impressed by the quantity. Do you know, Lucy, whether or not your insurance covers this sort of thing?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t.”
“Okay. Drug companies are forever sending me samples. I’ll put in as many as I have on hand. But some you’re going to have to get at the pharmacy.”
“I’ve got some money,” Koesler offered.
Schmidt looked dubious. “A priest? I’ll try to keep the cost down. But it’ll still be expensive.”
Koesler smiled. “We don’t make much. But then, we don’t need much.”
“Well,” the doctor concluded, “we’ll take it as it comes. One way or another we’ll want to protect Mrs. Delvecchio from pain. And in this kind of illness, pain can be a formidable enemy.
“Now,” Schmidt emphasized, “I think it very important that Louise be on her own as much as possible.”
Lucy looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand.” Gradually, she was becoming more cognizant of what her role involved. She would be the hands-on “nurse,” taking daily care of her mother. The responsibility would grow the longer her mother lived and, sans miracle, her condition worsened.
“What I’m getting at,” Schmidt said, “is that the more Louise can take care of herself, the healthier her disposition will be. If we overcare for her, she may retreat into her illness. So, until she is unable to medicate herself, for instance, by all means encourage her to handle as much as possible.
“Do you see what I mean? As much as possible relate to her as you would to someone who is ill but in many ways can care for herself … understand?”
Both Koesler and Lucy nodded.
“I am singling out the two of you,” Schmidt said, “because, Lucy, you’re going to be the primary care person. And you, Father, will be relieving her from time to time. I don’t expect much physical presence from either Tony or even Vincent.”
“But they’ll be here sometimes at least.” Lucy’s brow tended to furrow much as did her mother’s. “What do I do then?”
“Don’t worry, Lucy. It’ll be easier in practice than it seems in the abstract,” the doctor said. “They’re big, strong, and young. They may want to carry her up and down the stairs, for instance. Or give her-her medication. Discourage that. You can do it. We’ve got confidence in you.” He turned to Koesler. “Haven’t we, Father?”
“Absolutely.” Koesler smiled at Lucy. “Call anytime you need help … or even if you just want to talk.”
“Thanks, Father. And you too, Dr. Schmidt.” She smiled, though her eyes looked suspiciously misty. “I feel better now.”
Schmidt departed. Koesler returned to the living room, where both Louise’s sons, sitting on either side of her on the couch, were comforting and encouraging her.
After a few minutes, Koesler gave the family his blessing, and left.
He started the engine, but hesitated to put the car in gear. He was thinking about parish boundaries. Among the discoveries he had made during his few years in the ministry was the importance placed on parish boundaries. Koesler, who tended to think of a soul as a soul, had quickly learned the Church has rules and regulations regarding souls.
He recalled an experience one of his classmates had had early on. The young priest had stopped in to visit a hospitalized parishioner who happened to be in a canonically invalid marriage-thus “living in sin.” The priest was surprised to learn that the parishioner had slipped into critical condition and was not expected to live.
What to do?
Convalidating a marriage was usually a long and difficult procedure. This gentleman obviously did not have the luxury of time.
But he was dying.
Deciding to err on the side of faith, hope, and charity, rather than law, the priest gave his parishioner absolution and the sacrament of Extreme Unction-or the last rites.
By the time the young priest returned to the rectory, he was torturing himself over whether he had done the right thing. To settle his conscience, he phoned the chancery and happened to get that rare creature, a most sympathetic chancery official.
The priest explained what he’d done. The chancery reply was, “Father, you did exactly the right thing. That man was fortunate you happened upon him as he neared the end.”
Koesler’s classmate was so amazed he spent the rest of that day phoning other priests with the good news, “Hey, the chancery cares about souls!”
Personally, Koesler thought it lucky that the absolved man happened to be a parishioner. Otherwise there would’ve been a problem, if not with the kindly chancery official then with a pastor whose boundaries had been violated.
Just such a violation loomed in Koesler’s near future.
His first assignment had been at St. William’s parish. In all his time there, there had been only one technical deviation in protocol in which he was involved: that was when Frank and Martha Morris had slipped out of Nativity parish to try to convalidate their marriage. But Father Keller of Nativity had clearly demonstrated that he was not going to stake a claim on that couple.
This was a different situation.
Koesler no longer was in any sort of assignment to St. William’s. Yet he intended to go well out of his way to care for a former parishioner. Without doubt there was a base here that needed touching. And no better time than now to touch it.
13
It took Father Koesler all of five minutes-he hit only one red light-to reach St. William’s church and rectory.
He parked on Gunston and stood on the sidewalk remembering his first taste of parochial life as a young priest.
Visions rose before him: There was his suite: sitting room, bedroom, and bath. His chances of duplicating the spaciousness of these facilities in any future assignment seemed remote. There was Father Farmer’s suite, with five bottles of beer peacefully cooling on the windowsill-Farmer’s silent revenge for the lack of provided alcohol and the locked refrigerator.
The visions receded as Koesler climbed the steps, rang the bell, and dutifully recited the Hail Mary that, the sign said, would bring a priest to the door. It did.
Father Frank Henry was a bit young to be a full-fledged curmudgeon. But he made up for this drawback with a nasty disposition.
“Well, the prodigal son returns.” It was neither an original nor a particularly appropriate greeting. But that was Henry’s way.
“Hello, Frank. Is the boss receiving?”
“No, I think I heard him say he was going skating.” Henry’s macabre sense of humor was functioning. Father Walsh, the “boss,” had only one leg. Poor circulation had cost him his right leg and threatened his very life. So he might or might not have been up and able to receive visitors just now, but he was
For whatever reasons, Fathers Walsh and Koesler had struck up an instant May-September friendship. Walsh was old-fashioned enough to address all priests-even Robert Koesler, who was but one-third the older man’s age-as “Father.”
The purpose of Koesler’s visit was to inform the priests of this parish of the critical illness of one of their parishioners. The other matter on Koesler’s mind was a bit murky. The problem had to do with Koesler’s intent to visit Louise Delvecchio with more than passing regularity. Would this involve any territorial law that required pastoral permission? Or was it a courtesy simply to inform the pastor?
Koesler knew of no law forbidding a priest visitation rights, even when he was not assigned to that parish. He was touching this base merely to make sure there would be no problem from any quarter.
“I assume,” Koesler said, “the boss has skated as far as the living room.”
