And then Lucy began to see it. It became more and more difficult for Louise to avoid lying down or at least sitting down. Her weight, never much, began to drop. To look in her eyes was to see pain.
Louise bore it all without complaint. She taught her daughter how to pray for and prepare for the miracle. It wouldn’t be a miracle if she recovered from a less than terminal condition. In other words, she’d have to be a whole lot sicker than she was for the reality of the miracle to prove itself.
Louise was aware that a significant number of very sincere people were praying for her. The times when the pain was more intense she consciously fell back on all those prayers. And when she did, the pain became quite bearable.
Father Koesler had been unable to convince his pastor to mobilize a prayer campaign. But Koesler enlisted the prayer and concern of many friends and/or parishioners. Together, he and they learned a lot about prayer through this experience.
Koesler, who talked with Tony from time to time, knew that the young man was neither supportive nor productive-or even encouraging, for that matter. The priest knew that Lucy was doing literally all she could. So there was not all the prayer they had anticipated in the beginning. Still, many good people were storming heaven for Louise’s sake.
The anchor of all this dedicated prayer was Vincent. No one else had his confidence, his faith. He was in the seminary chapel whenever he was not called to another duty. He spent an unaccustomed amount of time with his Bible. He repeatedly called up passages that spoke to him of requited prayer.
With this in mind, it seemed that the entire Bible was a romance between God and mankind, and that the language of this romance was prayer.
Vincent was encouraged by the frequency of prayer stories in the New Testament. It seemed that Jesus was always assuring His disciples that anything they asked the Father for they would receive if they had faith. Jesus Himself, when performing his miracles, would express His faith. Anything, everything was possible through faith.
And Vincent had faith.
He prayed, “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” But there was little unbelief in Vincent’s prayer.
He believed. He had faith.
All those marvelous people were a source of encouragement and support.
But this was Vincent’s miracle.
Vincent’s life of prayer and faith so impressed the rector that he relaxed his previous restriction for a one- day-a-week home visitation. Now Vinnie was home from Friday night to Sunday night each week.
Though Vincent was not notably popular among his fellow students and classmates, a goodly number of them caught his fervor and began praying for his mother’s cure.
Each Sunday evening when he returned from home, many, faculty and students alike, asked after his mother. He never tired of explaining that while she seemed to be failing, her faith was strong. The miracle could happen any time now. And the miracle, by definition, could happen no matter how frail she was. Indeed, the more that physical hope declined, the more appropriate would be God’s merciful intervention.
So he encouraged them to continue his prayer with him.
But, without doubt, it was Vincent’s show.
16
Palm Sunday
The gangbusters church congregations for Holy Week had begun. Attendance at Mass this morning at St. Norbert’s was up markedly from what could be expected on an ordinary Sunday. Father Koesler knew the other parishes were experiencing the same phenomenon as his small suburban parish.
He knew also that he could anticipate a full week of virtually nothing but eating, sleeping, conducting liturgies, and hearing confessions.
Confessions would be by far the heaviest burden.
“The Box,” as the confessional was called by some, was not designed for comfort. In many cases it was more a torture chamber.
Penitents knelt in murky obscurity on an unyielding board set below a shelf on which one could rest one’s elbows-depending on one’s size. Short people had better luck resting their chins on the support while tall people could distort their spines trying to lean down. At least the penitents were captive for a relatively short period.
Not so the priest confessor. His center booth shared the musty darkness. His chair, more often than not, was uncomfortable-extremely so. Usually, his hole-in-the-wall cavity was too small for comfort. So there he sat, cramped, conducting business in whispers. He whispered and the penitent whispered, as they blew germs at each other through a tatty, unwashed curtain. He sat in the center compartment of the box for hours. During the Christmas season and during Holy Week, he sat there for days on end. His end.
St. Norbert’s added one additional torment. The church was heated through blowers in the ceiling. No matter that heat rises. Some pseudoarchitect, probably the founding pastor, thought this method of heating, by having warmth fight against its natural direction, inventive.
As a consequence, the congregation’s feet were colder than their heads. Meanwhile, in the Box, heat poured down on the priest confessor from the blower just above his head until the box reached a saunalike temperature-at which point the blower would automatically quit, allowing the cold air to rush upward from beneath the door.
Such was Father Koesler’s prospect for the coming week. And, short of falling grievously ill, there was no escaping it.
All this, of course, paled before the greater pain and fear that held Louise Delvecchio in their grip.
Koesler had mixed feelings as he sat in his car in front of Louise’s house. In a way, Louise was an inspiration. Even if she could no longer care for her family, still she fought to at least care for herself. She tried to be a burden to no one, particularly to Lucy, who was by far her most constant companion.
On the other hand, Koesler was angry, so very angry with this disease that seemed to be eating away at Louise from inside. In the face of such ravages, how could he give any thought whatsoever to the minor inconveniences in his own life? They seemed so inconsequential in light of the load Louise carried.
But he hadn’t traveled from Inkster to Detroit’s east side to sit in his car and give free rein to his stream of consciousness.
In response to the bell, the door was opened by Vincent, done up like a good seminarian: black trousers, black shoes and socks, and a white collarless shirt into which a clerical collar would fit easily.
As he entered the house, Koesler noted fresh palm fronds hung from wall decorations. Nodding at the display, he said, “Who let you guys play in the palm fields? You got enough to plait a South Seas hut.”
Vincent smiled. “St. William’s is generous when you ask nicely.”
Koesler wondered at Vinnie’s good humor. Then he remembered the miracle and Vincent’s faith. Why not be happy? Vincent’s mood was comparable to one standing near Lazarus’s tomb while knowing how the story would end.
Lucy appeared from the kitchen. An apron covered most of a pretty spring dress.
“The little homemaker getting supper ready?” Koesler asked.
Lucy nodded. “Can you stay?”
“I don’t want to be the Man Who Came to Dinner.”
“Don’t worry: It’s spaghetti and meatballs. That stretches forever.”
“Okay then. Is Tony here?”
Neither Vincent nor Lucy responded immediately.
“No,” Vincent said, finally. “He won’t be here today.”
Lucy snorted. “He won’t be here
“Lucy!” Vincent chided.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Father’s practically one of the family … he ought to be plugged in on our dirty laundry.”
“Lucy, you shouldn’t-”
