“Pope John, when he called the Second Vatican Council, couldn’t have known how much ‘fresh air’ those open windows of his were going to let in.”
Archbishop Boyle shook his head. It was impossible to understand the workings of the Holy Spirit.
“Eminentissimi ac Reυerendissimi,” one of the masters of ceremony loudly enounced, “procedamus in pace.”
“In nomine Christi, Amen,” the bishops responded.
In the school hallway, one of the masters of ceremony called out, “Reυerendi, procedamus in pace.’’
“In nomine Christi, Amen,” the priests—at least those older priests who understood Latin—responded.
The procession into the cathedral had begun.
“Bob Koesler.” The tall, trim, blond priest extended his right hand to the younger priest who had become his procession partner.
“Ouellet, Maurice Ouellet.” The two shook hands. “Where’re you from, Father?”
“Detroit.” Koesler pondered momentarily. “Ouellet . . . weren’t you Cardinal Claret’s secretary . . . the one who was with him when he was attacked?”
The younger man looked pained. “So I was mentioned in the Detroit papers too. Yes, I’m the one. But I’m trying to forget it.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right. It’s just that I’ve told the story to the police so many times I’ve grown tired of it. Besides, I’ve had nightmares practically every night since.”
“Sorry again.” Intent on changing the subject, Koesler inclined his head toward a series of spires in the area. “I guess there’s no mystery about why they call this Church Street.”
Ouellet’s gaze followed in the direction of Koesler’s nod. He smiled. “They also call it ‘Redemption Street.’”
“Oh? Because of all the churches?”
“No.” Ouellet directed his companion’s attention across the street. Koesler laughed. Almost every other establishment was a pawnshop.
The clerical procession wound its serpentine way from Church Street, down Shuter to Bond along a tall, black, wrought-iron fence. The first segment of the procession was mainly in a black and white motif as the priests marched in their black cassocks, white surplices, and a white or golden stole over their shoulders. They were followed by the red uniforms of the monsignors. Then came the impressive purple of the bishops. Finally, there was the breathtaking crimson of the Cardinals.
Bystanders who had gathered outside the cathedral earlier and were now standing two and three deep on the sidewalks had anticipated a memorable pageant. They were not disappointed.
“By the way,” Ouellet turned to Koesler after a pause in their conversation, “I suppose congratulations are in order on your archbishop’s getting the red.”
Koesler smiled. “Yes. We’re very pleased and proud of him.”
“It’s about time!”
“What?” Koesler seemed nonplussed. “Why do you say that?”
“Anybody who can run the Archdiocese of Detroit can run anything—and ought to be a Cardinal.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. Rumors of Detroit’s ungovernability have been greatly exaggerated. Of course,” Koesler reflected, “it’s not Philadelphia or Los Angeles.”
“Philadelphia . . . is that bad?”
“I’ve heard they’ve just begun saying the rosary facing the people.”
Ouellet laughed. “All kidding aside, there is some talk of the new Cardinal Boyle’s being papaile.”
“Yeah, I know. We’ve heard it too. I suppose there’s some truth to it. But it’s hard to get used to. I just can’t get comfortable with the idea of actually knowing a Pope personally. I’ve never even met a Pope, let alone knowing one as well as I know Archbishop Boyle.”
“All I can tell you,” Ouellet sighed, “is that, given half a chance, the idea can grow on you. I used to feel the same way. Who, besides a few Vatican monsignors, gets to know a Pope personally? But then the rumors started about our Cardinal Claret. And after a while, you get used to it. To paraphrase that Yank football coach, just remember: The Pope puts his pants on one leg at a time just like everybody else.”
“Yes, except the Pope usually changes his clothes in a phone booth.”
They both laughed, as they turned the corner of Shuter onto Bond Street.
Koesler noticed a historical marker set back from the iron fence, near the cathedral. He squinted, trying to read it. “Principal Church for Largest English Speaking Diocese in Canada.” His lips silently formed the words. But something seemed out of place.
