Based on a two-per-week schedule, the instructions moved right along.
Koesler’s concern that this phase of the procedure might be a sham clearly was misplaced. Frank took an active interest in the books Koesler recommended. Nor did Koesler have any opportunity to lecture: Frank did almost as much talking as listening. Indeed, many of Frank’s questions taxed mightily those supportive books on Koesler’s shelves.
The instructions were completed just after Christmas.
It had been a wonderfully spiritual season for everyone. It was Koesler’s first Christmas as a priest. Though utterly exhausted from hearing countless confessions, he was exhilarated by the unique liturgy of the Nativity as well as by the seasonal goodwill of a depth and spirit to capture the heart even of Scrooge.
It was a grand time also for the Morrises. They had taken to attending Mass at St. William’s. Since they were not recognized as parishioners at Nativity parish, they felt at ease and were welcomed by Father Koesler at St. William’s.
Instructions complete, it was time to enter phases two and three. The first of these was to properly and carefully prepare the petition. Koesler conferred frequently with his Canon Law professor to make certain that everything was being done “by the book” and that no bases were left untouched.
The second part-or phase three-was initiated. Money was sent with the petition. And the Morrises began their new “brother and sister” relationship. It was a time of expectation, hope, and prayer.
Except that the time became endless.
Months passed and no word. No word at all. Sometimes it was difficult for Koesler and the Morrises to remember what life had been before this grand adventure.
More months.
Occasionally and apologetically, one or the other Morris would stop by after Mass or perhaps phone, just to make sure no notification had come in. Invariably Father Koesler would assure them that nothing had happened. He would also assure them that just as soon as any word was received, he would let them know immediately.
After two and a half years, the lives of the Morrises had stretched so taut that Frank and Martha almost began to wish word would never come. As long as they no longer wondered and worried at the start of each day whether they would ever hear from the Curia in Rome, things would be better. The decision-granted or denied-seemed increasingly unreal. The mere act of waiting became the only reality.
Then the call came.
Father Koesler visited them in the evening, having earlier phoned to make sure they would both be in.
Martha was certain from the tone of Father’s voice that their waiting was over and, also from his voice, that the petition had been denied.
Frank did not want to speculate on either possibility.
But neither could eat any dinner.
At seven, as promised, Father Koesler arrived. When they were all seated, he delivered the negative verdict with more sympathy and compassion that he would have thought he possessed.
The petition had been denied.
All that work and sacrifice and prayer for literally nothing.
Martha seemed to shrink a bit as she absorbed the finality of Rome’s decision.
Father Koesler-who seldom cried-was barely able to hold back tears.
Frank alone kept his head. “Is there anything else we can do, Father?”
“If there is, I don’t know what,” Koesler said. “And neither does anyone else I consulted earlier today. Without using any names, I checked in with my Canon Law professor and a couple of older priests whose judgment I respect. Nothing.”
“How about this ‘brother and sister’ that we’ve been doing for the past couple of years?” Frank probed. “The Vatican seems to be terribly interested in our sex lives. How about if we promise no sex for the rest of our lives? Or at least until my former wife dies?”
“Frankie!” Martha was shocked.
“That’s okay, Martha,” Koesler reassured her. “The same thought occurred to me, Frank. I didn’t think you’d be open to that option, but it never hurts to check … so I did. It seems the Vatican thinks you’re both too young to make such a long-term promise. No …” He shook his head. “… it won’t work. Nothing will.”
Koesler did not think it right to drop this bomb of rejection and just walk away. So he settled in for a long visit.
Martha made coffee and the conversation rambled over many subjects. At last, Koesler felt that their churning stomachs had settled and the Morrises were more at ease than they had been.
He reminded them over and over that as they loved God, so God loved them. Their consciences were at peace with God. And that was what mainly counted.
However, even as he spoke, he wondered about the widening dichotomy between their consciences and Church law. According to the “rules,” they were “living in sin.” But, somehow, he was unable to see this. He had never before felt this way about Church law. He found this disturbing.
It was getting late. After a few more supportive words, Koesler made his exit.
