“Seen it too many times, Father. People get all worked up-over a very good cause, mind you. But they begin living for that miracle. When it doesn’t happen, for lots of them it cripples their faith.
“We’ll pray. We’ll pray for God’s will to be done.”
“Lucy will come to you-you can depend on that. You will let her down easily …”
“From what you’ve said, I shouldn’t have too difficult a time convincing her.”
Koesler didn’t argue the point. “You’re probably right.”
“And, Father, you are perfectly welcome to visit anytime with any of our parishioners. I think it was good and wise of you to tell us your intentions. The only thing you need from me is delegation if you’re going to perform a marriage in my parish. You will let me know in that case, won’t you?”
It was his small joke. If anything was made perfectly clear to all priests, it was the necessity to be delegated for weddings. Without such delegation, a marriage would be invalid.
“By the way,” Koesler said, as he rose to leave, “may I use your phone? I need to call St. John’s Seminary.”
“You’re leaving? So soon?”
If Koesler had not heretofore been aware of it, it was obvious that Father Walsh would welcome some companionable visitations. The younger priest resolved to drop in more frequently.
“Before you go …” Walsh wheeled himself closer. “… I’ve been wanting to talk to you for some time … something important. Today’s subject matter brought it to mind.”
“Yes, Father?” Koesler sat down again.
“It’s about that couple-Morris, was it?”
“Frank and Martha Morris?”
“Yes. From Nativity.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I knew what was going on. You told me.”
“Yes, I consulted with you. It was my first, and I hope last use of a Privilege of the Faith.”
“Yes. Well, there were a couple of things. I didn’t get into it before, or even after the incident was closed. But wasn’t there some bitterness over that case? Something between Martha and Louise Delvecchio?”
“They’re sisters.”
“I know. After the trouble, Louise came in to see me. We talked a few times. Didn’t really settle anything, as I recall. But … Martha: Didn’t she blame Louise for what happened?”
The memory of that awful event suffused Koesler’s mind. “Yes-even though it was an irrational charge. I thought at the time that Martha was simply striking out emotionally at the handiest target-which happened to be her sister. And Louise was simply trying to help.”
“But Martha never changed her opinion, did she?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“She never forgave Louise?”
“No.”
“And she’s never talked to Louise over all this time?”
“No.”
“It’s my opinion,” Walsh said, “that this might have something to do with Louise’s condition.”
“The cancer?”
“Haven’t you sensed that Louise is very troubled by this whole thing? That in her mind, guilt is not very deep under the surface?”
“Guilt?” Koesler reacted with surprise. “But Louise isn’t guilty of anything. She and I have been through that many times … though not recently.”
“So you think because she hasn’t talked to you about this recently, that it’s no longer affecting her.”
Koesler thought a few moments before responding. “I see what you’re driving at. She doesn’t talk about it because she knows my opinion-that she has no responsibility, no need to regret anything-and she knows I’m not going to change my mind.”
Koesler reflected again. “So she’s internalized her feelings and they’ve been …”
“Eating at her.”
“You think this caused the cancer?”
Walsh nodded gravely.
“Could that happen?” Koesler asked. “Could an emotional struggle cause something as serious as a terminal illness?”
“I’m convinced of it. In my years I’ve seen more harm done because of stress than almost any other cause.”
Involuntarily Koesler glanced at the empty trouser leg that had once covered a healthy limb. Could stress have-?
Walsh caught the glance and chuckled. “Well, not
“Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“Well, then,” Koesler pursued the line of thought, “do you think if we were able to patch things up …”
“That we’d have our miracle? No; I think the damage has been done. But I also think that reuniting the two sisters would bring a lot of peace to one very troubled soul.”
“Maybe even two troubled souls,” Koesler added. “But it won’t be easy. I’ve talked to Martha several times. Nothing. Oh, not a great feeling of animosity or hatred-just no feeling at all.”
“Ouch, that sounds like a killer. But we can try.” The elderly priest looked off into the distance for a moment. “There’s one more thing I wanted to mention, Father.” Walsh wheeled himself so close that he and Koesler might well have been conspirators. “It’s about that suicide-Frank Morris.”
“Yes?”
“You and I talked about it at the time-and of course I read everything in the papers. I’ve never been able to make much sense of it.”
Silence. Koesler was puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “It was a tragedy. A terrible waste. But it seemed an open-and-shut case. Frank took his life using his shotgun. Am I missing something?”
“Maybe it’s all these years I’ve piled up. I hesitate to call it intuition; the ladies have that market cornered. But there’s always been something wrong with that suicide.”
“But the police-”
“I know. I know. It was all very neat. The owner’s gun, the suicide note, the motive.” He shook his head. “How easily the cops bought the apparent reason-that it was because the Morrises were turned down by a Church court. I mean, that wasn’t even close to courts that cops deal with. I was surprised they bought it. And,” he added, “I was surprised that I didn’t.”
Koesler became aware that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. “You must be the only one remotely involved who doesn’t think Frank’s death was self-inflicted.”
“Not exactly.” Walsh smiled. “If my ‘intuition’ is correct, one other person, in this case,
“The person who killed him?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that bluntly. More the one responsible for Frank Morris’s death.”
“But, how …?”
“Among the things I’ve learned about you, Father, in the year and a half that we worked together was that you have a very healthy imagination. Just think about it, is all I ask. See if someday you come to the same conclusion I have. I think I know what happened. But even
Koesler shrugged. A gesture of uncertainty. “I’ll give it a shot. But I don’t know …” He stood up. “For now, I’ve got to get on my horse. That call …”
Walsh nodded toward the main office. “You know where we keep the phone.”
Koesler made his call, bade farewell to his host-he could not spot Father Henry, for which he was grateful- and let himself out.
He started on the long drive to St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. On the way, he would give Father Walsh’s
