Koesler wanted to help. And it was clear what form that help would be. From his experience, he could provide almost exactly what Tully wanted and needed: accurate information on what made Bishop Delvecchio tick.
“Okay …” Koesler settled more deeply into his chair. “I think I know what you want. And I think I can give it to you.
“The stories I just told accurately described two young men as they were when they were-one about twenty-four, the other about nineteen. They were different from each other then; they are different from each other now. Somewhere along the way, they passed each other on a bridge, so to speak.”
Koesler fell silent. Tully did not intrude.
“It’s funny,” Koesler at length continued, “in all these years I’ve met so many people. They weave a pattern in my life. Now that I look back on my relationship with Vince Delvecchio, I see our paths have crossed many times. But I’ve never considered him in any … distinct way. Now that I think of him, of our contacts in an unbroken story, I’m not sure exactly what I’ll find.”
Koesler took a deep breath. “To begin with, our ages were against our ever getting to know each other well. That he was five years younger argued against any kind of familiarity, let alone friendship per se.”
“Because,” Tully contributed, “you were in college when he was in high school. And you were in Theology when he was in college.”
“Right. But mostly the separation between college and Theology. High school and college were in one gigantic building complex-Sacred Heart Seminary. Whereas the final four years were at St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. During my final four years, I wouldn’t even have seen Vince if it hadn’t been for camp.
“See, Zack, in the mid-fifties there were three Catholic boys’ camps that hired seminarians exclusively: Sancta Maria for wealthier campers; CYO for those who could afford to pay, but not on the level of Sancta Maria; and Ozanam, intended for kids from poorer families.
“Counselors around my age were rather fiercely committed to our individual camps. After all, counselors at any of these camps spent practically the entire year with each other: September to June in school and June through August at camp. Even Christmas and Easter vacations frequently were times to go to movies together or, one way or another, to be in each other’s company.
“That’s the way it was with Vince and me and the other counselors at Ozanam. There was this bond … not as strong as that between counselors who were also classmates, but a bond nonetheless-”
“It would be a good idea for me to pay attention to this camp thing, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, it would. But you should remember that in recent years, although the camps are still functioning, they’re no longer staffed by seminarians.”
“Because there aren’t that many seminarians anymore … right?”
“Exactly.” Koesler did not merely look at, he studied his watch. “Well, we’ve got a lot of territory to cover, but we should have enough time.
“What I want to do, I think, is to relate certain incidents that involved Vince and me … incidents that I hope will help you understand things that happened to Vince and helped shape him into what he is today.
“You want a background on Vince. I’m going to try to give you just that: I’m going to try to paint a picture as well as I can of how Bishop Delvecchio developed and changed over the years.”
5
“My last summer as a counselor was wonderful. My last year in the seminary was glorious. Mostly because I knew that the priesthood was within my grasp. And that was all I ever wanted to be …” Father Koesler leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed as he recalled his Golden Year.
“June fifth, nineteen fifty-four …” Koesler smiled in memory. “I was ordained. Then we had a short vacation before we got our first parochial assignments. About the time we were moving into our parishes, seminarians in high school, college, and Theology were going back to school.
“So I was sent to St. William’s on Detroit’s east side-on Outer Drive near Gratiot.
“Just an aside, Zack: That neighborhood was solid upper middleclass. If anybody had predicted that some day that parish would close and the buildings be sold, he’d have been committed to an asylum. But a few years ago it did close.
“It was amazing: Here I was, twenty-five, and everybody calling me ‘Father.’ I had so much to learn. But what am I saying? You had the same experience-only somewhat later than mine.”
Father Tully was grinning. “I sure did. Except that my first assignment-we called them ‘missions’-was hundreds of miles from home.”
“That’s right: You were a missionary. Funny: I still tend to think of missionaries as ‘foreign’-like in Maryknoll.
“Anyway,” Koesler continued, “I-we-had to get out of our textbooks and deal with people. People who came to us for instruction, answers, forgiveness, help … food. And the odd thing about it was that in most cases we could deliver. Sometimes the answers weren’t right at my fingertips. But I could-and I did-rely on the books on the shelves behind me. If I didn’t know the answer to anything that anybody threw at me, I was certain I could find it in one or another of those books.
“Did you have that experience, Zack?”
Tully shook his head. “Bob, you said you started out in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. With the exception of my previous short stay at St. Joe’s, this will be the first upper-middle-class parish I’ve ever worked. By and large, Josephites live poor with the poor. We were a long, long way from splitting ecclesiastical hairs with prospective converts. But I suppose hardly anybody is doing that anymore … no matter what the parish’s financial standing is.”
“True enough,” Koesler agreed. “Just about everything has changed. I wonder if the guys today when they’re starting out in the priesthood make the same mistakes we did …”
“Mistakes?”
“Uh-huh. Books were our world in the seminary. But after ordination, when we started as priests, we were dealing with flesh-and-blood people. It was one thing to be taught the ‘evil’ of birth control … and to get the latest word on ‘rhythm’ that would solve the whole problem. And it was another thing to counsel and absolve good people for whom ‘rhythm’ meant nothing on a practical basis. They were avoiding artificial birth control because it was a ‘mortal sin.’ They depended on an undependable system. And they were hyperpopulating the parish every nine months or so. Their marriages were under incredible stress. And we had the cold answers in the books on our shelves.”
