“They were really handling this business with kid gloves.”
“That’s the way it must’ve seemed to the power group. Anyway, eventually they assigned him to the chancery.”
“But first they had to ordain him.”
Koesler laughed. “Good point. He was ordained by Archbishop Boyle in the chapel of Sacred Heart Seminary. To tell you the truth, Zack, I think they overdid it. He must’ve thought of himself as a curiosity.
“Ordinations happen in class groups and, at least at that time, in good numbers. Here was an ordination that Delvecchio had worked for harder than almost any other candidate I ever knew. But he became a priest all alone with a small group of relatives and friends looking on. One nice thing: A fair number of his classmates, who had been priests about five years now, showed up.” Koesler, remembering, nodded. “That was nice.”
“Did you take part?”
“Vince asked me to preach. I did.”
“So you still were close.”
“We’ve never been that far apart. The distance, such as it is, has been established by Delvecchio. But that’s okay by me. Whatever he wants our friendship to be is all right.”
Tully sank his second stripe. But scratched on the shot. He backed away from the table. “How did he work out in the chancery?”
“In the beginning, not well. Mostly because they were reluctant to give him a lot of contact with the people who composed the chancery’s clientele, he was made a member of the team that purchases land for future parishes.”
“Land speculation?” Tully’s eyebrows knitted. “Doesn’t sound like a job for a priest.”
“Right. But priests had been doing this for a very long time. Actually, I guess, it started with the growth of the suburbs. The trick was to carefully study the directions in which the developers were expanding and get a central location for a future parish. With enough land for a church, rectory, school, parking, and maybe for an athletic field.”
“A big job.”
“You bet. And one with little room for error. A mistake could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that’s sort of what got Vincent out of that business.”
“How so?”
“Archbishop Boyle second-guessed himself and the chancery’s brain trust. The boss thought the strain might be too much for Vince.”
“They were sort of treating him like a raw egg … afraid he would break?”
“Exactly. So then he became the guy in charge of triage.”
“Triage?”
“He was the first in the chancery to handle people who were blindly seeking help from the archdiocese. They didn’t know whom to see … whom to talk to. They had a need … or a gripe. So they’d call the chancery. They got Delvecchio.”
“How’d he do?”
“Depended on the nature of the call. There were times-not often-that I called the chancery and got Vince. He communicated efficiency, curtness, and not a lot of warmth. After I introduced myself he would relax a little … but not much.” Koesler circled the table, seeking the best shot.
“There’s a story that might help to understand Vince at this point in his life …” Koesler rested his cue on the rack. Neither player was in a hurry. “Vince used to relate the story with some frequency. Working in the chancery, he spent weekends helping out in various parishes. Two things flowed from that setup-”
“Let me guess: One, you never get to know people very well because you hop around from parish to parish. Two, you’re able to repeat yourself because no one group has heard just about all your stories.”
Koesler grinned. “That’s it. But as he wandered around retelling anecdotes, one story in particular came up with some frequency. Apparently he seldom uses it anymore. But he surely leaned on it in those days.”
Tully placed his cue against the table and sat down to better take in the story that had been a favorite of Father Vincent Delvecchio in his early days as a priest.
19
At the first ring of the alarm clock, Father Thompson swung his left arm in an arc. His hand hit the button, silencing the bell.
He’d been resting on his bed fully dressed. Of course he wasn’t wearing his clericals. Gray slacks, a blue jacket, and black loafers.
He brought the clock case close to his face. Just barely could he make out the luminous dial in the darkened room. Eleven o’clock. Just right. He would be there in plenty of time: 11:30 P.M. was the earliest that Mary Lou could get out of the convent without anyone’s knowing.
He pulled the car to a stop one block from the convent, killed the lights, and let the engine idle. He lit a cigarette and waited.
This had been going on for the past six months. It had begun innocently enough-didn’t all such affairs? Father Thompson had met Sister Gratia during a civil rights march sponsored by the NAACP.
He was young, powerfully built, and handsome. She had an attractive face. That-plus delicate hands-was all that could be seen. The rest was covered by a religious habit.
They had so much in common. Not only were they Catholic and in “religious life,” but they were liberal and liberated people involved in social causes. It was only natural for friendship to grow. And that, in turn, again naturally led to affection. And thence, to an affair.
They were young, single, with raging hormones. Without, their religious commitment, they probably would’ve dated for a brief time, then married. Their families would have been proud of them. They would have moved into a small house in the suburbs and had children.
That was not to be. The obstacles were obvious.
So they were reduced to meeting in the most outlandish ways and places. At which times they were transformed from Sister Gratia and Father Thompson to Mary Lou and Greg.
In those days, few people were leaving the priesthood or the religious life. The deluge would come later.
So there was a special sort of disgrace attached to turning away from lifelong if not eternal vows. Leave-taking nuns were known to be smuggled out of the motherhouse completely covered by a blanket in the rear of the family car. Priests who left were pretty much shunned. Not a pleasant prospect in any case.
These thoughts took flight when the passenger door opened and Mary Lou slid in beside him. They kissed with banked passion. She wore a simple dress and a cotton coat. It was all she could do to hide this “lay” clothing in her room, which the nuns called a cell.
Greg had squirreled away enough to pay for a cheap motel room for the night-or most of the night.
They drove down Woodward until, in the vicinity of Highland Park, they came to a series of sleazy motels that catered to the poor, hookers, and one-night stands. As long as the money was delivered up front, the desk clerk didn’t care how many Mr. and Mrs. John Smiths registered.
Greg and Mary Lou, though they seldom patronized these flophouses, took pains not to use any one more than a few times. And then, with long intervals between each visit.
They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harry Brown. (Greg was feeling creative.) Once inside their room de la nuit, they tore at each other’s, clothes until they wore none. Then it was into bed where they made wild but quiet love till they were exhausted.
They lay in each other’s arms, feeling completely relaxed. They would be able to repeat their performance after a while.
He thought: This is wonderful. This is marvelous. After experiencing erotic passion with Mary Lou, he knew he’d never again be governed by chastity. Maybe the others of his cloth could be without sexual expression until death, but not he. Not now that he was captured by the glories of sex. As far as he was concerned, taking all due precautions against the twin great threats, pregnancy and discovery, he and Mary Lou could go on until death did them part.
She thought: What now? Lying on her side, facing Greg, she fingered the sheet. How many people had ridden this bed? Insecure men attempting to prove their virility. Women seeking escape from a failed life. Hoping to find protection from a stronger person who did not exist. Women willing to become a seminal wastebasket for just a few-dollars. Was all this a foundation for what life would become for “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Brown”?