Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “I must tell you this also,” said Alphonsus. “These sessions are open to the public. And,” he paused for emphasis, “there are women present at these meetings. And some of them are nuns!”

  Just then, the janitor opened a door at one side of the stage, creating a draft. Alphonsus’ notes and pictures blew off the lectern. Several members of the audience, including Marks, scrambled to help retrieve them.

  “I ask you”—Alphonsus had recovered himself and his documents—“what can we do about this? What are you going to do about it? We cannot depend on the hierarchy for help. The bishops know what’s going on, but they do nothing. What are we going to do? This is mortal sin we’re talking about! The seminaries are leading their students into mortal sin! What are we going to do?”

  “We’ve got to do something!” yelled one woman.

  “Withhold our contributions!” shouted another.

  “We could nuke them!” shouted a burly man.

  “Hey,” Cox had to speak in a normal voice for Pat to hear him amidst all the noise, “this is losing its humor. This is pretty inflammatory. I see what you meant by their getting physical.”

  “We’ve got to do something!” Alphonsus made a sweeping gesture—and knocked over the lectern. He righted it, collected his pictures and notes and, amid the confusion, resumed his seat.

  The chairman returned to the podium and called for order. The microphone was operating.

  “Friends,” said the chairman, as order was restored, “I guess we can all be very grateful for Brother Alphonsus’ vigilance. We will go into this further at our next meeting. Now we will close by saying the Rosary together. And remember, any of you who want to view the evidence that Brother Alphonsus brought tonight, see him after the Rosary. I know I surely want to see it. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost...”

  Beads rattled.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cox urged.

  “Are you kidding? Leave during the Rosary? These people have smelled blood! Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  “Oh, God!” Cox lowered his head in misery.

  It was an odd sound. Many would have to confess they had never heard it before. Some claimed no one had ever heard it before. A few maintained it was unique.

  Nelson Kane was laughing out loud.

  What had begun as a couple of snorts and escalated to a low chuckle was now a wheezy, staccato laugh.

  Kane sat before the VDT reading Joe Cox’s account of the meeting of the Tridentine Society.

  Damn, thought Kane, say what you will about Cox, the sonuvabitch can really write. Whether it was an investigative report, a straight news story, or piece of fluff like this one on the Tridentines, Cox could crank it out with the best of them.

  The chemistry between Kane and Cox was such that their relationship was settled and cemented. Kane played the stern, gruff, demanding father to Cox’s prodigal son. Both found the relationship productive.

  Both had won Pulitzer Prizes, Kane for his coverage of Detroit’s 1967 riots; Cox, a decade later, for his investigative account of a series of crimes known as the Rosary Murders.

  No one enjoyed the spectacle of a laughing Kane more than Cox. He decided to approach Kane’s desk. Who knows; this might develop into a propitious time to ask for a merit increase.

  “Like it?” he asked, needlessly.

  “Better than a goddamn weeping statue.” Kane rubbed tears from his eyes. “The nice thing about you, Cox, is that you know when to quit. Most writers would be jabbing the reader in the ribs pointing out what was bizarre about this bunch. But you know a fruitcake when you see one. Just tell it the way it happened when the crazies are doing their thing. Funny! Funny!”

  “It’s strange, though, Nellie; I got the distinct impression these people could be dangerous.”

  “You bet your sweet ass they can be dangerous. They’re a giant step from the type who would send a nasty letter to an editor. They’d send a bomb.”

  “I was thinking I’d stay on this group. They probably won’t get any funnier than they were last night, but something might develop anyway. You know, they could get physical.”

  “Wait a minute,” cautioned Kane, “haven’t you blown your cover? You and Lennon were the only outsiders at last night’s meeting, weren’t you? And now your story appears in the Free Press. I mean, even the Tridentines can add two and two.”

