Till Death Page 9

  It was clear that Dana and Trish were momentarily shocked.

  “The people,” Anderson continued, “who are members of, this parish, who live in these neighborhoods, don’t travel in the fast lane. They live quiet lives far from a spotlight. It’s less than likely that a wedding in this parish would attract any publicity. But there’s always a chance. That’s why I’m reluctant to take an active role in one of these noncanonical weddings.”

  “What would they do to you?” Trish seemed genuinely concerned.

  “I’m not sure. It would depend on the circumstances. From what I know of Cardinal Boyle, he wouldn’t want to have to do anything, like leveling some kind of penalty. He might even be sympathetic—although that I’m not at all sure of. But none of that matters. He is a loyal Churchman; if he had to act, he would—and he has done so in the past.”

  “What do you think would make him act?” Trish asked.

  “If knowledge of the situation became public. I don’t anticipate this—but it’s always possible. As I said, it’s happened in the past.” Anderson shook his head as he recalled a couple of cases that had resulted in Boyle’s suspending a priest who had performed “scandalous” marriages.

  “Publicity about your wedding would not only be possible … it would be probable. And that is exactly what I want to avoid.”

  “I understand.” Trish appeared resigned.

  “Does this mean,” Anderson asked, “that you agree to no Catholic wedding but, following your conscience, you will continue with your faith?”

  Trish hesitated. “No. I don’t think I can do that. I’ll have to think this through. Either we will be married in the Church or we won’t be married at all. I can’t think of marrying anyone without a priest performing the ceremony.”

  Anderson cringed inwardly.

  “Look”—Dea was trying to control his temper—“to me this is a tempest in a teapot. I want to marry this woman. I really want to marry her. I couldn’t care less how we get married. “But you’ve seen how much she needs to have her priest there. Look, Father, it’s not our fault we’re well known. Isn’t this a classic case of reverse discrimination? Okay, you’re reluctant to do this for your parishioners. But you will do it if your people want you there. If they really want you. If they want you as much as Trish wants you. But lots of people have seen her in ads. Lots of people see my mug on the local news. Is it fair that you would grant a couple’s request because they’re not celebrities and refuse us because we’re well known? Is that fair?”

  Anderson did not reply. But he thought hard.

  “Dana,” Trish said softly, “it’s the man’s career at stake.”

  Anderson sat silent.

  “Come on, Trish …” Dea started to rise from his chair.

  “Wait,” Anderson said. “Wait a minute. Can you guarantee there’ll be no publicity?”

  Trish brightened.

  “The word I’m uncomfortable with is ‘guarantee,’” Dea said. “There’s a limited number of things I can cast-iron guarantee.”

  “I’m not talking about guaranteeing the sun will rise tomorrow. You know what I’m asking.”

  Trish spoke with feeling. “I can’t guarantee that no one will know any details about this internal/external business. But I can promise we will do everything we can to help you ‘cover your ass.’” She smiled—a model’s disarmingly jaunty smile.

  Anderson tapped his pen against the desk thoughtfully. He would have laughed at “Trish’s usage of his colloquialism, but this decision was too important. The consequences could run from zero to God knew what.

  This was dangerous territory. But he was moved by Dana Dea’s argument. There definitely was something to be said as far as reverse discrimination was concerned. No, withholding his presence at their wedding would be cowardly.

  He dropped the pen on his desk and looked at them. Both wore expressions of hopeful anticipation.

  “Okay” Anderson said. “Let’s do it. Your place or mine?”

  Nine

  Quite naturally, they first considered Nativity church for the wedding. But true to their promise to maintain a low profile, they decided to invite a minimum number of relatives and friends. Such a small group would rattle around in the mammoth edifice. So the wedding would take place in a friend’s suburban apartment. It was spacious and could easily accommodate the small group.

  At two in the afternoon of an overcast Sunday, everyone had assembled.

  As one of the talented guests played the “Wedding March” on the grand piano, the assemblage fell silent. Father Anderson stood before a window wall that displayed a typical suburban panorama of trees interrupted by strip malls and parking lots.

  He was thinking of how egregiously illegal this entire procedure was. At the root of its illegality was Dana’s first marriage—nonannulled. Following that, Anderson had not requested delegation from the priest at St. Michael’s parish within whose boundaries this ceremony was taking place. Plus by Church law the engaged couple were supposed to live apart for nine months before a marriage. Anderson had not explored their living arrangements. Obviously they had been cohabiting for some time.

  Father Anderson was not overly concerned about such details. He was not about to tell the happy newlyweds that for two out of three reasons this ceremony was invalid; the unannulled marriage was enough to eclipse the other technicalities.

  Dana wore a dinner jacket, as did the majority of the male guests. Trish eschewed a traditional wedding gown in favor of a simple white, calf-length sheath.

  Accompanied by the pianist, a woman whom Frank Sinatra would have labeled a saloon singer rendered several appropriate popular songs. Between musical numbers, the priest offered pertinent Scripture texts.

  The couple exchanged their consent in self-composed form.

  The assembly applauded the newly joined couple, and the good times began to roll.

