The Greatest Evil

by William X. Kienzle

  “When you put it that way, Father,” Martha said, “it seems quite impossible to prove that Frank’s never been baptized.”

  “Well, it’s not quite that comprehensively difficult.” Koesler smiled at Martha, then turned to Frank again. “What we need are witnesses—lots of extremely credible witnesses—to testify that the attitude of just about everyone who touched your young life was that your parents’ prohibition of baptism was well known and observed by everyone. Now you yourself can testify about the years after you reached the age of reason. But even then we need witnesses for those years too.

  “You see, Frank … Martha …” he addressed both, “what we must build up is an overwhelming flood of similar testimony that affirms that Frank was most unlikely ever to have been baptized.

  “So, actually getting this ‘Privilege of the Faith’ is most difficult. But not impossible. Such dissolutions have been granted in the past—and, undoubtedly, will be in future. What we don’t know is whether we can get it for you.”

  “Well,” Frank said, after a lengthy pause, “how do we get started, Father?”

  Koesler rubbed his hands together. “Okay. I’ll take you through this chronologically. But remember”—he looked at each of them in turn—“if you find any of this procedure impossible—for any reason—say so now. I’ll tell you everything that will be required … and I won’t pull any punches.”

  Both his listeners nodded.

  “First off, we go through a standard series of instructions in Catholic beliefs and practices.”

  “How long will that take?” Frank asked.

  “Depends. Three or four months, usually—at one appointment a week.”

  “Can we go at it more often than once a week?”

  “If you want to.” Koesler could understand Frank’s wanting to speed up the process. The sooner the instructions were completed, the sooner they could go on to the next step.

  But the priest would have to be careful lest the instructions become merely pro forma. “You must understand,” Koesler cautioned, “that at the end of this process—if we get there—you will be baptized. So it’d be a good idea to understand what you are being baptized into. That’s the purpose for the instructions.”

  “Right. That makes sense. Then what?”

  “Then we prepare the documentation. There are questionnaires for you both. Then—and you can begin putting this together right away—we identify the witnesses and supply accurate addresses and phone numbers. It won’t do to eliminate a very good witness because of an inaccurate number. Oh, and while you’re compiling the list: It’s a good idea not to contact any of them; otherwise the priest interviewer may suspect some coaching.”

  “Who picks out the priests who do the interviews?” Frank was intent on taking no chances.

  “Depends on where the witness lives. Generally, the local tribunal contacts a priest in the parish nearest to the witness. That priest becomes a notary assigned to take testimony by filling out a questionnaire with the witness’s answers. I’ve already done it a few times in the short while I’ve been a priest. But I’m getting ahead of myself …

  “Now, here’s something unpleasant … but we can get around it: They want you to pay the cost of this procedure. A case like this has to go to Rome for a decision. That involves translating the documents into Latin and hiring a Roman lawyer to present your case. Right off the bat they want three hundred and fifty dollars—with a promise that you’ll also pay any additional cost. But,” Koesler hastened to add, “all I need do is make a notation in forma pauperum. Which simply means that you cannot afford this much.”

  Frank chuckled as he looked at Martha. “Well, Marty, I guess there goes the new stove and refrigerator.”

  “Frank,” Koesler protested, “you don’t have to do this. We won’t be begging; we’re simply stating that you can’t afford this big a financial commitment.”

  “Father, I pay my way. Always have. Is that the whole package?”

  Koesler hesitated. He knew what final demand would be required. So far, in his young priestly life, he had never had to ask anyone to make such a promise. But, in all candor, he had to clue them into the entire picture. “There’s one final promise required of you. And that … it’s that for however long this case takes to be processed, you and Martha will live as brother and sister.”

  The atmosphere in Father Koesler’s small office became leaden.

  Martha reached out and took Frank’s hand. “I’m afraid, Father,” she said firmly, “that’s too much. Too much by far.”

  She stood up. “I’m sorry we put you to all this trouble, Father. You’ve been very kind—and for that we’re grateful. But”—she shook her head—”that’s just too much. How could the Church …” She reached for her handkerchief and wiped back tears. “Come on, Frankie, let’s—”

  “Now, hold on, Marty …” Frank patted her hand. “We gotta remember the stakes in this whole thing. We’re playing for a big jackpot. Think of all the years we’ve wanted to be at peace with the Church. I’ve wanted it almost as much as you do—because you want it so much. I say let’s give ’er a crack. At least we can trust the salesman …” He smiled at Koesler, then at Martha. “I like this young man. And I say, Let’s give it a try.”

  “Are you sure, Frankie? Are you sure it means this much to you?”

  “Aye.” He smiled reassuringly at her again. “I am.”

  He turned back to the priest. “When’s our first instruction, Father?”

  Koesler checked his desk log. “We’re closing out this week. How about Monday … Monday evening at, say, nine?”

  “Nine it is then,” Frank affirmed. As he and Martha stood up, he put his arm around her waist. “Come on, Marty. Be of good cheer. We haven’t even begun the process. We can do it. We will do it.”

  Koesler saw the couple to the door and bade them farewell.

