The busboy asked if they were finished. Silly question, thought Koesler; he knew he was supposed to ask, but still it seemed obvious that all that was left were the empty plates.
He cleared them away and Kay Marie ascertained that McNiff would have coffee and Koesler decaf and that neither would have dessert. Koesler considered the thought of dessert obscene.
McNiff patted his tummy appreciatively. “We haven’t got a corner on the sort of logic that, as you say, leads to mental health. Before we had our own school in Melvindale, a bunch of nuns used to come in several times a week to teach catechism in the church. And that, of course, was fine with me. I’ve always said the art of being a truly fine catechist is finding somebody else to teach catechism.”
Koesler nodded approval.
“But old Jake Parker insisted that we go over at least once and talk to the little kids who were going to make their first communion. So this one time I went over, reluctantly, and waited while this nun, their teacher, introduced me. She said, ‘Children, Father is going to talk to you now. And I want you to pay good attention to what he’s going to say. After all, he spent twelve years getting ready to teach you.’ I wondered why she brought that up and where she intended to go with it. Then she added, ‘Of course, I spent twenty-three years in preparation. . ‘ I felt like the village idiot. But I guess she managed to preserve her mental health.”
Kay Marie brought the beverages. McNiff asked for the bill.
“Well,” said Koesler, “I doubt you’d find many nuns that uptight today. Maybe it’s as simple as back then some said there were three sexes: men, women, and nuns. But today they know they’re women. They dress like women instead of like ancient statues. They’re permitted, even encouraged, to be mature, much more in charge of their own lives than ever before in history.
“But back then, you’re right: they could be a bit stiffnecked. One of the toughest groups I was ever associated with were the nuns at Patronage. Even for those days, those gals were on the strict side. I spent most of my time trying to talk our parochial kids into sticking it out and staying in school.
“Being with that group is probably what made the two funny ones stand out as much as they did.”
“You had two funny Salacians? That may be a record.”
McNiff began to compute the tip.
“Yup, two; count ‘em, two. One Tuesday, after Our Lady of Perpetual Help devotions, the two of them came back into the sacristy. They were the sacristans, which post became the only outlet they could find for their humor. One of them, a Sister Dulcilia-hard to forget a name like that-asked me if, when I blessed religious articles after the devotions, did the blessing include crosses. I said sure it did. So Dulcilia, pointing to her companion, said, ‘That’s fine; next week I hold Sister here on my lap.’
“Another time, I arrived in the sacristy to prepare for Perpetual Help devotions. As usual, the Sisters had laid out the appropriate vestments on the vestment case. I was already wearing my cassock and collar. So I put on the surplice and found that the Sisters had pinned to it one of those ribbons from a funeral floral arrangement with the word ‘Friends’ on it.
“I just left it that way and wore it for the devotions. All the nuns were sitting in the front pews. I wish you could have seen the faces of the two jokers when they saw I was wearing the funeral ribbon. They told me they got in a lot of trouble over that one. . ‘a scandal to the good people of the parish’ and all that.
“Now you’d think that might have cured them. But some time later, when they were certain I was scheduled for the early weekday Mass, they laid out the vestments the night before. They had a purple stole, a green maniple, and a black chasuble.”
“Don’t tell me,” McNiff interrupted, “you didn’t have the first Mass!”
“With their luck, it couldn’t have happened any other way. Father Pompilio wanted to go on an early morning fishing trip and traded Masses with me. Fortunately, he didn’t report them. But he was convinced they were certifiably insane.”
“Remember,” McNiff spoke through his laughter, “the time when everybody thought I was insane?”
“The time-? Hmmm. . there were so many. But since you’re talking about Melvindale, it’s probably the one where you came back for the parish fall festival.”
It would not occur to Koesler to head McNiff off at the pass merely because the anecdote was ancient and oft repeated. Good stories remained good even when retold.
“That’s the one. It was, O Lord, three or four months after I was transferred from Melvindale and I had nothing more to do with the parish. But old Jake Parker wasn’t feeling all that good and he asked me to come back and stand in for him at the fall festival. That’s where I was insane: in agreeing to do it.
“Well, it was just your ordinary parish festival with simple little games and prizes and a few rides. All except for the big card game in the rear of the tent. The ushers got kind of carried away and were hosting a full-scale gambling concern-poker, blackjack, that stuff. And that’s when the good old Melvindale police got into the act: closed us down, made some charges. Meanwhile, old Jake Parker is up in bed nursing a cold while I am trying to handle the cops.”
Purple stole, green maniple, and black chasuble. Why was this thought continuing to distract him? Koesler tried to pay attention to McNiff s story.
“And that wasn’t even the worst part. Who does the Free Press reporter call for a statement-Jake Parker, the pastor and the one responsible for it all? No, he calls me. And what do I say? I say, ‘Why don’t you tell your editor that you couldn’t find Father McNiff?’ And what does the Free Press reporter write in next morning’s paper? He writes, ‘A certain Father McNiff, when contacted about the police raid, stated, “Why don’t you tell your editor you couldn’t find Father McNiff?’”
“It was at that point that all my peers and classmates were willing to pronounce me certifiably insane.”
“And rightly so.”
They split the bill plus tip evenly. Kay Marie bade them good evening and asked them to pray for her aunt the nun. When McNiff, after asking, was informed that the nun was eighty-four and pondering retirement, he asked Kay Marie to have her aunt pray for them.
During his drive home, Father Koesler tried to listen to WQRS, the classical music station. But it was offering chamber music, which Koesler easily could live without. He switched off the radio and smiled as he recalled the stories, some old, some new, that McNiff had told. And he smiled as he recalled the stories, all old, that he had told.
But his preoccupation with the vestments of mixed colors still puzzled him. The problem was not intrinsic to the story. Koesler had told that story many times; never had he been troubled or puzzled by it.
From time to time he wondered if he were coming down with Alzheimer’s syndrome, or whether it was just the natural disintegration of the brain cells that accompanies aging. But then, in good time, it would all come together and make sense.
So he was confident that at some unpredictable time the elusive link between the color-confused vestments and whatever they reminded him of would be made clear. Probably it would happen while he was showering. For some strange reason, the routine of showering always cleared his mind for some of his better thinking.
5
Father Koesler was showering. It was a quarter to eight on a bright Thursday morning. Mass was at eight-thirty. As usual, the priest’s mind wandered in an undirected path.