As he carefully studied the priest, Bush realized that their features were not by any means identical. Oh, they were about the same height and build; blond-haired, fair-complexioned. The likeness, such as it was, would not stand the test of close scrutiny. But to the casual passerby the similarity was enough. Yes, Arnold Bush would stake his future, his freedom, on that.
“Let us proclaim the mystery of faith,” Father Kramer invited.
“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again,” the congregation responded.
Christ died for sinners, thought Bush. It was only fit and proper that sinners should die for Christ.
17
Sister Mary Therese offered to show Father Koesler the way to the church basement, but he assured her he was familiar with the plant and could find the way. So she told him which doors were locked and which were not. And away he went.
She was surprised but pleased that Koesler had come to visit. She wished that her presence, support, and companionship were sufficient for Dick Kramer, but she knew that wasn’t so. There was just something about one priest that needed another. And Kramer did not have many priest friends, at least to the extent that any priest socialized with him, or he with any of them.
There was nothing she could do about this beyond encouraging him to give himself a break and party with the gang once in a while. He always seemed grateful for her solicitude, but he almost always begged off. Workaholism, a defect that Kramer had to a terminal degree, did not mix well with worry-free relaxation.
Thus she was happy that Koesler had come on what seemed to be a social call. Perhaps this could be the beginning of a new companionable dimension in Dick Kramer’s life. God knows he could use it.
Koesler of course had no way of knowing what was on Sister Therese’s mind. As far as he was concerned, this visit was the result of Monsignor Meehan’s request. The next time Koesler stopped by, he wanted to be able to give the monsignor some sort of report— positive, Koesler hoped—on the state of Richard Kramer.
It was not that Koesler was in any way opposed to the possibility that this visit might blossom into a deeper friendship more frequently renewed. Such, indeed, he would welcome. But it was not in Koesler’s nature to enter into another’s life uninvited. In truth, there was no way he would have undertaken this visit had it not been for Meehan’s concern for his former associate.
Koesler negotiated the maze of locked and unlocked doors without incident, though it was fortunate that he was familiar with Mother of Sorrows church. Otherwise, he might have become hopelessly lost and lucky to find his way back to Sister Therese for a guided tour.
As he passed through the final door leading from the boiler room to Kramer’s carefully outfitted and unexpectedly complete workshop, Koesler felt a foreboding. There was nothing specific; it was just so dark and chill and deserted. He was reminded of the smokehouse where Jud Fry holed up in the musical Oklahoma!. Koesler shrugged; to each his own. It was not his cup of tea, but evidently it suited Dick Kramer.
Koesler would not have been able to see into this workroom had his eyes not already become accustomed to the dark. He knocked, and cleared his throat. Kramer, bent over his workbench at the opposite side of the room, whirled, clearly startled.
“Oh, sorry, Dick. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like this. There wasn’t any other way of doing it.”
“You startled me!” Kramer didn’t seem angry, merely nettled. “What are you doing here, anyway? Where’s Therese?”
“Therese is at the rectory. She gave me directions on how to find you. As to what I’m doing here: I came to visit. I expected you to be at the rectory.” Koesler was aware that Kramer was tucking something into one of the workbench drawers. It appeared to be an object he had been working on, but, apparently, something he didn’t want Koesler to see.
Kramer seemed to unbend. “Sorry to be so abrupt. I just wasn’t expecting company. I guess I was kind of wrapped up in what I was doing. You gave me a start. What brings you here . . . I mean besides the visit?” Kramer did not get casual visitors. And he knew that everyone knew that.
“No strings, Dick . . . well, maybe one. I was visiting with Monsignor Meehan and he mentioned you. We both got to wondering how you are.” Koesler paused. “So how are you?”
“Okay, I guess.” Kramer fumbled in his pants pocket and extracted a crumpled half-full pack of cigarettes. He fished one out, straightened and smoothed it, then lit it from the stub that was about to expire in a nearby overflowing ashtray. “Want to go back to the rectory? We could have a drink.”
Koesler waved a hand. “No ... no; thanks just the same, but I’ve got enough left to do today without a midafternoon libation.”
Kramer studied the other priest with a measure of abstract interest. He honestly could not fathom why one person would pay a strictly social call on another person—especially when both were busy priests—in the middle of the afternoon. “Oh. Okay, then, we can visit here, I guess. What did you want to talk about?”
Koesler didn’t “want” to talk about anything in particular. When one paid a social call, especially when both parties were priests, it really wasn’t necessary to announce a subject matter for conversation. One simply chewed some innocent fat for a while. Now that Kramer had suggested the need for a topic, Koesler found himself hard-pressed to come up with one. But, after a little thought, “How’s Sister Therese working out?”
“Therese? Good. Fine. I really don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Koesler had not expected such enthusiasm, particularly from Kramer. “That’s quite a testimonial! What’ve you got her doing to elicit all that praise?”
“Oh, Therese does a little bit of everything. She takes a special interest in the old folks . . . the ones in nursing homes and the ones shuttered up in their homes, afraid to come out even in broad daylight. Folks with bars on their doors and windows. They really need help, someone to take an interest in them . . . and Therese does.”
“Nice.”
“But that’s not all. She takes care of the kids. Takes them out for projects, picnics, whatever. They love her. I think when they grow up, if they think kindly of the Catholic Church, it’ll be Therese they’re thinking of. On top of that, for all practical purposes she’s the director of Religious Ed—youth and adult.”
“Impressive. Everything but hearing confessions and saying Mass.”
Koesler’s obvious exaggeration was not lost on Kramer. “Actually, Bob,” he returned the joke, “I think maybe she does hear confessions once in a while.”
“Better not let the Vatican hear about that. As far as Rome is concerned, females are lucky to be allowed into church.”
“Huh?”
“Well, all right, they can come in. But they’d better not get too close to the altar.”
“Are you serious?”
Koesler began to wonder whether Kramer was still joking . . . or did he actually not know about the exclusion of girls from serving at the altar?
“Are you serious?” Koesler returned. “You do know that girls are banned from serving Mass, don’t you?”
“Is that still going on?”
“You bet your sweet bippy it’s still going on. You mean you’re not involved in the war against altar girls?” While this was not of major concern, especially in the Detroit archdiocese, it was a fairly popular topic of conversation in clerical groups. But then, Koesler reminded himself, Kramer was seldom to be found in informal clerical gatherings.