“Just at that moment, a small child in the front row said, just loud enough to be heard in that vast, silent church, he said, ‘Mama, what are we gonna do if he gets out of that cage?’”
Krieg threw his head back and roared. “Praise God!” he shouted through the laughter that he shared with Sister Janet, Martha Benbow, the man at the cupboard, and Father Koesler, who cut short his mirth when he saw the four writers accord the story no more than a brief smile.
However, their near deadpan response to a genuinely funny anecdote did nothing to faze Krieg’s appreciation of his own joke. He was still wiping tears from his eyes after all other laughter ceased. At the end of it all, once again, he proclaimed, “Praise God!”
Koesler concluded that the phrase could become a bit wearisome.
Krieg touched napkin to lips. He’d finished his meal without a touch of dessert. He’d eaten very little. Koesler wondered how, if this were a representative meal, Krieg maintained his roly-poly shape. No exercise, probably-and undoubtedly this was not a typical intake.
At a nod from Krieg, his assistant unlocked and opened the cabinet, whence he extracted a variety of bottles, which he placed on the serving ledge.
Koesler took note. These were not the inexpensive liquors served before the meal. Even a casual glance at the labels revealed these to be among the highest quality and cost.
“I’d like to invite you all to join me in an after-dinner drink, if you would. It would be a nice ending to a delicious meal, and a pleasant warming for the evening ahead.”
It was one of life’s embarrassing moments. No one did or said anything.
Whatever chemistry was going on here, a goodly portion of it was escaping Koesler. Yet he thought it uncivil, if not ungodly or un-Christian, to give no response whatsoever to an invitation that, to all appearances, seemed sincerely offered.
So Koesler responded. And in doing so, he thawed the antipathy of the others. He was followed to the array of liquors and liqueurs by Janet and Martha, then by Benbow, Winer, Augustine, and Marie. Last came Krieg, looking pleased that the logjam of opposition was at least showing some movement.
Koesler, first to arrive at the cupboard, inspected the display. None of the bottles was small. In some cases the booze was in full gallon containers. There were no price tags, but a gallon of Chivas Regal, twelve years old, did not come cheap. The same could be said for Cutty Sark, Dewar’s White Label, Glenmorangie ten years old, Canadian Club, Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7 Tennessee, Bushmills, and Bombay Dry Gin. Then there were the liqueurs: Solignac Cognac, Frangelico, Grand Marnier, Galliano, Benedictine, B and B, Amaretto di Saronno, Chartreuse, and E amp; J Brandy.
The quantity and variety were overwhelming.
In honor of that half of his heritage which was Irish, Koesler poured a shot of Bushmills into a snifter. He rolled the amber liquid around the base of the glass, occasionally inhaling the sweet-smelling bouquet.
Standing off to one side, Koesler, between occasional sips, checked out what the others were doing. Krieg’s assistant/companion stood nearby. At six-foot-three he and Koesler were of equal height. There the comparison pretty much ended. The associate was built like a brick armory, with no discernible neck, just a granite-like head that melded into massive shoulders.
Extending his hand, the priest introduced himself. “Hi. Father Koesler.”
The associate snorted, looked impassively at the priest, and said, “No. Guido Taliafero.”
Hand still extended, Koesler hesitated. Then he understood. “No, I’m Father Koesler.”
“Oh.” Guido nodded and took the outstretched hand. Koesler was prepared; he slipped his hand as deeply into Taliafero’s as possible. Koesler knew, from the school of hard handshakes, that the greeting would hurt less if his palm were wrung than if his fingers were squeezed. Still, there was pain, Koesler swallowed it. “Worked for Reverend Krieg long?” he said, finally.
“No.”
“Oh. . uh. . what did you do before you came to work for Reverend Krieg?”
“Played football.”
“That figures. But I don’t place the name. Wait a minute; yes, I do. There was a Taliafero. But wasn’t he a quarterback?”
“Not NFL. Canadian League.”
“Oh. .uh. .well, nice meeting you, Guido.”
“Same here.”
And that was that. Taliafero remained at his post, in an “at ease” stance. Koesler felt awkward trying to continue this monosyllabic conversation; he moved off to a vantage whence he could more easily observe the others. As their drinks were poured, he noted their choices: Janet, Amaretto; Marie, Benedictine; Martha, Galliano; Benbow, E amp; J Brandy; Winer, Frangelico; Augustine, Chartreuse and then Grand Marnier; Krieg, Frangelico.
Neither the drinks nor the momentary lull in hostilities appeared to have healed the situation. Janet and Marie were off by themselves. Benbow, Winer, and Augustine seemed to have found some common ground; at least they were talking among themselves. Augustine gave some indication that he was not feeling all that well. Martha was talking to Krieg. Whatever her husband’s problem with the publisher, Martha did not seem to share it.
Krieg, catching sight of Koesler standing by himself, motioned him over. Koesler joined him and Martha.
“So, Father,” said Krieg, “did you know that Martha here is in real estate? Very successfully, too.”
“No, I had no idea.”
“Not only that,” Krieg continued, “but she’s been thinking of doing some writing. She’s been telling me some of her ideas. Promising. Very promising.”
“Reverend Krieg has been most encouraging,” Martha said. “It certainly motivates a person when a publisher says he’s willing to read your work. I don’t think I would consider taking time from my schedule to write unless I were sure the completed version would be read. But now. .”
“Praise God!” Krieg said.
“You’re thinking of writing for P.G. Press?” Koesler asked Martha.
“At least tentatively,” Martha said.
“Have you ever read any of the books the Reverend’s house publishes?” Koesler asked.
“Not yet. But I surely will. First chance I get.”
Lady, thought Koesler, are you in for a surprise.
At that point, Sister Janet spoke loudly. “If I may have your attention, everyone. .” She got it. “According to our schedule, those of you who will be conducting seminars tomorrow-namely, Fathers Benbow and Augustine, Rabbi Winer and Sister Marie-should go to your conference rooms on the second floor at this time. The locations are in the folders you will find”-she gestured-“on the table near the door. There will be facilitators in the conference rooms to brief you on the students you may expect tomorrow.
“Martha Benbow, Father Koesler, and I are to go to the Denk Chapman room here on the first floor.” She addressed the two named directly. “There are some last-minute details that I could use your help with.
“Reverend Krieg, your conference room is not quite ready. So, if you would, please, remain here in the faculty dining room for a brief while longer. One of our facilitators will come to get you in just a short while.
“Shall we go now?”
Koesler noticed Krieg nodding to Guido Taliafero. The guard acknowledged the signal, then left the dining room, disappearing in the direction of the building’s front door.
Glasses were deposited on table, folders located, and the group began to disperse.
As Koesler left the dining room, he saw Taliafero’s massive form silhouetted against the front door. Beyond that, just outside the entrance, was a white stretch limo, standing in what Koesler knew was a no-parking zone.
Indicating the limousine-in-violation, Koesler asked, “Krieg’s?”