The Greatest Evil

“Lucy’s right, I think,” Koesler broke in. “I’m too close to this not to be allowed to know what’s going on.”

“I can be brief,” Lucy said. “I think that Tony thinks Mama’s process of dying is going way too slow.”

Vincent, about to say something, decided to let the remark pass.

“Tony doesn’t come home at all?” Koesler asked.

“Yeah,” Lucy said, “he does … once in a while. But not for very long. What I really think is that he doesn’t know how to handle this. I don’t know why. People get sick.” She was about to add that not only do they get sick, they die. But in deference to the expected miracle, she didn’t.

“You have to keep in mind where Tony’s coming from,” Vincent said. “His world is built around physical fitness. For him there can be little or no compromise with sickness. He never, not for an instant, bought our decision to reject therapy. Besides, it’s hard to watch your mother be so ill. However”-he looked almost beatific-“that will make the miracle all the more joyous.”

Rather than have to respond to the possibility of a coming miracle, Lucy quickly said, “By the way, Father, Mama wants to talk to you. We’ve got a while till supper. Maybe you could see her now … before we eat?”

“Of course.”

“She’s upstairs in her bedroom.”

“Is it okay if I just go up?”

“Sure.”

Before entering, Koesler peered around the edge of the door. Louise, completely clothed, lay atop the bedclothes. She was so frail she almost blended into the quilt; Koesler didn’t find her immediately. She seemed to be napping. He might have let her sleep, but she had asked to see him …

“Louise …?”

Instantly she was awake and smiling. “Father, come in …” She gestured to a rocking chair near the bed.

Koesler pulled the chair closer and sat down. “How are you feeling, Louise?”

Slowly she turned on her side to see him better. “So-so.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. No, thank you; I’m all right. I was just napping. Father, I want to go to confession.”

Why? was his only thought. She had confessed almost every week since her diagnosis. Some of these confessions Koesler had heard. She had nothing to tell. Impatience. A little anger. Questioning God’s will.

But if it would make her feel better …

Koesler removed a silk cloth from his breast pocket. It was perhaps twenty inches long and two inches wide. Purple on one side for confession or the last rites, white on the other for Communion. Koesler routinely carried the cloth, called a stole, with him. One never knew.

He draped the stole around his neck. “Okay, Louise, go ahead.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago.”

So traditional.

“Father, I would like to make a confession of my whole life. What’s that called? I forget.”

“It’s called a general confession, Louise. If you want to do this, it’s okay. You can pick up things you may have forgotten to confess. Or you can renew your sorrow for specific sins. The main thing is you want to feel good about your relationship with God.”

“Okay. Well, when I was growing up I used to have bad thoughts … sort of imagining what it would be like to be with a man. Then when I was engaged we used to neck and pet something fierce.”

The good old Catholic conscience, thought Koesler: worried sick about sex.

“And I did a lot of other things, like missing Mass when I wasn’t really ill. And, of course, being angry with the kids.

“And-and I’m really sorry for this-when my husband died I was real angry with God. Does God forgive you for that?”

“God forgave you before you even had that thought.”

“Now here’s something that really bothers me. I can’t get it off my conscience that I did something real bad to my sister when I tried to help get her marriage fixed. I didn’t know that Frank would kill himself. How could I have known that?”

“You couldn’t know that, Louise. You just tried to do a good thing for Frank and Martha. You can’t let yourself be disturbed by that. For heaven’s sake, I could feel as bad as you. Maybe if I had tried harder to discourage them from trying to get an annulment that was almost doomed from the beginning …

“We can’t torture ourselves over something we couldn’t control.”

“Did Martha talk to you after … after Frank …?”

“Yes. We’ve talked.”

“That’s more than she’s done with me.”

Koesler clenched his teeth. “I know. I’ve even talked to her about that. She just won’t. But you can’t blame yourself for that either. It’s simply not your fault.”

“She’s my sister!”

“But you feel no hatred toward her. You tried to help her. It didn’t work out. That she won’t talk to you is her problem.”

“But I thought … you know … the condition I’m in … I thought she’d make peace now.”

“So did I. But if it’ll make you feel any better, we’ll make it part of your confession. If you did anything wrong-and I assure you you didn’t-you’re sorry and God will forgive you.”

Louise was quiet.

“Is that it, Louise?”

“Yes. Mostly I wanted to get that off my mind-that part about Martha.”

“Okay. I’ll give you absolution now, Louise. And for your penance … well, uh …” What sort of penance might he add on to her present suffering, he asked himself. Nothing, he concluded.

“For your penance, Louise, offer your suffering to God.”

“Oh, I do, Father, I do.”

“Good.” He absolved her, then tucked the stole back in his pocket.

During Louise’s confession, Koesler had gazed absently at the variety of bottles and vials that nearly covered the nightstand.

“Is all this medication?”

“Most of it. There’s some vitamin supplements too.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Go ahead.”

Koesler began to finger the bottles, turning each to read the label. “Hmmm … looks like you’ve got a lot of vitamin C.”

“Good for cancer … at least that’s what I’ve read.”

He picked up a bottle to get a closer look. A very small bottle, he guessed it held fifteen or twenty pills. Even with so few pills the bottle seemed full. And that made it unique among all these medications and bottles. Morphine, the label read. “This for pain?”

She nodded.

“You’re not taking any? Or you just refilled the prescription?”

“I’ve taken one or two.”

“Don’t you need more than that?”

“Father, I haven’t told anyone. Will you keep a secret?”

“I’m good at that.”

“This may seem kind of silly … but all during Lent I’ve tried to unite my suffering with all that Jesus went through. I’m offering it up.”

“For what?”

“The kids, mostly. Lucy is so young and has such talent. She could throw it all away with maybe a bad marriage.

“And Tony’s a good boy. I think he’s going to get very rich. I pray he doesn’t let that go to his head. He could do so much good for others … as long as he doesn’t get sidetracked.