“I’m not the immature teenager I was when I entered some thirty years ago.” Marie grew reflective, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I guess I was running away from things—life—as much as entering with a gracious heart to serve Christ.
“Those early years, so filled with submission and dependence! Then the upheaval of the sixties and early seventies that tore apart structures and relationships and left only a remnant group.
“I don’t know about everyone else, but some of us—myself in particular—had to find new—what?—virtues to rebuild our lives in religion. Instead of blind submission, maturity. And instead of dependence, interdependence.”
“Interdependence?”
“Yes. We may not be living in actual convents anymore, but the Sisters depend on each other a lot for support and courage, for example. And that, of course, extends out to the laity. It’s not the dependence we once felt for the rule and for our superiors. Janet, for example, depends on me. And I depend on her.”
Koesler was about to say something, but changed his mind. Obviously, Marie had thought this out fully. Undoubtedly prayed over it. He knew he would profit from her conclusions. All he had to do was listen. Sometimes that was not easy.
She concluded her apologia as if she were announcing it to humanity in general rather than as a simple answer to Koesler’s simple question: ‘Why stay?’
“To me,” Marie said, “the religious woman of today must be, fundamentally, what she has always needed to be: well educated and informed, compassionate, living her faith. Only she must be stronger, since much of the support she could once expect from her community, and the straightforward demands made of her, are now gone. Before, she was supposed to feel compassion without expressing it. Now, she must not only feel distinctly womanly compassion, she must know intuitively how to share love without compromising the chaste life. Her faith must be stronger since she is no longer shielded by convent walls from a skeptical and agnostic world.
“She is also a challenge to the hierarchy since she obviously is qualified in every essential way to equal opportunity in the priesthood. Only the hierarchy’s obstinate ignorance keeps her in a secondary subordinate role. Her very existence is a silent challenge the institutional Church must face. Free of family demands, she can be a persistent advocate for the powerless. She is a voice against injustice with a deep desire that oppression of everyone will cease.
“With the old structures left behind, new unlimited boundaries of every human need will be sufficient challenge in her service to Christ and humanity in and through her religious commitment.”
She paused and Koesler remained silent. She was finished. It didn’t seem there were any more words either of them could say that might add to her statement of purpose. Koesler found himself wishing there were some way her rationale could be published somewhere. In the climate of today’s Catholicism, wherein too few could see any point to a religious vocation, hers was a voice that needed to be heard.
After a few moments during which they both reflected on what she had said, Koesler asked, “Before the convent, did you go to a parochial school?”
She smiled at the memory. “Yes. Grade school, high school, then off to Monroe and the convent.”
“And IHM blue.”
“Yes, and IHM blue.”
“Were you like me? That you always wanted the vocation?”
“No, Father, not like that. I’m afraid my class would not have voted me the girl most likely to be a nun.”
“Wild?” He was imagining the sort of behavior that would have been described as “wild” in a parochial setting of that era. By today’s standards, it would not even be mentioned among minor sinners. He’d even smiled as he broached the word “wild.”
But Marie didn’t smile for a moment or two. Then a hesitant grin appeared. “Let’s just say that conversion is good for the soul. Look what it did for Saint Augustine.”
“That’s true.” For an instant he looked at her in a different light. Even in her middle years she was still most attractive. As a young woman she had undoubtedly been a knockout. It was like seeing actress Loretta Young all dressed up in the traditional nun’s habit and regretting that all that beauty and charm was locked up inside countless yards of wool.
There was no time for further speculation in any case. The waitresses began wheeling in the food. Sister Janet invited all to dinner, and all responded eagerly.
Koesler reflected that just twenty-four hours ago, these had been the dramatis personae in Krieg’s little psychodrama. The waitresses, the kitchen crew, Sister Janet—they’d all been in on it.
Krieg dead. Murdered. A consummation devoutly to be wished? Banish it from your mind, Koesler, he told himself. Certainly not Christian. Hardly humane. But, given all that had happened in just the last two days, a fairly reasonable conclusion.
