Sister Joan regarded Bash. She’d never had the impression that he was particularly effective in the public relations arena and surely he was ineffective as a communicator. With his hubris and his macho facade he might have done well somewhere in the secular world, but, try as she might, she could think of no reason whatever why he should have become a priest. Brash Bash. It was difficult to say. She almost laughed aloud.
“I think there is something that can be done about the schools.” The Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey seemed almost disinterested, as if he were the only speaker so far who had no particular ax to grind. “I’m not sure any of you want to go in this direction, but … we might play on suburban guilt feelings.”
“Guilt feelings?” Monsignor Young echoed.
“Uh-huh. White flight, or the odyssey of white and black affluence to the suburbs has been mentioned. What has not been addressed is that those who have fled-at least those among them who have sensitive consciences-are well aware that in moving they were abandoning the city. In other words, many of them have guilty consciences.”
“That’s true.” Sister Joan nodded in agreement. “Priests who are responsive to social justice and the like preach about the need for Christians to identify with victims-victims of injustice, victims of indifference and abandonment. And many of these priests speak specifically of our literal neighbors suffering in the city. Sensitive Catholics must feel some sort of guilt, especially about the separate and unequal educational opportunities of suburban and city children.”
“Exactly,” Jeffrey continued. “There are precedents galore. Cities ‘adopt’ other cities. Adults ‘adopt’ children in other countries, without ever seeing the kid. They just send money. This would be a case of a well-to-do parish with a parochial school ‘adopting’ a hard-pressed school in the core city.”
“That would never work. Before you came on the scene”-Fadier Bash tried to belittle Jeffrey by insinuating seniority-“there was an effort to link city and suburban Catholic schools by having an interchange of kids,”
“You mean,” Jeffrey said, “having the suburban kids attend the city schools and vice versa?”
“Exactly.”
“Whose idea was that?”
“The core city people.”
Jeffrey snorted. “That’s an idea whose time not only has not come, it’ll never come. A good number of parents with school-age kids moved to the suburbs for the express purpose of escaping from city schools. For good measure, add the fear that their deteriorating parochial schools in the city were likely to close. They’re not going to return to the city or send their kids-not by a long shot.
“But their conscience still bothers them. So they don’t send their kids; they send money. They ‘adopt’ a parish school and help subsidize it.”
“It won’t work!” Bash repeated himself. “If you were a priest instead of a deacon”-Bash tried to diminish Jeffrey by pulling rank-“and if you were in one of those suburban parishes, you’d know that most of those parishes are strapped for money Go on out to the trenches sometime and ask the pastors out there if their people have enough money to support two schools! You’ll find out soon enough there isn’t any money.”
Jeffrey smiled and slowly shook his head. “Father Bash, there’s always more money. Money has a peculiar talent for self-multiplication. How many times do workers go on strike while management claims it’s made its best and final offer? ‘There isn’t any more money anywhere.’ Then the strike goes on, hurting everyone. Finally, management miraculously ‘finds’ more money.
“Or a family wants some luxury-a high-priced car, a summer home, a cruise-but they can’t afford it. Happens all the time. You know it as well as I. When the family gets around to wanting whatever it is badly enough, voila: They come up with it. All it needs is a decent piece of P.R. work.”
Bash hit the ceiling. “Decent P.R.! Are you intimating that my office lacks professionalism? Are you suggesting that we are incapable of carrying on an effective campaign? I resent such insinuation, sir! I resent it deeply!”
In his heart of hearts, Bash was intimidated by Jeffrey. Quentin Jeffrey had been a recognized success in the public relations field. It was awkward for Bash, who had no formal training or experience, to function while a professional looked on and conceivably evaluated his performance. Bash could bulldoze his way through almost any situation. But, inwardly insecure, he was cowed by Jeffrey’s talent, experience, and proven ability. So Bash reacted to his deserved inferiority complex by striking out at the better man.
Quentin Jeffrey was unruffled. He really didn’t care whether or not his suggestion was implemented. He considered it good advice. But he was keenly aware that it would not be easy to make it work. It would require diplomatic and adroit handling. Something the ham-fisted Bash was incapable of.
Cardinal Boyle did not like his people to engage in confrontation. Some carping was unavoidable as he tried to steer a middle course, faithful to the mind of the Church while permitting as much freedom and initiative as possible. But here at a staff meeting was not the place for angry recrimination.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Boyle said, “Now I am sure that Reverend Mr. Jeffrey did not mean to impugn the abilities and accomplishments of the office of communication. Mr. Jeffrey’s suggestion is worthy of consideration. And I am sure it deserves further examination. In any case, Father Bash, nothing that Mr, Jeffrey said need trouble you.” The Cardinal smiled as he toyed with his pectoral cross. “You must develop a tougher hide, Father Bash. These are troubled times,”
“Yes, eminence.” When it came to the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit, Cletus Bash was the quintessential yes man.
Larry Hoffer’s hand was raised. Bash thought that a good sign: The meeting was returning to order as decreed in Robert’s Rules of Order.
“Mr. Hoffer.” Bash recognized.
By leaning heavily on his right elbow, Hoffer was able to get his left hand in his pants pocket and jingle coins, “I feel as if I ought to apologize for what I’m about to say, but as director of finance and administration, I must see things in dollars and cents and very little else,”
Jingle, jingle.
“I can’t help remembering how things were when I was a boy. The recollection was jogged by Archbishop Foley’s recalling a time when Catholics had to confess a mortal sin if they were not sending their children to a Catholic school. At that time, I was going to a parochial school-so my parents were spared that embarrassment.”
Particularly from the usually dour Hoffer, that was a humorous line. For that very reason, no one laughed. They couldn’t believe he would be treating this matter lightly. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Earlier in this meeting,” Hoffer proceeded, “Monsignor Young referred to the virtual disappearance of the teaching nun. I put that together with what Archbishop Foley said and came up with a picture of the school I attended. And all the nuns. Sisters I still remember. Rarely if ever did a layperson teach in a parochial school. Whoever came up with the teaching nun, it was, indeed, an ingenious idea. She gave of herself completely, selflessly. She is a golden memory for all of us old enough to have attended that kind of parochial school.
“And that is gone. We all know that. Now, I don’t pretend to understand all of the complex reasons it’s gone. I am concerned only with the aftermath, the consequences of the loss of the teaching nun.
“Even if we were able to bring back the nuns in anywhere near the numbers we once had, I doubt that we could keep our schools open regardless. The cost of everything else has risen so much-there’s the age of the buildings, their desperate need of repair and replacement; there’s utilities, insurance, supplies; the cost of attaining a teaching degree now. All that overhead would have to figure into the tuition we’d have to charge.