“And in all the stories about Bishop Delvecchio, he’s forever conforming to the wishes of Mother Church. He just seems to never do anything wrong …” Tully paused a moment. “God forgive me, but I wish he would slip and be mortal. Just once. Then he might know what it’s like to be human and fail once in a while-like the rest of us.”
Koesler made no response. “Don’t get me wrong, Bob,” Tully said after a moment. “I wouldn’t want to be like him. But,” he said, as he turned back toward the stairs, “I wish he could be a little like me.”
And off he went to bolster the spirits of the cooks.
Alone, Koesler mused. I would have thought that things like the way Vince had treated George Hackett were ‘wrong.’ The compassion, understanding, and forgiveness that Vince was able to extend to a poor soul like Sophie were seemingly lacking in his other relationships.
But I know what Zack had in mind: Wrong equals sin equals sex. For so many, illicit sex was
It also awakened the prurient in others.
There was the funeral of France’s President Mitterrand. Among the mourners in procession and photographed at his casket were his wife, his mistress, and his illegitimate daughter. Could any such public figure in the United States have pulled that off?
Back to Zack and his whimsical wish that Delvecchio would join the rest of the human race and do something that would cause him embarrassment-read have a sexual encounter with somebody …
That and the resultant shame might bring him down to earth.
It just so happened that Father Koesler could speak to that question. But he would not do so.
23
1966
It was late November. Michigan’s trees had flaunted their colors and now were pretty much bare. A strong, frigid wind raced over the Detroit River. It whistled through the nearly deserted canyons of downtown Detroit. One could fire cannons down Jefferson, Gratiot, Woodward, or Fort Street with impunity.
Though a short avenue, Washington Boulevard was not sheltered from this preview of winter. Actually, with its angle to the river, it was one of the colder thoroughfares.
The boulevard boasted one of downtown’s more noteworthy addresses: 1234 housed St. Aloysius Church and rectory and, possibly even more important, the archbishop’s office, the chancery, the tribunal, and other headquarters of ecclesial business.
Today, everyone had shown up for work except the priest-secretary to Archbishop Mark Boyle. Monsignor Shanahan had come down with an early and virulent cold.
Perhaps it was fate.
Shanahan had no backup. And since this archdiocese was-with an occasional exception-wed to seniority, it was a simple case of finding the low man on the totem pole.
Enter Father Vincent Delvecchio.
An outsider would have been amazed at how positions were filled in the Church. The answer was seniority, or, more exactly, chronology.
Another standard method of filling priestly positions was the educated guess. Since this option had little to do with qualification, the Peter Principle ran rampant.
In the seminary there seemed no rhyme or reason in designating an infirmarian; it was pure accident if the student-infirmarian knew anything at all about maladies, medication, or therapy. Such a situation could be dangerous.
With less fraught possibilities were other assignments made. Take, for instance, the appointment of teachers in the diocesan seminary. Students who got good grades were tapped for teaching. Of course if they had wanted to teach, they could have joined a teaching order such as the Basilians, Sulpicians, or Jesuits. It mattered not that they had chosen a school that graduated parish priests; they earned high grades, therefore they became teachers. By fiat of the bishop.
Father Vince Delvecchio had barely learned his way around the chancery when Monsignor Shanahan called in sick. Lacking the seniority to remain fixed in his fledgling position, Delvecchio was up for grabs.
He had been at work less than an hour today when he was called to the chancellor’s office.
“Vince,” Monsignor Jake Donovan said in his typically brisk manner, “Shanahan threw a shoe. Laid up. We’re short on the boss’s floor. Think you can handle it? Fine!” Donovan never waited for an answer when issuing a rhetorical command. “Go on down there and do a shallow dive. You’ll catch on before you know what’s happening.” Oblivious of the Irish bull, Donovan pressed on. “Anyway, Shanahan should be back in no time; how long does it take to beat a cold anyway?” He didn’t wait for answers to rhetorical questions either. “There’s a good man.”
Thus was Delvecchio dismissed to learn another trade.
He took no tools with him as he left the fifth floor. He had no idea what he’d need. As he entered the elevator, he noticed his name on the list of those the operator was allowed to deposit on the second floor. He reflected that he had received this assignment only seconds ago and already his name was in the Book of Life. Sometimes the mills of the Church did grind swiftly.
The foyer of “the boss’s floor” was a long rectangle with some doubtful art on the walls. At the far end of the foyer, in a partially enclosed work space, was the receptionist. Delvecchio knew her name. Jan Olivier. That was about the extent of his familiarity with the sacred second floor.
Beyond Jan’s station was an office. Mine, he thought. Temporarily, he hoped.
At the left of his office, the foyer turned a ninety-degree angle leading to the archbishop’s office. He couldn’t see that portion of the foyer, but he’d visited Boyle in his office more than once.
Hands jammed in trouser pockets, Delvecchio made his way along the carpeted floor. Reaching the receptionist’s station he turned to face her.
She smiled. “We’ve been expecting you, Father.”
His expression was grim. “I didn’t expect to see me down here.”
She laughed lightly. “We don’t bite. The archbishop wanted to see you when you arrived. I’ll tell him you’re here. Go right in.”
As he turned to enter Boyle’s office, Delvecchio heard Jan, in a low tone, announce his arrival.
He knocked; a firm voice with soft brogue overtones invited him in.
Delvecchio entered the spacious office with its broad windows overlooking Washington Boulevard. Boyle rose and extended his hand as he circled his desk.
Delvecchio took the proffered hand and began to genuflect as he leaned forward to kiss the episcopal ring. Gently, Boyle pulled him erect.
That’s right, thought Delvecchio, Boyle represented the new breed that was changing the changeless Church, even down to innocent conventions such as reverencing the ring.
Delvecchio didn’t learn much from Boyle about the duties of secretary to the archbishop. Except that the receptionist would help him. But not to depend on her too much; she had her own duties to attend to.
So, Delvecchio concluded as he left the archbishop’s office, it was he, a simple priest, and Jan Olivier against the world. He didn’t like the odds.
In fact, if anyone wanted to know-but apparently no one did-he was not happy about this entire adventure. It was grossly unfair to thrust him into this new position with no briefing, let alone training.
It didn’t matter. When Delvecchio was ordained, the bishop had enclosed the young priest’s hands in his own and said solemnly,
This was going to test that promise.
He returned to the foyer. There seemed little point in going into his office; he didn’t know what to do