  Anderson was unnerved when he caught sight of one of the guests recording the ceremony with a TV camera. His concern was further intensified when several other guests took photographs. But Dea reassured him that the pictures were for private use only. Shortly thereafter, the priest took his departure.

  Even for someone who was used to flying in the face of Church laws that he regarded as antithetic to Christ’s command of love, this wedding was upsetting. Clearly, what tipped the scale was the celebrity status not only of the participants but also of many of the guests.

  To ease his anxiety and help clear his mind, he joined a couple of priest friends for dinner at a Southfield restaurant. Never once during the meal did he mention this afternoon’s canonical crime.

  The conversation bounced about, touching on such clerical topics as:

  • Who is next in line to become bishop? In 1978, there were 3,714 bishops worldwide. Soon there would be more than 4,000. The ratio between priest and bishop is narrowing to such a degree that it might call for giving more than one of the auxiliary bishops his own diocese before Detroit ended up having more bishops than priests.

  • If Detroit comes up with one more fund-raising project, we will find faithful Catholics in the poorhouse.

  • Clustering parishes is the latest reaction to the priest shortage. Already there’s about one-quarter of a priest per parish.

  And last but not least:

  • What are we going to do about women?

  The priests were gracious enough to leave the waitress a generous tip. She deserved it if only for all the trips she took to refill coffee cups.

  Father Anderson arrived back at his rectory a little before 11 P.M. Just time to settle in for the late news, and then to sleep. He prepared a nightcap, fell exhaustedly into his recliner, and punched the remote switch. Two innocuous faces beamed at him from the small screen. Both newscasters, male and female, had lots of hair, prominent teeth, and seemingly sunny dispositions.

  They grew quickly serious as they dug into the seamy side of the news. There had been a shooting—what else was new? There was
a recapture of a fugitive who two days ago had conned his way out of the custody of the Detroit police.

  There were commercials. Anderson yawned elaborately.

  There was a weather forecast. Some areas would have precipitation. Others would be dry. It didn’t take a genius.

  More commercials.

  There was sports. Some teams won. Others lost.

  The news had been read. The banter had been exchanged. There was time only for one last, light touch.

  The male newscaster, smiling even more broadly than usual, began, “I’m sure all you fans of Dana Dea are wondering what happened to him. Ordinarily he would have occupied this chair for the weekend wrap-up. Well, Dana took a big step today—right into matrimony.”

  There appeared on the screen Dana, Trish, a panorama of their guests, and, as one born out of due time, Father Jerry Anderson. The voice-over glided on as the camera continued to record the event. It was a short, good-night piece of fluff. Still, they managed to name the officiating priest.

  In an instant, Anderson knew he would not sleep tonight. He got up and began to pace. The phone rang. Unusual for this late hour. He pressed the receiver to his ear. “Nativity.”

  “Is this Father Anderson?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “My name is Mike Geller. I’m director of the eleven o’clock news at Channel 5.”

  The voice gave little provocation. Yet Anderson was seething. “Is Dea there? I want to talk to him!”

  “He’s not here, Father. He and Trish are off on their honeymoon. He tried to reach you earlier but you weren’t in.”

  “Go on.”

  “He told me about the need to keep the wedding details secret. And we had it worked out to do just that. Then the station manager got wind of it. He found out we had pictures.

  “Dana had just about convinced us not to run it at all. And believe me, he really tried. Then the station manager entered the scene. When he gets a fix on something he’s like a bulldog with a bone. He won’t let it go.

  “Anyway, Father, that’s what happened. Honest, Dana did everything he could. But the game was up just as soon as the manager made up his mind. Dana and Trish felt awful about it. They wanted you to at least know what happened.”

  “Okay,” Anderson growled; it was clear that Geller had spoken his piece. “Thanks for the call.”

  He had to assess the damages.

  The phone rang again. He knew the pastor wouldn’t pick up and he himself sure didn’t need the distraction. He activated the answering service. He was sure they would log some calls. Undoubtedly a few of his priest buddies wanting to rib him for his quick entry into the wonderful world of TV celebritydom.

  Still, with a little bit of luck … with a little bit of luck …

  Nothing in the TV presentation had even hinted at Dea’s previous and unannulled marriage. Absent that detail, there was no reason for anyone to question the kosher quality of the wedding.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could squeeze out of this pickle. Maybe he would get some sleep this night after all.

  He did. But not much.

  He was up early to check the local TV and radio stations to see if there was any further mention of The Wedding. He thought of this ceremony as unique and thus worthy of upper case.

  He listened a bit absently while preparing a breakfast of cereal with bananas. As was his habit, he scanned the morning paper per page—spending only a short couple of minutes—reading not much more than the headlines on most pages.

  Until page A5. The three-column picture showed the handsome couple, Mr. and Mrs. Dana Dea. And there was he himself blessing the rings.

  The story said it all. The ceremony had taken place in a Southfield apartment. Damn! The pastor of St. Michael’s in Southfield would know that no delegation had been requested. Anderson was certain that even at that very moment that pastor was phoning the chancery to wash his hands of any responsibility for all this—and to question why Father Anderson had not requested the necessary delegation.

