Down Sheldon Road a mile or so was the Detroit House of Correction-or, more familiarly, DeHoCo. With some frequency, people looking for DeHoCo would pull into the seminary’s drive, come to a stop alongside one or another of the students, and ask, “Where are the prisoners?” More often than not, the student would point to himself and the other walkers.
On this sunny but brisk October day, two such students were strolling together while wrapped in serious discussion.
They were killing two birds with one shot. Tomorrow morning first-year theologians faced a test in Moral Theology. Vincent Delvecchio was tutoring Stan Wonski as they walked and waited for their visitors.
“It’s the principle of the double effect, isn’t it?” Wonski said.
“Well, yeah,” Delvecchio responded, “but it would help if you thought of it as an indirect voluntary.”
Wonski grimaced as he dragged on his cigarette. He knew he was smoking far too much. It was just that one tended to take advantage of the more liberal smoking regulations at St. John’s. Smoke time had been far more restricted at both Sacred Heart and Orchard Lake-the two main feeding seminaries. Now at St. John’s, students who smoked-which was nearly everyone-were still cramming as many cigarettes as possible into longer smoking periods. Serious coughing started here.
“Okay, okay,” Wonski said, “the indirect voluntary. But all we ever use is the double effect. Lemmee say double effect.”
“Be my guest.” Delvecchio was one of the rare nonsmokers. “The essence of this thing is that you’re dealing with something that is not directly willed. An effect of something done but not directly willed. Only tolerated. The key word is tolerance.”
Wonski scratched his head with the hand not holding the cigarette.
Delvecchio attempted a clarification. “Stan, somebody does something that is either good or indifferent. It can’t be intrinsically evil. If it’s intrinsically evil, you can stop right there. It’s a sin. It has to be good or indifferent.
“Then, say, the action has two effects. The first effect must be good. The secondary effect may be evil. But it is not directly willed, only tolerated. And the good result must outweigh the evil.” Delvecchio glanced expectantly at Wonski.
Wonski shifted his cigarette from one hand to the other. With his free hand he again scratched his head. “Lemmee try an example. Suppose a cop is walkin’ down a street one night. He sees somebody holdin’ a gun on another guy. The cop draws his own gun and yells at the guy to drop his gun. Instead, the crook turns toward the cop and points his gun at the cop. The cop fires, and kills the crook.”
“Okay.” Delvecchio seemed pleased. “How does that work for the indirect volunt-uh, double effect?”
“What the cop does is fire his gun. I figure in this case that’s at least indifferent. The first effect is that the cop saves his own life and on top of that he saves the innocent guy’s life.
“The evil effect is he kills somebody. He didn’t want to kill anybody-not even the crook. He just tolerates it. And the first effect is more important than the second. That about it?”
“That’s about it.”
“Hey,” Wonski exclaimed, “here come my folks!” A fairly new and brightly polished Ford pulled up behind the two seminarians. The car windows were filled with happy faces. “Thanks a lot,” Wonski said as he turned to greet his relatives.
Delvecchio smiled and continued his pacing, now alone.
Wonski, thought Delvecchio, was by no means slow-or dumb. He had come from Orchard Lake Seminary, where most of his classes were conducted in English. At Sacred Heart Seminary, most of the courses, particularly the important Philosophy studies, were in Latin.
Cardinal Edward Mooney wanted Moral, Dogma, and Canon Law taught in Latin at St. John’s. Mooney’s wish was the faculty’s command. As a result, many of the young men from Orchard Lake were handicapped by this heavy immersion in Latin. Latin texts, lectures, verbal responses, tests.
If the Orchard Lake guys could paraphrase Shakespeare’s Casca, they would say some such thing as, “The faculty of St. John’s did in Latin speak. And those who did understand did nod their heads. But as for me, it was Latin to me.”
By far, the majority of St. John’s students came from Sacred Heart. But young men choosing to become priests had so much in common that in no time it was difficult to tell who had come from where. Simply, they were students together open to the formation of new friendships.
Delvecchio jumped at the unexpected sound of a horn directly behind him. The serviceable Chevy was grimy; “Wash me” was traced more than a few times in the dust.
The troops got out of the car. There was his mother, Louise. His father had died very prematurely of a heart attack two years earlier. Then there was his younger brother, Anthony, and his sister, Lucy-the baby of the litter. Finally, there was his aunt Martha, Louise’s sister, and Martha’s husband, Frank. The car belonged to Frank and the caked dirt was emblematic of his lifestyle: laid-back and friendly.
“What say we go down to one of the visitors’ parlors,” Vince invited. “It’d be nice to stay outside, but with the gang we’ve got we’d be strung out so far we’d never hear each other.”
All nodded as they voiced agreement.
Happily, the parlor was nearly empty, as most of the students and visitors chose to stay out of doors.
No sooner were they seated than everyone began to speak at once. Vincent determined to play interlocutor.
His mother, given the floor, expressed gratitude that everyone was in good health. And was Vincent getting enough to eat? She remembered all too well loading Vincent up with huge jars of peanut butter. At Sacred Heart, though, students lived on closely measured rations, they could have all the bread they wanted. That and the peanut butter sustained them.
Vincent assured his family that he was now eating about as well as he had at home; he simply couldn’t gain weight. A blessing perhaps, since an overweight body had laid too heavy a burden on his father’s heart.
Vince’s mother was petite, with olive skin bespeaking her Sicilian ancestry. She wore a dark blue cloth coat, pillbox, and sensible shoes. In short, she looked as if she were headed for church. As far as she was concerned, visiting her adored son in a seminary was about the same as going to Mass.
Her late husband, Sam, from whom Vincent got his height, had left Louise quite well-off, sufficiently so that she didn’t need to work outside her home.
Anthony, now a senior at De LaSalle Collegiate High School, was a gifted athlete. He would be offered more than a few athletic scholarships. So far, he had spent much more time exercising his muscles than his brain. This concerned Vincent, who was appalled at the prospect of his brother’s wasting talents that could otherwise see him nicely through his later years.
Lucy was in the eighth grade at St. William’s. The embodiment of perpetual motion, she showed every prospect of becoming a beautiful woman like her mother.
Martha, at forty-five, was two years older than her sister. Martha and Louise had been close from childhood. Born in Sicily, they were brought to America as infants; thus, neither remembered their country of birth. Their parents had come to Detroit to be with relatives who had preceded them.
The family’s first home was a modest duplex in St. Ursula parish, populated then largely by Italian families just beginning to build their lives. In time, as Sam prospered in the construction business, they would move up Gratiot to St. William’s parish.
Fifteen years ago, Martha had met Frank Morris. At thirty, she was beyond the customary marrying age. That had something to do with her acceptance of Frank’s proposal. But basically, she loved him.
That was not good news to her family. Frank was not Catholic, and was divorced. After one frustrated attempt to be married in the Catholic Church, they found a judge to perform the service.