring us up to speed on the committee’s investigation into the Dr. Green matter.”
The proverbial pin-drop could have been heard.
Father Shuler squinted into the bright lights. “There’s really not much of a substantive report to give. As of now we still have not been able to see Dr. Green, let alone interview him. Nor, I take it, has anyone but the doctor’s wife and his personal physician been granted access to him.
“This situation must, of course, change. The time will come when the doctor will appear in public. I have no idea whether he will be cooperative with this ecclesial investigation. Only time will tell. The one admonition we must give most emphatically is that in doubtful cases such as this, the presumption favors nature and the increasing wonders of medical science.
