Koesler chuckled. “Aunt Sophie? If you couldn’t find her, well, they must’ve already gotten her on a plane back to Florida. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.” He chuckled again. “She played a significant role in this thing.”
“I’ll say! She practically woke him up all by herself.”
He bade Lennon good-bye and closed the door behind her, marveling. Maybe what had happened to Dr. Green wasn’t a miracle, but shipping Aunt Sophie back home away from the scene of her brother’s “resurrection” surely was.
Chapter Fifteen
Tiredly and listlessly, Father Koesler fingered through the mail. A couple of requests for records, one baptismal, the other marital. Nothing personal or even first-class. Mostly junk.
Next the telephone messages. None of an emergency category. Thank God.
Then he smiled. And the smile broadened. The message read: If you tell me about your half funeral, I’ll tell you about some of mine. The caller was Rabbi Richard Feldman.
Just what and when he needed: a friend at the end of a most trying day.
Many years before, Rabbi Feldman and Father Koesler had found themselves at the Round Table of Christians and Jews. After some humorous exchange, the two clergymen had commenced a tentative friendship. Feldman was Reform, Koesler liberal-a pretty good match. Once they discovered they were not going to offend each other no matter how frank and honest they were, they were able to relax in each other’s company.
Koesler had been a guest in the Feldman home several times. The priest found the rabbi’s wife, Sara, even more sociable than her husband. Without a wife himself, it was somewhat more problematical for Koesler to invite the pair for a meal. But he managed it a couple of times.
Feldman had to be aware of what was going on at Old St. Joe’s. Everyone who was not in a cloister-and possibly even some of those-was following the continuing mystery play. How typically kind of the rabbi to call his beleaguered old friend.
Koesler dialed him immediately. They agreed to meet at Seros, a popular restaurant in the suburb of Southfield. Koesler was eager for the company. At this time, Rabbi Feldman was more welcome even than a fellow priest. The rabbi was certain to inject just the right measure of humor and lightheartedness. Feldman, on his part, was glad to be of help. On occasion, Koesler had served him in a like situation.
Both clergymen arrived at Seros at nearly the same time. Koesler watched as his friend rather laboriously got out of his car. The rabbi had heart problems and was forced to moderate his activity accordingly. He was tall-an inch or so shorter than Koesler-but somewhat more husky. His thinning hair topped a round face. Wire-rimmed glasses framed eyes that enjoyed fun. All in all, the rabbi’s appearance was reminiscent of the late balladeer Burl Ives-a resemblance that on occasion startled onlookers who were certain that the folksinger had already departed this earth.
They greeted each other with enthusiasm. Once inside the restaurant, they sat on benches against a back wall and made small talk while waiting for a table.
Once at table, they ordered after glancing perfunctorily at the menu. Each asked for a salad-a specialty of this restaurant-and coffee.
Their conversations, more often than not, leaned toward an interdisciplinary ecumenism. Each respected the other’s religious affiliation. But on occasions such as this, they tried to keep it light.
“What’s this about having half funerals?” Koesler asked. “You never mentioned this before. You could have prepared me for my combination baptism circumcision.”
“As it turns out”-Feldman’s eyes danced-” I never even heard of one until you came up with this one. I thought I could cheer you up if I made you realize you weren’t the only leper in town.”
“You mean to tell me,” Koesler chided, “that you’ve lived a troublefree life as far as funerals are concerned?”
“Who has such luck? Let’s see.… I didn’t think you’d get specific,” he added, parenthetically. “I have to rattle through my memory bank. Ah … ah, yes. We have a custom called the unveiling, that happens about a year after death. It sort of dedicates the tombstone. During the ceremony, a veil-or, God save us, a piece of plastic-is taken off the stone. One time I finished the ceremony and a little boy whipped out a book and did the ceremony all over again. Imagine, a self-appointed expert!”
“At least he showed up with a book,” Koesler said. “Early on, I had a wedding, and as I walked up to the altar, I realized I’d left the ritual in the sacristy. By then, I’d done so many weddings, I probably could’ve done it from memory. But, in my heart I knew that once you try something like that, you set yourself up for botching the whole thing.
“So, I turned to this little altar boy and said, ‘Do you know that little black book I use for weddings and funerals?’ And he said, ‘Yes, Father,’ because little altar boys never learn to say, ‘No, Father.’
“So I told him to go back to the sacristy and get the book and bring it to me. And, do you know, I never saw that kid again!”
The waiter served their salad and coffee.
“I’ll bet,” Feldman said, “you never had a fistfight at the grave site!”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It was another unveiling ceremony. And when the stone was unveiled, it read, ‘Beloved Father and Husband’ instead of ‘Beloved Son and Brother.’ I don’t know why the fight broke out. It had to be over the marker. But pretty soon everybody but me was throwing punches.”
Koesler tasted the coffee. It was excellent-even better than he could make. “The closest I ever came to violence, that I can recall, was when I was a little altar boy. It was my first time at a military funeral. I had served at graveside before, but this military style was a first for me. Everything went smoothly until the end when, completely unexpectedly for me, the honor guard fired their rifles in salute. At the first salvo the widow fainted. And all I could think was, My God, they shot her!”
Feldman paused with a forkful of salad. “That’s it for me, I’m afraid-at least for real-life experiences. After this, we get into apocrypha.
“Like the one about the rabbi who is graveside. There’s a man at the next grave, screaming, ‘Why did you have to die? Why did you have to die?’ So the rabbi walks over to the man. ‘Was this your wife?’ he asks. And the man sobs, ‘No; it was my wife’s former husband.’”
Koesler laughed. “That’s one I hadn’t heard, oddly enough. But it sort of reminds me of the foursome holing out on the sixth green when a funeral procession passes by. One of the golfers stops just as he is about to putt. He waits, hat over heart, until the procession is completely out of sight. The second golfer says, ‘I have seldom seen such respect for the dead.’ ‘Yes,’ says the first golfer, ‘next Saturday we would’ve been married thirty-two years.’”
“Sticking with golf,” Feldman said, chuckling at the story he was going to tell, “here’s one where the rabbi wakes up on an absolutely perfect Saturday morning. The temperature is in the low seventies; there isn’t a cloud in the sky, just a slight breeze. A golf day made in heaven. Only one problem. It’s Shabbat-the Sabbath. Nothing like golf permitted on the Sabbath. But the temptation is too great. Quietly, the rabbi gets into his golf togs and slips out of the house.
“In heaven, an angel and Yahweh are watching all this. ‘Adonai,’ the angel says, ‘you can’t let him get away with this!’ ‘Wait,’ Yahweh says.
“The rabbi, all alone, steps up to the first tee, a short par four. He addresses the ball and hits it perfectly, the longest drive of his golfing career. The ball takes three bounces to the green, rolls up to the hole, and drops in. An ace-the first in his life!
“The angel turns to Yahweh and says, ‘You call that punishment?’ And Yahweh says, ‘Who can he tell?’”
“That’s pretty good,” Koesler noted. “Would the entire rabbinical school agree that that was punishment enough?”