She looked expectantly at Koesler, but he shook his head. He had never developed a taste for the scandals of the wealthy.
“In any case,” Joan continued as she waved to a guest here, presented a cheek to be kissed there, “Richard is not the sort to fiddle with rules and regulations of the ‘Roman Church,’ as he refers to us. The wedding is scheduled for July 28. That’s only a little more than three weeks away. And frankly, I’m getting worried.
“What do you think, Bob? Do you think Monsignor Thompson can pull it off? I mean, given my husband’s resources?”
“I really don’t know. Some cases are above and beyond the power even of the head of the Tribunal. But I do know that when he wants to be, Monsignor Thompson can be as expeditious as any mandarin.
As they glided through the crowd, exited the pavilion, and neared the lake, Koesler grew ever more self-conscious of his open-necked sport shirt and simple, if neat, blue slacks. He had seldom been among so many chic people.
“Oh,” Joan said, “I meant to ask you, do you actually know of some priest who might perform this ceremony if we are unable to get proper Church permission? Sort of a St. Jude-type patron of our hopeless case?” She giggled, as if to discount the possibility of anything’s being hopeless to the Brand family.
“Well, I—” Koesler began. But they had reached their target, and Brand was about to introduce his daughter to Koesler. The priest was grateful for the interruption. He had not yet determined whether to drop Shanley’s name.
“Father Koesler, this is our daughter Bunny,” said Brand. It was obvious Bunny was the apple of her father’s eye.
Koesler looked from mother to daughter. Sunny, Bunny, he thought. It figures. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Bunny,” he said, wishing she had been introduced by her given name.
“The pleasure is mine, Father,” said the bright, blonde, petite, attractive young lady. Then a look of concentrated puzzlement passed over her face. “Say, aren’t you connected with the police?”
Koesler laughed. “No. I was somewhat tenuously associated with the Detroit Police Department during a couple of murder investigations. But, in real life—”
“—when you’re not being Superpriest?” Bunny broke in.
“—yes, I’m just a pastor in Dearborn Heights.”
“And this,” Brand led Koesler to an extremely well-built young man an inch or two taller than the priest, “is my soon-to-be son-in-law, Richard Warwick.”
Warwick’s handshake was considerably more firm than necessary.
He even shakes hands like an Episcopalian, Koesler thought.
“Congratulations,” Koesler offered both young people. Then, for the first time, he became conscious of the presence of Monsignor Thompson, who had been standing off to one side of this small group. Thompson held a drink and a scowl.
“You two must know one another,” said Brand, gesturing at the two clergymen.
“Tommy.”
“Bob.”
Each nodded.
A waiter whispered in Brand’s ear. He turned to his wife. “Some new guests just arrived, Sunny. Excuse us, folks.” They departed, Joan’s arm how entwined in her husband’s. Koesler was reminded of a vine.
Thompson moved to Koesler’s side. “What are you doing here?” he said, in almost a stage whisper.
Koesler smiled. “What do you mean? Do you think we’re over-priesting this party?”
The two moved closer to the lake, where they were virtually alone.
“Nobody’ll know the party’s overpriested the way you look,” Thompson chuckled.
“I didn’t know I was coming here. I was over at Irene’s…” Koesler began explaining for the third time. “Oh, the hell with it!”
“So Irene sent you.”
“Yes, but I think it was a basic error. By the way, do you think you can do anything about young Richard’s first marriage?”
“Don’t know.” Thompson inserted a finger inside his roman collar and pulled it away from his neck. “Damned uncomfortable uniform, especially in the summer.” He returned to Koesler’s question. “I talked to him for a while earlier this evening. There may be a contra bonum prolis case here.”
“Which one didn’t want kids?”
“His wife. It would have ruined her tennis game.”
“Lots of testimony to gather in a case like that.”
“You’re telling me! I don’t know if Richard’s got the patience to go through all the paperwork. I don’t know if I’ve got the patience to go through all the paperwork.”