Frank and Martha stood staring out their front window watching the red rear lights of Koesler’s car slowly disappear down their narrow residential street. Even after the car turned the corner and the lights were out of sight, they continued to watch, wordlessly.
Frank finally broke the silence. “Well, Marty, my girl, I really think we gave it our best shot.”
She did not respond.
“As I always say, there’s nothing more to be done once you’ve done your best.”
“That’s true,” she said finally, “We did all we could, Frankie. So did Father Koesler. He’s so young … I hope he never gets jaded.”
“Aye. Amen to that, Marty. Now, we’ve had a long, hard evening. Why don’t you go climb into bed? I’ve got just a couple of things that have to be attended to. I’ll be right up.”
Martha turned to take the stairs, then turned back. “Long as you’re at it, you might just check the furnace. It’s been acting up lately.”
She turned, then once more turned back. “Oh, and by the way: You don’t have to use the guest room anymore.”
He looked at her and winked.
She went upstairs and as she prepared for bed, she let the tears flow. And freely flow they did. She made no sound; she didn’t want Frank to know how deeply hurt she was.
She slipped between the sheets, but try as she might, she couldn’t stay awake to welcome Frank. Well, she thought, we’ve done without each other’s intimacy for better than two years now; one more night won’t make that much difference.
The explosion almost catapulted her out of bed.
Her first thought was that the furnace had blown up. And she had asked Frank to look at it.
She threw on a robe and dashed down the stairs.
At first she did not comprehend.
Why was Frank on the floor?
Why was his shotgun on the floor?
Why did Frank not have the back of his head? Where was the back of Frank’s head?
“Frankie! Frankie! What’s happened? Get up! Get up!”
Not really knowing what she was doing, she picked up the phone. The police … call the police. After a helpful operator put through the call, Martha, between sobs, got across what had happened.
She hung up the phone, then turned in confusion. Frank … She knelt by her husband and straightened his clothing. She did not want him to appear disheveled. Not with company coming.
She didn’t have to wait long. The Conner Street station was only a few blocks away. Within minutes the police entered the house and seemed to be everywhere at once.
The first officer through the door saw immediately what had happened. He raised Martha to her feet and helped her to the couch, then sat down next to her. She leaned toward him. He put an arm around her shoulder.
She looked up at him. “Is he hurt badly?”
He knew the question was produced by panic. “Yes, he is. I’m real sorry, ma’am. Can you tell me what happened?”
She looked bewildered at all the activity going on around her. The last thing she could remember was trying to stay awake and failing. Then she thought, Maybe this is a dream. Maybe she would wake up and her darling Frankie would be here and take care of everything as he always did.
Something else told her that nothing would be right ever again.
She tried to answer questions. Yes, they both had had depressing news just this evening. She couldn’t explain; it was too complicated.
She continued trying to be helpful.
Was there someone who could come and stay with her? She gave them Louise’s number. They phoned, and Louise, shocked, said she’d be right over.
An officer handed a piece of paper to the officer sitting beside Martha. He read it quickly, then handed it to her. “This is for you, ma’am. Is this your husband’s writing?”
Martha looked at the note and nodded. Why would Frank write her a letter?
The officer rose from the couch and checked on the progress being made by his team. Things were being wrapped up. Frank’s covered body was on a gurney. The officer returned to Martha. “We won’t have to ask you any more questions tonight, ma’am. Do you have anything to help you sleep?”
She thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Your sister’s here, ma’am. We’ll go now. Your husband’s body will be at the morgue. I’m sure they’ll release it very soon. You can start making funeral arrangements. And, ma’am, I’m very, very sorry.”
Louise locked up, then helped Martha up the stairs.
In response to Louise’s questions, Martha, between sobs, explained most of what had happened, beginning with Father Koesler’s visit and the rejection of their petition. Finally, running out of words, she sat in a stunned daze, eyes open but unseeing. Louise gently assisted her to bed. No sedative was needed; Martha was out the moment her head hit the pillow. She slept, fitfully, until early morning, when she arose and slowly made her way down the stairs.
She didn’t understand. Everything was as it should be. But …?
Louise had straightened up everything, even cleaning the blood from the carpet, chairs, and wall. Maybe … maybe she had dreamed all this. “Frankie …” Then, louder, “Frankie!”