Marie did not seem at all surprised when Janet invited her to lead the group in a blessing. Perhaps it had been prearranged.
“Blessed are you, God of all creation,” Marie prayed. “Through your goodness we have this nourishment to share. May we share ourselves willingly and generously as You have shared yourself with us.”
There was a pause. And everyone said, “Amen.”
A nice ecumenical grace, Koesler thought. Yes, that must have been prearranged. No offense to Christian or Jew. Something for everyone.
He regarded the seating arrangement. The three women again were seated consecutively. Then, clockwise, Winer, Koesler, Benbow, Augustine, and Krieg. Thus Krieg and Winer, this afternoon’s adversaries, were seated opposite each other.
The fare was simple. A fruit salad in gelatin, beef broth, lamb, red potatoes, steamed vegetables. Simple but well prepared. Everyone partook of everything and all seemed to enjoy the food.
Conversion was not that enjoyable. Janet and Martha, mostly, attempted to introduce topics, but no verbal balloon stayed aloft. Awkward. It was awkward. But Koesler had expected little else.
Toward the end of the meal, Krieg spoke. “Praise God! You know,” he said jovially, “there’s one person here we’ve heard precious little from.” Pause. “Father Koesler. Here we were, runnin’ off at the mouth all afternoon, and there’s the good Father just sittin’ there takin’ it all in.”
If he had intended to embarrass Koesler by singling him out in this less-than-friendly atmosphere, Krieg was succeeding.
“After all,” Krieg continued, “you are a bona fide member of this panel. So, Praise God! Let’s hear it, Father. Your opinion of religion. Dull or not? I mean basically?” His very tone betrayed flippancy. It was as if the “father of the family” had taken the reins and the conversation was now well in hand.
Koesler, taken by surprise, swallowed injudiciously and started to cough. Winer and Benbow pounded his back. Benbow was about to apply the Heimlich Maneuver but Koesler waved him off. Things were getting under control.
Koesler’s complexion was florid. And he was embarrassed not only that he’d been singled out by Krieg like a child forced to recite, but also because he had almost choked to death.
“Sorry,” he said, as his system returned to normal. “Something got stuck. I’m all right now.”
“Well,” Krieg declared, “that’s a blessing. Praise God!”
“Yes. Well, to the point. When you introduced the supposition, the first thought I had was of all the dull homilies, sermons, religion classes I have been forced to sit through. And I was tempted to agree with your hypothesis. But I must confess, I didn’t stay with that thought very long. I can’t think of any book as worthy of study, reading, inspiration, or meditation as the Bible. To those of us for whom God is our beginning and our destiny, there isn’t anything more exciting than religion.
“So I guess it comes down to what you mean by religion. If you mean religion secondhand, as it’s communicated by very poor communicators, I suppose it can be—and is—pretty dreadful and painfully dull.
“Or think of it this way: There is no du
ll religion, just dull religious communicators.”
Koesler expected Krieg to be peeved or at least annoyed .But Krieg was beaming. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Praise God!”
“But, this afternoon . . .”Koesler began.
“This afternoon,” Krieg repeated, “this afternoon was salesmanship.”
“Salesmanship!” Winer exclaimed.
“Indeed, salesmanship. You must have sensed it . . .” Krieg looked around the table at the others. “Each of us told the students, in the most gracious and benign manner, what we intended to cover during the coming week. We were so benevolent and ingratiating the audience was drifting off to sleep. They needed to be awakened, made eager to get into these workshops. That’s the function I served. Woke ’em up.”
“Then you didn’t really mean it? About religion being dull?” Koesler asked.
“’Course not.” Krieg smiled. “Just like our friend the rabbi here said this afternoon. ‘Greatest Story Ever Told!’”
Did the man ever say what was really on his mind, Koesler wondered. Yet Krieg had just provided an autobiographical footnote. He was in essence a salesman. Probably missed his calling. Should have been a salesman, not an evangelist. On the other hand, Krieg probably wouldn’t see a lot of difference between the two.