“I see you have vandalism problems even in Toronto . . . or is that supposed to be part of the marker?” Koesler gestured at the clenched black hand painted at the base of the marker.
“Isn’t that odd; I don’t believe I’ve ever noticed that before. And I’ve seen that marker hundreds of times.” Ouellet shook his head. “Just goes to show how familiar things can get.”
With that, they entered the cathedral and joined in the hymn the choir had already begun.
“Keep in mind that Jesus Christ has died for us and is risen from the dead. He is our Saving Lord. He is joy for all ages.”
“There he is. That’s the one.”
“No, it isn’t; he’s too tall.”
“No, that’s how tall he is. I’ve seen his picture that many times. He’s the one.”
Archbishop Boyle knew the bystanders were referring to him. He was aware that his photo had been in the papers a great deal lately, especially in the Detroit Free Press and the News, not to mention the Detroit Catholic. He had not been aware that he had been featured in the Toronto papers as well. But, then, one does not become a Cardinal every day.
Being elevated to the Sacred College would be the culmination of his ecclesiastical career, Boyle mused. It was not entirely an unexpected honor. He would not be Detroit’s first Cardinal. The late Edward Mooney’s red hat hung from the ceiling of Blessed Sacrament Cathedral. At least part of the naming of a Cardinal was precedent. And, several years ago, Boyle had been elected by his peers to a term as president of the United States Conference of Bishops.
But he had enemies, and he knew it. His reputation with Rome was that of a crashing liberal. Whereas nothing could be further from the truth. Mark Boyle was a churchman to his very marrow. And above all else, he was loyal to Rome and the Pope. But the Curia, viewing what it considered the uncontrolled liberal experimentation of Detroit, had fought against his elevation. It was a wonder that the Pope had been able to fight off his advisors and name Boyle a Cardinal.
He, of course, had heard the rumors concerning his possible accession to the Papacy. Those who believed or spread those rumors, Boyle was certain, must be unaware of the invisible but effective opposition he faced in the highest echelons of the Vatican.
But, in the end, it did not matter. All he had ever wanted to do was to serve his Church. He would be more than content to finish out his days serving as a Cardinal.
He turned the corner from Shuter to Bond. He did not notice the historical marker. As he entered the cathedral, the Twenty-third Psalm was being sung. It was Boyle’s favorite. He joined in.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
The procession ended when the last of the Cardinals took his place in the sanctuary.
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen.”
As the familiar liturgy began in this unfamiliar setting, Father Koesler’s mind cruised off on a flight of distracted musing.
It truly was an impressive sight. Bright sunshine illumined the huge stained glass Gothic window above the substantial off-white marble altar. The green of the carpet, laid throughout the cathedral, contrasted nicely with the gold, red, purple, scarlet, and white vestments of the varying ranks present.
Koesler glanced over his shoulder. There were two confessional boxes tuc
ked against either rear wall. How typical. The priest had a theory that nobody ever planned for confessionals. Each pastor, he surmised, had a church built, then as an afterthought, stuck confessionals in some out-of-the-way corner. The result was that the average confessional could qualify as a torture box. Cramped, dark, and cold in the winter; hot and airless in the summer. Even recent renovations of the compartments involving dismantling the barrier between priest and penitent, enabling them to confer face to face, hadn’t done much to improve the situation.
“The Lord be with you,” Cardinal Audette intoned.
“And also with you,” everyone responded.
Ten Cardinals attended Cardinal Audette, five on each side. Koesler could not recall seeing so many Cardinals together at one time. At least not live and in color. And yet, when there would be need to elect a new Pope, no pundit ever mentioned any of these eleven as a possible candidate. Though one of the College of Cardinals undoubtedly would be elected. But one who soon would become a Cardinal had been mentioned with some frequency: Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle, now seated among the bishops and archbishops in attendance.
