The Greatest Evil fk-20 Read online

  “Actually,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “I’m almost looking forward to going a few rounds with him. Now that-thanks to you-I’m getting to know him better. Bishops can give one the impression that they put their episcopal vestments on in a telephone booth. It’s good to be reminded that they put their pants on one leg at a time.”

  “Or,” Koesler noted, “as one of my priest teachers, once said of the rather rigid St. Alphonsus Liguori: ‘A good man, very saintly. But if you read too much of his stuff, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn.’”

  Tully laughed. “Well, then, tell me more about Bishop Delvecchio. Maybe he’s already putting on his trousers with that shoehorn. If he is, I’d sure like to know. I can use all the information I can gather.”

  “All’s fair in psychic games with the hierarchy,” Koesler improvised.

  “Say …” Tully consulted his watch. “… we’ve got a little time on our hands. What say we repair to the basement and shoot some pool?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And,” Tully said, as he led the way downstairs, “you can go on with your briefing.”

  The basement of St. Joseph’s rectory had been divided into several rooms, or more precisely, compartments. The largest of these was huge. Spacious enough to contain an upright piano, lots of metal folding chairs-now stacked against the wall-and, in the center, a slightly smaller-than-official-size pool table.

  This room was used by, among others, the parish council and its various committees. When in such use, the plastic cover was drawn over the pool table, turning it into a meeting table. Never mind that the rail made this somewhat awkward.

  The table had been added to the rectory’s basement by one of Koesler’s predecessors. Sometimes, when there was no pressing business-a circumstance occurring less and less-Koesler would wander down and fool with a game of solitaire … usually humming the River City pool hall song from Meredith Willson’s The Music Man.

  “How about some eight ball?” Tully invited.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Name the stakes.”

  “Fun.”

  “Fun? We don’t need to play for much … but the pot ought to be there.”

  “I don’t gamble …” Koesler felt as if he were going to confession … as if gambling were a virtue and he was wrong not to.

  “It’s not against our religion, you know.”

  “I’m aware there’s no Church law against it-unless it gets out of hand. It’s just me. I can’t stand to lose. So I don’t take that chance.”

  Tully tilted his head. I’ll just pretend we’ve got something on the game, he thought. He was certain his gambling outings were under his control. He just loved the thrill of chance.

  He racked the balls while ceding the break to Koesler. In this, Tully knew not what he was doing. For the break came perilously close to shattering some of the balls. Two solids fell neatly into separate pockets.

  Tully was impressed. “Are you sure you don’t want a little bet? This is no mean beginning.”

  “No bets. Just pretend, if you like, that we have a wager.”

  Just what Tully had silently done. Was Koesler clairvoyant? he wondered.

  Koesler’s next shot would indicate his wisdom in eschewing a bet.

  One of the problems with sinking a number of one’s own balls was that one then had to shoot around (in this case) the stripes. Such was now the situation, as striped balls lay in the way of a clear shot. Actually, only one solid was open. It wasn’t a difficult shot, but it was a table length away.

  Koesler blew it.

  Tully knew his pool expertise was no better than Koesler’s. This could prove an extended game. Fortunately there was no hurry; all their guests would be late.

  Tully walked around the table, gauging possible shots. “So now we’ve got young Vince Delvecchio back home,” he said finally, as he chalked his cue. “What happens next?”

  “I was out of the loop-check that: I was never in the loop-so I don’t know how they settled the question. In any case, everybody was quite sure he’d be in the tribunal or the chancery.”

  Tully, about to shoot, straighted up in surprise. “The tribunal! After what had happened to his uncle in the marriage court?”

  Koesler smiled. “Remember, Vince had a degree in Canon Law.”

  “Well, yeah, but that could just as easily have qualified him to teach in the seminary.”

  “Good point. But the thinking was that while Delvecchio would not have harmed the students in any way, the vice might not have been versa. You know how kids can be especially cruel … and Vincent’s stay at St. Joe’s Retreat was an easy target.”

  “They were really handling this business with kid gloves.”

  “That’s the way it must’ve seemed to the power group. Anyway, eventually they assigned him to the chancery.”

  “But first they had to ordain him.”

  Koesler laughed. “Good point. He was ordained by Archbishop Boyle in the chapel of Sacred Heart Seminary. To tell you the truth, Zack, I think they overdid it. He must’ve thought of himself as a curiosity.

  “Ordinations happen in class groups and, at least at that time, in good numbers. Here was an ordination that Delvecchio had worked for harder than almost any other candidate I ever knew. But he became a priest all alone with a small group of relatives and friends looking on. One nice thing: A fair number of his classmates, who had been priests about five years now, showed up.” Koesler, remembering, nodded. “That was nice.”

  “Did you take part?”

  “Vince asked me to preach. I did.”

  “So you still were close.”

  “We’ve never been that far apart. The distance, such as it is, has been established by Delvecchio. But that’s okay by me. Whatever he wants our friendship to be is all right.”

  Tully sank his second stripe. But scratched on the shot. He backed away from the table. “How did he work out in the chancery?”