“But that’s your job,” said Koesler, imitating the monotone of “Dragnet,” “you’re an officialis.”
“My job!” said Thompson, disparagingly.
“Do your job well, and they may make you a big fat bishop someday.” He would make a good member of the Club, Koesler thought.
“Bishop! Are you kidding? Nothing ever happens to me!”
“Hang in there, Tommy. I have a hunch you’re going to be romanced by Lee Brand. And that just might be even better than becoming a bishop.”
With that, the two priests parted.
Thompson headed for the liquor table. He was in no danger of being ejected from the party. For one, he had become an intricate element in Brand’s latest game plan. For another, his ability to absorb alcohol faultlessly was storied.
Koesler tried to mingle with the guests, but it didn’t work. After less than half an hour, he decided to leave. Having joined the gathering unheralded, he felt it was not necessary to seek out his hostess to announce his departure. However, as he neared the door, he was intercepted by Joan Brand.
“Leaving so soon, Bob?”
“Big day tomorrow, Joan.”
“Sunny.”
“Sunny.”
“Before you go, you haven’t told me if we’ve got a clerical St. Jude.”
“Oh, could we leave that until or if you’ve got a bridge to cross? I’d rather not use the man’s name in vain without first consulting him. Besides, there’s plenty of time for that move.”
A slight frown crossed Joan’s face. She had not gotten her way. The frown was quickly replaced by a somewhat artificial smile. “Of course, Bob. Now that you know where we live, be sure you stop in again sometime.” She hesitated. “But call first.”
Koesler nodded and departed. In his wildest imagination, he couldn’t envision his returning to the Brand mansion on Green Lake.
She sensed her husband was fighting a foul mood.
“It’s just the morning, dear. You’ll be able to get to the office by noon,” said Pauline Janson.
Fred Janson was driving to Divine Child rectory. Divine Child was their parish. Rather, it was Mrs. Janson’s parish. Fred was not Catholic. Nor had the Jansons been married by a Catholic priest. Twenty-seven years before, a kindly judge in Minneapolis had witnessed their consent to marry. It was Pauline’s first marriage, and she had wished, with all her heart, that they could have a priest. But it was Fred’s second marriage. And so they had had a kindly judge in Minneapolis.
They had raised their children, two daughters, as Catholics. Fred had proudly attended the big occasions: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, marriages, and more baptisms. He and Pauline had endured their children’s uncomprehending doubt when parochial teachers had told them repeatedly that their parents were unfortunately headed for hell in the vehicle of an invalid marriage.
Recently, Pauline had been informed by several of her friends that Church court regulations had been relaxed in the wake of the Second Vatican Council. And that it was far easier than it used to be to get a declaration of nullity—that a previous attempt at marriage could be declared null and void. Two weeks ago, she had succeeded in getting Fred to agree, as she had been instructed by the Tribunal downtown, to see her parish priest. They were keeping their appointment this morning, July 5, with Father Leon Cavanaugh, pastor of Divine Child.
Fred Janson was a highly successful corporation lawyer, with offices high in th
e Renaissance Center giving a breathtaking view of Detroit’s east side, the Detroit River spilling out of Lake St. Clair, and that part of Canada that included Windsor and its airport.
Pauline Janson, a small, trim, attractive woman, was as active a member of Divine Child parish as she could be. Any time the church needed cleaning, Pauline was there with bucket and brush. When volunteers were called for almost any task, Pauline was first among them. But no confessions and no communion. And, as party to a canonically invalid marriage, there would likely be a serious problem with Catholic burial.
There was no response to Pauline’s observation on the length of time this initial meeting would take. So she tried again. “Try to be patient, dear. This is going to be difficult for all of us.”
He reached across and patted her hand. “I know. It’s just…if I asked you whether you were married to me, would you say no? Maybe? Slightly?”
