“That’s right; he was with you at St. Norbert’s, wasn’t he?”
“Indeed he was. I shan’t easily forget that.”
“You don’t easily forget much of anything.”
“Oh, yes, too much. Too much! But it would be hard to forget Dick Kramer. Why, he almost singlehandedly kept all those church buildings in repair. And when he wasn’t carrying hammers and nails and an acetylene torch, he was taking Communion to the sick, or teaching in school or giving instructions.” Meehan sighed. “He was the closest thing I ever saw to perpetual motion.”
“Well, I don’t know if he’s still doing all those things, but I can tell you that, by common consensus, he is still hard at work. And he’s got his hands full just keeping Mother of Sorrows parish open . . . word is the school is as good as closed.”
“Sad. Sad. That could break his heart.”
Koesler thought it appropriate to change the subject. The conversational theme was becoming depressing and he was sure that, with all his aches and pains, Monsignor Meehan didn’t need to be depressed.
“It may be academic,” Koesler said. “There’s such an exodus from that part of town that eventually they may not even need a parish there anymore. In which case Kramer can get his carpenter’s license and earn some real money.”
“Carpenter’s license,” Meehan mused. “Say, Bobby, did I ever tell you . . .” Koesler was certain Meehan had.
“. . . about St. Mary’s Seminary in Baltimore? Back when I was a student there we had the French Sulpicians—actually from France. Most of them had trouble with English. I remember one of them one day mentioning that Jesus was a carPENter. And when we all laughed at that, the professor said, ‘Oh, yes, zat is true. Not only was Jesus a carPENter, but he was the son of a carPENter.’”
Now that they were on the French Sulpician stories of the early days at St. Mary’s in Baltimore, Koesler could almost predict the tales to come. But, why not? They were good stories, tried and true.
8
There were a few people on the front porch. They were not standing outside in the cold by choice. They were waiting to get inside the crowded house. Inside the house there was considerable commotion that was audible almost half a block away.
Father Richard Kramer heard it as soon as he stepped out of his car. He shuddered. His task would have been unpleasant under the best of circumstances. This noisy crowd ensured his visit would be attended by the worst of circumstances.
It took the people on the porch a little while to figure out who he might be. But they solved the puzzle rather quickly. He was white and he was wearing black trousers, a black hat, and a black coat. He was either a mortician or a preacher. If he had been the mortician, he probably would have been black, so odds were he was the alternative. As he climbed the steps, one of the onlookers spotted his roman collar. So she announced his arrival. “Look out here for the Father.”
The crowd, like the waters of the Red Sea, parted.
“The Father’s here. Look out. Give him room.”
Kramer nodded to the people as they made way. Soon he was in the packed parlor. The focus of all attention was a frail, middle-aged woman seated in the largest chair in the room. She had several tissues in her hands. Her head was bowed and her shoulders trembled as she cried quietly. Her grief was all but silent; it was the others who were making the racket . . . although as Kramer neared the grieving room the others reduced their decibels to whispers.
Someone vacated a chair next to the one occupied by the grieving woman.
Kramer had been through similar situations countless times. There was little or nothing that could take away the grief. Silently, he put his hand on her shoulder.
She looked up at him. Tears clouded her eyes. “Oh, Father, why’d it have to happen? Rudy was a good boy. Why him?”
Most mothers would have said the same thing. In this case, Kramer knew it to be true. “Yes, Sarah, Rudy was a good boy.”
“Then why’d it have to happen, Father? Why?”
“No answers, Sarah. Rudy was on the wrong corner at the wrong time.”
It was one of those tragedies for which Detroit was notorious. Kids marketing, pushing, supplying, selling, using dope. Kids with every kind of gun imaginable. Kids out looking for someone who had double-crossed them. Mistaking young Rudy for the sought-after victim. Several shots fired. Two bystanders wounded. Rudy dead before his body hit the pavement. Rudy, one of Father Kramer’s altar boys. Rudy, his mother’s only son. Kids killing kids.
“Did they catch the kid, the kid that did it? Did they catch him yet, Father?”
“I don’t think so, Sarah. I heard the news on the radio as I came over. But there was no word of it.”
Someone handed him a cup of hot coffee. He thanked the person and reflected on how badly he wanted a smoke. But this was neither the time nor the place.
“Sarah, try to forget the kid who shot Rudy. The cops’ll get him. They’ll get him in time. Probably real soon. But it’s not going to do you any good to have vengeance in your heart. Not at a time like this.”
“What am I gonna do, Father? Somebody took my Rudy. How can I not think about who did it, Father?”
“It’s not easy, I know, Sarah. But it just doesn’t do any good.”
“Then what am I gonna think about, Father? I got a hole in my heart.”
“I know you do, Sarah. And you have all your friends around you to try to heal your heart.
“What are you going to think about? Think about how fine a boy Rudy was. No, how fine a boy Rudy is. What good is it for us to talk in church about Jesus coming back from the dead if we don’t make that talk live for us?”
“Doctor Jesus?”
“Doctor Jesus. That’s right. We believe He came back from the dead. He’s alive. And so are we. We live in Him. So we live in this life and in the next life. That’s where Rudy is now. He’s alive in another life. A better life. A perfect life. Everything we do, even here on earth, is part of our eternal life in Doctor Jesus. Rudy was my altar boy. He is your son. But now he is with God.”
During Kramer’s exhortation, Sarah kept looking at him intently. The tears ceased to course down her cheeks. She was absorbing his every word as a sponge takes in water. But as he finished speaking, her face clouded once more.
“I want him back, Father. He didn’t even have a chance to live.” She began sobbing again.
Kramer could do nothing more than sit next to her and give her his presence.
Meanwhile, the crowd resumed its expression of grief. It began gradually and crescendoed. After a while, Kramer was hardly conscious of the noise. He was lost in his thoughts. Only when someone turned on the television was he drawn back to the present. Perhaps it was the movement of the crowd, forming a kind of passageway so everyone could see the set, that brought him back to reality.
“It’s six o’clock. The news is on,” someone said. “Let’s see if it’s on the news.”
Sarah gazed at the TV set. Her attention was totally taken up by the image on the screen. As yet there was no sound. By the time picture and sound were both functioning, the teasers had been read and one commercial message finished. Now it was the strikingly beautiful Robbie Timmons on the screen.
“The funeral for the slain alleged prostitute Louise Bonner was held today . . . .”
The picture switched to the facade of St. Anselm’s Church. Kramer recognized it at once. He’d been there a few times at the invitation of its pastor, Father Koesler.
Kramer watched, mouth partly open, as the TV picture showed the funeral cortege approaching the church. He began to feel very warm. It started as a sudden flush and quickly grew more discomfiting. He trembled slightly as he rose from the chair.