“It was about ten in the morning,” McCarthy began, ”and His Excellency, “ the title dripped sarcasm, “was in his upstairs office going over the books. I had just answered the door and let in an old friend, George Hackett—you guys remember Hackett …”
George Hackett had been ordained in McCarthy’s class. Fifteen years later he left the active priesthood and married.
“When George told me why he was here, I knew he’d have to see Vince. Ordinarily, a request such as George’s could be handled by any priest. I could have dealt with it easily. When I was a pastor, any priest working with me would have had a green light to take care of it.
“But Vince is almost the embodiment of a hands-on boss. And especially since George is an ex, I knew that one way or the other Vince would be taking care of it.
“I explained that to George. He wasn’t happy about asking Vince for anything, much less something Vince would consider to be a favor. But, in the end, George agreed that he would have to appeal to Caesar.
“So I went upstairs to get Vince. I figured George would stand a better chance if I ran interference …”
“George Hackett is downstairs. He wants to see you.”
Delvecchio didn’t look up from the books, although he did pause for a moment before speaking. “I don’t want to see George Hackett.”
McCarthy was startled; he knew that Delvecchio was aware that Hackett was an ex. But McCarthy had never encountered such clerical prejudice toward an ex-priest.
“Vince, George’s wife just died.”
“So?”
“So he wants us to take the funeral.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ve been coming to Mass here for several years. They live in the parish.”
Finally he looked up. “I’ve never seen the name on our books. Is he registered?”
“No. He anticipated trouble if he did. So they just attended here. George contributed without using a collection envelope.”
“I’ve never seen him here.”
“I have.” It was typical. Delvecchio knew few of the parishioners.
“I don’t want to see him,” the bishop said through tight lips. “I’ve already told you that.”
“Why not?”
Delvecchio sighed. “Jesus said it all in Luke’s Gospel: Whoever puts his hand to the plow but keeps looking back is unfit for the reign of God.”
McCarthy knew this was not the time for exegetical argument. “Vince, you’ve got to see him. I’m not leaving here till you do.”
McCarthy had nothing to lose in launching an ultimatum, and Delvecchio knew it. With another, deeper sigh, he pushed himself back from the desk and headed down the stairs, with McCarthy close behind.
Delvecchio entered his office, where George Hackett sat waiting. McCarthy stopped the door from closing as he followed the bishop into the office.
As Delvecchio lowered himself into his chair, he said to McCarthy—without looking at him—“I can handle this—alone!”
“Did I tell you George wanted to see you? Actually he wants to see both of us,” McCarthy said.
Hackett looked confused, smiled briefly, then resumed his grave demeanor.
“I understand,” Delvecchio said, “your wife died. Our sympathy.”
“Thank you.” Hackett had anticipated the lack of recognition on Delvecchio’s part. Still, it hurt.
“I am also given to understand that you want the Mass of Resurrection here.”
“It was her—”
Delvecchio pulled a notepad toward himself, and picked up a pen. “Have you been laicized?”
“Yes.”
“Were you married in the Church?”
“Finally, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“When I left the priesthood, Rome wasn’t granting laicizations. We were married by a judge. Later, the request for laicization was granted. Then we were married by a priest. But what’s that got to do with—”
“Before we can consider your request for Christian burial from this parish, we’ve got to know what we’re dealing with. Now, Father McCarthy tells me you attended Mass here. But you never registered in the parish?”
“I can’t believe you never noticed me. We didn’t go out of our way to attend your Mass, but we did from time to time. You never recognized me? We were classmates for years. I remember praying for a miracle for your mother. We were priests together in this archdiocese for years. I just took it for granted that you knew me.”
“Whether or not I recognized you is not the question. Whether or not you are a registered parishioner is.”
“Vince,” McCarthy said, “people no longer have to be card-carrying parishioners to be buried—or married, for that matter.”
