Palm Sunday
The gangbusters church congregations for Holy Week had begun. Attendance at Mass this morning at St. Norbert’s was up markedly from what could be expected on an ordinary Sunday. Father Koesler knew the other parishes were experiencing the same phenomenon as his small suburban parish.
He knew also that he could anticipate a full week of virtually nothing but eating, sleeping, conducting liturgies, and hearing confessions.
Confessions would be by far the heaviest burden.
“The Box,” as the confessional was called by some, was not designed for comfort. In many cases it was more a torture chamber.
Penitents knelt in murky obscurity on an unyielding board set below a shelf on which one could rest one’s elbows-depending on one’s size. Short people had better luck resting their chins on the support while tall people could distort their spines trying to lean down. At least the penitents were captive for a relatively short period.
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.”
“That’s more than she’s done with me.”
Koesler clenched his teeth. “I know. I’ve even talked to her about that. She just won’t. But you can’t blame yourself for that either. It’s simply not your fault.”
“She’s my sister!”
“But you feel no hatred toward her. You tried to help her. It didn’t work out. That she won’t talk to you is her problem.”
“But I thought … you know … the condition I’m in … I thought she’d make peace now.”
“So did I. But if it’ll make you feel any better, we’ll make it part of your confession. If you did anything wrong-and I assure you you didn’t-you’re sorry and God will forgive you.”
Louise was quiet.
“Is that it, Louise?”
“Yes. Mostly I wanted to get that off my mind-that part about Martha.”
“Okay. I’ll give you absolution now, Louise. And for your penance … well, uh …” What sort of penance might he add on to her present suffering, he asked himself. Nothing, he concluded.
“For your penance, Louise, offer your suffering to God.”
“Oh, I do, Father, I do.”
“Good.” He absolved her, then tucked the stole back in his pocket.
During Louise’s confession, Koesler had gazed absently at the variety of bottles and vials that nearly covered the nightstand.
“Is all this medication?”
“Most of it. There’s some vitamin supplements too.”
“Mind if I look?”
“Go ahead.”
Koesler began to finger the bottles, turning each to read the label. “Hmmm … looks like you’ve got a lot of vitamin C.”
“Good for cancer … at least that’s what I’ve read.”
He picked up a bottle to get a closer look. A very small bottle, he guessed it held fifteen or twenty pills. Even with so few pills the bottle seemed full. And that made it unique among all these medications and bottles. Morphine, the label read. “This for pain?”
She nodded.
“You’re not taking any? Or you just refilled the prescription?”
“I’ve taken one or two.”
“Don’t you need more than that?”
“Father, I haven’t told anyone. Will you keep a secret?”
“I’m good at that.”
“This may seem kind of silly … but all during Lent I’ve tried to unite my suffering with all that Jesus went through. I’m offering it up.”
“For what?”
“The kids, mostly. Lucy is so young and has such talent. She could throw it all away with maybe a bad marriage.
“And Tony’s a good boy. I think he’s going to get very rich. I pray he doesn’t let that go to his head. He could do so much good for others … as long as he doesn’t get sidetracked.
“And then …” She hesitated. “… there’s Vincent.” She hesitated again. “My priest son.” She smiled. “When he was little I’d take him to Mass with us. He took to it like a duck to water. I started way back then to pray for him. He seemed a natural to become a priest. But I didn’t want to push him. And I don’t think I did; he did it all on his own. I want him to be such a good priest …”
She seemed to be making an effort to speak strongly. “And so I’m offering my little illness for the kids.”
“That’s beautiful, Louise. But if they knew what you were doing I’m sure they’d object. They don’t want you to suffer. I can’t think that God wants you to suffer.”
She smiled weakly and patted Koesler’s arm. “Honest, when it gets unbearable, I take one. I’ve already taken a couple. Besides, the doctor explained some of the side effects that can happen when you take very much. I’m better off without it.
“But you promised,” she said insistently. “I don’t want the kids to know. You’re probably right: They’d be upset. So, you won’t tell anybody?”
Koesler shook his head. “No, I won’t. But how about Lucy? Doesn’t she give you your medication and vitamins?”
“No. I’m determined to take care of myself for as long as I can, for as much as I can-”
“Din … ner …” Lucy called from downstairs.
Louise swung her legs over the side of the bed and slowly raised herself erect, motioning off Koesler’s proffer of assistance.
“Can I help you downstairs?” he asked.
“No … thank you. Just be patient, please; I go kind of slow.”
She did indeed. But Koesler stayed a step ahead of her just in case she were to fall.
The aroma of spaghetti and meatballs permeated the downstairs, tantalizing to all but Louise. After Koesler had led them in grace she forced herself to eat small portions and then to linger at table for longer than she really wished. Lucy, Vincent, and Koesler exchanged concerned looks as Lucy removed her mother’s still nearly full plate after everyone else was finished.
“Dessert, Mother?”