“We’ve been over all that, Fred. This is not for us. It’s for the Church. So I’ll be able to go to confession and communion again.”
Fred was well aware of his role in this scenario. He and his first marriage were the sole obstacles to Pauline’s reception of her precious sacraments. When he reflected on it, he gained new insights into the suffering of blacks under the implications of being called “nigger.” They were not responsible for being black. No more did he consider it his fault he had been involved in a disastrous marriage. No matter; there was a stigma in either case.
“I’ll do my best to be cooperative,” he said.
She sighed and took his hand in both of hers.
He had parked in the small lot in front of the rectory. Now they were seated in Father Cavanaugh’s small office. Fred Janson felt confined. As he was wondering what it would be like working where one lived, Cavanaugh entered. Fred stood to greet him. While Cavanaugh was well-acquainted with Pauline, he had no more than a passing relationship with Fred.
Cavanaugh wore a semi-Jesuitical cassock with large black sash; white French cuffs peeked from the ends of his cassock sleeves. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed flat against his scalp. He had shaved, but a blue shadow of his heavy beard remained. Of moderate height, he had a pronounced paunch, and one shoulder appeared higher than the other.
When all were seated, Cavanaugh took three rectangular pink pamphlets from his center desk drawer. Retaining one, he presented one each to Fred and Pauline. The pamphlet was entitled, “Marriage Annulment Procedures.”
This, thought Fred, as he quickly fingered through the pamphlet’s six pages, is familiar territory—law.
“You’d have no way of knowing, of course,” Father Cavanaugh began, “but the present regulations concerning a possible declaration of nullity aren’t what they used to be. But then, nothing is. Church is losing its backbone.” His voice had a strong nasal tone.
Pauline made a vaguely supportive noise. Fred continued to study the document and the priest.
“Now, sir,” said Cavanaugh, “can you tell me why you think your first marriage might have been null from its beginning?”
Fred shrugged. “To be perfectly frank, Father, I’ve never perceived it as null from inception. Though for strictly legal purposes I suppose you might contend my wife had to have been in a pre-schizophrenic condition. Of course, none of us knew it at the time, but her condition began to deteriorate shortly after we married. Within eighteen months, she was committed to the Brockport Home in Massachusetts. It’s only within the last five years we’ve been able to keep her at Providence House, an extended care unit.”
“And,” Pauline added, “Fred has seen to her financial care all these years.”
“It really was the least I could do. I loved her. I just couldn’t continue to live with her as a husband. No one could. So, a few years after she entered the sanatorium, I divorced her. It meant nothing to Nancy. She was in another world. That’s about it, Father.”
Cavanaugh adjusted his thick glasses. “Very well, Mr. Janson. Now, let me call your attention to a few relevant considerations you will find in this pamphlet.
“In the third paragraph, ‘We believe that your previous marriage, although painful and hurt-filled, is sacred as well.’ I point that out to disabuse you of the notion that your case may seem of the open-and-shut variety. The Church considers it ‘sacred,’ and the burden of proof that it was null from its beginning is upon us.”
“Us?”
“Yes. I call your attention to d. Mandate. ‘This is the agreement of your parish priest to serve as your advocate (the person who argues for the nullity of your marriage).’ So,” Cavanaugh exhibited what, passed as a smile, “in effect, I am your attorney.”
Janson did not comment but continued to page through the pamphlet. He read aloud: “The description of the second session of the formal stage states that, ‘The Defender of the Bond is present. It is his task to defend the validity of your marriage.’”
“That is correct.” Cavanaugh blinked behind his bottle-bottom lenses.
“The title, Defender of the Bond, sounds to me as though it is a trained position. May I assume the gentleman who holds that position is trained in canon law… indeed, that he holds a degree in canon law?”
“That is correct.”
“And you, Father?”
“Me?”
“What background do you have in law?”
“Just four years of training in the seminary. But that should be sufficient.”
