“Doesn’t matter. I just thought you might. He’s a bright young man. Went through our training phase with flying colors.
“Part of the training is memorizing a spiel, then personalizing it. We usually approach owners of successful small businesses, and the first contact is by phone. The object is to give the prospective customer a variety of reasons that might make him want to consider our services. So you trot out every attractive credential you can muster.
“Noel is pretty new at this, so he was kind of anxious. After all, you get only one crack per client. If you sign him up, it could mean thousands of dollars. If you blow the initial contact, that’s it forevermore.
“Noel himself told me about one of his first calls. No sooner had he started the conversation-remember he’d never actually met this guy-than he could sense that the potential client’s attention span was not gangbusters and that the guy thought this was a waste of his valuable time. So Noel was understandably nervous. But he launched into his spiel. He mentioned that, along with other credentials, he held a doctoral degree from the University of Michigan. To which the client replied, ‘Who gives a shit?’
“Noel just laughed, God bless him, and plowed on. After citing a few more credentials, Noel said he’d been a Catholic priest for ten years. And the guy says, ‘Now that interests me.’ And Noel was at least inside the door.”
They laughed. Pam’s laughter was a mixture of equal parts of genuine appreciation and gratitude that Fred had been amused and distracted.
“So you see, Freddie, all is not bleak and serious, even in the very serious arena of earning a living.
“But why am I telling you that?” Cass went on. “You look to me like you’re having a ball. A solid practice-and I see your handsome mug in the paper and on the tube with some regularity.”
Fred instantly grew solemn. “I’d give it all up in a minute to get back in the functioning priesthood.”
“You’re kidding!” Cass exclaimed.
“Not for a minute. And I’m sure that underneath it all, the guys feel the same way.”
Cass smiled amiably. “Speak for yourself, kiddo.”
Pam squeezed into the conversation. “Just before you joined us, I was telling Fred that I, for one, didn’t want to go back into the convent, nor, for that matter, forward into the priesthood.”
“Sounds nice and normal to me,” Cass commented.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Fred said, “that you didn’t want to become a priest?”
“Of course I did. Nobody twisted my arm, But that was a different day.”
“No different than today. Don’t you miss offering Mass, the Sunday liturgies, all the things you could do for people as a priest?”
“Fred, that was a long time ago.”
“But don’t you miss it?” Fred persisted.
“It was too long ago. Okay, yes, every once in a long while I remember how it was-and parts of it were very worthwhile. Some of it was even fun. But it was a long time ago, Fred. Loosen up.”
“It can be ours again, Cass. We’re making progress. Have you heard of CORPUS?”
“Sure.”
“Well?”
“Well, I’ve heard of it.”
“You don’t belong, do you?”
“Ever see me at a meeting?”
“You could still belong.”
“I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Why?”
“Because,” Fred explained, “it’s our best … our most practical way of getting back into the ministry. Sure, it’s a small, gradational step. But it’s going to work. Lots of other men, converts from the Protestant ministry, are married Catholic priests now.”
As Fred spoke with deepening emotion, his voice rose. Gradually, other conversation in the room quieted, then ceased. Some few in the group were aware of Fred’s intense commitment to CORPUS. Others were learning of it for the first time.
Pam, aware-as her husband was not-that nearly everyone had tuned in to the interchange, was deeply ill-at- ease. “Fred,” she said, touching his arm, “don’t you diink-”
But it was Cass who interrupted. “Is that what this is all about, Freddie? You want to function as a married priest. And to do that you’d be willing to crawl to Rome and beg to be allowed to do some of the things a deacon can do. God! Some of the things lay people can do now! Well, you can count me out of that one.”
“I thought you said you wanted to be a priest!”
“I did. What it comes down to is why we-you and I-quit the priesthood. That’s what it comes down to.” Cass, fueled by Fred’s fervor, was becoming emotionally involved in the debate. “You left in order to get married.”
“Of course.”
“And I did not.”
“You didn’t!?” Fred was surprised. While he had not canvassed all former priests by any means, the overwhelming majority of those who had talked about it had pinpointed marriage as their primary reason for leaving.
“No, I didn’t,” Cass repeated, “and neither did you.”
“I should know my own mind.” There was irritation in Fred’s tone. “I know why I resigned. It’s the same reason everyone in this room did.”
“Is it now? Think of all the priests you knew when you were growing up, when you were in the seminary, after you were ordained-all you knew before the council. Can you think of one or two-if that many-who left for whatever reason and got married during that time?”
Fred did not immediately reply. Then, “If you’re saying the dam broke after the council, I wouldn’t argue that.”
“That’s not quite the point. How about us? You were a priest for … what?”
“Twenty years.”
“Twenty years. A career, by God. Well, what was it with us? We were priests for ten, fifteen, twenty years; celibates, enjoying days off together, spending vacations together, the epitome of male bonding. What happened? After five or ten or fifteen or … twenty years, we woke up one morning and said, ‘Hey, wait a minute … mere’s girls!’? Is that the way you think it happened?”
“Of course not-”
“Left to get married! With me, it was just about the exact opposite. Debbie was one very ill lady. She’d drifted off sick leave and lost her job. It was tight, but she was making it on a combination of worker’s comp and help from my priestly salary. It was no time to leave the security of Mother Church and get a job out in the cruel, hard world.
“Don’t you see, Fred, it was the worst possible time to leave, at least for me. I didn’t leave to get married. The only thing that changed for me when I left was that I was out of a job. Okay, so we were now a legitimate couple. We didn’t have to worry any longer whether we would meet anyone we knew in the infrequent times we dared go out together. But by the single act of resigning, we went from a nice cozy security to insolvency.
“We didn’t leave to get married, Fred. If we had, we’d have done it long ago, when we were much younger men. When the juices were really flowing. When we were young priests, we-all of us-met any number of great women who would have made terrific wives. So did all those priests who preceded us. They lived and died celibates. And we will not.”
“I wouldn’t argue with you, Cass, about the women we met when we were young. Most of them were fine Catholic women and most of them were already married, And there’s something else you’re overlooking: Before the idea of leaving occurred to us, it had already dawned on nuns. Typical. Women got the idea first. After they left, when they were free to marry, it was only natural that we would be attracted to such fine, strong women. Our backgrounds were almost identical. We shared a deep commitment to religion, to Catholicism. And they were free to marry. They were not already attached.”
“Nice argument, Fred, but it won’t wash. One of the results of Vatican II-for me, the major achievement-was
