Eminence Page 7

  As Lennon turned the corner of the L-shaped city room, she spotted Bob Ankenazy, the assistant editor.

  “Dammit, Bob!” She was almost shouting. “Why didn’t you tell me about the miracle?”

  “What miracle?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what miracle’? How many miracles happened today? The one over at the monastery! The one by Father Robert.”

  “Oh, that. Well, while we’re at it, why the hell didn’t you check the State wire?”

  She reacted defensively while maintaining her anger. “What do you expect, that I’m going to sit all afternoon watching the terminal?”

  “I saw it. You could have seen it. Besides, I tried to find you.”

  “I disappeared by sitting behind my desk.”

  “Never mind; I sent Tim Sullivan to cover it. That’s not the important thing. What’s important is that this can be your story. This is your story. You’ve done all the research on it, which puts you a few blocks ahead of everybody else. What we want you to do is get on this thing in depth. Sullivan will bring in the nuts and bolts. You get in touch with the woman who got cured. Or says she’s cured. Do an interview with her, then get to the priest—what’s his name?—Robert. You already got a contact with him. Use it and get everything you can from that outfit.”

  As Ankenazy enumerated the steps that she’d known she was going to take when she first saw the item on the State wire, Lennon remained silent. She had little choice; his monologue allowed for no interruption.

  “Okay,” Lennon said, finally, “I got her name from the wire. But who is she?”

  “The reason you didn’t recognize her is that they misspelled the name.”

  Lennon checked her notes: “Not W-E-I-T-H-E-A-D?”

  “W-H-I-T-E-H-E-A-D.”

  Lennon nodded appreciatively. “Not the Mrs. Anne Whitehead, wife of H. Emery Whitehead, the architect?”

  “That’s the lady.”

  Lennon winked at Ankenazy. “He could scarcely have picked a better subject. Emery is Old Money.”

  “And rolling in it. If the Congregation of St. Stephen has had any financial problems—and I’m sure they have—they’re gone now.”

  Lennon figuratively rubbed her hands together; she could see her story building. She started back to her deck to begin setting up her interviews.

  “Hey!” Ankenazy called after her, “aren’t you glad you’re not taking your vacation now?”

  “God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform,” she proclaimed, and added under her breath, “But I’ll never forgive that son-of-a-bitch as long as I live . . . .”

  CHAPTER

  6

  It was almost time for his guests to arrive, so Father Koesler was doing what he could to prepare for them. Which was not much.

  Ordinarily, when it came to dinner he would fend for himself. On the rare occasion when he entertained, he could call on, and pay for, the services of a professional cook who lived in the parish. But tonight that gentleman was busy catering a Knights of Columbus testimonial.

  Thank God for Mary O’Connor, thought Koesler, not for the first time. Mary was a widow, a secretary, and much more—general factotum at St. Anselm’s parish in suburban Dearborn Heights. When Koesler had mentioned his dilemma—dinner party and no cook—Mary had volunteered to do the cooking. He accepted readily, with the proviso that she dine with him and his guests. In this, he thought he was being considerate, whereas in actuality Mary would have much preferred to merely prepare and serve the meal and then leave. But, over the years, she had come to understand Koesler about as well as anyone. She knew he was only thinking of her and so accepted his invitation, which in reality was an inconvenience.

  Koesler’s guests this evening were Inspector and Mrs. Walter Koznicki, whom he numbered among his dearest friends. Koznicki, head of the Homicide section of the Detroit Police Department, had met Koesler many years before in connection with a murder investigation. And, as it happened, the two had been involved in several such subsequent inquiries over the years. By odd coincidence it seemed that whenever an element of Catholicism became ineluctably intertwined in a homicide, often Father Koesler was not far removed either.

  At the moment, Koesler was making sure the appropriate potables were at hand. That would be a white wine for Wanda, a touch of port for the Inspector, a Manhattan for the dealer and, come to think of it, he wasn’t sure what Mrs. O’Connor preferred.