“Then,” Koesler said, “what about the topics of sex and violence and the like? Did you mean what you said about that?”
“Well, now that’s another question. Lemmee take your own words, Padre, spoken just a moment ago. As I ’member, you said somethin’ about, ‘There is no dull religion, just dull religious commentators.’ That about right?”
Koesler nodded. He was pretty sure where Krieg was headed.
“Well,” Krieg said, “some people were just born boring, poor souls. They’re gonna be boring all their blessed lives. Nothin’ for it. They’re gonna be boring bus drivers or boring sewer workers. They’re gonna be boring lovers, husbands, wives, parents. So we can forget them ever bein’ a big success at anything, including evangelism.
“But even people with a knack for communication aren’t successful just by rollin’ out of bed each morning. The salesperson has to have a pitch, a tool—a way of making his service or product attractive to the buyer. And the tool, if it’s gonna work, isn’t necessarily something the salesman prizes. It’s something the buyer finds appealing, attractive, compelling, irresistible!”
Krieg paused. His glance moved from one to another of those present as if expecting someone to complete his premise.
Koesler tried supplying a conclusion. “And you believe that what the audience, the viewer, the reader finds compelling and irresistible is violence and sex.”
“Graphic violence, explicit sex,” Winer added.
Smiling broadly, Krieg turned both palms upward, indicating a self-evident truth. “What sells? Ladies and gentlemen, what does the American public shell out its cash for?”
“Not always,” Marie protested, avoiding a direct answer to Krieg’s almost rhetorical question. “The public appreciates things done tastefully.”
“Such as . . . ?” Krieg challenged.
“In entertainment, information, education?” Winer said. “Lots of things. The classics. Music: Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Gershwin, Copland. They still fill concert halls and will till the end of time. The theater: Shakespeare, O’Neill, O’Casey, Miller. Literature: Chaucer, Cooper, Poe, Dickens, James, Wolfe. Television, for God’s sake: some of the fine series produced by the BBC. You know the names as well as I. Not all of them lost in the mists of history either. Contemporaries. Lots of them.”
It was doubtful that Winer had shaken Krieg. In any case, no one could tell from his continuing smile.
Nearly everyone had finished eating. Dishes were being cleared away. However, because he’d been talking steadily, Krieg was well behind the others. But when the waitress reached him, he indicated he was finished, and his dishes, still containing considerable food, were removed. Dessert and coffee were then served. All the women, none of the men, accepted the apple pie. Only Janet took cream with her coffee.
“You’re quite right, Rabbi . . .” Krieg, stirring his coffee in an attempt to cool it, returned to the fray. “I do know the familiar names. But I’m not talking about literature or art that lasts forever. We are dealing with a pop culture.” His expression altered to one of sympathy. “Sad as it is to say, still, realistically, we cannot hope that all the books you have written are going to be on people’s shelves as long as, say, Shakespeare.” A small, consoling chuckle.
“We all know,” Krieg continued, “the Bible is the all-time best-seller in the history of the world. I dare say it would be difficult to find an American home—almost impossible to find a hotel room—without one.” One more chuckle for the Gideon Society. “And in all these homes and rooms, how many of these Bibles are read?” He left that truly rhetorical question hanging.
“Meanwhile,” he went on, “what sort of book does the great unwashed American public buy? Ever see people selecting a book in a supermarket, book chain, airport newsstand? Not War and Peace.
“Ever notice the general run of covers publishers put on paperbacks, the type of dustjacket on hardcovers?” Pause—a dramatic pause.
“It all tells us something,” he continued. “And we all, deep down, know what it tells us. These are the books publishers count on selling. And this is the packaging they hope will sell them. And that’s the market P.G. Press is in, friends. Praise God!”
There was no echo from his listeners.
“And as you four know by this time, I’m sure,” Krieg’s tone became almost conspiratorial, “it’s the market I’ve invited each and every one of you to join me in.”
Marie gasped as if she’d been trapped by Krieg’s discourse. Benbow and Augustine seemed embarrassed.
