The Greatest Evil

McCarthy bolted from his post near the door. “Vince, what’s the idea!”

Hackett waved him back. “You’re way out of line, Bishop. You have no right to ask a question like that. And you know it!”

“All right.” Delvecchio’s smirk all but disfigured his face. “All right. We’re just trying to find out whether we can accept this petition for Christian burial.”

“Look, Bishop”-Hackett’s face was flushed in anger-“there is nothing wrong with my ‘petition for Christian burial.’ My wife has just died. It was her wish that she be buried from this parish. She was a Catholic in good standing, despite the manner of her death. She has a right to Christian burial!”

Delvecchio leaned forward. He sensed something irregular. Something that could dash George Hackett’s hopes. “‘Despite the manner of her death’?” Delvecchio repeated. “Just what was the manner of her death?”

Hackett dropped his eyes. “She was a suicide. But no one could have blamed her,” he added quickly, “no one who knew her.” From the moment he had decided to come to this rectory and ask for what Gwenn wanted, he had dreaded this moment. It was the only remotely legitimate reason to question his wife’s right to Christian burial. And the way this interview was being conducted, Delvecchio was sure to climb aboard.

“A suicide!” Delvecchio, countenance noncommittal, leaned back in his chair. “Well, now … we finally have all the facts on the table.”

“I know the direction you’re moving in,” Hackett said. “But let me tell you about Gwenn. Let me tell you before you judge her unfairly.”

Delvecchio raised the palms of his hands upward-an invitation for Hackett to go ahead with his explanation. The gesture also connoted that the explanation, no matter how telling it might be, almost certainly would not be enough to alter a negative decision.

Neither Father McCarthy nor George Hackett knew that earlier this morning the funeral director had called and talked to Bishop Delvecchio about the Hackett services. A number of details were needed for the newspaper death notice.

Thus the bishop had already known of Gwenn Hackett’s death and George Hackett’s desire to have her buried from this parish. However, he had not known she was a suicide. Consciously and subconsciously Delvecchio wanted Hackett to pay for looking back after putting his hand to the plow. The denial of Christian burial would be a handy peg on which to hang some well-deserved, albeit vindictive punishment. The bishop had advised the mortician to make no firm plans about the parish details until Mr. Hackett called at the rectory. An event the bishop anticipated this morning.

Delvecchio leaned back in his chair. He fingered his pectoral cross. The crucifix swayed gently against the black cassock with its red buttons and piping.

“Ever hear of neurasthenia … or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?” Hackett asked.

The bishop nodded.

“It hit Gwenn some sixteen or seventeen years ago. Since you’re familiar with the disease, I won’t go into a lot of detail. But for all these years, she’s just traded one symptom for another. She hasn’t been what might be described as healthy for more than a few days at a time.

“It’s been rough on us, the kids and me. But that’s nothing compared with what’s it’s done to Gwenn. Her depression was so bad that a couple of times she had to be committed to an institution that put her under a suicide watch.”

Delvecchio’s face remained impassive.

“Anyway, she fooled us this time. She seemed to be making such advances that we were able to relax our vigilance. That’s when it happened. But it was because she simply couldn’t take it anymore …” There was a tremor in his voice. “I don’t even know how she made it this far. But the worst symptom was the depression …” He shook his head slowly in recollection. “I don’t know anyone who suffered from greater depression than Gwenn.”

His face tightened again in recollection, then he gazed at Delvecchio almost pleadingly. “I know the Church judges leniently in cases like these. Anybody could recognize the pressure and stress she was under. Taking her life was not a calm, rational decision; it was the final cry of a tortured soul.”

Hackett sat back, and looked unflinchingly at Delvecchio. “So, that’s it, Bishop. We know that God has judged her with loving understanding. She wanted to be buried from this church. In keeping with that wish, I am asking that you grant this request.”

There were a few moments of silence.

“How did she do it?” Delvecchio asked.

“A gun. A handgun. I had one-though I wish to God I hadn’t had it. I kept it hidden. She must’ve found it when she was cleaning.” Again, Hackett wondered at this line of questioning.

“A gun.” Memories of his uncle flooded the bishop’s mind.

Actually, Frank had not been an uncle. He had not been validly married to Vincent’s aunt.

Well, Frank was not given Christian burial, though there had been little or no effort to secure the same. Effort or no effort, Frank had not deserved a Church funeral. He was a suicide. And, for several reasons, not the least being that Gwenn also was a suicide and George deserved to be punished for leaving the priesthood for her, she was not going to be granted Christian burial either.

Delvecchio slowly leaned forward until his elbows touched the desk’s surface. He placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “I am sure your wife’s bout with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome was a most difficult cross to carry.”

“Cross!” Hackett sat upright. “Gwenn didn’t carry a cross. She suffered from a supermarket list of illnesses- some physical, some psychosomatic-all of them real and all of them miserable. And underlining’ all of that was classic clinical depression. Until she couldn’t go on. And she ended it.”

“I understand, Mr. Hackett. But we Christians are admonished that life can be difficult. We are told when we are confirmed that life can even be a burden. But we are told that the Spirit will be with us, to sustain us. Even St. Paul complains about mysterious thorns in the flesh. They are so troublesome that Paul begs Jesus to relieve him. But the Lord tells him that grace will be sufficient to have him endure.

“That, Mr. Hackett, is what we would have reminded your wife had she come to see us. She was a Catholic. She knew that she would have to bear whatever fate might send. Our crosses may come from observing the laws and moral teachings of our faith. Or our crosses may be physical. Prayer! Prayer is the answer.”

“Look, Bishop-!” Hackett was near to exploding. “If I were the one who’d died, I wouldn’t want anyone to come to you and beg that I be buried as a Catholic. Not if they had to beg. But I’m trying to be faithful to my wife’s wishes. How can you sit there in judgment …”

Father McCarthy had heard more than enough. He left the room and entered the adjacent office. He could hear through the thin wall Delvecchio and Hackett arguing heatedly.

When he returned after several minutes, a Cheshire cat grin suffused McCarthy’s face. “The Cardinal is on line one, Vince. He wants to talk to you.”

Delvecchio glanced sharply at McCarthy. “I didn’t hear the phone ring,” he said angrily.

McCarthy shook his head. “I placed the call, Vince. I figured you’d have to talk to the Cardinal sooner or later. Might just as well get it over with. And, by the way, Vince, the Cardinal is waiting on line one. I’d talk to him if I were you.”

Delvecchio punched the button and picked up the receiver. “Eminence?”

“Bishop Delvecchio,” the voice responded.

Several Detroit priests did excellent impressions of Cardinal Boyle. So true to life were some of these imitations that more than one clerical victim had been deeply embarrassed to realize that he had just treated the genuine Cardinal with the disdain reserved for one of his mimics.

This voice easily could belong to the genuine Cardinal. No point in taking a chance. “Yes, Eminence.”

“I understand that a widower is requesting the Mass of Resurrection and burial rites for his late wife.”

“Yes, Eminence, but-”

“I am given to understand that this unfortunate woman took her life.”

“Well, Eminence, there are reasons-”

“I am told that her last years have been filled with pain and depression. Is all of this correct?”

“Yes, Eminence.” It did indeed sound authentic. Delvecchio had never heard his superior speak in such a tone. The response that sprang to Delvecchio’s lips was held in check, but, no mistake, it was there.

“I would remind you,” the Cardinal continued, “that the holy Church in general advises compassion in such a