Louise entered from the kitchen, where she had fallen asleep, head on the table. “Oh, my dear,” she murmured. “Martha, dear, don’t you remember?”
Martha sank to the couch. She remembered. “Get out. Leave,” she said, barely audibly.
“What?” Louise heard her, but it didn’t register.
“Why couldn’t you have left us alone?” Martha said bitterly. “At least we had each other. But no, you had to get us ‘fixed up’ with the Church. See what happened? My Frankie’s gone. Leave. For God’s sake, just go!”
Louise wanted to stay but realized that there was no point. She put on her coat. “When you feel better, call me. I’ll help any way I can.”
“Help?” Martha repeated with dripping sarcasm.
Louise left.
After she told Tony and Lucy what had happened, she phoned first Vincent, then Father Koesler.
The priest was deeply shocked, more so than ever before in his life. Dropping everything, he drove to the Morris home. Martha, dry-eyed, welcomed him distractedly. Koesler sensed there were no tears left.
Wordlessly, she handed him the letter the police had discovered last night-the suicide note. Koesler read it carefully.
My dearest Marty,
You probably will want to blame someone for what I’m about to do. But it isn’t anybody’s fault. Maybe those guys in Rome. Everybody else has just tried to help.
Without you and our years together, I would have missed everything. I love you more than life itself. Which is exactly why I’m going to do this. You and the Catholic Church go together. Your whole life is built around your Church.
I guess I never have forgiven myself for taking you away from your sacraments. If it weren’t for me, you would be in good-top-standing with the Church. Now you’ll be able to take Holy Communion. Honest, it makes me feel very good knowing that you will be back in the Church’s good graces.
For this, I willingly die.
If God is exceptionally kind, I will be waiting for you.
Thank Father Koesler for-well, for being Father Koesler.
And, darling, remember one thing: I love you more than life itself.
Your own,
Frankie
Father Koesler was fairly sure that nothing that could happen in the future would ever move him more than this. This misbegotten sacrifice.
He looked at Martha. “I am so sorry … so very, very sorry.”
Martha shrugged. “You’re the one-the only one-who is completely blameless. We came to you. You explained everything. You told us how difficult it would be. You were very frank about our chances. And we could tell how embarrassed you were and how bad you felt when you had to tell us we’d have to live as brother and sister …” She shook her head. “You’re the only one …”
“Your sister wanted to help. She knew how much you wanted to live as a Catholic and receive the sacraments-”
“She meddled in our lives. If she hadn’t started this, I’d still have my Frankie. I don’t want to think of her the rest of my life.”
Koesler knew there was no point in pursuing this now. In time, maybe. But not now. “We have some ladies in our parish who are good at helping with funeral details. They volunteer their services. They’re really good people. How about if I send them over?”
It occurred to Martha that, having dismissed her sister, she was now alone. She needed help. “Yes,” she said quietly, “that would be good. Thank you.”
“And,” Koesler added, “I’ll try to arrange for Christian burial.”
Martha looked at him attentively for the first time. “Why would you do that? Frankie committed suicide.”
“I know that’s what it looks like. But the Church regularly presumes that in such cases the person is not responsible for what he did … temporary loss of free will.”
“But you read Frankie’s note: He seemed to know what he was doing.”
“I can try.”
“Don’t!” she said forcefully. “I can’t stand to be crushed by my Church again. The last rejection cost me my husband. I want no more from my Church. Not ever!”
Koesler surmised that Martha’s feelings toward both her sister and the Church would soften, given time. Now was not that time.
“I’ll ask those women that I mentioned to get in touch with you right away. I’m sure they’ll be a big help.”
With that, Koesler gave Martha his blessing-which, he thanked God, she did not refuse. Then he left.
He would certainly have to visit and work with Louise and her children. They must be feeling just awful. But at least they had each other.
The one left out on a branch by himself was Vince Delvecchio. He had been informed of his uncle’s suicide. But Koesler knew well the macho spirit that was one goal of the seminary training at St. John’s. If Koesler’s assessment was correct, Vincent had been called into the rector’s office and notified. It wouldn’t matter whether or not Vince asked permission to go home. He would be advised to “tough it out” and remain working through the seminary’s routine.