  The first of the evening news telecasts was beginning. For Koesler it was no more than background noise. In fact, he had just about decided to turn it off and find some soothing classical music among his records and tapes. Perhaps Mozart’s “eine kleine Nachtmusik”—“a little night music.” Yes, he thought, the Inspector would like that.

  As he turned to the TV set, the voice of anchorperson Robbie Timmons caused him to give her his full attention. “Earlier this afternoon, there were reports of a miracle right here in the city of Detroit.”

  Koesler, holding the bottle of port, turned toward the set, his mouth ajar as it usually was when he was bored or thinking. “Miracle” was a buzzword sure to grab his attention, especially when used by the news media.

  “Reportedly,” Robbie continued, “a woman, blind for years, was cured, her eyesight restored by a controversial Roman Catholic priest. It all happened on Detroit’s southwest side. Our Rosanna Kelly has the story.”

  Funny, thought Koesler, Father Robert must be the priest they’re referring to. He hadn’t been considered controversial until just this minute when television deigned to call him that. A celebrity becomes a celebrity whenever the media christen a celebrity.

  The TV scene was captioned “live.” It showed the exterior of what was unmistakably a bank building. Or, rather, what had been a bank building. Also in the picture was a gorgeous blonde identified as Rosanna Kelly.

  “A few months ago,” began Ms. Kelly, “this building was empty and all but abandoned. Before that it was a branch of First Standard Bank & Trust. Now it is the unlikely home of a monastery. This afternoon it became a full-fledged tourist attraction. The people you see milling about the building are sightseers, neighbors mostly. The reason for all this attention is that after the noon Mass today, a blind woman reportedly was cured.

  “The woman, Anne Whitehead, wife of architect and philanthropist H. Emery Whitehead, asked for a miracle and, it seems, got one. A priest—a Father Robert—touched her eyes and, like that, Mrs. Whitehead declared she could see again.

  “Yesterday, hardly anyone knew what went on inside this building.

  Today, all metropolitan Detroit knows. Tomorrow—who knows—maybe the world.

  “This is Rosanna Kelly, Channel 7 News, reporting.”

  On the screen, Robbie Timmons reappeared with Rosanna and the bank facade as an inset. “Rosanna, what’s going on inside the bank—or, rather, the monastery—now?”

  “Robbie, everything’s locked up. Not unusual at this time of day, local people tell me. But somewhat odd, I think, in view of what happened here earlier.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Rosanna.” She turned back to the camera. “Well, that looks like the beginning, not the end of this story. And you can be sure we’ll be following it as it develops . . . Bill?” She turned to her co-anchor.

  Koesler snapped the set off.

  Now that was strange, he thought. That bank was no more than a few miles at most from the neighborhood of his youth. He had passed that corner hundreds of times. Yet he had never been aware of its existence. And now look: that unpretentious corner and its neighborhood could become a famous landmark.

  He found the tape of “eine kleine Nachtmusik” and inserted it in the player. No sooner did the music begin than the doorbell rang. How’s that for timing? he thought.

  He greeted the Koznickis and ushered them into the rectory living room. They knew Mary O’Connor, so introductions were unnecessary. Koesler served drinks and learned that Mary, like Wanda, favored white wine.

  “Have you hear
d about the miracle in Detroit, Father?” Wanda opened. “We heard about it on the radio on the way over.”

  Koznicki tentatively tasted the port. “I doubt that it is recognized as such just because the media says it is so, dear. . . . Father?” The small wine glass appeared particularly insignificant in the Inspector’s meaty paw. He was perhaps an inch taller than Koesler’s six-foot-three, but with the added bulk, he resembled an amicable bear.

  “Right you are, Inspector. The mills of the Church grind slowly and exceedingly fine.” There was a touch of old-worldliness about the two men that precluded their ever being on a first-name basis. They would forever address each other by title.

