As part of the feast, huge bowls of jumbo shrimp were placed on the table in the center of the lounge. In honor of which event, Koesler whistled a few bars of “Shrimp Boats Are a Comin’.” The younger faculty members had never heard of the song.
Koesler dropped a cherry into his thus completed manhattan. He meandered, catching snatches of conversations.
“Of course he’s just a puppy”—Sister Ann was describing her new dog to Father Merrit—“but I thought nature took care of that sort of thing. I mean, for the first month or so, every time the dog wet, he squatted, instead of lifting his leg. Last week I gave him one more chance: If he didn’t lift his leg, the next time I took him out I was going to tie a string around his rear leg and teach him. Fortunately, he came through.”
“It is never easy growing up,” observed Merrit, “no matter whether you’re a ... eh ... eh ...child or a puppy.”
Koesler moved on.
“So, I pick up the phone,” Father Sklarski was telling a couple of the lay faculty, “and this voice says, ‘Is this Father Sklarska?’ Get it? ‘ska’not ‘ski. ‘So I say, ‘Yes, this is he. This is he. That’s good English. I don’t suppose you’d understand that!’ And the voice says, ‘Well, this is the Archbishop.’ The Archbishop! Boys, boys, the moral of that story: Always find out who’s on the phone before committing yourself.”
Laughter.
Koesler moved to the shrimp-laden table. There was still plenty of shrimp but the sauce was low. At that moment, Bill Zimmer appeared with more sauce.
Wouldn’t you know it, thought Koesler; the All-American Boy shows up with the hot sauce just in the nick of time.
As Zimmer turned to leave, he almost bumped into Koesler.
“Oops, sorry, Father.”
“No damage.”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Father: How’s the investigation going?”
“Investigation?”
“Yes, into the muggings. You know—Fathers Ward and Merrit?”
“Oh.” Koesler smiled. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m not involved in that in any way.”
“Oh, I thought... I mean, you’ve participated in criminal investigations in the past. I thought with one going on right here in the seminary—”
“No, no,” Koesler chuckled. “Father Brown I am not. Just your simple suburban parish priest. Those other things—just flukes.”
As Zimmer moved away, he seemed disappointed.
If we ever do get another Father Brown, thought Koesler, it probably will be Father Zimmer, the All-American Priest. Whether it’s time for the hot sauce or the solution to the crime, there will be Father Zimmer, Billy-on-the-spot.
Koesler paused at the table long enough to devour several jumbo shrimp. Then he moved on.
“The libido isn’t everything,” Father Burk was virtually instructing Father Grandville. “There are other motivating forces in life. Remember when Freud found himself in a group of psychoanalysts? Freud was preparing to smoke a cigar when he sensed his colleagues focusing inordinate attention on the object. And so, even Freud was forced to say, ‘Gentlemen, it may be only a cigar.’”
“So what?” asked a distracted Grandville.
“So take that fork you’re holding.” Burk pointed at Grandville’s shrimp fork. “Is that or is it not; is it existentially or is it ontologically a phallic symbol?”
“Oh, fork you!” Grandville laughed. So did Burk.
Koesler moved on.
“The apartment complex is in our parish, very near the church, as a matter of fact,” Father Dave Smith, youngest of the priest faculty, was telling Father Ward. “As I was passing it the other day, I got to wondering, what would happen if they had a major fire there?”
Ward, barely opening his mouth, nibbled on the shrimp.
“I mean, what if they had a fire and I was called to it? Would my priesthood make it obligatory for me to enter that burning building and risk my life to give those people the sacraments?”
Ward sipped his martini. He was not looking at Smith. Koesler wondered if the old man were even listening.
“Now, I don’t want you to think I didn’t try to solve this problem myself. I searched in Noldin and in Tanquerey, but I couldn’t find the answer anywhere. So, I thought I’d bring the problem to you. I mean, with all your years of experience and your expertise in theology, I just knew you’d have the answer.”
