Chameleon

The dispute went so far afield as to include the shrinking number of priests. With that in mind, maybe it was a good idea to circle the wagons more closely and close a few marginal parishes. Or, looking at that same diminishing priest supply, it was absolutely imperative to keep the parishes open. Where in the world were the desperately needed candidates for priesthood going to come from if the kids hardly ever even saw a priest?

And on and on it went.

One of the few who did not dive into this cacophony was Irene Casey.

Technically she was not a department head. But, as editor of the Detroit Catholic, she felt she needed to be familiar with the background of what was going on and what was being planned by the archdiocesan administration. Besides, her predecessor, Father Koesler, had always attended these meetings. She had made her case before Cardinal Boyle, and because it seemed a reasonable request and also because Boyle genuinely liked her, he had approved.

In all the meetings she had attended since her initial invitation to join the group, Irene had never witnessed anything like this.

These were very angry men and, in two instances, women. A few of them were saying things she was sure they would regret having expressed. Even occasional interposings on the part of Cardinal Boyle could not restore either Robert’s Rules or civility.

Mrs. Casey felt the slacker for not joining in the various arguments. But confrontation, for her, was more a matter of necessity dian choice. Besides, the debate had begun to take on abusive tones as well as including personal insults. It seemed to Irene that she detected a vituperative quality which barely sheathed an undertone of violence that disturbed her deeply.

A Steve Allen song came to her mind: This could be the start of something big.

11

The Hoffers lived in a rambling old house on Birchcrest near the University of Detroit in Gesu parish, which was staffed by Jesuits.

They’d lived at this address for most of their married life, raised five children, who were now all married and moved away; they themselves had no intention of moving. The neighborhood was racially mixed but stable-such stability being rare in the city of Detroit. There was a tad more danger than in the average suburban neighborhood-or at least that was the created impression. But there were neighborhood watches, block parties, a form of Welcome Wagon, and interested and interesting people.

Georgeanne-friends called her Georgie-Hoffer had served beef burgundy, one of Larry Hoffer’s favorites, for supper. The two were now seated in a very lived-in living room. She was reading a book, her reading glasses barely bonded to the tip of her nose. He was reading the Detroit News, the city’s afternoon newspaper. Curled around her feet like a small white muffler was Truffles, her dog.

One might have referred to Truffles as their dog, except that the poodle belonged to Georgie. Larry tolerated the animal. His philosophy regarding pets was, If you’re going to have a dog, have a big dog; if you’re going to have a little dog, have a cat. But Georgie loved the little mutt-who understood completely that he was his mistress’s dog-and that was good enough for Larry.

The softly playing radio was tuned to WQRS-FM, the area’s classical music station. The station, at this moment, was torturing its listeners with a Bela Bartok chamber piece. Larry was preoccupied enough to pay it no mind. Georgie, having missed the introduction, did not know who had composed the piece, and was enduring it to the end solely to discover who had perpetrated this insult to the human ear. At long last, as was inevitable, it ended and the announcer identified it.

“Bartok,” Georgie said. “If I’d been paying attention before it began, I’d have switched stations.”

“Um.”

“Well, they’ve got it out of their system, I hope. Maybe now they’ll stick to the big guns.”

“Uh-huh.”

She couldn’t see his face behind the paper. From the sounds he was making, she knew that he was awake and probably not paying attention. There were ways of finding out whether his mind was here or elsewhere. “Did you come across the item in the paper yet about how Mayor Cobb is going to move all the bodies out of Gethsemane Cemetery so he can enlarge City Airport?” She’d invented that.

“Uh.”

“Yes. He’s going to replant them in the salt mines under the city and create our own version of the Roman catacombs.”

No response.

“In time he thinks it will increase tourism.”

Still no sound.

She tried another tack. “Peter”-their eldest son now happily married and living in upstate New York-”called today. He’s getting a divorce and coming back home to live.”

Slowly the paper was lowered. He looked at her quizzically. She was smiling. He smiled. “Was I that far away?”

“Afraid so.”

“Sorry.”

“Was the News that absorbing?”

He crumpled the paper in his lap. “Not really. Well … I shouldn’t say one way or the other. I haven’t been reading it.”

“You certainly gave a good imitation.”

“One of those times when you find yourself reading the same item over and over with no comprehension.”

“Anything wrong?” She became slightly apprehensive. After many satisfying years of living with each other they had grown finely tuned to the smallest signs. There was, for instance, nothing particularly noteworthy in his not paying attention to what he was reading. It happened often enough to nearly everybody. One becomes distracted and preoccupied with something-anything-and cannot concentrate on whatever is going on at the moment.

But there was something different tonight.

Georgie had been merely playful, toying with him by making up outrageous items to see what it would take to get his attention, to draw him back to reality.

But even after he shook off his reverie something was still not quite right. It was nothing anyone else would catch. But, sensitive to his every mood, she knew something was troubling him.

He hadn’t answered her question. She repeated it a fraction more urgently. “Anything wrong?”

“Nothing of any importance.” He paused, then realized the futility of trying to hide anything from this beloved woman. “Well, there was that meeting this morning.…”

“The staff meeting?”

“Yes. The special topic for discussion was the parochial school system.”

“Oh?” They had discussed the topic before, more frequently recently as he and his department were drawn into bandaging this hollow giant in terminal condition.

“So many of them-the staff members-want to hold on to the schools-even more the parishes. I think perhaps a majority agree on saving the system.”

“But it’s impossible,” she said. “We’ve talked about this before. How about Cardinal Boyle?”

The furrows in his forehead deepened. “I can’t read him on this one. Ordinarily I’m pretty good at figuring out which way the wind is blowing. But not on this issue,”

“And that’s critical, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. It’s not that the department heads are window dressing, as they are in so many other dioceses. The Cardinal really listens to us and weighs the evidence we bring him. But in the end, he is the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit. By law he runs everything. We go with his decision. That’s all there is to it.”