Chameleon fk-13 Read online

  Though she could not make out what Bash had muttered, Sister Joan, aware that he’d said something and probably something shabby, was momentarily disconcerted. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my train of thought,” she apologized.

  “Like it or not, look at it as a bad thing or good, it is a matter of money.” Father Bash, who, as chair, did not have to be recognized, picked up the theme. “We understand completely that without the generous sacrifice of teaching nuns the Church would not have had the courage to start the parochial school system. And now, they’re gone. For whatever reason, maybe for the reasons Sister Joan mentioned. They want to be presidents, regents, tycoons, priests ….” He smirked, knowing well that of all the prospects for equality with men, priesthood was undoubtedly the most remote.

  “Whatever the reason for their no longer supplying the basic element in parochial education,” Bash continued, “the fact is they’re gone. And it’s simply going to be survival of the fittest. If that means-and I agree it probably does-that eventually the only parochial schools will be suburban-then, so be it. If we Americans can’t understand that, who can? Survival of the fittest. Capitalism. A reflection of our country.”

  Archbishops, even when separated from their archdioceses, can develop the habit of speaking without benefit of recognition. “Capitalism!” Archbishop Foley’s shoulders seemed to sag as he spoke quietly and deliberately. “What in the world has capitalism got to do with Christianity?”

  “Excellency …” Bash’s tone was that of the adult who deigns to speak from his level to that of a child, “… my point is that we have to face facts and make the best of reality. Realistically, the city of Detroit has experienced ‘white flight’ for decades now. And it was mostly white Catholics who built these huge churches in the city-and white Catholics who supported them.

  “For whatever reason-it’s immaterial here-we never have made much headway with the blacks. The Catholic Church endured in the city because Catholics were there. They are no longer there in any significant number. But they didn’t evaporate. They’ve relocated to the suburbs and there they’ve built new schools and they support them. Supply and demand. Demand and supply. Capitalism, Whatever you want to call it, Catholic schools will close in the city because there are too few Catholics there to support them. They’ll be alive in the suburbs because that’s where the Catholics are.”

  Bash wore a pleased smile. The archbishop’s teacher had completed his pupil’s lesson.

  Those present no longer waited for an official recognition by the chair. Sister Joan spoke up. “That’s simplistic, Father Bash. The core city schools that remain open may have a majority of black and non-Catholic students, and the tuition is high, but the parents are sacrificing tremendously to pay that tuition. They value that quality education easily as much, maybe more, than the people who sacrificed and built those schools.”

  “Ah, yes, Sister,” Bash replied, “but it is not only white flight that’s taken place in Detroit: It’s economic flight now. Of course there are a few-a very few-areas in the city that are still fairly affluent, notably the riverfront, but most of the people who still live in the rest of the city are there because they can’t afford to move out.

  “Sister, my point is that it’s not only Catholics-white or black-that are moving out; it’s almost anyone who can afford to. As all of these people leave there won’t be any possible support for the high cost of maintaining a parochial school. Parochial schools in the city are terminal.”

  Sister Joan regarded Bash. She’d never had the impression that he was particularly effective in the public relations arena and surely he was ineffective as a communicator. With his hubris and his macho facade he might have done well somewhere in the secular world, but, try as she might, she could think of no reason whatever why he should have become a priest. Brash Bash. It was difficult to say. She almost laughed aloud.

  “I think there is something that can be done about the schools.” The Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey seemed almost disinterested, as if he were the only speaker so far who had no particular ax to grind. “I’m not sure any of you want to go in this direction, but … we might play on suburban guilt feelings.”

  “Guilt feelings?” Monsignor Young echoed.

  “Uh-huh. White flight, or the odyssey of white and black affluence to the suburbs has been mentioned. What has not been addressed is that those who have fled-at least those among them who have sensitive consciences-are well aware that in moving they were abandoning the city. In other words, many of them have guilty consciences.”

  “That’s true.” Sister Joan nodded in agreement. “Priests who are responsive to social justice and the like preach about the need for Christians to identify with victims-victims of injustice, victims of indifference and abandonment. And many of these priests speak specifically of our literal neighbors suffering in the city. Sensitive Catholics must feel some sort of guilt, especially about the separate and unequal educational opportunities of suburban and city children.”

  “Exactly,” Jeffrey continued. “There are precedents galore. Cities ‘adopt’ other cities. Adults ‘adopt’ children in other countries, without ever seeing the kid. They just send money. This would be a case of a well-to-do parish with a parochial school ‘adopting’ a hard-pressed school in the core city.”

  “That would never work. Before you came on the scene”-Fadier Bash tried to belittle Jeffrey by insinuating seniority-“there was an effort to link city and suburban Catholic schools by having an interchange of kids,”

  “You mean,” Jeffrey said, “having the suburban kids attend the city schools and vice versa?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “The core city people.”

  Jeffrey snorted. “That’s an idea whose time not only has not come, it’ll never come. A good number of parents with school-age kids moved to the suburbs for the express purpose of escaping from city schools. For good measure, add the fear that their deteriorating parochial schools in the city were likely to close. They’re not going to return to the city or send their kids-not by a long shot.