Ward, utterly expressionless, continued to sip his martini.
“So then, Father, how about it? This could become a very real problem. If there were a fire in that apartment complex, would I be bound by my priesthood to go in there to administer the sacraments at the risk of my life?”
“Of course not. Don’t be a damn fool.” Ward still did not look at Smith.
The overhead lights blinked twice. Time for dinner.
Koesler finished his manhattan and joined the group as all were exiting the lounge to dine. But something unexpected was happening.
Instead of continuing down the second-floor corridor toward the faculty dining room, the group was descending the stairs to the basement. Koesler was embarrassed to confess that he, apparently, was the only one who did not know what was going on. So he wordlessly followed the crowd.
They filed into the student refectory.
The student dining area! Koesler was stricken. He had nothing against young people. He just did not want to socialize with them. And he assumed that if they were normal kids they would not want to socialize with him, an adult. He felt trapped.
He looked across the table. Standing opposite was Father Grandville. They were surrounded by students. Grandville seemed as unhappy with this situation as was Koesler.
Silently but elaborately, Koesler’s lips formed the word, Carl’s? Grandville nodded. Immediately following premeal prayer, Koesler and Grandville departed for Carl’s Chop House, where they enjoyed prime ribs and adult conversation.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” said Pat Lennon.
“I need you as an interpreter,” Joe Cox replied. “Why, I didn’t even know there was a uniform of the day.”
“Joe, you don’t go to a superconservative Catholic meeting dressed for a discotheque.”
“How was I to know? Kane gave me this assignment just as we were closing shop. I never even heard of the Tridentine Society before. So I’ve got to depend on a good Catholic girl like yourself—what does that stand for, anyway, Tridentine Society?”
“Comes from the Latin for Trent, the Council of Trent, convened in the middle of the sixteenth century. Very conservative Catholics figure nothing important has happened, or should have happened, since then.
“But, I’ve got to warn you about tonight. These Tridentines are not your run-of-the-mill conservative Catholics. Catholics United for the Faith is a legitimate organization for legitimate conservative opinion. These people tonight are wackos. So we are dressed rather conservatively. And remember: no notes. If they were to tumble to the fact that we’re reporters, we could be in a lot of trouble.”
“Really? Not physically?”
“‘fraid so.”
“Why would anybody get physical about religion?”
“These people take it seriously. You’ll see.”
“O.K. We’ll blend in. No one will notice us.”
As Cox continued to drive toward the Knights of Columbus Hall where the meeting was to be held, he reflected that while no one might notice him, it would be a miracle if Pat Lennon went unnoticed. From the tip of her toes to the top of her titian hair, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. And Cox kept rather careful note of such statistics. He glanced down and caught sight of one of her well-turned ankles. She couldn’t hide her curves in a muumuu. On top of it all, she was one of the most intelligent people he knew. And one hell of a reporter. But then, in all candor, so was he.
They had met while both were staff writers for the Free Press. The chemistry was nearly perfect; for all these years they ha
d lived together. Both had been previously married. Neither had children. At one time they had investigated the possibility of marriage in the Catholic Church. But that had come to naught. Now they were content to live together and let live.
Several years ago, because of sexual harassment, Lennon had left the Free Press for the News. The problem had been caused by an executive manager who made trouble for nearly the entire staff. When he provoked a popular columnist into defecting to the News, his fate was ultimately sealed. Now he was gone.
Overtures for her reinstatement came from the Free Press, but Lennon now owed loyalty to the News. She and Cox shared everything but their place of employment.
The Knights of Columbus Hall had seen better days. Like the rest of the neighborhood, the building appeared to be in its final glide path. There were many parking spaces in the ample adjacent lot. Once upon a time, Cox surmised, this must have been a going concern.
As Cox stood by, Lennon was handed an armful of fliers.
There couldn’t have been more than a hundred people in attendance in a hall that could hold easily eight times that number.
“The weirdo business is falling off,” Cox observed.
“Shhhh!” Lennon whispered.
