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“And pretend you’re Toulouse-Lautrec.’”

“Oh, oh, very good, Bob. Very good.” He shook his head as he wiped his eyes. “And is this true on top of everything else? Is this really true?”

“According to Kaminski, yes. And I don’t think anyone could make up a story like that, do you?”

“No, not really.”

“But you see, Monsignor, that while bishops—even auxiliary bishops—are upwardly mobile, I fear Carl Kaminski’s ecclesiastical career has come to a screeching halt.”

“Well”—Meehan was regaining self-control—“I guess that’s not totally bad. After all, we got into this vocation to be parish priests. And, while God or the Pope or somebody picks some of us to go higher, it’s best down here with the people as a simple parish priest.”

Koesler could not have agreed more. “Yes, working in the trenches, as it were.”

Meehan was silent for a few moments. Then, “Speaking of work, I’ve been wondering more and more frequently about Dick Kramer. For some reason, he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I don’t know why. It’s not that he visits me—oh, maybe once or twice a year. But somehow . . . I don’t know . . . have you seen Dick recently?”

“No. Just no reason to, I guess.” Koesler found it strange that Meehan would bring Father Kramer up in conversation two consecutive weeks. Maybe there was some sort of ESP going on. “Are you worried about him for some reason?”

“No . . . I couldn’t say worried. Concerned, perhaps. In the time we were together at St. Norbert’s he was so intense. We didn’t have a parochial school when he got to the parish, though we had plans for one and the archdiocese was willing to loan us the money for construction. The big thing was, we didn’t have the teaching nuns.

“But once I got a commitment from the Dominicans, there was just no stopping Dick. He did all the landscaping . . . with the generous help of some of the parishioners, of course. But no one worked nearly as hard as Dick Kramer to get that school built.

“The sad thing is, Bob, he was—is—a driven man. And I worry about him at that parish of his. There comes a time when you must let something die. And that’s about the state of Mother of Sorrows parish. It’s dying. But Father Kramer will work it even as it sinks into the grave. The frustration of it all can take a lot out of a man . . . especially a man like Dick Kramer.” Meehan looked expectantly at Koesler.

“So, Monsignor, is there something you’d like me to do about this?”

“Look in on him, if you would. I feel he needs some support. The support only another priest can give. Unless he’s changed a great deal—and I don’t believe he has—then he doesn’t have more than a few close friends. And he would never ask for help. It’s just not in him to do that.”

“Monsignor,” Koesler protested, “I really don’t have all that much time to—”

“Oh, now, Bobby, I’m not askin’ you to spend a lot of time. Just look in on him once in a while. Let him know someone cares. Another priest. It’ll do a lot of good. I know it will.”

“Okay, Monsignor. I’ll do it . . . first chance I get.”

Koesler made his goodbyes. It was just 11:30 A.M. Time for Monsignor Meehan to lead the rosary in the chapel of the Little Sisters of the Poor. As usual, six or seven little old ladies and one or two little old men would join him for this daily prayer before lunch.

Before leaving, Koesler watched the pious group gather. One day, he thought, if you live long enough, this will be it: The high point of your day will be leading the rosary for a group of your peers—all of you on the shelf.

Oh well; it could be worse. Needed, for one reason or another, right to the end. There was a lot to be said for the quiet life of a simple parish priest.

In a little while he would value that quiet, simple life even more because he was about to temporarily lose it.

16

It was just a few minutes till noon. Whenever she had the opportunity—and this was one of those times—Sister Mary Therese Hercher liked to spend a few quiet moments in prayer before the noon Mass.

She genuflected and entered one of the pews near the sanctuary. It was cold; she shivered as her knees touched the padded kneeler. Mother of Sorrows was a venerable parish and this edifice was a tribute to the parish’s more lush days. Plenty of marble and brick, with lots of stained glass. And a huge “rose window” in the front wall above the choir loft—which these days was almost never used.

This huge structure was heated only for Sunday Masses. Through the week, particularly during January and February, it required more than ordinary dedication to visit the church for Mass or private prayer.

It would have made a lot of sense to Therese to just lock the church except for Sundays and special events. Daily Mass easily could be held in the church hall or even, comfortably, in the rectory. Only a very few people attended daily Mass. With no trouble, the small group could have assembled in the basement of the rectory and been warm and comfy. But Father Dick Kramer seemed to feel that if they were to lock the church Monday through Saturday, in no time the chancery would hear of it and they would lock it up for good and all.

That man!

Sister Mary Therese began to pray for the pastor. Stubborn, bull-headed, singleminded, dedicated, generous, caring, hard-working. She was filled with negative and positive feelings.

In the final analysis, Father Kramer had her respect and her continued commitment. If this parish was sinking slowly in the west—and she believed it was—and if the pastor was going to stay with his parish to the bitter end, then she too would stay aboard.

It was not Sister Therese’s style to pray that any course of events should go on according to her lights. Rather, over the long years of a developing prayer life; through the postulancy, the novitiate, first profession, and final vows, she had fairly successfully adopted Christ’s prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane—not as I will, but Thy will be done. In most instances, she had found this the most comforting and comfortable approach to God.

But not now. She was certain it was God’s will that Mother of Sorrows parish should close. Well, perhaps not quite that baldly. But she was certain that for his emotional well-being, Father Kramer must get out of the parish and escape the impossible demands he felt the parish was making of him.

No possible way could he keep this school open. Yet he would continue to struggle until the inevitable failure occurred. And once the school, as well as several other parish services, ground to a halt, Father Kramer would be forced to leave and establish a new headquarters in a parish that more called for and could better profit from his many talents.

Then Mother of Sorrows would cease to exist as a parish. For no other priest in the archdiocese would apply for it. This had happened in quite a few city parishes. And it surely would happen here, also. So she prayed for her friend, Father Dick Kramer, that he would have the sense to admit this was a dying elephant. And that God would continue His presence among these good people even after the demise of Mother of Sorrows parish.

As she prayed, a lonely figure entered the church and walked quietly down the middle aisle. Therese recognized Sarah Taylor, the woman who just last week had lost her son in that tragic incident. The classic example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Little Rudy Taylor! Therese could hardly imagine how the gang who murdered him could have mistaken this young boy for a competing drug dealer.

It had taken the police only a few days to catch Rudy’s killers. The gang—boys themselves chronologically—were to be tried as adults.

What a shame! What a waste!

Either Sarah Taylor had found or was still searching for her consolation in the church. While the Taylors had been regular attendants at Sunday Mass, and while Rudy had occasionally been a Mass server during the week, Sarah had never attended daily Mass until Rudy was killed.