Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  “To hell!”

  “That bad!”

  “You ever hear of St. Adalbert’s?”

  He thought briefly. “I think so. Tucked in the west side of Detroit?”

  “More like Dante’s second circle.”

  “Wow! That must have been some assignment!”

  “Oh, it was. Nothing that anyone could do to me for the rest of my life could equal that.”

  “That’s a shame. But you … what?… resigned?”

  “What was left of me after the Theresians picked the bones clean.”

  “Seems to me I spent most of our time together urging you to quit.”

  Dora nodded. “I was too pigheaded to seriously consider following your advice.”

  “You wanted to stick it out because of your parents. And … something else … that I can’t recall right now. Some kind of mystical experience, wasn’t it?”

  Dora blushed lightly. “A Scripture text that said, in effect, once you’re on the road to following Jesus, you shouldn’t turn back or you are unworthy of the kingdom of God. I happened to be exposed to that text at a time when I was about to call it quits—to turn away from Jesus.”

  “That sort of thing can be a powerful motive to stay or go or do or don’t do just about anything.” He was beginning to feel self-conscious.

  The waitress returned to see if they were ready to order. It reminded him that Dora was on her lunch hour, whereas he might as well be on an infinite coffee break.

  Both ordered Caesar salad. It seemed the simplest. They were there to talk more than to eat.

  She buttered a roll. “Our first item of business revolves around your leave of absence.”

  He winced.

  “Are you really going back?”

  “No.”

  “Absolutely?”

  “No chance.”

  “That firm!” she exclaimed. “I kind of thought so.”

  “Yes. You were right.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but are you getting married?”

  He smiled. If only she knew. He probably would marry some day It was a real long shot but if it was at all possible his bride would be Dora Riccardo. “No plans right now.”

  “Then, why?” she wondered. “Is it all about that wedding you witnessed?”

  “The private little ceremony that the couple assured me would be kept quiet to the point of being clandestine. Yes, that’s why—at least partly.”

  “You’d rather not talk about it?”

  “No, it’s okay. I saw it coming when we were in the seminary. But I refused to look at it. I just wasn’t going to enforce Church law. Especially regarding marriage. I should have quit right then. Here I was advising you to get out and there I was hanging in.”

  The waitress brought the salads and refilled their coffee cups.

  “What if you change your mind?” she asked. “It’s possible. One of the things I’ve learned is never to say never.”

  “I agree with you …” He nodded as he chewed absently. “But sometimes circumstances tend to reinforce one’s resolutions.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m laicized—or, I will be in another week or two.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “So soon? I thought it took a long time. Months. Years! Maybe never.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Seems I applied for just what the bishop thought I should have. On top of that, he has friends in high Vatican places. All in all, my laicization may set all-time speed records.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Cardinal Boyle did that to you? It doesn’t sound like him.”

  “It wasn’t he.”

  “But you said, the bishop—”

  “Bishop Donovan. The Cardinal was in Rome when that wedding hit the fan. Before I got to Donovan’s office, he had talked to the Cardinal. I was supposed to be suspended—put on the shelf, so to speak. And that because of all the publicity. To cut this short, I wasn’t going to accept the penalty. So I brought up the subject of quitting.

  “The Cardinal might have spoken a few kind words. Maybe asked me to reconsider. But the Cardinal wasn’t there. I handed Donovan my head on a silver platter. Bishop Donovan couldn’t have been happier if he had danced for the trophy.

  “On top of that, Donovan doesn’t have to worry that he did not adhere to the procedure that Boyle had cleared—that I would be suspended. I asked for it!”

  For several moments they ate in silence.

  “Getting back to my original question,” Dora said, “what does laicization have to do with your never going back to the priesthood no matter what happens? You know: Never say never?”

  He put his fork down and gave her his undivided attention. “There’s a clause in the contract you’re supposed to sign. In effect it says this is for keeps. Once you have been reduced to the lay state, you can never go back. As far as the Church is concerned, you remain a priest, but you never again can function as one. Unless, that is, somebody gets very, very ill.

  “This—putting your priesthood in permanent mothballs—is the price you pay for Rome’s dispensing you from the celibacy demanded by the Latin rite.”

  “And,” she said, “if you didn’t get laicized, what about marriage? What about your status in the Church?”

  He began eating again. “Well, then, that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Without the laicization document, I’d really be on a leave of absence. Unless I got married—or, as the Church prefers, attempted to get married—I would be on an extended leave.

  “Attempted marriage would excommunicate me. And I wouldn’t be much of a candidate to be welcomed back to the active ministry.”

  “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. If … well, when … you get this document, technically you’ll be as much a priest as ever. But you can’t use your priest powers. But you can get married … in the Church … validly?”

  “If I want to. Yes.”

  “And if you hadn’t applied …?”

  “I would be in a sort of limbo. I’d need to be called back. Then I could function as before.”

  “If you weren’t laicized and you got married?”

  “The Church wouldn’t recognize the wedding and I would be excommunicated. And I would be dead in the water.”