  “But their conscience still bothers them. So they don’t send their kids; they send money. They ‘adopt’ a parish school and help subsidize it.”

  “It won’t work!” Bash repeated himself. “If you were a priest instead of a deacon”-Bash tried to diminish Jeffrey by pulling rank-“and if you were in one of those suburban parishes, you’d know that most of those parishes are strapped for money Go on out to the trenches sometime and ask the pastors out there if their people have enough money to support two schools! You’ll find out soon enough there isn’t any money.”

  Jeffrey smiled and slowly shook his head. “Father Bash, there’s always more money. Money has a peculiar talent for self-multiplication. How many times do workers go on strike while management claims it’s made its best and final offer? ‘There isn’t any more money anywhere.’ Then the strike goes on, hurting everyone. Finally, management miraculously ‘finds’ more money.

  “Or a family wants some luxury-a high-priced car, a summer home, a cruise-but they can’t afford it. Happens all the time. You know it as well as I. When the family gets around to wanting whatever it is badly enough, voila: They come up with it. All it needs is a decent piece of P.R. work.”

  Bash hit the ceiling. “Decent P.R.! Are you intimating that my office lacks professionalism? Are you suggesting that we are incapable of carrying on an effective campaign? I resent such insinuation, sir! I resent it deeply!”

  In his heart of hearts, Bash was intimidated by Jeffrey. Quentin Jeffrey had been a recognized success in the public relations field. It was awkward for Bash, who had no formal training or experience, to function while a professional looked on and conceivably evaluated his performance. Bash could bulldoze his way through almost any situation. But, inwardly insecure, he was cowed by Jeffrey’s talent, experience, and proven ability. So Bash reacted to his deserved inferiority complex by striking out
at the better man.

  Quentin Jeffrey was unruffled. He really didn’t care whether or not his suggestion was implemented. He considered it good advice. But he was keenly aware that it would not be easy to make it work. It would require diplomatic and adroit handling. Something the ham-fisted Bash was incapable of.

  Cardinal Boyle did not like his people to engage in confrontation. Some carping was unavoidable as he tried to steer a middle course, faithful to the mind of the Church while permitting as much freedom and initiative as possible. But here at a staff meeting was not the place for angry recrimination.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Boyle said, “Now I am sure that Reverend Mr. Jeffrey did not mean to impugn the abilities and accomplishments of the office of communication. Mr. Jeffrey’s suggestion is worthy of consideration. And I am sure it deserves further examination. In any case, Father Bash, nothing that Mr, Jeffrey said need trouble you.” The Cardinal smiled as he toyed with his pectoral cross. “You must develop a tougher hide, Father Bash. These are troubled times,”

  “Yes, eminence.” When it came to the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit, Cletus Bash was the quintessential yes man.

  Larry Hoffer’s hand was raised. Bash thought that a good sign: The meeting was returning to order as decreed in Robert’s Rules of Order.

  “Mr. Hoffer.” Bash recognized.

  By leaning heavily on his right elbow, Hoffer was able to get his left hand in his pants pocket and jingle coins, “I feel as if I ought to apologize for what I’m about to say, but as director of finance and administration, I must see things in dollars and cents and very little else,”

  Jingle, jingle.

  “I can’t help remembering how things were when I was a boy. The recollection was jogged by Archbishop Foley’s recalling a time when Catholics had to confess a mortal sin if they were not sending their children to a Catholic school. At that time, I was going to a parochial school-so my parents were spared that embarrassment.”

  Particularly from the usually dour Hoffer, that was a humorous line. For that very reason, no one laughed. They couldn’t believe he would be treating this matter lightly. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Earlier in this meeting,” Hoffer proceeded, “Monsignor Young referred to the virtual disappearance of the teaching nun. I put that together with what Archbishop Foley said and came up with a picture of the school I attended. And all the nuns. Sisters I still remember. Rarely if ever did a layperson teach in a parochial school. Whoever came up with the teaching nun, it was, indeed, an ingenious idea. She gave of herself completely, selflessly. She is a golden memory for all of us old enough to have attended that kind of parochial school.

  “And that is gone. We all know that. Now, I don’t pretend to understand all of the complex reasons it’s gone. I am concerned only with the aftermath, the consequences of the loss of the teaching nun.

  “Even if we were able to bring back the nuns in anywhere near the numbers we once had, I doubt that we could keep our schools open regardless. The cost of everything else has risen so much-there’s the age of the buildings, their desperate need of repair and replacement; there’s utilities, insurance, supplies; the cost of attaining a teaching degree now. All that overhead would have to figure into the tuition we’d have to charge.

  “Still, if we had the nuns, it might be worth a try. But … we haven’t got them. When you lack food, you lack a meal.

  “What we have now is what Father Bash and Sister Joan-from different perspectives-have agreed on: Our city schools are in desperate need of subsidization. Deacon Jeffrey suggests that our suburban schools should do the subsidizing. There’s merit in that approach, except that most of our suburban schools are already draining an increasing percentage of their parishes’ income. Deacon Jeffrey cites the remarkable power of money to seem to multiply. But not infinitely. And that’s what would be needed for our schools to survive: money raised to infinity. Because the cost will continue to rise dramatically, and there is no end in sight.”

