Bishop as Pawn

“Sure, no trouble.” Koesler smiled as he kept his eyes on the road and on the overpasses from which heavy objects were, at whim, thrown down at passing vehicles. “In no hurry to get back?”

“No. Besides, I need to unwind a little. I know they didn’t grill me as much as they wanted to, but the pressure was there anyway.”

Koesler chuckled. “You knew.”

“Yeah, I knew.”

They drove on in silence. Both priests knew that St. Joe’s was not, in anyone’s geography, “on the way” to Ste. Anne’s. True, they were not terribly far apart, but St. Joe’s was east of Woodward-the magic divider-and Ste. Anne’s was west. For whatever reason, Carleson definitely was not eager to go home. Additionally, Carleson had pleaded fatigue when he excused himself from the dregs of the Cathedral meeting. All of this Koesler found interesting. Perhaps the apparent contradiction would be resolved as the evening wore down further.

As they were about to enter the completely darkened rectory, Carleson said, “It’s like an ancient castle.”

Koesler stopped to regard again his benefice. “Yes, it is. I guess it’s the rough stone exterior. And it is big. And dark. Way too big for one person with just part-time and outside help. I suppose we’ll do something about it one day. Sell it, maybe. Though it had better be a pretty big family that buys it,” he added.

“You’re not worried about its being shut down.” The sentence was a question.

“Like Ernie Bell is worried about his place? No. From everything I know about Cardinal Boyle, he’s not going to do that sort of thing. He did it just once, years ago-to two parishes: St. John’s and Immaculate Conception … with disastrous consequences. The city leveled a whole area of what was called Poletown, so a Cadillac factory could be built there. It didn’t work to just about anyone’s satisfaction. And, as far as Bishop Diego is concerned, wherever he may want to go, I am simply not in his way.”

“You’re not going to deactivate the alarm system?” Carleson asked as he followed Koesler down the hall to St. Joe’s rectory kitchen.

“No. Mostly because we don’t have any.”

“You don’t have an alarm system?’

“No. Does Ste. Anne’s?”

“You betcha. State of the art.”

“I suppose we ought to get one. Just never got around to it.”

“Until you do, it might be a smart idea to leave some lights on when you’re out … to scare off the B-and- E’rs.”

“That is a good idea.” Koesler switched on the kitchen lights. Then, as an afterthought, in keeping with what had just been said, he went to turn on more lights in nearby rooms.

He returned to the kitchen. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

Koesler went to the stove and turned the heat on under a pot containing a dark liquid. “I’ll just heat this up.”

“Okay.”

Koesler was mildly surprised. Usually, visitors complained when he served coffee that had been made much earlier.

In quick order, the pot was steaming. Koesler poured two cups and set one before his guest. Carleson blew over the hot brew, tasted it, then smiled. So did Koesler. This was the first time in his memory that anyone had given even the appearance of actually liking his coffee, even when it was made from scratch.

Carleson had hung his hat on a peg near the door. But he hadn’t removed his coat.

“May I take your coat?” Koesler asked.

“Thanks, no. I’m comfortable. Actually, it’s kind of cold in here.”

Koesler immediately felt apologetic. “I turned up the thermostat. It should warm up soon. I usually let it go down to about sixty when I’m out. Otherwise, I keep it at about sixty-eight.”

Carleson hunched his shoulders. “It’s probably just me. I can’t seem to stay warm.”

“Actually, this is a fairly mild January. It can get bone-chillingly cold these next couple of months, especially for us. Both my parish and yours are very near the river. That and the windchill can keep one in the cabin.”

“It may be mild weather to you and everybody else who’s used to it, but it wasn’t all that long ago that I was sweating it out in Honduras. I’ve been back only a couple of months.”

“That’s right. I read where you were there-what? — about five years.”

“Uh-huh.” Carleson smiled at the memory. “I was part of an experiment at Maryknoll.”

“How’s that?”

“Usually a missioner is pretty well grounded in the local language before he’s sent anywhere. I was supposed to pick it up on the scene. On the whole, I think it worked out fairly well … except for when I arrived in a little village where I had to take a bus to an even smaller village where my parish was.

“See, I had everything I was bringing with me in a humongous duffel bag. By the time I got to the bus the luggage compartment was filled. The bus itself was packed with people, right up to the door. And there was I trying to squeeze myself on board with this huge bag.

“Everybody seemed to be yelling at me and pointing to the opposite side of the bus, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I only had a few Spanish words and phrases.

“Finally, in all this pandemonium, I noticed a man sitting halfway back in the bus. He was motioning to me to pass my bag back to him. Well, he was like a port in a storm. I sent the bag back, and it was enthusiastically passed from hand to hand until it reached him.

“When he got it, he threw it out the window. I thought-my God! — he just threw away everything I own! But what all these people were trying to tell me was that there was another luggage compartment on the other side of the bus.”

They laughed.

During the story, Koesler had been studying his guest. Carleson was of average height, perhaps five-feet- eight or — nine. A bit on the heavyset side, which would help keep him warm during the winter once he got used to it. His eyes were attractive and trusting in an open face. His full head of hair was white-perhaps a bit prematurely. Koesler guessed Carleson to be about ten or fifteen years younger than his own sixty-six years. “You liked it there?”

“I loved it.”

“Then why …?”

“Why did I leave the missions? Why am I becoming a diocesan priest?”

Koesler opened his hands on the table palms up, inviting a response. “If it’s not too personal. Earlier you said something about the bishops …”

“The bishops …” Carleson’s expression hardened. “Yes, the bishops. See, the Church in the Third World is not all that different from the Church anywhere else-here. Bishops, by their very position, tend toward being somewhat aristocratic. The highest rank a bishop can reach, short of the papacy, is the Cardinalate. And Cardinals are referred to commonly as ‘Princes of the Church.’ The Polish word for priest is ksiadz- which is almost exactly the word for ‘prince.’ And that’s only a priest.

“Bishops-Catholic bishops-are treated pretty much like royalty, if not by everyone at least by Catholics. And that’s as true in this country as it is almost everywhere else.”

“I can’t disagree,” Koesler said. “Anytime a bishop presides at the altar, all of the liturgy revolves around him. It’s as if he were a king. He even sits on a throne.

“But, as you said, it’s a situation common everywhere-in this country as well as Honduras. So, why …? I mean as long as you’re functioning as a priest, you’re going to have to deal with bishops. And you’re still functioning as a priest.…”

“It’s a good point … by the way, could I have a bit more coffee?”

Koesler could have kissed him. Never in his life had anyone come back for seconds of Koesler’s brew. Most people never finished the first cup. Gladly did he refill both their cups. And, mercifully, that did it for the leftover