An American Pope! Koesler tried to recall the whimsical tale he had heard when in high school about the first American Pope. The story had been part of a fictional French Cardinal’s nightmare. In this prelate’s dream, the American who was elected Pope took the name Buster I. His first infallible pronouncement had concerned extramarital sex. Pope Buster had declared it to be good, not evil. In response, the entire French navy had sailed across the Mediterranean, firing salvos in honor of the new doctrine.
Koesler chuckled. Several of his neighbors glanced at him.
“The Church in Toronto has lost a universally respected leader and I have lost a very dear and beloved friend,” Archbishop Tito Fulmo began his eulogy.
Archbishop Fulmo was renowned throughout Canada for speaking publicly at the drop of a hat or at any occasion whatsoever.
Which brought to mind Detroit’s late Edward Cardinal Mooney, now gone more than a quarter of a century. He, too, had let no public occasion pass without a few words. Even when someone else had already delivered the principal address, Mooney would speak. Invariably, he would invoke the formula, “I don’t wish to add anything to what Father has already said, but . . .”
The specific occasion Koesler now recalled was the funeral Mass of an Orchard Lake Seminary professor. Orchard Lake was the only national Polish Seminary in the U.S. Not unexpectedly, the sermon was delivered entirely in Polish. At the conclusion of the Mass, to everyone’s consternation, and without the slightest notion of what the preacher had said, Mooney stood and declared, “I don’t wish to add anything to what Father has already said, but . . .”
Koesler smiled. Covertly, he tried to detect whether anyone had noticed his silent levity in the midst of a serious homily. Apparently, none had. He’d have to be careful about this sort of thing.
“Pray, brethren,” Cardinal Audette proposed, “that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father.”
“May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands for the praise and glory of His name, for our good, and the good of all His Church,” the congregation responded.
Here we are at the Canon of the Mass, thought Koesler, and nothing’s happened yet.
He caught himself: What did he expect to happen?
Maybe it was a foreboding. Perhaps it was the incongruity of the setting. In this cathedral, less than a week ago, a man—a priest, a Cardinal—had been murdered. Now, in that same cathedral, a lot of nice, very civilized people had gathered to eulogize the old gentleman. Not an angry, protesting word had been uttered.
The police were investigating the crime, but, according to all accounts, had made precious little progress. The consensus seemed to be that one of the street crazies, with nothing better to do, had dropped into the cathedral, seen a defenseless victim, stabbed him, and fled. It could have been anyone. With that kind of distinct possibility, there was every chance that Cardinal Claret’s murder would end in the unsolved crimes file.
This liturgy was moving along so smoothly, indeed, that Koesler’s mind was free to wander to more cluttered liturgical experiences.
There was the master of ceremonies at a solemn pontifical Mass years ago, who, after the bishop was seated facing the congregation, had stepped forward and placed the miter on the bishop’s head. Except that the miter was backward. As the priest released the miter and stepped back, the lappets, the two tails that ordinarily fall from the miter along the bishop’s nape, fell in front of the bishop’s face, covering his eyes. The priest gulped and moved to immediately set things right, but was halted by the bishop’s upraised hand. “Leave it the way it is,” the bishop snapped, “and let everyone see what a fool you are!”
That had been one interesting liturgy.
Another, although Koesler had not been an eyewitness, had occurred regularly at each pontifical Mass presided over by one particularly cantankerous bishop. As the ceremonies proceeded, the bishop would suspend, or dismiss, one priest after another. A priest would sing the epistle, come before the bishop for a blessing, the bishop would tell the unfortunate priest he had done a rotten job, and would dismiss him. Each discharged priest would repair to the sacristy and smoke a cigarette, not bothering to divest. When a sufficient number of suspended priests were absent from the altar so that it became impossible to continue the pontifical ceremonies, the bishop would be forced to reinstate them all. This maneuver took place so often that pontifical liturgies in that diocese became known as liturgia reserυata.