  As he prepared for bed, he. could not help but think over this evening’s final appointment. A young priest, he had just begun a vocation that ruled out marriage. And with that, given the virtue of chastity, his life would be asexual. Some of his seniors assured him that in time it would be easier to live without a woman.

  So far he was so enraptured with the newness and thrill of being a priest that he hadn’t really given much reflection to the celibate life.

  Thus he could not fully measure how life would change for Frank and Martha after the instructions were completed and the process toward dissolution had begun.

  The sacrifice was painfully clear to Frank and Martha. But they would give their word. And that, to them, was binding.

  9

  Based on a two-per-week schedule, the instructions moved right along.

  Koesler’s concern that this phase of the procedure might be a sham clearly was misplaced. Frank took an active interest in the books Koesler recommended. Nor did Koesler have any opportunity to lecture: Frank did almost as much talking as listening. Indeed, many of Frank’s questions taxed mightily those supportive books on Koesler’s shelves.

  The instructions were completed just after Christmas.

  It had been a wonderfully spiritual season for everyone. It was Koesler’s first Christmas as a priest. Though utterly exhausted from hearing countless confessions, he was exhilarated by the unique liturgy of the Nativity as well as by the seasonal goodwill of a depth and spirit to capture the heart even of Scrooge.

  It was a grand time also for the Morrises. They had taken to attending Mass at St. William’s. Since they were not recognized as parishioners at Nativity parish, they felt at ease and were welcomed by Father Koesler at St. William’s.

  Instructions complete, it was time to enter phases two and three. The first of these was to properly and carefully prepare the petition. Koesler conferred frequently with his Canon Law professor to make certain that everything was being done “by the book” and that no bases were left untouched.

  The second part—or phase three—was initiated. Money was sent with the
petition. And the Morrises began their new “brother and sister” relationship. It was a time of expectation, hope, and prayer.

  Except that the time became endless.

  Months passed and no word. No word at all. Sometimes it was difficult for Koesler and the Morrises to remember what life had been before this grand adventure.

  More months.

  Occasionally and apologetically, one or the other Morris would stop by after Mass or perhaps phone, just to make sure no notification had come in. Invariably Father Koesler would assure them that nothing had happened. He would also assure them that just as soon as any word was received, he would let them know immediately.

  After two and a half years, the lives of the Morrises had stretched so taut that Frank and Martha almost began to wish word would never come. As long as they no longer wondered and worried at the start of each day whether they would ever hear from the Curia in Rome, things would be better. The decision—granted or denied—seemed increasingly unreal. The mere act of waiting became the only reality.

  Then the call came.

  Father Koesler visited them in the evening, having earlier phoned to make sure they would both be in.

  Martha was certain from the tone of Father’s voice that their waiting was over and, also from his voice, that the petition had been denied.

  Frank did not want to speculate on either possibility.

  But neither could eat any dinner.

  At seven, as promised, Father Koesler arrived. When they were all seated, he delivered the negative verdict with more sympathy and compassion that he would have thought he possessed.

  The petition had been denied.

  All that work and sacrifice and prayer for literally nothing.

  Martha seemed to shrink a bit as she absorbed the finality of Rome’s decision.

  Father Koesler—who seldom cried—was barely able to hold back tears.

  Frank alone kept his head. “Is there anything else we can do, Father?”

  “If there is, I don’t know what,” Koesler said. “And neither does anyone else I consulted earlier today. Without using any names, I checked in with my Canon Law professor and a couple of older priests whose judgment I respect. Nothing.”

  “How about this ‘brother and sister’ that we’ve been doing for the past couple of years?” Frank probed. “The Vatican seems to be terribly interested in our sex lives. How about if we promise no sex for the rest of our lives? Or at least until my former wife dies?”

  “Frankie!” Martha was shocked.

  “That’s okay, Martha,” Koesler reassured her. “The same thought occurred to me, Frank. I didn’t think you’d be open to that option, but it never hurts to check … so I did. It seems the Vatican thinks you’re both too young to make such a long-term promise. No …” He shook his head. “… it won’t work. Nothing will.”

  Koesler did not think it right to drop this bomb of rejection and just walk away. So he settled in for a long visit.

  Martha made coffee and the conversation rambled over many subjects. At last, Koesler felt that their churning stomachs had settled and the Morrises were more at ease than they had been.

  He reminded them over and over that as they loved God, so God loved them. Their consciences were at peace with God. And that was what mainly counted.

  However, even as he spoke, he wondered about the widening dichotomy between their consciences and Church law. According to the “rules,” they were “living in sin.” But, somehow, he was unable to see this. He had never before felt this way about Church law. He found this disturbing.

  It was getting late. After a few more supportive words, Koesler made his exit.

  Frank and Martha stood staring out their front window watching the red rear lights of Koesler’s car slowly disappear down their narrow residential street. Even after the car turned the corner and the lights were out of sight, they continued to watch, wordlessly.

  Frank finally broke the silence. “Well, Marty, my girl, I really think we gave it our best shot.”

  She did not respond.