Delvecchio ignored McCarthy’s observation. “That you have not registered is not, of itself, a compelling reason to reject your request. But it is a consideration.” Delvecchio continued making notes. “Why did you leave the priesthood?” He did not look up as he asked the question.
“Vince,” McCarthy interjected, “what’s that got to do with Christian burial for his wife?”
Delvecchio’s expression was sardonic. “Mr. Hackett doesn’t have to answer any of my questions.”
It seemed evident that George Hackett could indeed refuse. But it would be at the peril of the desired Christian burial.
“It’s all right, Joe,” Hackett said by way of thanking McCarthy for playing defense attorney, if only briefly. He turned back to Delvecchio, fixing him with a penetrating gaze. “I left to marry Gwenn.”
“No trouble with Church doctrine?”
“Some, sure. I didn’t wake up one morning after fifteen years as a priest and say, ‘Hey, wait a minute: There’s girls!’ Before Gwenn ever came my way, I began having a lot of trouble—mostly with enforcing some of the Church’s pet peeves.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the obvious ones: Contraception. Remarriage. Exercising infallibility like a weapon. I don’t really have to catalog problem areas; even if you don’t agree, you very well know what the problems are.”
With lips stretched tightly, Delvecchio said, “I assume then, that you could be called an ‘eclectic Catholic.’”
“If I have to be categorized, yeah, I suppose so.”
“The present Pope has made it quite clear that Catholics cannot pick and choose among doctrine or moral teachings. The Catholic Church is not a spiritual supermarket.”
Hackett perceived that he was virtually playing Frisbee in a minefield. There was silence for a few moments. It was broken by Delvecchio. “Do you have any children?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
In his day as a priest, Hackett had handled many arrangements for funerals. At no time had he quizzed the bereaved like this. “Three.”
“Their ages?”
Hackett hesitated in recalling the exact ages. “Twenty-three … uh, twenty, and seventeen.”
“Odd ages,” Delvecchio observed. “Were you using contraception? Was that one of the moral precepts you rejected?”
McCarthy bolted from his post near the door. “Vince, what’s the idea!”
Hackett waved him back. “You’re way out of line, Bishop. You have no right to ask a question like that. And you know it!”
“All right.” Delvecchio’s smirk all but disfigured his face. “All right. We’re just trying to find out whether we can accept this petition for Christian burial.”
“Look, Bishop”—Hackett’s face was flushed in anger—“there is nothing wrong with my ‘petition for Christian burial.’ My wife has just died. It was her wish that she be buried from this parish. She was a Catholic in good standing, despite the manner of her death. She has a right to Christian burial!”
Delvecchio leaned forward. He sensed something irregular. Something that could dash George Hackett’s hopes. “‘Despite the manner of her death’?” Delvecchio repeated. “Just what was the manner of her death?”
Hackett dropped his eyes. “She was a suicide. But no one could have blamed her,” he added quickly, “no one who knew her.” From the moment he had decided to come to this rectory and ask for what Gwenn wanted, he had dreaded this moment. It was the only remotely legitimate reason to question his wife’s right to Christian burial. And the way this interview was being conducted, Delvecchio was sure to climb aboard.
“A suicide!” Delvecchio, countenance noncommittal, leaned back in his chair. “Well, now … we finally have all the facts on the table.”
“I know the direction you’re moving in,” Hackett said. “But let me tell you about Gwenn. Let me tell you before you judge her unfairly.”
Delvecchio raised the palms of his hands upward—an invitation for Hackett to go ahead with his explanation. The gesture also connoted that the explanation, no matter how telling it might be, almost certainly would not be enough to alter a negative decision.
Neither Father McCarthy nor George Hackett knew that earlier this morning the funeral director had called and talked to Bishop Delvecchio about the Hackett services. A number of details were needed for the newspaper death notice.