Communion time. Koesler chided himself for not having paid better attention to the Mass. Routine had a way of dulling concentration.
When his turn came, Koesler shuffled down the aisle toward the center communion station.
“The body of Christ,” proclaimed Cardinal Audette, holding the communion wafer aloft.
“Amen,” Koesler responded.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was standing at the very spot that had been occupied by the assailant. And that Audette was standing where Cardinal Claret had stood when he was murdered. A shudder passed through the priest.
As he turned to return to his place, Koesler roughly computed the distance between where he now stood and the door through which the assailant had escaped. It was a considerable distance. If the killing had been deliberately planned, it would have to have been a suicide mission. No one could have relied on the utter confusion that had actually followed the stabbing as a cover for a getaway. Koesler was growing more and more convinced that it had been a spur-of-the-moment attack.
“The Mass is ended,” Cardinal Audette intoned, “let us go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God,” all responded.
The final recessional in the pamphlet that had been specially prepared for this Mass of Resurrection was “Let Hymns of Joy.” Koesler joined in the singing:
Let hymns of joy to grief succeed,
We know that Christ is ris’n indeed:
Alleluia, alleluia!
We hear his white-robed angel’s voice.
And in our risen Lord rejoice.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!
Then Koesler noticed it. At the very bottom of the final page of the pamphlet was the imprint of a black fist. It appeared as if it had been, perhaps, stamped on the paper. Hastily, he looked at the pamphlets being held by the priests on either side of him. The identical mark at the identical place. Suddenly, he recalled the black fist on the historical marker outside the cathedral. As far as he could tell, it was the same symbol.
Strange. Very, very odd. All the way out to St. Augustine Seminary, where the mortal remains of Cardinal Claret would be consigned to the earth, Father Koesler kept thinking about the black fist.
DETROIT
“I might have known. I should have known,” Free Press theater critic Larry Delaney edited himself. “When Joe Cox offers to buy lunch, it’s not going to be at the London Cho
p House.”
“That’s right,” Free Press travel writer George Singer agreed. “It’s going to be at the old faithful Econ.”
“And we are obliged to bring our own press kits for show-and-tell.” Delaney riffled through a disarray of newspaper clippings on the cluttered restaurant table.
“Gentlemen,” said Free Press staff writer Joe Cox, munching his Dandy Don, “there is no such thing as a free lunch.”
“There he goes, coining another phrase.” Delaney fingered a rigid fry.
The three were dining in an eatery located appropriately on the ground floor of the Free Press building. The location was appropriate in that the eatery was, from any vantage point, pedestrian.
Cox’s hot dog was named in honor of Don Meredith, star of “Monday Night Football.” Other sandwiches on the Econ’s menu were dubbed for media personalities—some local, such as the Mort Crim or the Bill Bonds; others national, such as the Dan Rather or the Ted Koppel. All sandwiches were overwhelmed with Bermuda onion, sliced or diced, depending on the mood of the short order chef.
“I mean,” Delaney continued, “management leaves me at sixes and sevens as to whether I cover the New York theater season. Yet they can send this worthy soul,” he looked derisively at Cox, “off to Rome to cover a Cardinal’s installation.”
“Go easy on this worthy soul, Larry,” said Singer. “It isn’t every day somebody becomes a Cardinal . . . especially Detroit’s Cardinal. Hell, Cardinals have only been around since—”
“About the sixth century.” Cox wiped the corner of his mouth.
Singer smiled. “Already started your research, eh, Joe?”
“Well, as I said when we began this banquet, you’re a lucky sonuvabitch, Joe.” Delaney pushed his plate to one side. It contained most of its original french fries, about one-quarter of the Howard Cosell ham sandwich, and all of a significant slice of Bermuda onion. “The Roman Summer Festival is starting early this year. You can have your pick of grand opera, operetta, ballet, concerts, jazz, art exhibitions, circus-in-the-streets, and a whole collection of old and new movies.”
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