  “As I always say, there’s nothing more to be done once you’ve done your best.”

  “That’s true,” she said finally, “We did all we could, Frankie. So did Father Koesler. He’s so young … I hope he never gets jaded.”

  “Aye. Amen to that, Marty. Now, we’ve had a long, hard evening. Why don’t you go climb into bed? I’ve got just a couple of things that have to be attended to. I’ll be right up.”

  Martha turned to take the stairs, then turned back. “Long as you’re at it, you might just check the furnace. It’s been acting up lately.”

  She turned, then once more turned back. “Oh, and by the way: You don’t have to use the guest room anymore.”

  He looked at her and winked.

  She went upstairs and as she prepared for bed, she let the tears flow. And freely flow they did. She made no sound; she didn’t want Frank to know how deeply hurt she was.

  She slipped between the sheets, but try as she might, she couldn’t stay awake to welcome Frank. Well, she thought, we’ve done without each other’s intimacy for better than two years now; one more night won’t make that much difference.

  The explosion almost catapulted her out of bed.

  Her first thought was that the furnace had blown up. And she had asked Frank to look at it.

  She threw on a robe and dashed down the stairs.

  At first she did not comprehend.

  Why was Frank on the floor?

  Why was his shotgun on the floor?

  Why did Frank not have the back of his head? Where was the back of Frank’s head?

  “Frankie! Frankie! What’s happened? Get up! Get up!”

  Not really knowing what she was doing, she picked up the phone. The police … call the police. After a helpful operator put through the call, Martha, between sobs, got across what had happened.

  She hung up the phone, then turned in confusion. Frank … She knelt by her husband and straightened his clothing. She did not want him to appear disheveled. Not with company coming.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The Conner Street station was only a few blocks away. Within minutes the police entered the house and seemed to be everywhere at once.

  The first officer through the door saw immediately what had happened. He raised Martha to her feet and helped her to the couch, then sat down next to her. She leaned toward him. He put an arm around her shoulder.

  She looked up at him. “Is he hurt badly?”

  He knew the question was produced by panic. “Yes, he is. I’m real sorry, ma’am. Can you tell me what happened?”

  She looked bewildered at all the activity going on around her. The last thing she could remember was trying to stay awake and failing. Then she thought, Maybe this is a dream. Maybe she would wake up and her darling Frankie would be here and take care of everything as he always did.

  Something else told her that nothing would be right ever again.

  She tried to answer questions. Yes, they both had had depressing news just this evening. She couldn’t explain; it was too complicated.

  She continued trying to be helpful.

  Was there someone who could come and stay with her? She gave them Louise’s number. They phoned, and Louise, shocked, said she’d be right over.

  An officer handed a piece of paper to the officer sitting beside Martha. He read it quickly, then handed it to her. “This is for you, ma’am. Is this your husband’s writing?”

  Martha looked at the note and nodded. Why would Frank write her a letter?

  The officer rose from the couch and checked on the progress being made by his team. Things were being wrapped up. Frank’s covered body was on a gurney. The officer returned to Martha. “We won’t have to ask you any more questions tonight, ma’am. Do you have anything to help you sleep?”

  She thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “Your sister’s here, ma’am. We’ll go now. Your husband’s body will be at the mo
rgue. I’m sure they’ll release it very soon. You can start making funeral arrangements. And, ma’am, I’m very, very sorry.”

  Louise locked up, then helped Martha up the stairs.

  In response to Louise’s questions, Martha, between sobs, explained most of what had happened, beginning with Father Koesler’s visit and the rejection of their petition. Finally, running out of words, she sat in a stunned daze, eyes open but unseeing. Louise gently assisted her to bed. No sedative was needed; Martha was out the moment her head hit the pillow. She slept, fitfully, until early morning, when she arose and slowly made her way down the stairs.

  She didn’t understand. Everything was as it should be. But …?

  Louise had straightened up everything, even cleaning the blood from the carpet, chairs, and wall. Maybe … maybe she had dreamed all this. “Frankie …” Then, louder, “Frankie!”

  Louise entered from the kitchen, where she had fallen asleep, head on the table. “Oh, my dear,” she murmured. “Martha, dear, don’t you remember?”

  Martha sank to the couch. She remembered. “Get out. Leave,” she said, barely audibly.

  “What?” Louise heard her, but it didn’t register.

  “Why couldn’t you have left us alone?” Martha said bitterly. “At least we had each other. But no, you had to get us ‘fixed up’ with the Church. See what happened? My Frankie’s gone. Leave. For God’s sake, just go!”

  Louise wanted to stay but realized that there was no point. She put on her coat. “When you feel better, call me. I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Help?” Martha repeated with dripping sarcasm.

  Louise left.

  After she told Tony and Lucy what had happened, she phoned first Vincent, then Father Koesler.

  The priest was deeply shocked, more so than ever before in his life. Dropping everything, he drove to the Morris home. Martha, dry-eyed, welcomed him distractedly. Koesler sensed there were no tears left.

  Wordlessly, she handed him the letter the police had discovered last night—the suicide note. Koesler read it carefully.