  “In the beginning, not well. Mostly because they were reluctant to give him a lot of contact with the people who composed the chancery’s clientele, he was made a member of the team that purchases land for future parishes.”

  “Land speculation?” Tully’s eyebrows knitted. “Doesn’t sound like a job for a priest.”

  “Right. But priests had been doing this for a very long time. Actually, I guess, it started with the growth of the suburbs. The trick was to carefully study the directions in which the developers were expanding and get a central location for a future parish. With enough land for a church, rectory, school, parking, and maybe for an athletic field.”

  “A big job.”

  “You bet. And one with little room for error. A mistake could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that’s sort of what got Vincent out of that business.”

  “How so?”

  “Archbishop Boyle second-guessed himself and the chancery’s brain trust. The boss thought the strain might be too much for Vince.”

  “They were sort of treating him like a raw egg … afraid he would break?”

  “Exactly. So then he became the guy in charge of triage.”

  “Triage?”

  “He was the first in the chancery to handle people who were blindly seeking help from the archdiocese. They didn’t know whom to see … whom to talk to. They had a need … or a gripe. So they’d call the chancery. They got Delvecchio.”

  “How’d he do?”

  “Depended on the nature of the call. There were times-not often-that I called the chancery and got Vince. He communicated efficiency, curtness, and not a lot of warmth. After I introduced myself he would relax a little … but not much.” Koesler circled the table, seeking the best shot.

  “There’s a story that might help to understand Vince at this point in his life …” Koesler rested his cue on the rack. Neither player was in a hurry. “Vince used to relate the story with some frequency. Working in the chancery, he spent weekends helping out in various parish
es. Two things flowed from that setup-”

  “Let me guess: One, you never get to know people very well because you hop around from parish to parish. Two, you’re able to repeat yourself because no one group has heard just about all your stories.”

  Koesler grinned. “That’s it. But as he wandered around retelling anecdotes, one story in particular came up with some frequency. Apparently he seldom uses it anymore. But he surely leaned on it in those days.”

  Tully placed his cue against the table and sat down to better take in the story that had been a favorite of Father Vincent Delvecchio in his early days as a priest.

  19

  At the first ring of the alarm clock, Father Thompson swung his left arm in an arc. His hand hit the button, silencing the bell.

  He’d been resting on his bed fully dressed. Of course he wasn’t wearing his clericals. Gray slacks, a blue jacket, and black loafers.

  He brought the clock case close to his face. Just barely could he make out the luminous dial in the darkened room. Eleven o’clock. Just right. He would be there in plenty of time: 11:30 P.M. was the earliest that Mary Lou could get out of the convent without anyone’s knowing.

  He pulled the car to a stop one block from the convent, killed the lights, and let the engine idle. He lit a cigarette and waited.

  This had been going on for the past six months. It had begun innocently enough-didn’t all such affairs? Father Thompson had met Sister Gratia during a civil rights march sponsored by the NAACP.

  He was young, powerfully built, and handsome. She had an attractive face. That-plus delicate hands-was all that could be seen. The rest was covered by a religious habit.

  They had so much in common. Not only were they Catholic and in “religious life,” but they were liberal and liberated people involved in social causes. It was only natural for friendship to grow. And that, in turn, again naturally led to affection. And thence, to an affair.

  They were young, single, with raging hormones. Without, their religious commitment, they probably would’ve dated for a brief time, then married. Their families would have been proud of them. They would have moved into a small house in the suburbs and had children.

  That was not to be. The obstacles were obvious.

  So they were reduced to meeting in the most outlandish ways and places. At which times they were transformed from Sister Gratia and Father Thompson to Mary Lou and Greg.

  In those days, few people were leaving the priesthood or the religious life. The deluge would come later.

  So there was a special sort of disgrace attached to turning away from lifelong if not eternal vows. Leave-taking nuns were known to be smuggled out of the motherhouse completely covered by a blanket in the rear of the family car. Priests who left were pretty much shunned. Not a pleasant prospect in any case.

  These thoughts took flight when the passenger door opened and Mary Lou slid in beside him. They kissed with banked passion. She wore a simple dress and a cotton coat. It was all she could do to hide this “lay” clothing in her room, which the nuns called a cell.

  Greg had squirreled away enough to pay for a cheap motel room for the night-or most of the night.

  They drove down Woodward until, in the vicinity of Highland Park, they came to a series of sleazy motels that catered to the poor, hookers, and one-night stands. As long as the money was delivered up front, the desk clerk didn’t care how many Mr. and Mrs. John Smiths registered.

  Greg and Mary Lou, though they seldom patronized these flophouses, took pains not to use any one more than a few times. And then, with long intervals between each visit.

  They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harry Brown. (Greg was feeling creative.) Once inside their room de la nuit, they tore at each other’s, clothes until they wore none. Then it was into bed where they made wild but quiet love till they were exhausted.

  They lay in each other’s arms, feeling completely relaxed. They would be able to repeat their performance after a while.