  “Yeah, but Nellie, remember that diet doctor’s murder trial? The Times quoted the daughter of the jury foreman as saying that her father never read a newspaper. You know, one of those people that even Cronkite used to complain get all their news from TV? This bunch strikes me as being in the same category: If any of them do read, it’s just conservative parochial publications. They’re so busy figuring out what’s going wrong in the Church that they don’t even bother to find out what’s going on in the world.

  “Besides,” he grinned, “if I’m wrong, you’ll have an even better page one head: REPORTER PUMMELED IN PURSUIT OF TRUTH.”

  “Yeah, well, be careful,” Kane wedged an unlit cigar between his teeth. “But you’re right; sticking with them might be a good idea. How often do they meet?”

  “Irregularly, I’d guess. Last night’s meeting was advertised in the Detroit Catholic. They always advertise their meetings in the Catholic.”

  “I didn’t know you get the Detroit Catholic.”

  “Pat does.”

  “Oh.” Kane did not enjoy thinking of Pat Lennon. Contemplating what the Free Press might be able to accomplish with Cox and Lennon as its one-two punch was too painful, since it would never happen.

  Cox, about to leave, hesitated.

  “No,” said Kane.

  “No?”

  “No, this would not be a good time to ask for a merit increase.”

  Father Koesler always pitied everyone who was not a parish priest on Christmas Eve.

  The emotion recurred as he vested for Midnight Mass. Oh, sure, Christmas was for children and there were no kids in the rectory. But much of that element of the season was commercial. And that had been going on since well before Thanksgiving Day. Families would be together. And, generally everyone was in his or her best mood of the entire year.

  But Christmas was especially wonderful for the parish priest.

  There would be record crowds at all the Masses. At Christmas and Easter, the regulars were always augmented by the twice-a-year seasonal Catholics. Some priests found this discouraging; they vented their ire at such times by delivering caustic homilies.

  But Koesler was always gladdened when people came to church, for whatever reason. He thought that having a packed congregation for all the Masses must match the feeling parents have when all their children and grandchildren are home for the holidays. Or the contented feeling experienced by that proverbial Biblical shepherd when all his sheep are present and accounted for.

  Whenever he managed to deliver a particularly inspiring homily, he always experienced an outstanding ebullience. But Christmas, perhaps because of the crowds, always brought a special high.

  Everything seemed right and ready. A little more than a dusting of fresh snow covered the ground. The choir was beautifully rendering familiar Christmas hymns. The church was filled to standing-room-only. Everyone Koesler knew was at least relatively healthy and happy. The trouble at the seminary seemed to be over.

  God was no longer in His heaven. He had come down to this beautiful planet. And all was well with the earth.

  4

  The man sat waiting his turn in the emergency room of Detroit’s Henry Ford Hospital. Others who were waiting, most of them black, drifted in and out between this and an adjoining waiting room. Or they sat impassively, shifting periodically, in long rows of straight-back chairs.

  This was the post-Christmas rush expected by hospitals. Treatment for physical complaints that were more elective than emergency in nature was postponed from the pre-Christmas season until afte
r the holidays. Now, in the beginning of the New Year, the hospitals were doing land-office business.

  The man did not seem to fit in with the others. Since he was dressed entirely in black—shoes, trousers, overcoat, and hat—one might have expected a roman collar to complete his garb. But his coat, opened at the throat, revealed a conventional white shirt and a dark blue tie. He appeared agitated. He fiddled with the buttons of his coat, the crease in his trousers, the arm of his chair.

  Finally, the man’s name was called. He followed the nurse into a narrow cubicle. She gave the form he had filled out to the doctor, who was elderly, bearded, and unkempt. He seemed rather stern as he cursorily scanned the form. The nurse left the cubicle.

  “Well,” said the doctor, “what’s wrong? What can we do for you?”

  “Doctor, I’ll come right to the point. I’m an alcoholic and I’ve been on Antabuse. And now I’ve run out of it and I’m afraid I’m going to take another drink. I need a prescription for more of the drug.”

  “Hmmm,” the doctor pondered, “how long have you been on it?”

