“No, no,” Koesler disagreed. “This parish is like my child. It’s got great potential. I doubt I’d be leaving it if I weren’t leaving it in your care. You’ve got the ability, experience, and talent to lead these people to a growingly Christian ideal.
“I want you to have this parish. There’s no reason, outside of Vinnie’s stubbornness, that you shouldn’t be pastor of St. Joe’s.
“Besides, it’s time someone talked some sense into him. He doesn’t have to be so by-the-book. Sometimes the book slams down hard on legitimate human freedom.
“And I think I’m the person who should reason with him. And now’s the time to do it. I’m retiring and I’m his friend. And, sad to say, there aren’t many who would call themselves his friend.”
“Well, that seems to be true,” Tully commented. “I guess he doesn’t even have many friends in the hierarchy or he’d be an Ordinary-have his own diocese by now.”
“I don’t know about that.” Koesler moved to the pool table and racked the balls for another game. “I don’t think friendship has all that much to do with moving onward and upward in the hierarchy. Although,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I suppose the popular concept is that all auxiliary bishops eventually get their own dioceses.”
“Well, that’s certainly not true.” Tully examined each cue stick in turn, hoping a change would bring better luck. “Lord, there are so many auxiliaries in these large metropolitan dioceses that they all couldn’t live long enough to become Ordinaries.”
“I don’t really know all that much about Church politics,” Koesler confessed. “But I would put my last dollar on Delvecchio’s breakdown as the impediment that’s blocking his advancement. He’s certainly conservative enough. The Vatican probably just won’t gamble on that breakdown.”
“Like he’s in limbo …” Tully offered to break. Koesler did not object. Tully’s break shot spread balls all over the table, but nothing fell.
Koesler sank a stripe and the game was on.
“Let’s see,” Tully said, “a brother, a sister, an aunt; his parents dead: That’s not much to count on for friendship.”
Distracted, Koesler missed an easy shot. “If you’re looking for Delvecchio’s friends, don’t start with his family.”
“No? You’re kidding?”
“Definitely not!”
“Well, okay, according to what you told me earlier, he wasn’t particularly close to his brother. But the sister: He got along fine with her … no?”
“To a point. The last thing I told you about their relationship was when their mother died.”
“Something happen to mess things up after that?”
“I’ll say! It was a big news story here … although probably not where you were.” Koesler reflected, then smiled. “I have a tendency to assume that news that’s big locally gets some play nationally-or, at least regionally. Of course realistically that’s not so.”
“Well, what happened to them?” Tully began to line up a shot.
“Lucy was about to graduate from high school when her mother died …”
“I remember. Of all of them, she seemed to keep a good head on her shoulders.”
“Well, after Mrs. Delvecchio died, the focus was pretty much on Vince and his condition. But life went on. Lucy graduated. So did Tony.
“Lucy transferred in college to premed. She was a terrific athlete. Unfortunately for her-and maybe for everyone then-she was a female and women’s sports were not taken seriously. Otherwise, she could have had a free ride. As it was, she won an academic scholarship that helped a lot.
“She graduated summa cum laude, went on to medical school, and became a doctor.”
Tully whistled softly. He missed a shot and leaned back against the wall. “Good for her.”
“After her internship, she got a lot of offers. But she chose the Emergency Room at Detroit’s Receiving Hospital. She wanted action and plenty of experience at healing just about everything. And she certainly got it at Receiving.
25
“This story goes back … what? … about twenty-five years-Lord, how time flies when you reach Senior Priest status.” Koesler chuckled. “A quarter of a century! It seems like last month. And part of this story is well known and remembered by anyone who was following local news around that time.
“I got some of the details later … and only because of my special contact with the Delvecchio family.”
1973
Monsignor Vincent Delvecchio was several minutes early for his luncheon date with Merl Goldbaum, who also was early. The two met four or five times a year. It was habitual for each to be early for appointments.
The two men could not be described as friends; more on the order of good acquaintances. They had met originally under the auspices of Father Robert Koesler.
At the time Koesler was editor of the Detroit Catholic, Goldbaum was a crack reporter for one of Detroit’s metropolitan newspapers. Their position at their respective papers, one Catholic, the other secular, had brought them together.
Goldbaum was no longer with the newspaper. Building on his journalism experience and contacts, he had launched his own firm and now headed one of the most respected public relations companies in the Detroit area.
The threesome had first come together during the mid-sixties. Goldbaum had phoned Koesler with an invitation to lunch on a day when Koesler and Delvecchio already had lunch scheduled. Koesler cleared the water with the two-neither of whom objected to the other. So it became a movable menage a trois.
It worked out this way: The ball remained in Goldbaum’s court. He did the calling-and picked up the tab. He counted Koesler a friend; Delvecchio was a resource. From time to time he wanted from both priests insights, clarifications, explanations, and the like regarding Church teachings and customs.
From Koesler, Goldbaum expected reliable replies tempered by an innate kindness. But there were times when he sought the “authentic word” undiluted by a humane reaction. For the vera doctrina, Goldbaum turned to the monsignor.
And so this day, Goldbaum and Delvecchio met at a few minutes before noon in the foyer of Meriwether’s on Telegraph Road. They were familiar patrons of this popular eatery and were greeted as such by personable manager Jim McIntyre.
They were immediately seated in a secluded booth. Decades-old volumes lined-and were glued to-time-eaten shelves. Both books and shelves were cleaned periodically, but their antiquarian nature gave the impression that they bore the dust of Caesar. From time to time Father Koesler wondered how much a decorator had charged the Muer chain to achieve this Old English effect-an effect heightened by the framed Victorian prints and the witty quotations in old-time script that adorned the walls.
But Koesler wasn’t here today, so no one wondered about those things.
Neither Goldbaum nor Delvecchio ordered drinks; both ordered fish.
As they enjoyed the restaurant’s signature teacup bread, they engaged in small talk. The dreariness of a Michigan winter. (It was February, the meanest month of the year, unrelieved by any celebratory occasion-unless one counted Presidents’ Day.) The PR firm was doing quite well, thank you. PR was such a competitive business that one had to constantly be on one’s toes and on the ball. Phyllis and the girls were well, thank you.
That took them through the salad course.
With the arrival of the piece de resistance, Delvecchio expected to learn the purpose of this luncheon meeting. He knew from experience that in good time, Merl would get around to it, but in his own inimitable circuitous fashion.
“So,” Goldbaum said, “how’s your sister doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” replied Delvecchio, borrowing the hospital catchphrase.