  He thought: This is wonderful. This is marvelous. After experiencing erotic passion with Mary Lou, he knew he’d never again be governed by chastity. Maybe the others of his cloth could be without sexual expression until death, but not he. Not now that he was captured by the glories of sex. As far as he was concerned, taking all due precautions against the twin great threats, pregnancy and discovery, he and Mary Lou could go on until death did them part.

  She thought: What now? Lying on her side, facing Greg, she fingered the sheet. How many people had ridden this bed? Insecure men attempting to prove their virility. Women seeking escape from a failed life. Hoping to find protection from a stronger person who did not exist. Women willing to become a seminal wastebasket for just a few-dollars. Was all this a foundation for what life would become for “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Brown”?

  Greg traced an invisible line on her body from her shoulder around her breast to her thigh. It was a signal devised to indicate he was ready again.

  She rolled over on her back. But as he was about to cover her, she pushed him away.

  He was truly startled. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “We’ve got to talk.”

  “Later.”

  “Now.”

  He pushed himself up and sat on the bed, leaning against the backboard. He lit a cigarette from the pack he’d placed on the nightstand. “Okay. We talk. About what?”

  “About us.” She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. The seriousness of what she was about to say seemed compromised as long as her body remained uncovered.

  “What about us?” Cigarette smoke streamed from his nostrils.

  “How long do you think we can go on like this?”

  He grinned. “Till death do us part.”

  “Really? Face it, Greg: This is terrible. And this is as good as it gets for us.”

  “What’s so bad?”

  “You can’t see? All we’ve got in this room is an uncomfortable bed and privacy. And the only reason we’ve got this much is because you were able to put aside a little money. I don’t get to keep any money at all. And you get little more than you absolutely need. Ordinarily, our “date” would be the backseat of your car, where we neck and pet and grope each other in a space that makes this room seem like a honeymoon suite.”

  Greg snuffed his cigarette. “I know … I know. But I’ve got plans. I can make more money.”

  Her lip curled ever so slightly. “How?”

  “I’m going to apply at our metro paper for a regular column. I can write pretty good. You’ve said so yourself. That could be a dependable source of extra money.”

  “So we could … what? Spend more time in this hellhole?”

  “No, in a better room. In a respectable hotel.”

  “And increase our chances of being recognized? And then wouldn’t the local news media be grateful to us! We would be disgraced and we’d be forced into doing what we ought to do anyway.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Leave! Resign!” She rested on an elbow. The sheet fell away, exposing her breasts. He was always stirred by their resemblance to firm cups.

  “We would start a new life. We could make it. I’ve got a master’s degree and teaching experience. You can write. You could get a job on a local paper or with a magazine. We could make it, Greg!” She was stoked by her own enthusiasm.

  “I don’t know …” Fear gnawed at his courage. Deep down he had to agree that their life together, such as it was, was not much. Their relationship was not significantly removed from the early woes of teenagers. Making out in a car. Eagerly occupying any available room of whatever description.

  But … leave! Each of them might be, in varying degrees, disgusted with their present lifestyle. But both of them enjoyed matchless security. The basics were guaranteed: food, clothing, shelter, even work. In his case, at least, he could do as much or as little as he chose.

  All of that would be thrown to the winds by the simple procedure of resigning.

  Of course,
even resignation would not completely end it all. The security would be gone, totally. But sanctions would be imposed. Her community would undoubtedly disown her. He would be suspended. He would continue to be a priest into eternity, but he would be forbidden to act as a priest unless a life-threatening emergency demanded his ministration.

  If they were to be married, they would be excommunicated. Married or not, they would be living in sin.

  The cheesy motel room they were occupying began to look better and better.

  They did not make love again that night. Nor did they sleep. Each lay shrouded in the questions that Mary Lou had raised.

  Long before the dawn’s early light, they were dressed and on their way-she to her convent, he to his rectory.

  The last words spoken before they parted were Mary Lou’s.

  “Greg, I was never more serious than I was last night. Either we leave and make a normal life for ourselves, or we stop right now. It’s a decision that has to be made. As often as we continue with these trysts, we just put off the inevitable. Call me when you’re ready to go. Or …” She looked at him firmly. “… don’t call.”

  If, over the next several days, parishioners, pastor, and peers thought Father Thompson seemed distracted, they were dead right. He could not get Mary Lou or her ultimatum out of his mind.

  No doubt she had a valid point, particularly from her perspective. However, really, he thought he would be capable of continuing their affair, just the way it was, for the foreseeable future and beyond.

  But, no, he would be on his own. Several times he had tried to phone her. But each time, after answering her question in the negative, he was left with an eloquent dial tone.

  At length, after much anguished thought, prayer, rationalization, and many sleepless nights, he agreed to leave with her.

  No point in going through legal or juridical red tape. They compared letters, hers to the Mother General of her order his to the chancery, mailed them, and left.

  Once having arrived at their destination in a neighboring state, they wrote to their families. Those were the really difficult letters. Their loved ones, particularly his, were saddened if not crushed by the abrupt breaking away.