“Uh-huh. And they were the only ones. If Uncle Angelo had been able to express his opinion, he probably wouldn’t have given a damn.”
“Remember,” Meehan said, “you and I spent almost an entire day trying to find somebody who had seen Angelo do anything, absolutely anything, religious.”
“Yes, even tip his hat when he passed a front of a church. Notwithstanding that it had been the wind that had blown it off”
“Could have been an act of God,” Meehan commented.
“Finally, as I recall, you found someone who claimed that Angelo had attended a relative’s First Communion.”
“Might have been a lie, but that was on his conscience. In any case, it was enough to satisfy the chancery that we could bury him from church. And then, when I told the Ventimiglias the good news, they asked if they could have a solemn high Mass. Imagine: three priests for Uncle Angelo!”
“Yeah, I remember. You almost hit the ceiling and floor simultaneously.” Koesler paused. “Church law isn’t quite so demanding anymore. It’s really quite open about burying somebody who maybe was Catholic in name only.”
Meehan reflected. “I’m not so sure whether that’s good or bad.”
“Right at this minute, neither am I. With the old law, I think maybe I would not have been able to have this woman’s funeral this morning—which might have saved me lots of grief.”
“What are the requirements now?” Meehan obviously was somewhat tentative. Having retired before the new version of Church law was promulgated, he had not read a single canon of it. There was little or no chance that he would have read it even if he had not retired.
“It mostly has to do with scandal now. Angelo could have sailed right through today’s law. It merely mentions notorious sinners. And then only when burying them would cause scandal. It gets down to the priest’s judgment ... or, he can consult with the Ordinary.”
“Which you wouldn’t do.”
“Which I wouldn’t do.”
“So you buried the prostitute.”
“This morning.”
“Are you worried about the scandal?”
Koesler shook his head. “Not the scandal—although somebody might call me on that. No, I think I’m on pretty firm ground there. But, in a little while, a goodly bit of this morning’s funeral is going to hit the fan.”
“Oh?”
“One thing even I didn’t figure on was that the deceased’s colleagues would attend the funeral.”
“Colleagues?”
“Other prostitutes.”
“They were there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How did you know?”
“The way they were dressed, the makeup, the whole thing.”
“You could tell?”
“They weren’t members of the Rosary Altar Society.” He shook his head again. “Do you get the daily papers?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll probably be on the front page tomorrow. And on TV and radio tonight, for that matter. Didn’t you see the news earlier this week about the prostitute who was murdered and mutilated?”
“I don’t pay much attention to that sort of stuff. Not anymore.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. The news media will have a fresh angle on the story now. They were all there this morning. I’d bet my last buck that they won’t bother with any of the circumstances that got her a Christian burial. They’ll just do the ‘prostitute and the Church’ deal. The ‘sacred and the profane.’”
Meehan thought for a moment. “That shouldn’t be too bad for you, Bobby. You should come off as the good guy in the whole thing. You know, ‘Hate the sin; love the sinner.’”
“I don’t know about that. But it was a judgment call. And long ago I learned that if you spend your life second-guessing yourself, you’ll go nuts.’”
“I’d have to agree. Just pray that your judgment is sane. Not like the guy . . . do you remember the story, Bobby, about the guy who was about to be ordained a priest, and he was going through his final oral exams?”
Koesler not only knew the story, he had recounted it many times. But he knew there was no way to head the monsignor off . . . nor did he want to; it was a good story and Meehan would get pleasure from telling it. So Koesler remained noncommittal as Meehan proceeded.
“Well, the test was part of the Moral Theology exam,” Meehan began. “The question was put to the student by the Moral Theology prof as a hypothetical problem . . . by the way, Bobby, do you happen to know what a sacrarium is?”
Koesler smiled in spite of himself. Odd that Meehan would ask such a question. In his earlier life as a priest, when Koesler had been a lowly assistant, he’d had many an occasion to use a sacrarium.
Back then, when it came time to wash sacred linens, principally the cloths used at Mass—such as the purificator—none but the consecrated hands of a priest were supposed to handle the initial washing. So priests—all over the world, as far as Koesler knew—rinsed out the cloths in some small container, the water from which was to be poured, not into an ordinary sink, but rather into the sacrarium that resembled a sink. Except that it was usually covered with a metal lid and, most importantly, the drain led not into the sewer, but directly into the ground. Thus, even the water that was used to wash blessed linens would be treated in a special manner.
Yes, Father Koesler well knew what a sacrarium was. All older churches had such utensils in the sacristy. Even many modern churches had them, though now they were used most infrequently. Koesler thought it passing strange that Meehan would ask this question. Perhaps the elderly just assumed that lots of things in their lives would pass into desuetude along with themselves.
Assured by Koesler’s smile that he was, indeed, familiar with the sacrarium, Meehan continued, “Well, then, the professor proposes this hypothesis: ‘Suppose,’ he says, ‘that you’re saying Mass and you get past the consecration. You’ve already consecrated the host and the wine. Then, while you’re continuing the prayers of the Mass—you have both hands raised in prayer—suppose a mouse runs across the altar table, grabs the consecrated host in its mouth, and runs off. Now, what would you do?’
“Well, sir, the student thinks about this for quite a while. Finally he says, ‘I’d burn down the church and throw the ashes in the sacrarium.’”
Koesler chuckled appreciatively.
“Ya know,” Meehan continued, “that’s a true story.”
Koesler doubted that; Meehan had told it so often it had undoubtedly transformed itself for him from fiction into fact.
“And ya know,” Meehan concluded, “they ordained that man!”
“Maybe,” Koesler said, “the poor fellow had some redeeming qualities. Maybe turned out to be a hard worker.”
Meehan thought that over. “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered it from that angle. You may just have something there. Maybe he did have some redeeming features. I wonder what ever became of him.”
Koesler wondered how one would trace the lifespan of a fictional character. “Let’s just hope he didn’t have a series of mice snatching his hosts. Otherwise, this archdiocese would become churchless.”
Koesler’s comment fell on deaf ears; Meehan seemed lost in some reverie. “Hard worker,” Meehan said. “Hard worker. That reminds me: How is Dick Kramer getting along? I wonder about him from time to time.”
The association was natural, Koesler admitted. Of all the priests in the Detroit archdiocese, Dick Kramer easily was the hardest working—a distinction on which almost everyone would agree. And such unanimity was rare enough to possibly qualify it as unique.
“I suppose,” Koesler answered, “he’s working as hard as ever. And I suppose that’s why I so seldom hear about him.”
Meehan shook his head and shifted in his chair. “Works too hard. Always did. I worry about him.”