Thus the bishop had already known of Gwenn Hackett’s death and George Hackett’s desire to have her buried from this parish. However, he had not known she was a suicide. Consciously and subconsciously Delvecchio wanted Hackett to pay for looking back after putting his hand to the plow. The denial of Christian burial would be a handy peg on which to hang some well-deserved, albeit vindictive punishment. The bishop had advised the mortician to make no firm plans about the parish details until Mr. Hackett called at the rectory. An event the bishop anticipated this morning.
Delvecchio leaned back in his chair. He fingered his pectoral cross. The crucifix swayed gently against the black cassock with its red buttons and piping.
“Ever hear of neurasthenia … or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?” Hackett asked.
The bishop nodded.
“It hit Gwenn some sixteen or seventeen years ago. Since you’re familiar with the disease, I won’t go into a lot of detail. But for all these years, she’s just traded one symptom for another. She hasn’t been what might be described as healthy for more than a few days at a time.
“It’s been rough on us, the kids and me. But that’s nothing compared with what’s it’s done to Gwenn. Her depression was so bad that a couple of times she had to be committed to an institution that put her under a suicide watch.”
Delvecchio’s face remained impassive.
“Anyway, she fooled us this time. She seemed to be making such advances that we were able to relax our vigilance. That’s when it happened. But it was because she simply couldn’t take it anymore …” There was a tremor in his voice. “I don’t even know how she made it this far. But the worst symptom was the depression …” He shook his head slowly in recollection. “I don’t know anyone who suffered from greater depression than Gwenn.”
His face tightened again in recollection, then he gazed at Delvecchio almost pleadingly. “I know the Church judges leniently in cases like these. Anybody could recognize the pressure and stress she was under. Taking her life was not à calm, rational decision; it was the final cry of a tortured soul.”
Hackett sat back, and looked unflinchingly at Delvecchio. “So, that’s it, Bishop. We know that God has judged her with loving understanding. She wanted to be buried from this church. In keeping with that wish, I am asking that you grant this request.”
There were a few moments of silence.
“How did she do it?” Delvecchio asked.
“A gun. A handgun. I had one—though I wish to God I hadn’t had it. I kept it hidden. She must’ve found it when she was cleaning.” Again, Hackett wondered at this line of questioning.
“A gun.” Memories of his uncle flooded the bishop’s mind.
Actually, Frank had not been an uncle. He had not been validly married to Vincent’s aunt.
Well, Frank was not given Christian burial, though there had been little or no effort to secure the same. Effort or no effort, Frank had not deserved a Church funeral. He was a suicide. And, for several reasons, not the least being that Gwenn also was a suicide and George deserved to be punished for leaving the priesthood for her, she was not going to be granted Christian burial either.
Delvecchio slowly leaned forward until his elbows touched the desk’s surface. He placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “I am sure your wife’s bout with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome was a most difficult cross to carry.”
“Cross!” Hackett sat upright. “Gwenn didn’t carry a cross. She suffered from a supermarket list of illnesses—some physical, some psychosomatic—all of them real and all of them miserable. And underlining’ all of that was classic clinical depression. Until she couldn’t go on. And she ended it.”
“I understand, Mr. Hackett. But we Christians are admonished that life can be difficult. We are told when we are confirmed that life can even be a burden. But we are told that the Spirit will be with us, to sustain us. Even St. Paul complains about mysterious thorns in the flesh. They are so troublesome that Paul begs Jesus to relieve him. But the Lord tells him that grace will be sufficient to have him endure.
“That, Mr. Hackett, is what we would have reminded your wife had she come to see us. She was a Catholic. She knew that she would have to bear whatever fate might send. Our crosses may come from observing the laws and moral teachings of our faith. Or our crosses may be physical. Prayer! Prayer is the answer.”
“Look, Bishop—!” Hackett was near to exploding. “If I were the one who’d died, I wouldn’t want anyone to come to you and beg that I be buried as a Catholic. Not if they had to beg. But I’m trying to be faithful to my wife’s wishes. How can you sit there in judgment …”
Father McCarthy had heard more than enough. He left the room and entered the adjacent office. He could hear through the thin wall Delvecchio and Hackett arguing heatedly.