  “Two months.”

  “And you haven’t had a drink in that time?”

  “No.”

  “What makes you think you need to continue with Antabuse?”

  “I almost had one last night. And I’m sure I’ll start drinking before the day is out if I don’t get back on it.”

  “I see.”

  The doctor began writing on his prescription pad. “Now I must warn you, this is not a plaything or a panacea. It’s a dangerous drug. Antabuse is just a contrived name. Its generic name is disulferam, and frankly, it could kill you. Now you know that under no circumstances are you to ingest any alcohol while you’re taking this drug. Not even a cough medicine that contains alcohol.”

  The man nodded.

  “You can have this filled at the pharmacy down the hall.” The doctor ripped the page he had been writing on from the pad. “Is this going to be Blue Cross?”

  “No; I’ll pay cash.”

  “Very well.” He handed the man the prescription. “The nurse will take care of it. Mind you, now: not a drop of alcohol. Or the next time I see you, I’ll be closing your eyes.”

  The man nodded and departed.

  Father Sklarski did not like it. He had not liked it when the faculty had voted for it back in September. He had neither the desire nor the ambition to direct another student play. Further, there were only a few more than thirty students in the entire college. Where could one find talent with so few from which to choose? And, additionally, the play must feature an all-male cast!

  As far as Sklarski knew, there were precious few of that type. There was Brother Orchid and Career Angel and Twelve Angry Men. But those called for relatively large casts. And he just did not have the numbers.

  Then he remembered Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Cox and Box. A short musical comedy for three male characters. The musical aspect might cause some problems. But the numbers were right. And there were no royalties to pay.

  Since returning from Christmas vacation, Sklarski had been busy directing; three students were busy learning their roles, and others were busy with the lighting, the staging, the props, and other technical aspects of the production. Leonard Marks was in charge of the props. The props were in trouble.

  It was late in the evening when they began rehearsal on page 34. Just about everything that could go wrong had. They were now on page 43 and Sklarski was still waiting for some indication that this was not going to be one of the more serious blunders of his long clerical career.

  Cox: Penelope Ann?

  Box: Penelope Ann!

  Cox: Originally widow of William Wiggins?

  Box: Widow of William Wiggins!

  Cox: Proprietor of bathing machines?

  Box: Proprietor of bathing machines!

  Cox: At Margate?

  Box: At Ramsgate!

  Cox: It must be she! And you sir—you are Box—the lamented, long lost Box!

  Box: I am!

  The stage was bathed in red light.

  “Red lights!” Sklarski bellowed from the dark depths of the empty auditorium. “Why red lights? Please God, why red lights? Marks!” During the course of these rehearsals, he had used Marks’ name in vain so often that this was one student whose name Sklarski now remembered. “Marks! Why red lights?”

  “My hand slipped.” A meek voice curled around the side of the stage.

  “Your hand slips one more time,” Sklarski threatened, “and I shall cut it off. Better you should go through life mutilated than that I should lose my mind. Continue!”

  Cox: And I was about to marry the interesting creature you so cruelly deceived.

  Box: Ah! Then you are Cox!

  Cox: I am!

  Box: I heard of it, I congratulate you—I give you joy! And now, I think I’ll go and take a stroll.

  Box rattled the door in the set. And rattled and rattled it. The door would not open. The two players on stage began to choke back laughter.

  “Now the door won’t open!” Sklarski shouted. “And you two ninnies think it’s funny!

  “Marks! Marks! Why won’t the door open? Make the door open, Marks!”

  After a few seconds, the door began rattling from the other side. Marks was apparently trying to open it from the back of the set. Soon the entire rear section of the set was shaking. A final wrench not only opened the door, but brought Marks tumbling through it to fall flat on his face at approximately center stage.

  Cox and Box turned to face the rear. Their shoulders were quivering.

  “Marks!” Sklarski bellowed. “Get off stage! Get off stage! If that door ever sticks again, I will personally see to it that you become a gelding! Continue!”

