Father Grimes approached the mike almost bashfully. From force of habit, he tapped it several times, to make sure it was on and projecting.
Bradley moved forward. “It’s okay, Father. Just speak in a conversational tone.”
“Yes,” Grimes said. “Well, we were able to visit with the Zabola family and Mrs. Zabola’s sister, Theresa Waleski.”
There was a murmur among the reporters. Waleski was a good sidebar. But they wanted to get into the main event: the resurrection of Moses Green.
Bradley raised a quieting hand.
Grimes continued as if nothing had happened or threatened to happen. “We ascertained that Theresa has been unable to use her legs since her sister’s wedding. She has been a paraplegic. She has had good medical care. Yet with all of this, the doctors have agreed in their diagnosis that there is no physical cause for her paraplegic state. In their collective and unanimous opinion, Theresa’s illness is psychosomatic.
“We are dependent on medical science to tell us what is going on. We are not physicians. We represent the Church … or, more specifically, the Church in the archdiocese of Detroit.
“The physicians also are unanimous on the prognosis of Theresa’s condition. Since her illness seems to be, in popular expression, all in her mind, a deeply moving emotional trauma could remove the internal blocks that cause her paralysis, and she would be cured.
“That is what we believe happened.” And Grimes turned and took his seat.
“There’s more,” Bradley said. “But before we move on, are there any questions? Yes, Andy ….”
“Unless I missed something in all the briefing we’ve had, doesn’t time have something to do with this?”
Monsignor McKeever moved toward the microphone as the question continued.
“I mean,” the reporter specified, “somebody said that for an authentic miracle the recovery couldn’t be reversible. I mean, if all the other criteria were met, you’d still have to wait a very long while to make sure the illness didn’t come back. Well, what if this woman, Theresa Waleski, what if her crippled condition never returns? Wouldn’t that count?”
“No,” McKeever stated succinctly. “It doesn’t make any difference how long the woman stays healthy. As long as the official diagnosis is psychosomatic, the apparent cure will never be recognized as a miracle. Suppose a person says she doesn’t feel good. And then she says she does. There is no way to measure feeling. And an imagined illness is not the substance of a miracle.” Monsignor McKeever more marched than walked to his chair and sat.
“Anything else?” Bradley asked.
A couple of hands toyed with being raised. But those reporters quickly got the message that the majority did not want to diddle with the sidebar. Not when there was a chance for something new on the resurrection story.
“Very well,” Bradley said. “I’ll just ask Father Ralph Shuler to bring us up to speed on the committee’s investigation into the Dr. Green matter.”
The proverbial pin-drop could have been heard.
Father Shuler squinted into the bright lights. “There’s really not much of a substantive report to give. As of now we still have not been able to see Dr. Green, let alone interview him. Nor, I take it, has anyone but the doctor’s wife and his personal physician been granted access to him.
“This situation must, of course, change. The time will come when the doctor will appear in public. I have no idea whether he will be cooperative with this ecclesial investigation. Only time will tell. The one admonition we must give most emphatically is that in doubtful cases such as this, the presumption favors nature and the increasing wonders of medical science.
“The conclusion of all this is that until the opposite is proven beyond any doubt, we presume nothing miraculous has occurred in St. Joseph’s Church over the past several days.”
Father Shuler took a half step away from the mike and Ned Bradley took a half step toward the mike to ask if there were any questions, when, from somewhere in the midst of the reporters, a loud voice rang out in a furious tone.
“This is a disgrace! How can you thwart God’s will! What right do you have to reduce the obvious intercession of Almighty God!”
All turned toward the speaker. Bradley tried to identify him. From where Koesler was seated, he could just about make out the shouter. But he didn’t need to; Koesler easily recognized the voice. Probably because he had heard it so often recently.
Father Dan Reichert was cooking on all burners.
“These are miracles,” Reichert said. “God is preparing to speak to us. He is readying us for His message. He is showing us His power. And you-priests! — are busy quoting arcane rules! How dare you! Just ask Father Koesler. He knows the truth. God has selected him to provide the forum for the presence of the Lord!”
Bradley pivoted toward Koesler, his posture and demeanor wordlessly inquiring tentatively whether Koesler wished to respond to the irate priest. Reichert was considerably more than Koesler had bargained for. Nonetheless, he slowly nodded, got up and approached the mike.
At first, it seemed that Koesler would not have to take any sort of stand at all. Reichert continued to castigate the committee’s findings, conclusions, and lack of faith in the power of God. For Koesler’s sponsorship of these “miraculous” events, however, Reichert had only praise.
With friends like Reichert, thought Koesler, who needs enemies? His second thought was that in a moment or two, the media people were going to have another feeding frenzy. This morning they’d about torn a physician to bits. This afternoon the fodder would be the lack of harmony among the clergy on this matter. His third thought was that, once more, Ned Bradley had lost control of a news conference. His final thought before being forced into the spotlight was that Cardinal Boyle was not going to be pleased.
When, eventually, he was able to break into Reichert’s monologue, Koesler attempted to spread some oil on the roiling waters. He discovered again that straddling the fence was as ineffective as it was uncomfortable.
In the end, he found himself back on Dan Reichert’s list of undesirables.
The good news was that, with one thing and another, the media centered in on Reichert and Monsignor McKeever. The latter had reentered combat as soon as he could, with some decency, displace Koesler at the mike.
Bradley tried and failed to pinpoint where things had taken a wrong turn both this morning and this afternoon. After all, he was no neophyte; he had attended many news conferences in his years as a working journalist.
Bradley had loved the thrust and parry of give and take. Now he wished only that this would all go away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was almost time for him to leave for the service station. It was almost time for her to leave for Carl’s Chop House. Both had drawn late shifts. At least they’d been able to spend some time together this afternoon.
Claire McNern and Stan Lacki had slept until nearly 3 P.M. They awakened slowly, playfully. They made love, which made them feel as if they inhabited a continuum, since they had fallen asleep just after making love.
Claire stretched out, taking far more than her side of the bed. Stan sat propped against a pillow at the headboard. He lit a cigarette. Claire overreacted, vigorously waving the smoke away. He had sworn several times to quit cold turkey on their wedding day. That promise was the one and only hesitation he had about marrying Claire.
Claire wore a satisfied smile and nothing else.
“Whatcha thinkin’?” he asked.
“About marrying you.”
Stan matched her smile. “It won’t be an awful lot different.”
“Sure it will. We’ll have our own home.” Presently, each rented an apartment. They got together at whichever place was more convenient. “And we can have a garden. We can decorate the place any way we want.”
Stan was swept up in her musings. “And we can have friends in. We can have parties. And we’ll have a big driveway so I can repair cars on the side.”