  “Oh,” Wanda waved in impatience “... we’re not waiting for the Church to put her seal of approval on it. A woman was blind and now she can see. Sounds like a miracle to me.”

  “The Church must be cautious, dear.”

  “I agree,” Koesler said. “There is something to be said for waiting until three hundred years after death before canonizing someone.”

  “Well, for one thing,” said Mary O’Connor, “everybody who knew the candidate, including his enemies, would be dead.” Mary said little, but what she said was pithy.

  Koznicki placed his glass on the end table and clasped his hands over his paunch. “Now that the subject has been raised, Father, what is the procedure? What will happen now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never been around a real—or alleged”—he glanced in Wanda’s direction and smiled—“miracle. The word I used earlier may be applicable.”

  “What was that?”

  “‘Slowly’ In a situation like this, the one who can outlast everyone else wins—if I can put it that way.” Koesler nodded at Koznicki. “It’s like that saying in baseball: A tie favors the runner. In this case, time favors the winner. I suppose there will be a medical examination. Well, that surely must be the case. Her doctor will want to examine her. He knew her as blind; now she can see. Undoubtedly, her doctor will have evidence—records; proof of her deficiency, illness, whatever it was that caused her to lose her sight. He’ll probably release his findings since this situation has become so public.”

  “And then?” Wanda said.

  “And then, my guess is that the Church will take the whole thing under advisement.”

  “That’s all?”

  Koesler shrugged. “What else can the Church do? Suppose the Cardinal were to proclaim this a miracle and then, someplace down the line—months or years—the woman were to become blind again? What then? What happened to the miracle?”

  “Men!” said Wanda with a breeziness possible among friends even when one of them is a priest. “You have to have everything etched in granite. I say if she was blind and she was blessed, or touched, by a saintly priest, and was cured, that’s a miracle. And that doesn’t mean that the poor woman must be put under a microscope to see if she contracts an illness in the next hundred years.”

  “She’s got a point,” said Koesler, always willing to learn. “This singular experience, at least to that woman—and maybe to the others who witnessed it—was a miracle. There is no other possible way a person affected in this way could understand it. If I put myself in her shoes—if I were blind and then, in an intense religious experience, I was cured—what word could I possibly use to describe my experience other than ‘miracle’?”

  “But, Father . . .”Koznicki protested.

  “Yes, I know,” responded Koesler, “I just contradicted myself. But what I was getting at is the necessity of defining our terms. What’s a miracle?”

  “A miracle,” said Mary O’Connor, “is the possibility of our eating dinner if I don’t get things going in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll help.” Wanda left the living room with Mary.

  Koesler made as if to rise from his chair. “A little more port, Inspector?”

  Koznicki placed a protective hand over the small glass. “No, thank you, Father. You were saying something about defining the word ‘miracle.’ That interests me.”

  Koesler rose, freshened his own drink, and resumed his chair. “Well . . .” He paused. “There’s the definition we learned in our Dogmatic Theology course way back in the fifties. Almost everything we learned back then, particularly in moral theology, has changed. But, for some reason, I’ll bet the thinking on miracles hasn’t changed.”

  “And what might that be? Do you remember?” Koznicki enjoyed the priest’s periodic excursions into his theological past.

  Koesler smiled. “Strange. I can see in my mind’s eye our professor when he taught us that. Father Genovese—he missed his calling when he did not become an actor. ‘Miraculum,’ he declared, ‘est factum sensibile extraordinarium et divinum. Koesler quickly translated: “‘A miracle is a sensible fact, extraordinary and divine.’ I think the reason I remember it so clearly,” he added, “besides the fact that the prof was so instinctively dramatizing it, was his emphasis on the divine element. ‘. . . factum sensibile extraordinarium et divinum, divinum, divinum!’“

  They laughed.

  “So,” Koznicki asked, “what does it all mean, Father?”