When he returned after several minutes, a Cheshire cat grin suffused McCarthy’s face. “The Cardinal is on line one, Vince. He wants to talk to you.”
Delvecchio glanced sharply at McCarthy. “I didn’t hear the phone ring,” he said angrily.
McCarthy shook his head. “I placed the call, Vince. I figured you’d have to talk to the Cardinal sooner or later. Might just as well get it over with. And, by the way, Vince, the Cardinal is waiting on line one. I’d talk to him if I were you.”
Delvecchio punched the button and picked up the receiver. “Eminence?”
“Bishop Delvecchio,” the voice responded.
Several Detroit priests did excellent impressions of Cardinal Boyle. So true to life were some of these imitations that more than one clerical victim had been deeply embarrassed to realize that he had just treated the genuine Cardinal with the disdain reserved for one of his mimics.
This voice easily could belong to the genuine Cardinal. No point in taking a chance. “Yes, Eminence.”
“I understand that a widower is requesting the Mass of Resurrection and burial rites for his late wife.”
“Yes, Eminence, but—”
“I am given to understand that this unfortunate woman took her life.”
“Well, Eminence, there are reasons—”
“I am told that her last years have been filled with pain and depression. Is all of this correct?”
“Yes, Eminence.” It did indeed sound authentic. Delvecchio had never heard his superior speak in such a tone. The response that sprang to Delvecchio’s lips was held in check, but, no mistake, it was there.
“I would remind you,” the Cardinal continued, “that the holy Church in general advises compassion in such a situation. And that certainly is the policy of this archdiocese. Do I make myself clear on this matter, Bishop?”
“Yes, Eminence. Perfectly clear. It is your wish, then, that this request be granted?”
“It is the policy of our archdiocese and, yes, it is my wish. I am sure you will settle this in such a manner that I
will not be drawn into this liturgical decision again.”
“Yes, Eminence.”
“Then, good-bye, bishop.”
“Good-bye, Eminence—” But the Cardinal had already hung up.
Bishop Delvecchio was both furious and embarrassed. The blood seemed to have drained from his head. He was well aware that theologically he and Boyle were oceans apart. Nonetheless, the Cardinal had always been the soul of civility. A gentleman in the finest sense. This was the first time he had encountered the prelate with his emotions down, as it were.
Delvecchio pinned McCarthy with his gaze. The unspoken message was, I will get you for this. I don’t know when or how. But you will pay for this.
The bishop turned to Hackett and cleared his throat. “Your request, Mr. Hackett, for the Mass of Resurrection and the rites of Christian burial for your wife is granted. However, there are some guidelines that I am initiating as of this moment and for the future as well.
“Any priest who officiates at a wedding or a funeral will abide by the liturgical practice of this parish. Which, I add, is in conformity with Holy Mother Church.
“Further, any lay person who wishes to speak in this church on the occasion of a wedding or a funeral will be limited to no more than two minutes. And the remarks that he or she wishes to make within those two minutes must be approved beforehand by me.
“Father McCarthy will handle your wife’s funeral. And, Father, you will be careful to enforce these new regulations. Later today, we’ll have a staff meeting and the implication of what I have in mind will be made very much more clear.”
22
It took only seconds for Father Koesler to recall Father McCarthy’s account, which pretty well documented the mind of Bishop Delvecchio.
The incident had taken place only a few months ago. Nothing could have changed much since then. And this was, by far, not an isolated experience. There seemed to be a vicious streak in the bishop—one that manifested itself in an element of vindictiveness, particularly when it came to priests he looked on as sinners.
Whatever had happened to that happy-go-lucky kid with the creative sense of humor who laughed at minor liturgy rules?
The Greatest Evil Page 21