Not so the priest confessor. His center booth shared the musty darkness. His chair, more often than not, was uncomfortable-extremely so. Usually, his hole-in-the-wall cavity was too small for comfort. So there he sat, cramped, conducting business in whispers. He whispered and the penitent whispered, as they blew germs at each other through a tatty, unwashed curtain. He sat in the center compartment of the box for hours. During the Christmas season and during Holy Week, he sat there for days on end. His end.
St. Norbert’s added one additional torment. The church was heated through blowers in the ceiling. No matter that heat rises. Some pseudoarchitect, probably the founding pastor, thought this method of heating, by having warmth fight against its natural direction, inventive.
As a consequence, the congregation’s feet were colder than their heads. Meanwhile, in the Box, heat poured down on the priest confessor from the blower just above his head until the box reached a saunalike temperature-at which point the blower would automatically quit, allowing the cold air to rush upward from beneath the door.
Such was Father Koesler’s prospect for the coming week. And, short of falling grievously ill, there was no escaping it.
All this, of course, paled before the greater pain and fear that held Louise Delvecchio in their grip.
Koesler had mixed feelings as he sat in his car in front of Louise’s house. In a way, Louise was an inspiration. Even if she could no longer care for her family, still she fought to at least care for herself. She tried to be a burden to no one, particularly to Lucy, who was by far her most constant companion.
On the other hand, Koesler was angry, so very angry with this disease that seemed to be eating away at Louise from inside. In the face of such ravages, how could he give any thought whatsoever to the minor inconveniences in his own life? They seemed so inconsequential in light of the load Louise carried.
But he hadn’t traveled from Inkster to Detroit’s east side to sit in his car and give free rein to his stream of consciousness.
In response to the bell, the door was opened by Vincent, done up like a good seminarian: black trousers, black shoes and socks, and a white collarless shirt into which a clerical collar would fit easily.
As he entered the house, Koesler noted fresh palm fronds hung from wall decorations. Nodding at the display, he said, “Who let you guys play in the palm fields? You got enough to plait a South Seas hut.”
Vincent smiled. “St. William’s is generous when you ask nicely.”
Koesler wondered at Vinnie’s good humor. Then he remembered the miracle and Vincent’s faith. Why not be happy? Vincent’s mood was comparable to one standing near Lazarus’s tomb while knowing how the story would end.
Lucy appeared from the kitchen. An apron covered most of a pretty spring dress.
“The little homemaker getting supper ready?” Koesler asked.
Lucy nodded. “Can you stay?”
“I don’t want to be the Man Who Came to Dinner.”
“Don’t worry: It’s spaghetti and meatballs. That stretches forever.”
“Okay then. Is Tony here?”
Neither Vincent nor Lucy responded immediately.
“No,” Vincent said, finally. “He won’t be here today.”
Lucy snorted. “He won’t be here any day.”
“Lucy!” Vincent chided.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Father’s practically one of the family … he ought to be plugged in on our dirty laundry.”
“Lucy, you shouldn’t-”
“Lucy’s right, I think,” Koesler broke in. “I’m too close to this not to be allowed to know what’s going on.”
“I can be brief,” Lucy said. “I think that Tony thinks Mama’s process of dying is going way too slow.”
Vincent, about to say something, decided to let the remark pass.
“Tony doesn’t come home at all?” Koesler asked.
“Yeah,” Lucy said, “he does … once in a while. But not for very long. What I really think is that he doesn’t know how to handle this. I don’t know why. People get sick.” She was about to add that not only do they get sick, they die. But in deference to the expected miracle, she didn’t.
“You have to keep in mind where Tony’s coming from,” Vincent said. “His world is built around physical fitness. For him there can be little or no compromise with sickness. He never, not for an instant, bought our decision to reject therapy. Besides, it’s hard to watch your mother be so ill. However”-he looked almost beatific-“that will make the miracle all the more joyous.”
Rather than have to respond to the possibility of a coming miracle, Lucy quickly said, “By the way, Father, Mama wants to talk to you. We’ve got a while till supper. Maybe you could see her now … before we eat?”
“Of course.”
“She’s upstairs in her bedroom.”
“Is it okay if I just go up?”
“Sure.”
Before entering, Koesler peered around the edge of the door. Louise, completely clothed, lay atop the bedclothes. She was so frail she almost blended into the quilt; Koesler didn’t find her immediately. She seemed to be napping. He might have let her sleep, but she had asked to see him …
“Louise …?”
Instantly she was awake and smiling. “Father, come in …” She gestured to a rocking chair near the bed.
Koesler pulled the chair closer and sat down. “How are you feeling, Louise?”
Slowly she turned on her side to see him better. “So-so.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. No, thank you; I’m all right. I was just napping. Father, I want to go to confession.”
Why? was his only thought. She had confessed almost every week since her diagnosis. Some of these confessions Koesler had heard. She had nothing to tell. Impatience. A little anger. Questioning God’s will.
But if it would make her feel better …
Koesler removed a silk cloth from his breast pocket. It was perhaps twenty inches long and two inches wide. Purple on one side for confession or the last rites, white on the other for Communion. Koesler routinely carried the cloth, called a stole, with him. One never knew.
He draped the stole around his neck. “Okay, Louise, go ahead.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago.”
So traditional.
“Father, I would like to make a confession of my whole life. What’s that called? I forget.”
“It’s called a general confession, Louise. If you want to do this, it’s okay. You can pick up things you may have forgotten to confess. Or you can renew your sorrow for specific sins. The main thing is you want to feel good about your relationship with God.”
“Okay. Well, when I was growing up I used to have bad thoughts … sort of imagining what it would be like to be with a man. Then when I was engaged we used to neck and pet something fierce.”
The good old Catholic conscience, thought Koesler: worried sick about sex.
“And I did a lot of other things, like missing Mass when I wasn’t really ill. And, of course, being angry with the kids.
“And-and I’m really sorry for this-when my husband died I was real angry with God. Does God forgive you for that?”
“God forgave you before you even had that thought.”
“Now here’s something that really bothers me. I can’t get it off my conscience that I did something real bad to my sister when I tried to help get her marriage fixed. I didn’t know that Frank would kill himself. How could I have known that?”
“You couldn’t know that, Louise. You just tried to do a good thing for Frank and Martha. You can’t let yourself be disturbed by that. For heaven’s sake, I could feel as bad as you. Maybe if I had tried harder to discourage them from trying to get an annulment that was almost doomed from the beginning …
“We can’t torture ourselves over something we couldn’t control.”
“Did Martha talk to you after … after Frank …?”
“Yes. We’ve talked.”