  “It means that for a miraculous—in the loose sense—event to be a genuine miracle, there must be a sensible fact; that is, something has to have actually happened, an event that is perceived by the senses. In other words, not an exclusively spiritual phenomenon, a spiritual conversion, something like that. It must be a material happening, if you will. Something that can be seen, smelled, touched, heard, and/ or tasted—perceived by the senses.

  “Then, it has to be extraordinary; that is, completely beyond the power of nature to accomplish. This came up in a conversation I had recently with some of my confreres. Something like the instantaneous healing of a wound, or an inner bodily organ, or a diseased condition like cancer.

  “Finally, the last criterion, and the toughest of all to substantiate: The sensible extraordinary fact must be caused by God.”

  Koznicki made a palms-up questioning gesture: “But how could anyone know?”

  “A good question. The essential question. And the simplest answer I can think of is that the Church decides.”

  Koznicki smiled. “I must confess that is a simple solution. Too simple?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. There are people who just don’t believe in miracles, period. Rationalists, we used to call them. But, if you believe in miracles as an authentic reality, then by almost anyone’s definition, a miracle is granted or brought about by God.”

  “That makes eminent good sense, Father. But how could anyone possibly tell that God is, indeed, involved?”

  “Now we’re in virgin territory as far as I’m concerned, Inspector. But let me try to think it through.” He sipped his drink as he pondered.

  “Obviously, when I say, ‘the Church’ decides these things, I don’t mean that the entire Catholic Church, all six-hundred million of us, assembles in one place to straighten something out. Usually, it seems, it’s left to local authorities: A local bishop makes the examination and determination. Again, I don’t think the bishop himself gets personally involved—bishops seldom do; bishops send other people—priests, I suppose.

  “This sort of thing usually happens when something unusual takes place, like a weeping statue or a moving statue or a cure—or a whole bunch of cures. Then there’s a lot of publicity, which is usually followed by an ‘official’ denial of the miraculous claim. And nine times out of ten, the reason for the disclaimer is that the ‘sensible fact’ is not ‘extraordinary.’ There’s a leak in the ceiling and rain water is dripping down the statue, not teardrops. Or the foundation of the building shifted and that—not God—is the reason the statue moved. In other words, ordinarily, the matter never gets to a consideration of whether God is involved.”

  Mary and Wanda, conversing in low tones, set steaming dishes on the dining room table.

  “And,” Koznicki said, “the woman who was cured this afternoon?”

  “
Well . . .” Koesler, aware dinner was almost ready, finished his drink “. . . there again, before we ever get to the question of God’s intervention, there’s the consideration of whether or not it was an extraordinary event.”

  Koznicki raised his eyebrows. “Not an extraordinary event? A blind woman having her eyesight restored?”

  “Then comes the question: Was she really blind? Was there a discernible, physical cause of her blindness? Is it possible that this might have been a hysterical cure? That the blindness might have had a psychosomatic cause and thus a psychosomatic cure?

  “There hasn’t been time yet, by any means, to get answers to those questions. So, if I had a last buck, I would put it on the following scenario: When, eventually, they get around to asking for an authoritative response, the spokesperson for the Archdiocese of Detroit will say the matter is ‘under investigation.’“

  “And,” said Wanda, as she entered the living room, “the matter of dinner is served.”

  Everyone gathered around the table. Koesler pronounced the traditional blessing before meals: “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord.”

  Before anyone could utter a concluding “Amen,” Wanda added, “And God bless air conditioning.”

  They all laughed as they sat down. Koesler experienced one of those positive/negative vectors that often occurred in his life. He was grateful for the rectory’s central air conditioning so his friends could dine in comfort on this hot and very humid day. At the same time, he could not block out the countless millions who had no relief from heat. To keep them in mind and in some way unite himself with them, he hardly ever used the cooling system when he was home alone.

  “While we are thanking God for the air conditioning,” Koznicki said, “it reminds me that Father was just at the point in our conversation of speaking on how God alone is—what?—the ultimate cause of a miracle.”

  “Well, that certainly makes sense,” said Wanda, in her direct way.