“But,” she sighed deeply, “it was not to be.”
Koesler looked at her for a long time. She continued to gaze through the window at the facade of Holy Redeemer Church, lost in her memories. He took one of her hands in both of his and pressed gently. She did not react. She continued to sit and gaze.
Finally, he rose and stepped away. He was startled to find that he had almost backed into Mrs. Quinn. He was additionally surprised to find Mrs. Quinn fully awake.
“How is she, Father?”
“I think she’s all right. I wish I could have been better able to comfort her, though.”
“Time, Father. It’ll take time. It always does. Both of us have lost our husbands. And we know only time can heal a wound like that. It’s probably worse with the loss of a child, even if the child is a grown man. That I wouldn’t know; I’ve not lost any of my children, praise God.”
All the while Mrs. Quinn talked she was leading Koesler toward the kitchen. As he passed through the various rooms in the old house, he was impressed with how neat and tastefully decorated they were and how well kept up. He commented on this.
“Well, thank you, Father. It’s kind of you to notice. Grace and I do our best and we try to make up for each other. And Henry provided handsomely. He wanted us to move. He was willing to buy us a house or build one wherever we wanted. But Grace wanted to stay close to her Holy Redeemer. And I can’t say I disagree with that.
“That would be a point in his favor, wouldn’t it, Father. . I mean, as he stands before our Savior in judgment. . that he was kind to his mother?”
“I’m sure it would be,” Koesler assured. Somehow, he’d found himself doing a lot of consoling, particularly in view of the fact that this funeral had not been his responsibility.
Mrs. Quinn led him into the kitchen, where a buffet consisting mainly of sandwich ingredients had been laid out.
In the kitchen was a considerable crowd; almost everyone who had returned here from the cemetery. Koesler guessed, after a cursory study, that most of the people were relatives of Mrs. Hunsinger.
Awkward. He definitely was odd man out. Oh, the group was respectful enough, but he was not family. What had been a rather lively conversation before he entered was now somewhat subdued.
As speedily as he could, Koesler worked his way through the crowd, made himself a modest ham and cheese sandwich, and worked his way out of the kitchen to an empty corner of the dining room. There, alone, he wolfed down the sandwich.
One thing was certain, he had to get out of there.
Suddenly it occurred to him that this was his day off. Or at least what was left of it. He found Mrs. Quinn and asked if he might use the phone. She showed him to a small desk in an alcove beneath the staircase. Fortunately, no one else was in the area. He dialed a number from memory.
“St. Clement’s,” a matronly voice answered.
“I’d like to speak to Father McNiff, if he’s available.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
After several long moments: “Father McNiff.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you physically resemble Carroll O’Connor?”
“A few.” McNiff s voice revealed he knew the caller.
“Anybody ever tell you that your philosophy of life resembles Archie Bunker’s?”
“Not to my face they don’t.” McNiff chuckled.
“Patrick, old fellow, why did I know that you’d be hard at work at the rectory on your day off?”
“The work of the Lord must be done in season and out of season. We who have put our hands to the plow must not turn back.”
“How very Biblical of you.”
“And you, Robert, are you calling from some sleazy bar while your hirelings keep St. Anselm’s together?”
“No, I’m calling from a private home,” he admitted with some embarrassment. Until having made the indictment against McNiff, Koesler hadn’t realized that he had, in effect, been working on his day off. “And what I’m calling about,” he hurried on, “is to ask you to join me for dinner.”
“Sure. When and where?”
“How about Carl’s Chop House about six?”
“Done.”
“Don’t work too hard.”
“Don’t play too hard.”
Koesler arrived at Carl’s at twenty minutes to six. Early again! Well, he would go to prepare a place for McNiff.
He asked the hostess if he could be seated in the Executive Room, and told her he was expecting McNiff. She asked if Father McNiff would also be wearing a clerical uniform. If McNiff were not in clericals, Koesler replied, the next Pope would not be a Catholic.
The Executive Room was cozier but not substantially different from the other two large dining rooms. But the Executive Room featured Kay Marie, the redhaired queen of waitresses, who had been at Carl’s since the Year I, and whose aunt was a nun, which always gave Kay Marie and Father Koesler something to talk about.
The busboy brought the extremely generous relish tray, breadbasket, cottage cheese, and creamed herring. Koesler began to wonder if he’d been too hasty in designating Carl’s as their rendezvous. Ordinarily he dined here only as a special celebration or after a significant weight loss. Carl’s portions were bigger than life. It was a classic place for a pigout. He promised himself that he’d get some exercise tomorrow. Where, he did not know. Maybe he’d go for a walk.
“Evening, Father. Alone tonight?” Kay Marie brought him out of his dietetic reverie.
“No; expecting a colleague. How’s your aunt?”
“She’s thinking of retiring.”
“Oh? How old is she?”
“Eighty-four.”
“It’s a thought.”
“What’ll it be tonight?”
“How about a martini, up?”
“Different. You’re usually a manhattan. Bourbon manhattan.”
“Great memory, Kay. I’m going to leave the manhattans to my companion this evening.”
He had filled his salad plate with the first of the preprandial delicacies and was gnawing on a bread stick when McNiff arrived.
“Good!” said Koesler. “Now the next Pope can be a Catholic.”
“What?” McNiff seated himself. “This isn’t going to be another of those nights where you pick on the Pope, is it?”
“Absolutely not. Going to leave the Holy Pope of God-your phrase-out of it entirely.”
“Good!”
Kay Marie returned. McNiff would have a manhattan. All was well.
“Remember your first drink, Pat?”
“At your hand. Of course. There’s been many a sip since then.”
“You’re lucky you laid off those first ten years. By now your liver would be embalmed.”
“See the remarkable prescience of Holy Mother Church.”
They understood each other’s hyperbole.
Kay Marie took their orders. McNiff would have Dover sole. Koesler would have the ground round. Kay Marie sighed. She could have brought Koesler’s entree without asking.
“Wasn’t that something,” said McNiff, “about Hank Hunsinger! Who woulda thought when we saw him play last Sunday that he’d be dead that night?”
“A real surprise.”
“Say, I hadn’t thought about this before, but what does that do to that Bible discussion group-what did you call it?”
“The God Squad. I don’t know, Pat. We met last night. But I’d bet that group, qua group, never meets again. So I don’t think I’ll get the chance to introduce you to the bunch.”
“That’s all right.” It wasn’t, but McNiff wouldn’t admit it. “I’ve got plenty to do.”
“Matter of fact, I went to the funeral this morning.”
“Hunsinger’s?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How was it?”
“Not particularly sad until his mother broke up.”
“That’ll do it.”
“It was from her house that I phoned you.”
“So, working on your day off! Physician, heal thyself.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Kay Marie brought the salads. Both McNiff and Koesler would have another drink.