“Why are they all looking at us?” asked Cox as they took seats in the rear of the assembly.
“They haven’t seen us before. We don’t belong to the Old Faithful. They don’t trust us.”
“They make me feel creepy.” Cox shivered slightly. “But you were right about the uniform. Almost everyone here is wearing some black.”
“They’re in mourning for the thirteenth century.”
With no preamble, a tall, slender man stepped onto the dais, took his place behind the lectern, and banged a gavel, though there was little sound to silence. Definitely blue-collar, Cox decided. Probably works on the line at Ford or at some small tool shop.
The man did not identify himself. “Ordinarily, we begin with the recitation of the Rosary. But our first speaker must leave early tonight, so we will have the Rosary at the end of our meeting.”
Evidently he was the head of the Tridentines. Or at least acting as chairman of this gathering.
“Although we have never had the honor of having our first speaker with us before, all of us,”— he looked with distrust at Cox and Lennon, who tried to look ultraconservative—“are familiar with him.
“He is,”—an almost imperceptible pause—“the Mayor of Tumerango.”
“Where the hell is Tumerango?” whispered Cox.
Lennon consulted one of the fliers she had been handed at the door. “Colombia.”
“British Columbia?”
“Colombia, South America.”
“His Honor, Carlos Silvanos,” the chairman went on, “has wonderful news. I know we are all eager to hear him. So here he is: the Mayor of Tumerango.”
The applause was more than polite. For this group, one might even say it was enthusiastic.
A swarthy, heavyset man in a blue pinstripe stepped to the podium.
“My friends, I have wonderful news.” The Mayor echoed the chairman’s words. “They have seen her again.”
More applause, even more enthusiastic.
“Who saw whom?” Cox as a lapsed Presbyterian, feared he was missing something.
“Wait,” Lennon cautioned, “but I’ll bet it’s the Blessed Mother.”
“The Blessed Mother,” the Mayor confirmed, “has appeared to the three children again.”
“Why does it always have to be three kids?” Lennon murmured.
“Evita, Elena, and José last saw Our Blessed Lady on November 29,” the Mayor continued. “She showed them a vision of purgatory. They report it is rotten there. Lots of fire. The place is crawling with priests and nuns who were unfaithful to their vows. She told the children to tell the world to pray for priests and nuns. And she told them to have a beautiful cathedral built on that spot.”
“How can we carry out Our Blessed Lady’s wish when so few know about Tumerango?” asked a voice from the audience.
“That’s the best part,” the Mayor explained. “Our Blessed Lady has promised a miracle!”
“A miracle!” the audience echoed as one.
“Yes. Bigger than Lourdes or Fatima!”
“Bigger than Lourdes or Fatima!”
“Yes. And that’s not all.” He paused, portentously. His listeners hung on every breath. “There will be eight days’ warning before the miracle.”
“Eight days,” Cox whispered. “Why, it’ll be listed in TV Guide. ‘Thursday night, live and in color: The Miracle of Tumerango.’”
“Yes,” Lennon choked, “I can see it now: The producer yells at the director, ‘Adjust the blue, Murray: the lady’s cape has got to be blue!’”
“Nellie will love this!” Cox exulted.
“While we await the miracle,” said the Mayor, "I’ve brought you something. I have branches from the willow over which Our Lady appears. You can see them in the rear of the auditorium.”
All turned to look at the rear of the hall, where it seemed as if an entire willow had been sundered and heaped up.
“Plant them,” said Cox in an undertone, “and enjoy visions in the comfort of your own backyard.”
“Any donation you make,” said the Mayor, “will go toward the future cathedral. And I urge you to come to us in Tumerango and talk with the children. Maybe you will be lucky enough to be there during a vision.”
With that, the Mayor excused himself, saying he had several other gatherings to attend.
“I think,” murmured Cox, “the Mayor doubles as Director of Tourism.”
“Shhhh,” shushed Lennon, “people are starting to look at us again.”
