Mary O’Connor’s shoes on the hardwood floor. They had an understanding that since Koesler had no appointments on his calendar for this, his first morning back, Mary would screen all phone calls and visitors and pass along to Koesler only what might be termed emergencies or urgent business. Otherwise, on his behalf, she expressed his thanks for good wishes and gratitude for prayers.
Mary appeared at the study door. “There are three people here you might want to see: Mr. and Mrs. Costello and Mr. Vespa.” Her concern was evident.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. Please show them in, Mary. And could you get us some coffee? I’d do it, but things are still a bit awkward,” he added, indicating his right arm still encased in a tight sling that was suspended over his cassock.
Mary nodded and went first to admit the visitors, then to the kitchen, murmuring a grateful prayer that Father Koesler had given up making coffee for the duration. Everyone would be better off for it.
The three visitors entered the study. Mrs. Costello went to Koesler immediately, took his left hand, and, before he could demur, kissed it. Her sympathy was obviously sincere. Carl Costello nodded, then took a chair across from Koesler, who was seated behind his desk. He had not attempted to stand. Remo Vespa stationed himself in front of the door.
Costello inquired into the state of Koesler’s health. Koesler explained the injury and quoted the rehab technician’s assurance of at least partial recovery with fidelity to exercise. Amenities completed, Costello addressed the reason for the visit.
“You have done us a great favor. A significant favor.” Costello regarded Koesler intently.
“It was really nothing. All it took was a phone call.”
“No, no, Father,” Mrs. Costello insisted. “Guido and Remo are like our own children. And to think that after all these years, Guido should be buried Catholic! What can we say? What can we do?”
Koesler smiled at her. “I know your pastor. He tends to interpret Church law rather strictly. I thought he could use my input.”
Quite naturally, since the shooting, Koesler was sensitive to the memory of Guido Vespa. After all, they had not only been shot at the same time but even with one of the same bullets.
With Guido dead, Koesler had wondered about the funeral. How he would be buried probably wouldn’t have mattered to Guido one way or the other. But Koesler sensed it would matter a great deal to the grandparents, particularly to Guido’s grandmother. Both Mr. and Mrs. Costello had demonstrated a deep reverence for Koesler’s priesthood the one time they had met.
Although, given Carl Costello’s earlier active membership in the mob, Koesler was unsure of his sincerity. But there seemed no doubt that Mrs. Costello really meant it. For her sake, if for no other reason, Koesler had decided to get involved in Guido’s funeral.
Once he had determined which was the Costellos’ parish, a few judicious inquiries revealed, to no surprise, that Mrs. Costello attended Mass regularly, Carl showed up on important occasions, but neither Guido nor Remo had darkened the doorway since their youth. That part of Guido’s make-believe confession appeared to be accurate.
The pastor was Koesler’s elder by nearly ten years. Now on the verge of retirement, Father Tintoreto lived by yesterday’s rules. With no one around to testify that Guido had even absentmindedly genuflected within anyone’s memory, Mario Tintoreto would surely refuse a Catholic funeral. On several occasions when priests gathered, Koesler had heard Tintoreto boast of threatening his recalcitrants with being “buried like a dog.” It seemed to be, particularly with Italians, the ultimate ultimatum. If the denial of Christian burial did not reach them, Tintoreto thought nothing would.
For the pastor and for his parishioners, then, refusing to bury the dead had to be taken seriously. It was imperative there be no exceptions to the rule. Thus the Costellos had no hope for Guido. In Tintoreto’s favored phrase, Guido would be consigned to the earth like an animal.
Enter Father Koesler with his phone call to Father Tintoreto, during which Koesler testified to not only having seen Guido in St. Joseph’s Church just a few weeks ago, but, imagine this: The backslider had actually made a confession! Koesler neglected to describe what sort of confession.
Mario Tintoreto had been stunned. Indeed he could not recall ever having been so dumbfounded. But he could not doubt the word of a fellow priest no matter how much he wanted to. And he did want to.
As far as Koesler was concerned, funerals were more for the consolation of the bereaved than for the benefit of the one who had already entered eternal life. He had thought no more about it until the appearance of the Costellos this morning and their expansive expressions of gratitude. For Remo, this was a matter of no importance. For Vita Costello, it was a miracle. For the Double C, it was a puzzle.
For as long as he could remember, Carl Costello had kept careful tabs on who owed whom what. He was scrupulous about the balance sheet. He assumed everyone else conducted life’s affairs in the same manner. He had no idea why Koesler had intervened on Guido’s behalf, thereby bestowing a tremendous favor on Mrs. Costello. The truth was, the Double C owed for a significant favor. The question was: What did Koesler want?
Koesler believed he read all this in Costello’s manner, in his eyes.
“You have done us a great favor, Father.” There was a pronounced wheeze in Costello’s voice, perhaps from too much smoking, or a throat injury. “It is much more than a phone call. As far as I know,” he gestured to include not only everyone in the room but everyone in the whole world, “no one asked you to do us this goodness. You did it all on your own.” Costello did not articulate the word “Why?” but it hung in the air.
“If it has helped you in your time of loss,” Koesler said “that’s good enough.”
But Costello was not about to let the matter rest. “That meeting- when he was killed, you were wounded- what was that about? I don’t understand why he would call you. Talking to a priest, that was not something Guido did.”
“He didn’t tell you anything about it?”
Costello shook his head. “Nothing.” He looked Koesler full in the face. “Father, I know you would not lie, not even to effect a good thing like Guido’s Catholic burial … but did he really confess to you?”
Mary O’Connor almost did not make it into the room with the tray holding the coffee. Remo was leaning back against the door as she pushed against it from the other side. Mary’s slight weight made little impression against his heft. Finally, she coughed loudly enough to be heard. Remo stepped away from the door and Mary almost fell into the room.
It was a humorous exchange, but Koesler would not laugh until much, much later-in retrospect.
A slightly embarrassed and self-conscious Mary O’Connor served the coffee and departed.
Koesler turned back to Costello, and, fixing him with an intent look, said, “Yes, your grandson went to confession to me … sort of.”
Costello was clearly confused. “‘Sort of’?”
“Carl, Mrs. Costello, Remo … you already know more about this matter than the news media does. You know about my call to Father Tintoreto. My agreement with him was that when the media asks how Guido qualified for a Church burial service, he is to tell them only that he was given evidence that Guido had attended church recently. And that’s all he’s going to say. The media will press for more detail. But that’s all they’re going to get.”
Costello chuckled. “Father Tintoreto will enjoy that. He likes being in charge.”
“An exception was made for you three, the most immediate family Guido had. There was no disagreement on that point. You deserved to know. Now I’m going to tell you something only the police know.” Koesler, for the sake of expedience, chose to omit Dunn from those who knew about the bogus confession.
First, Koesler needed to explain insofar as it was feasible why it was permissible to tell them the details of Guido’s confession-that-wasn’t-a-confession. As he began the explanation, he noted a look of surprise on Costello’s face similar to that which Koznicki had exhibited in the same circumstances.
After Koesler’s third time through, when, by their expressions, it seemed his small audience comprehended and was satisfied, Koesler said again, “Now, I’ve just told you something only the police know. And it’s extremely important that no one else know … you understand?”
The three looked at each other. Costello spoke. “We have observed
“Good,” Koesler said. “Now, I need to know: What do you make of it?”
“The contract? The confession?” Costello asked.
“The contract first.”