One thing that could break into that relentless routine and allow Vincent to react emotionally would be a visit from Father-and emphasize the Father-Koesler. The seminary rector had too much respect for the priesthood to refuse him access to the grieving student.
And so Koesler headed for the Provincial Seminary in Plymouth.
In little less than an hour he pulled into the circular drive that he knew so well.
As he had anticipated, he was warmly welcomed by the rector, who immediately sent a secretary to summon Delvecchio.
Koesler and Delvecchio went down to the visiting parlor, where, at this time of day, they could be alone and undisturbed.
Of course Vincent knew of the tragedy; the notification had been as Koesler guessed.
Vince seemed to be holding up well. The rector must have been pleased at Vince’s growth in the image of John Wayne.
“Mother didn’t say, and the rector wouldn’t know, but the cause of this, I presume, was the failure of the Pauline Privilege?”
“Yes. I delivered the news to them last night-just hours before it happened.”
Delvecchio shook his head sadly. “What happened … I mean, to the case?”
“Too many uncooperative witnesses. Some wouldn’t testify. Others were ambiguous about whether Frank could have been baptized.”
Koesler didn’t mention the petition again. But he filled in some of the details of the conversation he and the Morrises had had last night. He finished by telling Vince he wished he could conduct a Catholic funeral for Frank, but that Martha had turned down the offer. And he scarcely could be hopeful that he could slide that possibility past the pastor of St. William’s.
Delvecchio looked surprised. “But why would you want to do that?”
“Because your uncle was a catechumen, by any definition of the word. He had completed instructions. He had agreed to the tenets of Catholicism. The only thing that prevented his baptism was Rome’s rejection of his petition.”
“But if he had left Aunt Martha …”
Knowing their love for each other, Koesler had not considered this possibility. But, technically, Delvecchio was correct. Short of clearing Frank’s first marriage, the only way he could have been baptized and become a Catholic would be to live a celibate life. And that had not been in the cards-not in the Morris deck, in any case, because Rome wouldn’t go for it and Frank wouldn’t leave Martha.
“Besides,” Delvecchio continued, “Uncle Frank committed suicide. That demands the denial of Christian burial.”
“I think you’ll find, Vince, that the Church is rather lenient when it comes to that.”
Delvecchio’s eyes opened wide. “It is the greatest sin. The greatest evil.”
“Yes, yes, I know, Vince. The ultimate act of despair. Denial of even the forgiveness, comfort, and compassion of the Holy Spirit. But who among us can. know the mind of a tortured soul in the final moments of life?”
“It is the law.”
“It is a law regularly set aside.”
“Well,” Delvecchio said, “at least Aunt Martha can go to Communion again.”
Koesler almost gasped. The only other person who had expressed that sentiment was Frank himself-in his suicide note.
There seemed little point in continuing the conversation. Besides, the purpose of Koesler’s visit had been accomplished: Delvecchio was handling what grief was his magnificently. No need to worry about him … at least for the present.
Koesler left for the long drive home.
Completely out of character for him, he did not turn on the car radio. He was deep in thought about Vincent and the manner in which he was taking the death of his uncle.
Was this the same kid who’d trashed a liturgical rubric just so campers wouldn’t be bored during Communion time?
Now, when it comes to his uncle’s suicide, he is appealing to law-Church law-to … what? To shield himself from the slightest responsibility for what had happened.
To be brutally fair, there really wasn’t much responsibility to be shouldered by young Vince Delvecchio. He’d had a corner of responsibility for a matter of. minutes-when his mother asked him to “do something” about the canonically irregular situation of his uncle and aunt.
Then, in the space of just a few minutes, he had shifted the load to others. Suddenly it became someone else’s duty to contact a young priest who was busy translating book learning to the school of hard knocks. And from then on, it was the responsibility of Father Koesler.
Finally, there was the business of Communion and the other sacraments. To see death-suicide-as nothing more than making the sacraments available to one who had been denied them, seemed to Koesler to be crass legalism in its shoddiest form.
Where was this boy headed?