The chairman returned to the podium. “After hearing what Mayor Silvanos just told us, it almost seems our next speaker must have been sent by Almighty God.
“It doesn’t take much brains to figure out that these young priests and nuns are in a peck of trouble. Priests don’t wear the collar, don’t wear black, got hair growing all over them except where it should. They don’t stay in their rectories like they used to. They’re out on the streets in marches, counseling draft-dodgers, or chasing women.
“And look at the nuns! Miniskirts and low-cut blouses. They look more like women of easy virtue than the good old nuns we knew!”
An almost palpable air of total agreement rose from the assembly.
“Now we have the words of Our Blessed Lady herself that these priests and nuns are going to purgatory in a handbasket. Personally,” he looked around meaningfully, “I thought they were going to hell. But who am I to contradict the Blessed Mother?
“Anyway, our second and last speaker of the evening is going to talk about this very thing. About how in the seminaries today everything is going to pot. Let’s hear now from Brother Alphonsus.”
A tall, slender man, perhaps in his forties, stood and approached the stage.
Applause. Not as enthusiastic as for His Honor, the Mayor, but sincere.
“Do you suppose he’s a real brother?” Cox leaned toward Lennon. “I mean in a religious order?”
“Don’t know. Maybe. It’s probably not even his real name. These people are pretty paranoid.”
“They don’t need to be paranoid. People could really dislike them.”
Brother Alphonsus reached the stage, tripped on the bottom step and fell forward, preventing prostration only by catching himself with his outstretched arms. He tried to make the movement seem to be some sort of religious ritual but did not carry it off.
The embarrassed silence was almost broken by a Cox guffaw that was stifled in the nick of time by a Lennon elbow.
Alphonsus made it to the podium without further mishap. He placed his notes on the lectern and tapped the microphone. There was no resonance.
Cox could not imagine why Alphonsus might suspect that in the short time it had taken him to reach the microphone it would go dead. But the Brother’s suspicions were conf
irmed.
The chairman, together with a member of the audience who looked as if he might be an electrician in workaday life, fiddled with the mike. Their efforts were fruitless. Finally, the chairman gave Alphonsus a pat on the back and the encouraging word to speak loudly.
“Sex,” Brother Alphonsus stated.
He had their attention.
“Sex is what they’re teaching in the seminaries today,” Alphonsus annunciated.
Members of the audience glanced at each other and nodded.
If it were possible to look shocked and gratified simultaneously, Cox thought, that would accurately describe the visage of most of Alphonsus’ listeners.
“Not the way they taught it when I was in the seminary,” Alphonsus went on. “In my day, sex was in a textbook and the textbook was in Latin!”
The way he said it, Latin sounded like a panacea, thought Cox.
“Let me tell you,” said Alphonsus, “sex in Latin can be pretty dull.”
Perhaps it was a panacea, thought Cox.
“It isn’t dull anymore, let me tell you!”
Thank God, thought Cox.
“Nowadays, at both Sacred Heart and St. Joseph’s seminaries, they show pictures. Motion pictures and still pictures. There is this pseudoscientific group that comes right into the seminaries—at the invitation of the faculties, mind you—and displays these pictures. And do you know what these pictures show?”
The audience was on the edge of its collective seat.
“Fornication!”
The audience experienced a sharp intake of breath.
“Masturbation!”
Another sharp inhalation.
“GROUP SEX!”
The audience exhaled so explosively it sounded like one great hiss.
“I have many of these pictures with me tonight. I am not at liberty to tell you how I obtained them. But any of you who wish to view them can see me after the meeting.”
He would have many customers.
“That is not all. After they look at these pictures, they form small groups and talk dirty.”
In the front row, Lennie Marks, dressed in black, was kvelling. Brother Alphonsus was Lennie’s idol. Here was a man who was afflicted with many of the coordination problems that Marks himself experienced. Yet Alphonsus was a success: here he was, addressing a group who were not only listening to what he had to say; they were motivated by his words.
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