  Hoffer left off with no attempt to state any sort of conclusion to his argument. There remained a prolonged and expectant silence. Then, for the first time, Irene Casey spoke. “So … so what do you propose, Larry?”

  Hoffer did not reply.

  “You can’t mean you’re recommending closing all our parochial schools!” Irene pressed. “City and suburban?!”

  “That,” Hoffer said, “is exactly what I am recommending: Close them before they eat us alive.”

  From the reaction this statement received, it seemed evident that no one present had ever considered the possibility of eliminating the entire parochial school system.

  In the hubbub that ensued, Monsignor Young finally made himself heard. “You don’t understand! You don’t understand, Mr. Hoffer! You don’t understand how interdependent some of our parishes and schools have become. Some pastors have told me that their parishes were almost inactive-lifeless from Monday through Friday-before they built their schools. Then a real community was formed. You don’t understand this!”

  “That’s not my concern,” Hoffer replied. “I have no way of speaking to that point. My job is to deliver to the Cardinal the best advice I can give him as his chief financial resource person.”

  Monsignor Young-along with others-was coming unglued. “But … but, Mr. Hoffer, don’t you see, if you close those schools, you might as well close those parishes!”

  “As a matter of fact,” Hoffer replied, “there are quite a few parishes that are in the same situation as the schools. They should be closed.”

  “What!?” was the reaction of almost everyone, especially Monsignor Young. No parishes, no schools. Superintendent of nothing. Ten years to go and no niche for him. That would not do, That very definitely would not do.

  From this point on, the dispute grew heated. Father Bash lost his prerogative of directing this meeting. In fact, with all the wrangling he was shouted down several times.

  The feverish dispute ranged widely. Some contended that, after all, without the nuns and the clear-cut dogma and morality of the past, what was the use of having Catholic schools anymore? Or, Catholic schools were needed more than ever today when public education, generally, had been intimidated from teaching religious values by the Supreme Court.

  The dispute went so far afield as to include the shrinking number of priests. With that in mind, maybe it was a good idea to circle the wagons more closely and close a few marginal parishes. Or, looking at that same diminishing priest supply, it was absolutely imperative to keep the parishes open. Where in the world were the desperately needed candidates for priesthood going to come from if the kids hardly ever even saw a priest?

  And on and on it went.

  One of the few who did not dive into this cacophony was Irene Casey.

  Technically she was not a department head. But, as editor of the Detroit Catholic, she felt she needed to be familiar with the background of what was going on and what was being planned by the archdiocesan administration. Besides, her predecessor, Father Koesler, had always attended these meetings. She had made her case before Cardinal Boyle, and because it seemed a reasonable request and also because Boyle genuinely liked her, he had approved.

  In all the meetings she had attended since her initial invitation to join the group, Irene had never witnessed anything like this.

  These were very angry men and, in two instances, women. A few of them were saying things she was sure they would regret having expressed. Even occasional interposings on the part of Cardinal Boyle could not restore either Robert’s Rules or civility.

  Mrs. Casey felt the slacker for not joining in the various arguments. But confrontation, for her, was more a matter of necessity dian choice. Besides, the debate had begun to take on abusive tones as well as including personal insults. It seemed to Irene that she detected a vituperative quality which barely sheathed an undertone of violence that disturbed her deeply.

  A Steve Allen song came to her mind: This could be the st
art of something big.

  11

  The Hoffers lived in a rambling old house on Birchcrest near the University of Detroit in Gesu parish, which was staffed by Jesuits.

  They’d lived at this address for most of their married life, raised five children, who were now all married and moved away; they themselves had no intention of moving. The neighborhood was racially mixed but stable-such stability being rare in the city of Detroit. There was a tad more danger than in the average suburban neighborhood-or at least that was the created impression. But there were neighborhood watches, block parties, a form of Welcome Wagon, and interested and interesting people.

  Georgeanne-friends called her Georgie-Hoffer had served beef burgundy, one of Larry Hoffer’s favorites, for supper. The two were now seated in a very lived-in living room. She was reading a book, her reading glasses barely bonded to the tip of her nose. He was reading the Detroit News, the city’s afternoon newspaper. Curled around her feet like a small white muffler was Truffles, her dog.

  One might have referred to Truffles as their dog, except that the poodle belonged to Georgie. Larry tolerated the animal. His philosophy regarding pets was, If you’re going to have a dog, have a big dog; if you’re going to have a little dog, have a cat. But Georgie loved the little mutt-who understood completely that he was his mistress’s dog-and that was good enough for Larry.

  The softly playing radio was tuned to WQRS-FM, the area’s classical music station. The station, at this moment, was torturing its listeners with a Bela Bartok chamber piece. Larry was preoccupied enough to pay it no mind. Georgie, having missed the introduction, did not know who had composed the piece, and was enduring it to the end solely to discover who had perpetrated this insult to the human ear. At long last, as was inevitable, it ended and the announcer identified it.

  “Bartok,” Georgie said. “If I’d been paying attention before it began, I’d have switched stations.”