Koesler, until today, hadn’t seen in ages a Mass in which only a small percentage of the congregation received.
Perhaps, he thought, this report of miracles had attracted extremely conservative Catholics who continued to think themselves and just about all others unworthy to approach the altar with any frequency.
Perhaps, too, many here today were not Catholic-maybe just sightseers and the curious.
When he concluded the Mass, only a few people left the church.
Well, he asked himself, if you were in hopeful anticipation of a miraculous event, would you leave? Aware of Murphy’s Law, you’d be certain sure that no sooner did you leave than someone would be cured.
Before heading to the rectory, he entrusted to Saint Joseph, whose name this church bore, the job of clearing up this miracle business with all due dispatch so that everybody’s life might return to a more simple routine.
He found a small pile of phone messages as well as a sandwich and a pot of coffee-all a gift from Mary O’Connor. Mary’s cheerful and efficient management of parochial affairs was helping immeasurably in getting Koesler through these packed days.
He riffled through the messages. Almost nothing that couldn’t wait until the sandwich was dispatched. The one exception: a request from Pat Lennon for a return call.
Koesler knew Lennon was working on the Green story. He also knew she was not one to make frivolous requests. He left the table, entered his office, and dialed.
“Lennon.” Her voice sounded scratchy. One inevitable price of using a cellular phone.
“Just as a matter of curiosity, where are you?”
“The Lodge going north. This Father Koesler?”
He grimaced. It was out of character for him not to identify himself when calling someone. For one, identification was polite. For another, he did not think he had a distinctive voice. In that, he was wrong.
“Yes, sorry. It’s Father Koesler. May I help you?”
“I hope so. I need an educated guess. And on Church matters, you’re about as educated as I know. This committee that’s been set up to investigate the Green matter-you know, the Cardinal’s committee-they’re calling a meeting for this afternoon that I can’t attend. They’re supposed to make public their first statement on the miracles. What do you think they’re going to say?”
“Whatever I tell you has got to be a guess. But a pretty good one, I think. I was at the Green apartment this morning-”
“You were?!” She sounded impressed.
“Mrs. Green asked me to come. I didn’t learn much. She just wanted to settle on a stipend for the wake service that wasn’t.”
“Lemme guess: no charge.”
He actually felt embarrassed for no good reason except that he’d turned down money.
“Did you get to see Green?”
“No. He is seeing no one but his wife and his doctor. And he refuses to let the doctor examine him.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes,” Koesler agreed, “and it leads me to my first guess: The Cardinal’s committee is not going to get to see him either … at least not yet.”
“So what’ll they say?”
“That’s my second guess. They will report that they have not yet been able to interview him. And the following is the most important statement they will make: They will strongly advise everyone not to presume or assume that there is a genuine miracle here until the investigation can proceed.”
“Cool the miracle,” Lennon synthesized.
“That’s about it. But I don’t think the people who want the miracle to be real are going to pay much attention.”
Silence. A problem on the freeway? Or perhaps she was formulating another question. That was it. “The people who believe in miracles,” she said after some moments, “don’t they tend to be a bit conservative?”
“Generally.”
“Then, don’t conservatives also believe in their bishop? I mean, they’d like to believe in the two-so far-big miracles at St. Joe’s, but they also believe in the bishop. And if the bishop tells them to cool it …?”
“Not as much today as in the recent past,” Koesler said. “A good example is right here in Detroit. Cardinal Boyle has a reputation as a liberal-erroneously, I think, but the reputation nonetheless. The dyed-in-the-wool Catholic conservative will tend to take the Cardinal’s direction with a grain of salt when there’s a disagreement with the archbishop.”
“Right,” she said. “There was that French archbishop … Lefebvre, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, a crashing conservative. He ended up defying the pope-Paul VI. And all of it over the old Latin Mass.” Koesler was shaking his head in disbelief even now.
“Well,” Lennon said, “once again, you’ve been a big help. Thanks.” Typically, she broke the connection without giving Koesler a chance to say good-bye.
As he was replacing the phone on its receiver, the other line rang. It scarcely could be another emergency. The odds …
Mrs. O’Connor apparently thought it might rank; she called out from two offices away, “Father Reichert on line two?” It was a question because she didn’t know whether he agreed with her evaluation.
He could have postponed what he anticipated would be a disquieting conversation, but he didn’t want to fall too far off the pace. The present situation could generate emergencies by binary fission. He punched the second button. “Koesler,” he said, trying to sound pleasant.
“This is Father Reichert.”
“I know.”
“I’ll come right to the point. I want to apologize.”
“Uh … for what?”
“For everything I’ve put you through. Threatening you Monday afternoon. Castigating you after the wake. Dragging you before the archbishop. The whole thing.”
Koesler was taken aback. “You certainly don’t have to apologize … but now that you have: why?”
“Because you were right and I was wrong. Simple as that.”
“How did you reach this conclusion … uh, if you don’t mind?”
“You were right to welcome the healing power of God into your church.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. You were the last person still in the church after the incident with Dr. Green. You sure weren’t in a forgiving mood then. In fact, you laid it on pretty thick.”
“I said I’m sorry. But it wasn’t the first miracle that convinced me you were right all along. It was the second miracle, when that poor crippled woman was healed. The doctor’s return to life was going to happen, no matter what. That was a true miracle, I have no doubt. But it could have happened anywhere since it involved an unbeliever.
“But without the doctor’s miracle in St. Joseph’s, we never would have experienced the second miracle. That woman-a strong Catholic-believed in the One, True Church. Because of that faith and the previous miracle, she spread her faith at the feet of Our Dear Savior.
“It is immaterial to me how you knew this was going to happen. Only that you knew. So, I apologize. I assure you I will be there to witness and to testify. There will be more. There will be more!”
“Wait a minute ….” But before Koesler could remind Reichert that the Church was discouraging such precipitate conclusions, this zealot had hung up.
Koesler set the phone back in its cradle. This, he thought, is a good argument against allowing priests to retire. Some among his brethren needed something to keep them busy.
Chapter Twenty
It was show-or rather, sing and dance-time at Virago I.
Two young women, beautifully built and more talented than most, were waiting backstage to audition for two openings. A performer at either of the Viragos could expect the possibility of moving on to legitimate theater or lucrative advertising work. It had happened with some frequency over the years.
One who had decided, in spite of very attractive offers, to stay with the company was Susan Batson. Years ago, she had won a spot when she’d auditioned with Judy Green. The story of what had gone on between Judy and Jake Cameron had never been told in its entirety. But rumors that linked the diverse facts painted a credible scandal.