Koesler slipped into the meditative replay of those memories.
Faithful Catholics of that era had their faith tested by moral directives that had little to do with the reality of their lives.
In the silence, Father Tully reflected on how different had been his priestly experience. Family planning had meant something contrastingly different for his average parishioner: The poor had children or not, depending on the consensus of a married couple. And that decision had nothing to do with a calendar or theology. There were problems-lots of big problems. Generally, family planning was not one of them. Food, clothing, shelter, employment-these were crises constantly gnawing at Tully and his parishioners.
Father Koesler had not had to confront any of these challenges. Nor had Bishop Delvecchio. And it was the mind of Delvecchio that Tully wanted to investigate. Thus, what Koesler had to say was of major importance to Tully.
“At any rate,” Koesler broke the silence, “I was entering the real world-or what passed for us as the real world. I spent the first several months pretty much bewildered by a new routine-a new way of life. Only slowly getting accustomed to dealing with people-people with problems. People who looked to me for solutions, support. And I was slowly learning that all the answers weren’t in those books.
“Meanwhile, Vince Delvecchio spent his summer at camp. After this season, he would enter St. John’s Seminary. Those impressive buildings were only five years old at that time. Everything even smelled new. It was Sep
tember nineteen fifty-four …”
1954
Visiting Sunday.
The first Sunday of each month was Visiting Sunday at St. John’s Seminary.
The morning schedule remained the same as all Sundays: Rising at 5:30 A.M.; Meditation, 6; Community Mass, 6:30; Breakfast, 7:30; Recreation, until the Solemn Mass at 10.
The afternoon was given over to visits from relatives and friends. St. John’s was a provincial institution for the entire state (or province, a Catholic designation). Some students came from the far reaches of Michigan. Most of those could not realistically expect family to come all that way for a mere afternoon.
Vincent Delvecchio’s family lived on Detroit’s east side. It was a convenient distance; they were sure to come.
The seminary’s main building was set back from the highway about one hundred yards. Cars could approach via a large, circular driveway. During short breaks from class or study, black-cassocked seminarians-most of them near chain-smoking-could be seen endlessly walking, in groups of two or three, around and around the drive.
The walking routine was the order of the day on Visiting Sunday. Those receiving visitors greeted their guests as they pulled up and parked in the driveway. There being no telecommunication to rooms or lawns, being at the driveway was the only way of knowing one’s guests had arrived.
This, the first Sunday of October, was typically bracing. The color show of turning and falling leaves was spectacular. It was ideal football weather. And had this day not been set aside for visitors, most of the young men in clerical uniform would have been pounding each other’s bodies on the playing fields at the rear of the buildings.
Down Sheldon Road a mile or so was the Detroit House of Correction-or, more familiarly, DeHoCo. With some frequency, people looking for DeHoCo would pull into the seminary’s drive, come to a stop alongside one or another of the students, and ask, “Where are the prisoners?” More often than not, the student would point to himself and the other walkers.
On this sunny but brisk October day, two such students were strolling together while wrapped in serious discussion.
They were killing two birds with one shot. Tomorrow morning first-year theologians faced a test in Moral Theology. Vincent Delvecchio was tutoring Stan Wonski as they walked and waited for their visitors.
“It’s the principle of the double effect, isn’t it?” Wonski said.
“Well, yeah,” Delvecchio responded, “but it would help if you thought of it as an indirect voluntary.”
Wonski grimaced as he dragged on his cigarette. He knew he was smoking far too much. It was just that one tended to take advantage of the more liberal smoking regulations at St. John’s. Smoke time had been far more restricted at both Sacred Heart and Orchard Lake-the two main feeding seminaries. Now at St. John’s, students who smoked-which was nearly everyone-were still cramming as many cigarettes as possible into longer smoking periods. Serious coughing started here.
“Okay, okay,” Wonski said, “the indirect voluntary. But all we ever use is the double effect. Lemmee say double effect.”
“Be my guest.” Delvecchio was one of the rare nonsmokers. “The essence of this thing is that you’re dealing with something that is not directly willed. An effect of something done but not directly willed. Only tolerated. The key word is tolerance.”
Wonski scratched his head with the hand not holding the cigarette.
Delvecchio attempted a clarification. “Stan, somebody does something that is either good or indifferent. It can’t be intrinsically evil. If it’s intrinsically evil, you can stop right there. It’s a sin. It has to be good or indifferent.
“Then, say, the action has two effects. The first effect must be good. The secondary effect may be evil. But it is not directly willed, only tolerated. And the good result must outweigh the evil.” Delvecchio glanced expectantly at Wonski.
Wonski shifted his cigarette from one hand to the other. With his free hand he again scratched his head. “Lemmee try an example. Suppose a cop is walkin’ down a street one night. He sees somebody holdin’ a gun on another guy. The cop draws his own gun and yells at the guy to drop his gun. Instead, the crook turns toward the cop and points his gun at the cop. The cop fires, and kills the crook.”