  The story revealed the most damning aspect of the event: that Dea had been previously married. Double damn! Now the pastor of St. Andrew’s would be phoning the chancery, charging Father Anderson with improperly and invalidly marrying a couple who were unmarriageable as far as the Church was concerned.

  Anderson was just getting over this shock when the news came on Channel 5. It was the final nail in the coffin. How could this have happened? How had they been able to capture the central truth of this story? And so fast?

  He placed a call to Nelson Kane, a friend who was managing editor of the morning paper, and an occasional member of Father Anderson’s congregation. “How did this happen, Nellie? I mean I talked to a guy named Geller at Channel 5 last night. Know him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He explained how the story got on their eleven o’clock news. But he didn’t have the whole thing. You have the whole thing. Did you get it from Geller?”

  “No, we got it on a silver platter. One of your guys called after the TV news broadcast and in time for our late edition. I’m sorry, Jerry. Really. We had no choice. He had chapter and verse. If we hadn’t run it, the other guys would have.”

  “Wait a minute. You said one of our guys gave you the whole story. What do you mean ‘our guys’?”

  “Name is Foley.” There was a pause while Kane riffled through a deskload of notes and wire service copy. “Name is Monsignor Dennis Foley, pastor of St. Andrew’s in Grosse Pointe. That’s all I know just now. But while I’ve got you on the line …”

  Anderson hung up firmly.

  No sooner had the receiver hit the cradle than the phone rang. “Yes!” It was probably another media person. Anderson was furious with the lot of them.

  “Father Anderson?” a familiar female voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hold everything for Bishop Donovan.”

  The next and no-nonsense voice belonged to the bishop. “Jerry, you busy this morning?”

  “Well, yes I am, Bishop. I—”

  “Well, cancel your appointments. I want to see you right away downtown.”

  “Okay. Right away.” Anderson, even if he’d had hours to decide how to respond to the bishop’s demand for his presence, could only have replied affirmatively.

  Before leaving for the chancery, he stopped by the dining room where his pastor was assembling breakfast. “I’m on my way down to the chancery. I have no idea when I’ll be back. I just wanted you to know.

  “Wait! What’s this all—” Before the pastor could finish his question, Anderson was out of the rectory.

  There was no waiting. Anderson was ushered immediately into Bishop Donovan’s office.

  “Sit,” Donovan invited. “Nasty bit of news this morning.”

  “I couldn’t argue that, Bishop.”

  “Is it true? The paper’s account?”

  “Not to the last dotted i. But essentially, yes.”

  “This is something the boss would ordinarily handle. But, as you know, he’s in Rome.”

  Actually, Anderson had forgotten. Cardinal Boyle had gone to Rome together with a select group of United States bishops for a meeting.

  Since there was no response, Donovan continued. “That wasn’t a smart move, Jerry. Just in case you are wondering, we are aware downtown that you don’t give the Tribunal much business.”

  “According to the scuttlebutt I get, Bishop, I’m not the only local priest who takes pity on the Tribunal.”

  Donovan nodded. “A few. Not as many as you think.”

  Anderson shrugged. It didn’t matter, nor was it germane how many priests did or didn’t make use of the Tribunal to process marriage cases.

  “As far as we know, none of the men let this stuff get into the external forum. We can’t do anything about that.” Donovan made no secret about his fidelity to the Vatican position on just about anything. He, like Father Angelico, was another who, if someone were convicted of heresy, would walk with the condemned to
the stake. But, unlike Angelico, he wouldn’t bother praying with the doomed soul; he would proceed to light the fire.

  “Sometimes, Bishop, the internal forum just doesn’t do the trick.”

  “For a loyal priest, it never does the trick.” Donovan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, I got in touch with the boss just a short while ago. We talked it over. We agreed that something had to be done. He accepted my opinion. So, Father, you will be suspended for a period of two months. During this time you will not confect any of the sacraments—well, you know the details: Short of ministering to someone in danger of death, you will not act as a priest. You can just forget you are a priest for the next two months, beginning now!”

  “I don’t know …”

  Donovan cut him off. “Later this morning, I will conduct a briefing for the media and announce your penalty You will have no comment. If you wish, I can get you into a monastery for an elongated retreat. That’s optional. The essence is that you will not function as a priest for two months. What else you do during this time is up to you. Personally, I don’t care.”

  Anderson fixed his gaze on Donovan’s well-shined shoes. He made no move to leave or even speak.

  “I think this matter is concluded.” Donovan said.

  “Not quite.” Anderson looked into Donovan’s eyes and held the gaze. “Suspension is a punishment for sin. I believe I have not sinned in witnessing the wedding of that couple.”

  “That’s not even debatable.”

  “Even then, I don’t think Cardinal Boyle would punish me publicly.”

  “To be honest with you, he didn’t want to at the outset. But when I told him how publicly you flaunted it, he had to agree to the public sanction.”

  “Publicly? Flaunting?” Anderson almost leaped out of his chair. “I wasn’t responsible for all that publicity. Your man did that!”

  For the first time in this meeting, Donovan seemed flustered. “Our man? What are you talking about?”