It was Winer who spoke, and spoke calmly, forcefully and personally. As if, of a sudden, he and Krieg were alone in the room.
“That’s right. We’ve already discovered that each of us was offered a contract with you. And that each of us, after mature consideration and professional advice, has decided not to be associated with you. Our connection with each other, aside from the fact that we share a clerical or religious calling, is that each of us has been approached by you and each of us has rejected your offer.
“It requires no genius to guess this is the reason why you stipulated as a condition of your acceptance that each of us be invited to this workshop. What you have in mind isn’t completely clear. But you’ve got something in mind. Of that there can be little doubt. If I had to guess, it would be that you are going to make one last effort to change our minds and sign us up with you.
“How am I doing?”
Krieg chuckled, and stroked his chin. “Well, Rabbi, you certainly don’t write mystery stories for nothing. The only problem is, you make it seem this whole thing was my idea. Not so. I was planning nothing of the sort. No thought of this at all.
“Out of the blue, a man I’d never met, never heard of before, phoned me. Jack Regan had this idea for a writers’ conference, a very specialized workshop in mystery novels with a religious setting. Was it so extraordinary, unexpected, that you four should come to mind? Praise God! It was a heaven-sent opportunity to meet you in person and—what else?—give it one more shot. And when heaven sends me an opportunity, I assure you, I take it.
“Now, fortunately, Mr. Regan was very strong on having me participate in this conference. So set on me was he that I was able to establish a few prerequisites. The first, and nonnegotiable, condition was that he secure your presence. And, praise God, he did. And, praise God, here you all are.”
Koesler studied the four writers. Something was going on between them and Krieg. Some sort of perceptible bad chemistry. What could it be?
Krieg spread his hands, palms up, on the tabletop. “But there’s no harm in this. It’s what the American business world labels ‘the bottom line.’ It’s a free country. You don’t have t
o sign with me.”
“Right,” Winer said. “A free country. We don’t have to sign with you. And that’s what we’ve told you. We are not—let me speak as forcefully as I can for one—I am not signing with P.G. Press. How much more clear can I be?”
The smile lost none of its self-assurance. “It’s a free country, all right. You have the right to decline, but I have the right to give it another go. Who knows . . .” Krieg spoke slowly and softly, emphasizing each word as he enunciated it. “Who knows? I may just make each of you an offer you cannot refuse!”
There was a protracted, electric silence as the writers and the publisher studied each other. Koesler sensed that Krieg had just thrown down a challenge that the writers at least understood, whether or not they would accept it.
Who would break the silence?
It was David Benbow who spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll see you dead and in—”
“David!” Martha Benbow almost shrieked his name. Her tone not only interrupted, but silenced her husband.
But everyone in the room well understood what was left unsaid. What David Benbow had been going to say was that he would see Krieg dead and in hell before ever signing a contract with Krieg’s empire.
Koesler took stock. Kreig’s smile had disappeared. In its place was a look of shocked surprise, even, oddly, fear. None of the writers had backed down. Each seemed tacitly to be in general agreement with Benbow. Martha, Janet, and, Koesler presumed, Benbow himself, were deeply shaken.
The silence that followed Benbow’s cut-off statement seemed as if it would never be broken. It was as if a gauntlet in the form of a threat had been thrown and it simply lay there with no one willing to either accept or retract the challenge.
Then Martha, clearly mortified, said, “I’m sure . . . I’m certain David did not mean that. He would never . . . could never . . . oh, dear . . .” She was near tears.
Janet cleared her throat. “This has been a long day. There’s been a lot of tension . . .” (A lot of tension I did not anticipate or expect, she added to herself. And why should I have to carry this load? I didn’t arrange for any of this to happen.) “I think we just need some time to calm down,” she continued. She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for the movie. I’m sorry, but there seems to be no time for after-dinner drinks. The students will be gathering about now. Why don’t we go and relax a bit? That should help us wind down. Tomorrow we can start fresh.”
Masquerade Page 15