  “Right now, you’re not considering marriage?”

  “Right now? No. But I haven’t asked: You married?”

  “No.”

  “Close?”

  “No.”

  God was good, he thought.

  “Now”—she sat back as the attentive waitress cleared away her plate and replenished her coffee—“about work—a job.”

  “I told you last night on the phone about Mr. Becker’s offer.”

  “And you said it was on your back burner. I think that’s wise. We who have been employed, sort of, by the Church, have to keep our options open.”

  He was only a bite or two from finishing. The waitress was hovering vulture-like. “It’s a different world. There isn’t anybody saying, ‘I’ll get that for you.’ Or, ‘Let me take over for you, Father.’ I suppose you’ve had the same sort of experience.”

  “Well, not really. Nobody does anything for the Theresians. Now that I think of it, everybody was dumping on me.”

  “But you’re doing all right now.”

  “It worked out. The Kelly Services program was okay. But I couldn’t see my doing that kind of work the rest of my life. I was lucky I found Oakland Monthly.”

  As he placed his fork in the now otherwise empty plate the waitress swooped to scoop up both dish and silverware.

  “Last night,” she continued, “I didn’t have time to tell you much about the magazine.”

  “Only enough to make me wonder why your editor/publisher would consider me. My experience shouldn’t attract her interest.”

  “Maybe you’re selling yourself short.”

  “The old Nemo judex est in sua causa, eh?”

  “Don’t press me on the Latin. We didn’t have enough of it.”


  “Sorry. ‘No one is a good judge in his own case.’”

  “Exactly.” She removed a credit card from her purse.

  “No, no,” he protested. “I’ll get the check.”

  She covered the check with her card. “I’m the one who has a job. I’ll pick up the tab … this time” she insisted, laughing. “Pretty soon you’ll have a job and the check will be all yours.”

  He thought of that time in a very vague future. Oh yes, he’d like to treat her. He’d like to date her. He’d like to marry her. Easily the most attractive aspect of a job at the magazine would be working with her. Leaning over her desk. Smelling her perfume.

  “All of this is very kind,” he said. “To think of me at all. To consider me for a job. To clear the way for an interview with your boss. To think that I could qualify for the magazine. But—and I don’t think I’m selling myself short—I have no experience in the real world of journalism.”

  The waitress needed her signature on the credit card receipt. Dora added the tip arid signed. Jerry was going to say something more but she held up a hand.

  “I’ve been studying Pat Lennon’s hiring practice. I applied for the job at the secretarial level. She saw I could do much more. She hired me as a copy editor. It’s worked out well for the magazine and for me. And that makes it work well for Pat Lennon.”

  “But—”

  Dora glanced at her watch and interrupted him. “What I’m getting at, Father—oops, there I go. What I’m getting at, Jerry, is that Lennon is building her own team. She wants quality workers as a first priority. With that and their decent background in writing, she thinks she can build an efficient and quality staff.”

  They were silent a moment.

  “I would like that job,” he said. “I can’t deny it.” He paused again. “Okay,” he said, enthusiastically “I’ll call this afternoon to set up an interview. I guess I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Good. I’ve got to get back now.” She slid to the edge of the booth. “Jerry, I wish I could actually get you the job. The best I could do was get you an interview. I just have this strong hunch you’re going to do very well.”

  She reached across the table, took his hand, and squeezed it. It was a small gesture. But it marked the first time there had ever been any physical contact between them. He felt a rush of blood to his head.

  “You really helped me when we were at Ursula’s. I was never able to thank you for everything you did for me. I must have been a pill, bothering you so frequently. I don’t mean that going to bat for you evens the score—nothing like that. I’m just happy I might be a help to you for a change.”

  The flush receded quickly. The last thing he wanted between them was a counting of favors they did for each other. That was not the path that led to affection, togetherness, and love.

  They left the booth and walked toward the exit. He held the door, but didn’t leave with her.

  “I’ve got a hat to retrieve,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch … let you know how the interview goes.”

  “Thanks. I want to know.” Dora turned and began walking down the path leading to the parking lot and her car.

  As she walked, she felt someone’s gaze. It was as clear an impression as if she were looking at the person face-to-face. It was Jerry Anderson, her intuition was certain.

  She turned her head sideways, as if she were looking at the busy Woodward traffic. Actually, in the periphery of her vision, she caught sight of Jerry still standing in the doorway, allowing the door to close slowly. She could feel the layers of her clothing peeling off under his scrutiny.

  Well, why not? She hadn’t applied all that makeup, worn a form-fitting suit, and added a touch of delicate perfume just to be ignored.

  Was she fooling herself? she wondered. In anticipation of this luncheon, she had taken more care with her appearance than usual. Even to the point of wearing black lingerie. Not that anyone would see it. But it did make her feel sexier.

  Seducing Jerry Anderson was not foremost in her mind. She liked him. She’d liked him from the moment they’d first met at St. Ursula’s. She had been and remained grateful to him for all the help and direction he’d tried to give her.

