Bishop as Pawn

mind, is there?”

“No. Not really. But I insist I owe you one. How about coming up to my place some evening? You like classical music? I’ve got some recordings. You like any kind of music, I’ve got it. We could toss down a few … get to know one another better.”

The offer was not one of unalloyed generosity. Koesler had proven himself a useful resource person. He very well might serve as such again. Kleimer would like to have this priest in reserve for future use.

Koesler, for his part, would respond only to an offer he could not resist. Which, in Kleimer’s case, would be a summons to confer sacraments in extremis. And, since Kleimer was not Catholic, Koesler was not likely to take Kleimer up on his invitation.

But the priest did not wish to needlessly offend the attorney. “Thank you very much for your invitation. I’ve kind of fallen behind in my parish duties the last day or so.” That much was true. “How about I take a rain check?”

“You got it, Father. Any time.”

This day was beginning to redeem itself. Kleimer was retrieving his self-satisfaction with interest.

And there was still the national media to come.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Free at last.

Thanks to the good offices of Father Dave McCauley of Ste. Anne’s parish, Father Don Carleson had escaped the mob of newspeople who had pinned him down after his release on bail.

They had their job to do. Carleson was able to admit that. He understood it. But he didn’t have to like it.

It was nightmarish. First, there was the swarm of reporters who pressed in around him, firing questions; the print people scribbling notes that later they would organize into a story with, they hoped, a snappy lead; the radio news hounds thrusting microphones like voodoo rattles at his jaw.

The ones he minded most were the photographers and camera people. He found it most difficult to give any thought at all to what he was saying, as he tried to answer the questions shot at him from every side, while cameras clicked relentlessly in his face and the shoulder-balanced TV equipment loomed like hungry vultures, zoom lenses lunging in at him.

Fortunately, after some fifteen minutes of that steady, persistent interrogation, Carleson noticed McCauley in his car with the passenger door ajar. He calculated his angle of escape and bolted, pursued by the cameras and the yawp of shouted questions.

Fortunately, too, McCauley placed himself at Carleson’s disposal. Nothing was prescribed. Whatever Carleson wanted to do was fine with McCauley.

After a moment’s thought, Carleson opted for the freedom of movement his own car would afford. He had no clear idea of what he would do now. But his own car, with no passenger, would provide unencumbered mobility and opportunity for thought.

They drove to Ste. Anne’s, where Carleson showered and changed last night’s slept-in clothes. Then, before the media could catch up-for they, too, had decided to try Ste. Anne’s-he drove off. Aimlessly at first, he kept the car in motion, trying to decide what he might do to forget himself and his troubles.

He recalled a saying of his mother’s. She was fond of reminding him of the man who considered himself destitute because he had no shoes until he saw a man with no feet. Or, as his father expressed the same idea, if someone hits you on your toe with a hammer, you’ll forget every other misery you’ve got.

With a slight smile, he headed for what had become a home away from home-Receiving Hospital.

As usual, he left his car in the parking garage and went through the Emergency entrance.

Immediately, he sensed a difference. It was as if the familiar staff were shrinking from him-or was it merely his imagination at work? Certainly he was conscious that being charged with murder simply had to change the way people related to him.

Suddenly, from among those who seemed to be standing back, a man stepped forward briskly. It was Dr. Schmidt, a most capable young intern. “Yo, Father Carleson, read any good murder mysteries lately?”

It broke the ice. All the others, none of whom seriously thought this popular priest could have murdered anyone, gathered around Carleson, offering support.

Smiling and shaking hands, Carleson said, “I know this is a cliche, but you’ve really made my day.”

Camaraderie was so thick and spontaneous that it seemed as if it were a birthday celebration.

In the next few seconds, everything returned to normal. Business was slow at this moment; no one had been rushed in for some time. A few patients were reclining or sitting on gurneys with Emergency personnel asking questions or administering medication.

As Carleson made his way to the door leading to the hospital proper, he was flagged by a nurse who had been talking to one of the resident surgeons. Carleson, with an expectant look, crossed to them.

“I was just telling Pete here about something funny that happened yesterday, Father,” the nurse said. “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

Carleson tightened the small circle with his presence. There was no doubt in his mind, he could use some diversion.

“This happened to my pal, Annie, who works in oncology,” the nurse said. “She had a patient who’d been hanging in there by a thread for several weeks. He’s got a wife and two kids, both girls, teenagers.

“About a week ago, we got the wife’s permission to take the guy-Clarence-off life support. They expected him to check out rather promptly after that. But he didn’t. He’s been in a coma pretty much since then. The doctor’s been wanting to get Clarence out of here-home or a nursing home-but everybody’s afraid to move him. He could check out easily while he’s getting transferred. In general, nobody quite knew what to do, how to handle it.

“Then yesterday, Annie took the wife aside and explained about giving him permission to leave.”

The resident nodded knowingly; Carleson looked puzzled.

“See, Father,” the nurse amplified, “sometimes a moribund patient will hang on to life because he thinks there are things unresolved that he has to take care of. He thinks he’s needed, and somehow that gives him enough will power to fight off death.

“So, anyway, Annie tells the wife she ought to make it clear to Clarence that he can let go.

“Later, Annie is walking down the corridor and she can hear Clarence’s wife yelling. She’s yelling, obviously ’cause Clarence is in this coma. And she yells, ‘Clarence, I forgive you every mean, rotten, nasty, vicious thing you’ve ever done to me! Girls, kiss your father good-bye! Clarence, die already!’

“And he did. Right then.”

Both the resident and Carleson laughed.

Carleson, upon reflection, was aware of the phenomenon of clearing the way for imminent death. But he had never heard a more illustrative, yet humorous, anecdote demonstrating the theory.

Still chuckling, Carleson made his way into the hospital.

It didn’t take long to wipe the smile from his face. The intake department overflowed with patients and their relatives and friends. Most of them were so used to being put on hold that they fully expected to sit in these chairs watching mindless television forever. Forever was the time it took to process the sufferer into a room, a cubicle, or an Ace bandage and out.

No one seemed to identify him as that clergyman they’d seen on TV news or on the front page. He was grateful.

As he made his way down the corridors, he took care to share a confident smile with the worried visitors searching for the room that held their loved one.

Some of the visitors and a few of the patients pushing IV stands paused to talk to him. Somehow they sensed that this was a priest who really understood what it meant to be alone, to be abandoned, to face overwhelming odds. Some asked for a prayer. Others bowed their heads for a blessing.

In some strange way, these interventions, far from sapping his energy, gave him strength. Busy hospitals such as Detroit’s Receiving communicated to him the sense that this was where he was supposed to be. These people-so frightened, so alone-were, in a special way, his people.