  Cox: No you don’t. I’ll not lose sight of you till I’ve restored you to the arms of your intended.

  Box: My intended? You mean your intended!

  Cox: No sir, yours!

  Box: How can she be my intended, now that I am drowned?

  The door that Marks had shut behind him as he left the stage opened of its own accord, slowly and squeakily. Cox and Box broke up, utterly.

  “All right!” Sklarski shouted, “that does it! Turn the house lights up!”

  The auditorium went black.

  “Marks!” Sklarski bellowed, “I said turn the house lights up, not out!”

  The house lights lit.

  “Everybody out here in the aisle!”

  All lined up in the center aisle in front of Sklarski.

  “All right, as a penance we will say the Rosary! Marks, you lead us.”

  Marks led the introductory prayers and then announced: “The Joyful Mysteries.”

  Under these circumstances, the Sorrowful Mysteries might have been appropriate. Certainly not the Joyful Mysteries. There was something about the Joyful Mysteries, especially as introduced by Marks, that gave this evening its final magic touch. Everyone except Sklarski and, of course, Marks, was convulsed.

  “All right,” Sklarski said in his sharpest menacing tone, “to bed! Everyone to bed! I will give you fifteen minutes to be in bed! And I am going to check!”

  Cast and crew scurried from the auditorium. Now was not the time for bluff-calling.

  Fifteen minutes later, a still fuming Sklarski was storming through the residence halls in search of a telltale light peeking over a transom.

  He found one. He threw open the door to Francis Wangler’s room. Wangler was clad only in pajama tops. The crotch of his bottoms was ripped and he was sewing the tear. Wangler, not even in the play, knew of no reason why Father Sklarski should be glowering in his doorway.

  “I said to bed!” Sklarski roared.

  “But … I …” Wangler pointed at the open crotch with needle and thread sticking out of it.

  “I said GET TO BED!”

  Such was the priest’s power of persuasion that Wangler pulled on his bottoms, needle and all, and burrowed under the covers.

  “I was only a young
seminarian when it happened.” Father Burk smiled at the memory.

  He was seated with Monsignor Martin and Fathers Koesler and Smith for a Friday dinner at Sacred Heart Seminary. The conversation had mellowed into nostalgia. This pretty much left Smith out of the conversational flow. He was too young to have much to remember. So he contented himself with listening and learning about the good old days.

  The subject now was old Father John Fitzpatrick, who had taught at the seminary in its earliest days and through the twenties and thirties. A legend any way one wished to look at him, Fitz had had a memorable career. Now that Father Smith was hearing the Fitz stories, they would be passed on to another generation.

  “We were on a streetcar headed for downtown,” Burk was saying. “Fitz, of course, was wearing his clericals and I was dressed in a black suit. So we were rather conspicuous among all these ordinary citizens—and the streetcar was packed. There was a distinct air of hostility toward us on the part of many of our fellow passengers.”

  “Probably damn Protestants,” Martin interjected.

  “Undoubtedly.” Burk wanted to go on with his story. “If I had been able to dig a hole and crawl in, I would have. But that’s asking a lot of a streetcar. Anyway, about the time I was beginning to feel a bit more composed—or perhaps I was just numb—doesn’t Fitz throw back his big head and start singing, ‘Tantum ergo, sacramentum’ at the top of his lungs. Well, I like to died. I wiggled away from him as far as I could and still stay on the same bench. He looked at me with the contempt only he could muster, and said, ‘What’s the matter, you ashamed of your religion?’”

  Laughter.

  “Bob,” Martin addressed Koesler, “you must remember how old Fitz hated the Detroit Catholic.”

  Koesler nodded. Ordinarily, during the week he would not have been at the seminary at dinner hour. But Fridays he taught a late afternoon class and regularly stayed rather than fight rush-hour traffic to the western suburbs.

  “Yes,” Martin continued, “Fitz used to call the Detroit Catholic ‘that impediment to thought.’”