Louise accepted a small portion of Jell-O and listlessly downed it. Then, explaining that she was very tired, she rose and, accompanied by Vincent, made her way up the stairs.
She stretched out atop the quilt, telling Vincent she just wanted to rest for a little bit before getting ready for bedtime; would he stay with her?
Of course.
She stroked his cheek where a bit of stubble showed. He had been clean-shaven early in the morning. It was getting late in the day and in a little while he would have to return to St. John’s.
“Baby …”
“I’m twenty-four years old. In a couple of months I’ll be a priest. And still she calls me ‘Baby.’”
But he didn’t really mind. Their love for each other was a mother-son epitome.
“Baby,” she repeated, “are you all ready?”
“Ready? For what?”
“To get ordained.”
He smiled. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“I mean, this has been really tough on you-me being sick and all. Don’t tell me it hasn’t been a distraction.”
“You didn’t choose to get sick now, Ma. We have to roll with the punches.” He smiled encouragingly. “But we can do it.”
“How are your studies going?”
“What’s this all about, Ma? Why are you so concerned about how I’m doing and my studies?”
“It’s funny: I’ll never be able to make anyone understand. But … I can feel your prayers. They seem to take away a lot of the pain.”
“No kidding! You feel my prayers?” His eyes lit up. “Maybe it’s not just mine. There are lots of people praying for you, you know.”
“If it was anybody else, I could tell. That’s why no one will believe me. I know it’s your prayers. But I don’t want you to let your school-work go. You’re so close to the end now.”
Vincent smiled broadly. “Don’t be concerned about my schoolwork …” He nodded assuringly. “That’s in the bag.”
“Sure?”
“Sure!” he emphasized.
She ran her fingers through his hair. He simply leaned closer to make the gesture easier.
“Baby, I’ve got one last request for you-”
“What’s this ‘last’ business?”
“Humor me. Someday very soon you’re going to be at God’s holy altar. You’re going to offer the holy sacrifice of the Mass. What I ask you is for you always to have me in your heart. Let me be part of every Mass you offer …” She fixed him with her gaze. “Promise me.”
Vincent choked back a sob. “Don’t talk like this, Ma. Of course you’re going to be in my Masses. But you’re going to be in the prayers for the living. And you can check me out. You can remind me from time to time. But you won’t really need to check: I’ll remember.
“Which reminds me: What dress are you going to wear to my ordination? And whichever one you choose, are you going to wear the same one for my first Mass the next day?”
She laughed softly. “Baby, I’ve lost so much weight, I’ll have to buy a new one. And as long as it’s new, I think I’ll probably wear it for the first Mass too.”
“Sounds good, Ma. In another week you’re going to wonder what it was like to be sick.”
Her smile was like a sunburst. “I can hardly wait, baby.” She lay back and licked her lips.
“Can I get you some water, Ma?”
“No … no, I’ll be fine. But I think I need to get some sleep. This has been a busy day.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then his thumb traced the sign of the cross on her brow. She smiled and closed her eyes.
He pulled a comforter over her still form, waited till her breath was deep and even, then tiptoed out of the room and went quietly down the stairs.
He stepped into the kitchen where Lucy was finishing up the dishes. Koesler, after drying the last pot, folded the towel and draped it on its hook. “Maybe I ought to go up and say good-bye.”
“She’s sleeping.”
Koesler nodded. “In that case, I’ll just leave. I should at least drop in at home and visit with my folks for a while.”
“Tony said he’ll definitely be home for Easter,” Lucy said, apropos of the word “home.”
“Good,” Vincent said. “There ought to be a doubting Thomas around at any miracle.”
“If custom prevails-and there’s no reason it won’t,” Koesler said, “this will be the busiest week of the year for parish priests. But I’ll be here-definitely-right after St. Norbert’s last Easter Mass.”
“And I,” Vincent added, “will be home as soon as the Easter vigil is finished next Saturday morning. And then,” he added further, “I’ll be home for a full week. To gloat.” His chin was firm.
Koesler donned coat and hat. It was late March-spring, which in Michigan could mean bundle-up weather well into April or even May.
After making his good-byes, Koesler, still in the flush of youth, fairly skipped down the steps to his car.
As he drove toward his familial home in southwest Detroit, he played back the memory of today’s visit with the Delvecchios.
His experience with the terminally ill was quite limited compared with what it would be when he’d had many pastoral years behind him. He could envision Louise lasting a few more weeks, even a month or two. On the other hand, she could be gone before this week was over; it all depended on the relentless advance of the cancer against her will to live. She did so want to be there for Lucy at graduation.
Koesler felt it was not in the cards that she would see even the beginning of any sports career Tony might have. But she did want to see him graduate.
Then there was Vincent. Louise would give anything to attend his ordination. And who knows, maybe she would. It was altogether possible the miracle would save her and extend her life into many fruitful years. But it definitely would be Vincent’s miracle.