compassion of the Holy Spirit. But who among us can. know the mind of a tortured soul in the final moments of life?”
“It is the law.”
“It is a law regularly set aside.”
“Well,” Delvecchio said, “at least Aunt Martha can go to Communion again.”
Koesler almost gasped. The only other person who had expressed that sentiment was Frank himself-in his suicide note.
There seemed little point in continuing the conversation. Besides, the purpose of Koesler’s visit had been accomplished: Delvecchio was handling what grief was his magnificently. No need to worry about him … at least for the present.
Koesler left for the long drive home.
Completely out of character for him, he did not turn on the car radio. He was deep in thought about Vincent and the manner in which he was taking the death of his uncle.
Was this the same kid who’d trashed a liturgical rubric just so campers wouldn’t be bored during Communion time?
Now, when it comes to his uncle’s suicide, he is appealing to law-Church law-to … what? To shield himself from the slightest responsibility for what had happened.
To be brutally fair, there really wasn’t much responsibility to be shouldered by young Vince Delvecchio. He’d had a corner of responsibility for a matter of. minutes-when his mother asked him to “do something” about the canonically irregular situation of his uncle and aunt.
Then, in the space of just a few minutes, he had shifted the load to others. Suddenly it became someone else’s duty to contact a young priest who was busy translating book learning to the school of hard knocks. And from then on, it was the responsibility of Father Koesler.
Finally, there was the business of Communion and the other sacraments. To see death-suicide-as nothing more than making the sacraments available to one who had been denied them, seemed to Koesler to be crass legalism in its shoddiest form.
Where was this boy headed?
10
The Present
At the sound of the phone, Koesler instinctively started to rise from the chair. Just as quickly, he remembered that he was, or very soon would be, a Senior Priest, no longer responsible for the spiritual care of a parish. No longer responsible for answering the phone. With a twinge of regret he eased himself back into his contour- programmed chair.
He looked across at Father Tully, who made no move to pick up the phone. Why not? Koesler wondered.
Maybe it was the seminary of Koesler’s day. If it’s your job, you clean the floor. If it’s your job, you answer the phone.
Koesler’s active memory recalled a time when his class was in its final year at Sacred Heart Seminary. His room was in St. Thomas Hall, a residential wing. The individual rooms provided some privacy for the students for the first time in their seminary career. But the rooms were not for claustrophobics. One wag stated that if a student died in his room, the rector would have handles attached to the outside and the room would be the coffin the lad was buried in.
Just outside Koesler’s room in the seminary was a phone, used exclusively for intercom calls. However, once, in a unique exception, the phone rang-loudly-at about 3 A.M.
Finally, after about ten rings, it was answered by the student assigned to that task. Groggy, he was understandably confused.
Student: St. Thomas Hall.
Woman: This Mr. Moon’s bar?
Student: St. Thomas Hall.
Woman (after a pause): What?
Student: St. Thomas Hall.
Woman: I got a wrong number?
Student: St. Thomas Hall.
Woman: Well, you’d think the least I would get was the right number.
Later they found that the student on switchboard duty, when closing down for the night, had mistakenly programmed all incoming calls to the phone in St. Thomas Hall.
It was the next day’s conversation piece. No switchboard operator ever made that mistake again.
However, the compulsion to answer a phone was implanted. In Koesler’s case, the compulsion was intensified during his assignment to St. William’s, where the three assistant priests took turns being “on” the door and “on” the phone. Callers left to cool their heels at the door or callers on a phone that went unanswered were evidence of sins that cried to heaven for vengeance.
Well, Koesler reminded himself, mundane decisions such as how the congregation would be served were no longer in his bailiwick. Father Tully was in charge … or would be, if the two of them could devise a way to treat the double requirement of making the Profession of Faith and taking the Oath of Fidelity.
The phone stopped ringing. Koesler noted that while the light on the dial had ceased flashing, it remained lit: Someone else in the rectory had picked up. Undoubtedly Mary O’Connor.
Sure enough, Mary peeked around the half-opened door. Out of long-standing habit, she looked to Koesler. She quickly corrected herself and addressed Father Tully. “It’s Inspector Koznicki on line one-”
Before she was able to go on, Tully was getting to his feet.
“You don’t have to take the call, Father,” she said. “He just has a question. I can give him your answer.”
Tully stopped in mid-rise, then dropped back into the chair, looking up at her expectantly.
“The inspector and Lieutenant Tully are tied up in a meeting. They and their wives can still make the dinner, but they’ll be late …”
“How late?”
“Nine, he said-maybe a little earlier, but no later. If nine is too late, they’ll have to cancel-or postpone the dinner.”
Father Tully considered for a brief moment. “How do you and the caterers feel about it?”
Mary smiled broadly. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Let’s go with nine then. And, thanks, Mary.”
As Mary left for the kitchen, Tully turned back to Koesler. “What about the bishop? Should we tell him dinner’s going to be late?”
“Let’s not,” Koesler replied without hesitation. “I have a hunch we may want to talk to Vince before the others arrive.”
Tully sipped his tea. “That was some story!” he said after a few moments. “Nothing anyplace close to that’s ever happened to me.”
“It was a one-time event for me.”
“How did you feel? I mean, I can see how you’d want to console Martha and Delvecchio and his mother. But you … you must’ve had some deep reaction yourself.”
“I’ll say I did. And it happened just as you suggested. I was operating on adrenaline from the first moment I heard what happened. But after I talked with Vince, I had to face up to my part in this … a classic time for second- guessing oneself.”
“That’s happened to all of us,” Tully offered.
“Yeah, I suppose it’s kind of normal. But this situation with Frank and Martha was well out of the ordinary.”
“Are you over it now?” Tully inquired. “I mean, I know it’s been a lot of years. But did you ever fully recover?”