  And he had been correct: Being in the Theresians put her in the wrong place, no matter what. She should have taken his advice, left life in the nunnery, and forgotten the Theresians.

  But that was as far as it went.

  A physical relationship with Jerry Anderson? Did he expect it?

  When she took his hand only moments ago, she could sense that he was moved. Moved far more than one might think appropriate. Far more than she had intended.

  And now, as they parted, what had alerted her that surreptitiously he was giving her a lusty look? Intuition. And she had learned to rely on that intuition.

  A physical relationship with Jerry Anderson?

  Possible. Definitely possible. He was a very attractive individual. In their spiritual relationship at St. Ursula’s, he had proved to be gentle, caring, giving—and demanding nothing in return. Not bad traits in a friend. And, yes, in a lover, in a husband.

  Possible but not probable.

  Years ago she had given herself, body and soul, to Rick Casserly He didn’t even know it.

  After she left the convent, she had continued consulting Father Casserly for spiritual direction. She didn’t know whether he found that arrangement cluttered. She most definitely had. There was something about being alone with him—even in a confessional setting—that complicated everything. In all likelihood he was in cool possession of himself. He could be objective in their relationship. She could not.

  She told him that they had gone about as far as they could in her spiritual life. She had to be on her own for a while. He understood entirely and, indeed, agreed with her analysis and conclusion. They parted amicably.

  So amicably that she had volunteered to work with him in his parish’s catechism program. That way she could see him at least once every week, as well as during quarterly meetings, and periodically during the summer months.

  The one mistake she dreaded was any possibility of repeating the wet bathing suit incident that had been a near disaster.

  To this day, Rick still was the only person for whom she might take off her clothes.

  But she couldn’t rush or force that gift. This she had discovered that afternoon when she had orchestrated a seduction that mercifully was aborted. She blushed. As she always did whenever that memory surfaced. It was rewarding reliving that incident if only to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.

  Since she’d left religious life these five-plus years ago, she’d had her share of dates. Frequently the guy would simply assume that the evening would end with both occupying the same bed. After all, the argument went, this was the millennium. Gone was the innocent kiss, the awkward touching. All-the-way scarcely described what was expected from today’s woman.

  Sometimes, though rarely, she found it very tempting. But she was a one-man woman. And that man was Rick Casserly.

  She was a virgin and she had every reason to believe Rick was also. Of course she was hardly with him all the time, or even most of the time. But she had that gift of inspired intuition. She could, and did, rely on it.

  It would all work out. All she had to do was play her cards right.

  Jerry let the door close in front of him. The meeting just concluded was supposed to be a business luncheon. For him it had been pure pleasure.

  This was the first time he and Sister Per—uh, Dora—had been together as laypersons, civilians. They didn’t have to be cautious, conscious of a religious habit, clerical clothing. It was great.

  He was grateful that she had gone to bat for him. He could use all the help he could get.

  Was he reading too much into this? Maybe. Maybe not: After all, she wasn’t trying to find him employment just anywhere. If this deal came together, they would be working side by side. Did she want it that way?

  As he watched Dora move toward th
e parking lot, he marveled at her perfection. There was sex in the way she walked. The way her head bobbed. The way her arms swung. The way her hips undulated. How much of this was objective he was in no position to judge. As far as he was concerned she left nothing to be desired.

  She turned the corner and disappeared into the parking lot. He stood at the door several more moments, memorizing every detail about Dora. Then he turned, retrieved his hat, and left. He didn’t see her in the lot; she must have already pulled out.

  Adding to his belief that Dora might intentionally want to work with him—or at least work in the same office with him—was the fact that his experience in journalism was slim to nonexistent. There had to be some basis in fact that the Lennon woman wanted to build her own team. Otherwise there would be no reason why she would consent to interview him.

  Dora was, he thought, pushing things a bit. But there was no way to tell without a meeting.

  He would call Pat Lennon this afternoon. He wanted this job. The desire was growing. If Lennon wanted someone who was dependable, reliable, and thoroughly professional, he would be the perfect candidate. Journalism? He was willing to learn.

  He wanted to be close to Dora. Without a doubt that was the principal attraction.

  Short of a job offer at Oakland Monthly, he wanted some means of employment. He had to get out of his parental home. The atmosphere there put him directly back to childhood. His mother, God love her, was doing as well as could be expected with her son’s midlife career change. She understood little of what was going on. Laicization threw her. But if Jerry said all was right between him and the Church, she believed him.

  However, she was screening his phone calls. It was a stroke of luck that Dora’s call had reached him. Life would be taxing enough as it was without having to relive his adolescence with Ma.

  He needed to be free to have guests over. Specifically, he needed to invite Dora to visit. He could just imagine entertaining Dora—any girl—with Mother hovering about. Not a very encouraging picture.

  So, priority one: Get a job, preferably with the magazine. Priority two: Move out. Priority three: Establish rapport with Dora Riccardo.