“Okay.” Delvecchio seemed pleased. “How does that work for the indirect volunt-uh, double effect?”
“What the cop does is fire his gun. I figure in this case that’s at least indifferent. The first effect is that the cop saves his own life and on top of that he saves the innocent guy’s life.
“The evil effect is he kills somebody. He didn’t want to kill anybody-not even the crook. He just tolerates it. And the first effect is more important than the second. That about it?”
“That’s about it.”
“Hey,” Wonski exclaimed, “here come my folks!” A fairly new and brightly polished Ford pulled up behind the two seminarians. The car windows were filled with happy faces. “Thanks a lot,” Wonski said as he turned to greet his relatives.
Delvecchio smiled and continued his pacing, now alone.
Wonski, thought Delvecchio, was by no means slow-or dumb. He had come from Orchard Lake Seminary, where most of his classes were conducted in English. At Sacred Heart Seminary, most of the courses, particularly the important Philosophy studies, were in Latin.
Cardinal Edward Mooney wanted Moral, Dogma, and Canon Law taught in Latin at St. John’s. Mooney’s wish was the faculty’s command. As a result, many of the young men from Orchard Lake were handicapped by this heavy immersion in Latin. Latin texts, lectures, verbal responses, tests.
If the Orchard Lake guys could paraphrase Shakespeare’s Casca, they would say some such thing as, “The faculty of St. John’s did in Latin speak. And those who did understand did nod their heads. But as for me, it was Latin to me.”
By far, the majority of St. John’s students came from Sacred Heart. But young men choosing to become priests had so much in common that in no time it was difficult to tell who had come from where. Simply, they were students together open to the formation of new friendships.
Delvecchio jumped at the unexpected sound of a horn directly behind him. The serviceable Chevy was grimy; “Wash me” was traced more than a few times in the dust.
The troops got out of the car. There was his mother, Louise. His father had died very prematurely of a heart attack two years earlier. Then there was his younger brother, Anthony, and his sister, Lucy-the baby of the litter. Finally, there was his aunt Martha, Louise’s sister, and Martha’s husband, Frank. The car belonged to Frank and the caked dirt was emblematic of his lifestyle: laid-back and friendly.
“What say we go down to one of the visitors’ parlors,” Vince invited. “It’d be nice to stay outside, but with the gang we’ve got we’d be strung out so far we’d never hear each other.”
All nodded as they voiced agreement.
Happily, the parlor was nearly empty, as most of the students and visitors chose to stay out of doors.
No sooner were they seated than everyone began to speak at once. Vincent determined to play interlocutor.
His mother, given the floor, expressed gratitude that everyone was in good health. And was Vincent getting enough to eat? She remembered all too well loading Vincent up with huge jars of peanut butter. At Sacred Heart, though, students lived on closely measured rations, they could have all the bread they wanted. That and the peanut butter sustained them.
Vincent assured his family that he was now eating about as well as he had at home; he simply couldn’t gain weight. A blessing perhaps, since an overweight body had laid too heavy a burden on his father’s heart.
Vince’s mother was petite, with olive skin bespeaking her Sicilian ancestry. She wore a dark blue cloth coat, pillbox, and sensible shoes. In short, she looked as if she were headed for church. As far as she was concerned, visiting her adored son in a seminary was about the same as going to Mass.
Her late husband, Sam, from whom Vincent got his h
eight, had left Louise quite well-off, sufficiently so that she didn’t need to work outside her home.
Anthony, now a senior at De LaSalle Collegiate High School, was a gifted athlete. He would be offered more than a few athletic scholarships. So far, he had spent much more time exercising his muscles than his brain. This concerned Vincent, who was appalled at the prospect of his brother’s wasting talents that could otherwise see him nicely through his later years.
Lucy was in the eighth grade at St. William’s. The embodiment of perpetual motion, she showed every prospect of becoming a beautiful woman like her mother.
Martha, at forty-five, was two years older than her sister. Martha and Louise had been close from childhood. Born in Sicily, they were brought to America as infants; thus, neither remembered their country of birth. Their parents had come to Detroit to be with relatives who had preceded them.
The family’s first home was a modest duplex in St. Ursula parish, populated then largely by Italian families just beginning to build their lives. In time, as Sam prospered in the construction business, they would move up Gratiot to St. William’s parish.
Fifteen years ago, Martha had met Frank Morris. At thirty, she was beyond the customary marrying age. That had something to do with her acceptance of Frank’s proposal. But basically, she loved him.
That was not good news to her family. Frank was not Catholic, and was divorced. After one frustrated attempt to be married in the Catholic Church, they found a judge to perform the service.
Of Martha’s family, only Louise had attended the simple civil ceremony.
Now, after fifteen years, Martha’s relatives were beginning to thaw; at least Frank and Martha were now invited to family gatherings. They were childless. Some of the family saw that as God’s punishment.
Martha was Vince’s godmother. That selection had been made well before her “pagan” wedding. Vincent had always been close to Martha, even though in more recent years he was troubled by her sinful state.
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