Stapleton was quick to respond. “You’re exaggerating. For one thing, nobody-at least nobody I know-enforces those rules totally. And for another, that ban on laicized priests returning can be changed by the Pope at any time.”
“Okay, Fred, the Pope can do anything he damn well pleases, but this Pope is not likely to do that. And whether or not the rules are enforced is beside the point I’m making-which is that there is no earthly reason why you cannot give Communion, or teach religion, or why you should have to get married like an ecclesiastical leper. There’s certainly no logical reason why you should be specifically banned from functioning as a priest again. The point is: ‘Mother’ is being vindictive, nothing more, nothing less. ‘Hell hath no fury,’ etc. And I don’t think it’s worth it, saving a vindictive ‘Mother’ from herself. Let her founder, I say.”
“It’s worth it, damn it!
“There isn’t anything extreme enough to get this institution’s attention. What could do it, Fred? What could do it?”
Stapleton hesitated. He seemed to be struggling inwardly with a decision. “It can’t be told yet. But it will be eventually, and then you’ll see. All of you. You’ll see for yourselves.”
With that, Stapleton nodded to his wife, who long ago had known the evening was going to end early. She went to collect their coats. Then, after murmuring a farewell as well as an apology to the host couple, she rejoined her husband as they left and headed home-in silence, as it turned out.
The party slowly revivified as the guests gradually recovered. Most of them split into small groups and proceeded to debate the issues that had been raised by Hershey and Stapleton.
Meanwhile, Debbie Hershey joined her husband. “That was some tussle.” Debbie carried two highballs. She handed one to Cass.
“You said it. How did we get into that anyway?”
“Don’t you remember? You went over to try to get them to join the rest of the crowd.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” As he sipped his drink he became aware that his throat was sore. “Instead of getting the party together, we damn near broke it up.”
“You know, Cass, we’ve been together a long time. But I’ve never heard you talk about the Church like that.”
Hershey shrugged. “I never think about the Church, I guess. Certainly not as a mother in need of my presence.”
“Well, Fred Stapleton certainly does. He made that crystal clear tonight.”
“That’s got me puzzled, Deb. He was never like he was tonight. Not all the time I’ve known him.”
“I hardly know the Stapletons. They don’t usually come to get-togethers like this.”
“I know. I thought these gatherings were just not his cup of tea, or that he was too tired. But from what I saw tonight, I’ll bet he spends every free moment he’s got on this CORPUS thing,”
“It sure sounded like that.”
“I know some people in that organization. They’re committed, but not like Fred.” He shook his head. “I can’t figure it out. He was a few years ahead of me in the seminary but I knew him pretty well. Quiet, thoughtful; he seemed a dedicated student. But just about the opposite of a rabble-rouser. The kind of guy who would make a good priest-or, for that matter, a good shrink. As often as I see him on TV or hear him on radio or read about him, I’ve always felt good for him. Good that he found this psychology gig. He seemed a natural,” Brow furrowed, he shook his head again. “But … after this evening …”
“I know; there were a couple of times tonight when I thought you two might come to blows.”
“Did you? It didn’t cross my mind. But now that you mention it, there was something … I don’t know what. You’re right: There was a hint of a time bomb-just below the surface. Way, way out of character for Fred Stapleton. Way out of character. Like someone else had taken over. And then at the end, when he said something about getting the Church’s attention …” He looked at her searchingly. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I don’t know, honey, but it sounded kind of ominous.”
“Yeah, someming’s going on with Fred. But what?”
20
“Five card draw, gentlemen,” the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey announced. “Jacks or better to open, and one-eyed jacks are wild. Let’s ante,”
Father Koesler scarcely ever attended poker games. Early on, he had learned that conversation, idle chitchat, was not welcome at the poker table. And Koesler did like to chat. What better to do when priests get together socially? Something that happened too rarely these days. Almost more importantly, he hated to lose. He hated it to the point of fearing it. And that was not the proper attitude to bring to the poker table.
So why was he here tonight?
Cletus Bash had asked him to come. Almost pleaded with him. Father Bash was having a difficult time gathering sufficient numbers.
No trouble getting Quent Jeffrey, of course. Poker was second nature to him. Everyone knew that. But all the other dependable regulars seemed unavailable. Bash could have played two-handed with Jeffrey but, in all candor, Bash knew he was no match whatever for Jeffrey. Safety in numbers, he figured.
All this was a conclusion Koesler easily reached. Another measure of Bash’s desperation was that the fourth player tonight was Monsignor Del Young.
While the Monsignor had an overstocked purse and didn’t mind losing at games of chance-which he did with determined regularity-he, too, was an irrepressible conversationalist.
Koesler was unable to guess how many clerical prospects Bash had contacted earlier. The number must have been astronomical if the best Bash could do was himself, Bob Koesler, and Del Young. It was next to impossible to tell how frustrated Bash felt. He was, normally, quite surly and sharp. Those words exactly described him tonight. But then, they probably would have defined his disposition even if he had had greater success in lining up more dedicated players. The few times Bash could have been considered as being ebullient, as far as Koesler could recall, were those occasions when his high profile was being featured in the local media, clearly identified as the archdiocesan spokesman-read best-informed person in captivity.
Bash spoke. “Someone’s light.”
Koesler glanced at the table top. Three white chips lay where they had been casually tossed. “Del,” Koesler said softly, “I think you forgot to ante.”
“Me? Did I? That was careless. Sorry.” He pitched a white chip onto the center of the table.
The cards were being dealt noiselessly, expertly, one at the time, five to a customer. Koesler marveled at Quent Jeffrey’s dexterity. While card games were not Koesler’s favorite pastime, he’d seen his share of dealers- mostly fellow clergymen-although he’d never joined any of the guys in a Las Vegas vacation, nor had he witnessed any truly professional players. Nonetheless he thought Jeffrey must come close to the professional norm.
Jeffrey did not bother looking at the cards as he dealt. Rather, he studied the faces of the other players. Particularly Del Young, who picked up and appraised each card as it was dealt. Neither Bash nor Koesler touched a card until all were dealt.
Following Jeffrey’s lead, Koesler scrutinized Young as he picked up the cards and fitted them into some sort of order in his hand. To Koesler’s surprise, it did seem possible to tell whether Young was experiencing good or bad cards by little movements of an eyebrow or cheek muscle. Young’s was the antithesis of the storied poker face.
Koesler wondered whether he himself betrayed his hand, bad or good, in the same way. But he decided that he played so seldom it wasn’t worth worrying about.
Everyone studied his cards in silence.
“I’ll open for two.” Bash dropped two red chips into the small pot.
“All right here.” Young contributed two red chips.
Wordlessly, Koesler and Jeffrey did the same.