“To go up against a professional? Father, I think the Church is stacking the deck.”
“You’re forgetting faith!” Cavanaugh had always found that to be the equalizer. If faith could move mountains, it surely could produce justice in a Tribunal.
“Now, another thing,” he continued, “from what you’ve told me, your first wife has had psychiatric treatment.” Janson nodded. “And, in that connection, have you had therapeutic counseling?” Again Janson nodded. “I will have to write the therapists and the institutions for confidential summaries of the treatment.”
Janson made no comment. He knew that as the number of people who shared confidential matters grew, the less likely were those matters to remain confidential. But once he had agreed to participate in this procedure, there was nothing he could do to prevent this.
“One final question.” Many more than one question occurred to Janson, but he could, by now, surmise the answer to most of them. “It states here that if I am granted an annulment, after all this the Defender of the Bond is required to appeal the verdict of the Tribunal to Cincinnati, where the verdict must be affirmed by two appellate church courts before Pauline and I can have our marriage blessed.”
“That is correct.”
“Isn’t that going a bit far to establish nullity?”
“The Church, Mr. Janson, is concerned solely with the protection of the sacraments.”
Try as he might, Janson could not understand why sacraments should require protecting. If one wished to believe in them, they were given by God to be used or abused. People profited or demeaned themselves depending on their approach to the sacraments.
Janson began writing the suggested check for $300. “To whom shall I make this out?”
“To the Tribunal. You understand,” Cavanaugh hastened to add, “that if you could not afford that, you would pay only what you could afford, or even nothing.”
“I understand that secretaries must eat.”
Janson and his wife rose to leave.
“By the way, Father,” said Janson, “you mentioned earlier that these regulations had been relaxed. How could they possibly have been more harsh?”
“Well, for one thing,” Cavanaugh held the door to his office for them, “in my day, couples like yourself were required to promise to live as brother and sister for the duration of their case.”
“That’s barbaric!” Janson was shocked.
“In any case, Monsignor Thompson allowed the requirement to fall into desuetude. Actually,” he almost smiled, “I think he simply couldn’t get
these young priests to enforce it.”
“Monsignor Thompson,” said Janson. “Is he the chief judge mentioned in the pamphlet?”
Cavanaugh nodded.
“Why,” Janson observed, “he has practically the power of life or death on these cases at every moment. That’s an awful lot of power.”
“Perhaps,” said Cavanaugh as he saw his visitors out the front door. “But they tell me Detroit’s Tribunal handles more cases than that of just about any other diocese in the country.”
Janson considered that comparable to a pool attendant’s telling a would-be swimmer it was safe to get into the pool because the shark in the water was pretty benevolent. The point is there shouldn’t be a shark in the pool.
The Jansons departed with Father Cavanaugh’s promise that he would mail all the necessary forms and applications to the Tribunal.
2
Thomas Thompson was born December 11, 1927. His father, Gregory, was chauffeur to one of the founders of one of the Big Three auto companies. The Thompson family lived comfortably in the chauffeur’s home on the magnate’s estate.
Young Tom grew up only a hair’s breadth from inconceivable wealth. Regularly, he was the playmate of the magnate’s grandchildren. But when play ended, Tommy returned to the modest quarters of the family chauffeur, while the scions retired to the mansion. His carefree older brother Pete took all this in stride. However, the recurrent dichotomy troubled Tommy to his very core.
The tycoon’s grandchildren got the best education money could buy. Tom Thompson took the bus to St. Ambrose parochial school in Grosse Pointe. The enormous difference in the lifestyle of his father’s employer’s family and the Thompsons made a deep and lasting impression on Tom.
After graduation from St. Ambrose High, he entered Sacred Heart Seminary. The fact that Latin had not been emphasized in his parochial education forced him to repeat his senior year. Thus, he had become a classmate of Robert Koesler. They, along with thirty-seven others, were ordained Detroit diocesan priests June 4,1954.
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