“The couch and no conversation. As General Mac Arthur once said, ‘These proceedings are concluded.’“
“He was accepting the articles of surrender from the Japanese.”
“So am I. In case you haven’t tumbled to it, you are in a position of unconditional surrender. Good night!”
The remainder of the evening passed in a protracted pregnant silence.
Lennon aborted her bike ride. She made a salad for one, which she ate in the privacy of the bedroom. The sound of slamming doors was the extent of any significant noise made that evening.
Cox wished that Lennon were not wearing white shorts. She might have changed into anything else. Her legs looked so great. And, for no discernible reason, he had always felt a superfluous stimulation at the sight of white shorts.
For both of them, bedtime was early, but sleep came late. Cox tossed and turned in a mixture of anger, embarrassment, frustration, righteous indignation, and a lumpy couch. In Lennon’s case, it was simply fury and resentment.
But sleep came, eventually, for both.
Fitful dreams punctuated Lennon’s night. Each had a sameness. Cox would be aboard a series of boats—yachts, actually. Not one of them resembled a craft that had not or could not have easily won the Mackinac Race. There had to be some internal reason for a constant and infamous failure. Perhaps it was because, in her dreams, Lennon found the crews, such as they were, composed entirely of women—extraordinarily voluptuous women. There was not much sailing. There was a lot of tanning. As a centerpiece of each dream, there was a sated and ecstatic Cox, smiling blissfully and attended hand and foot by nubile beauties. Years later, Pat would recall this series of dreams as her Night of Nightmares.
Oddly, Cox was having the same sort of dreams. However, for him, they were far from nightmarish.
MONDAY
JULY 24
CHAPTER
4
Beverly Hills Cop was a movie about a Detroit policeman. Nine-tenths of the picture was filmed in California, but the opening scenes were in Detroit. It featured some of the Motor City’s seediest neighborhoods. Citizens staggered across sidewalks. If they weren’t sitting on curbs, they were tumbling into gutters.
This image of their city did not amuse Detroiters. But they could scarcely deny that such neighborhoods existed. There they were, on the big screen, in living color.
Their argument was that the decaying locales that appeared on the screen were not the only neighborhoods in town. Some were better. A few were considerably better.
One such livable area could be found in the southwest part of the city. It was identified with and by its Catholic church and parish.
St. Hedwig’s, a monster in red brick and stained glass, was the hub around which a very ethnic Polish community had gathered. Now, in the final years of the twentieth century, the neighborhood was holding up well under the steady gaze of the life-sized statues of the four evangelists mounted near the steps leading to St. Hedwig’s Church.
Once, the neighborhood had been so predominantly inhabited by Polish-Americans that it merited the title “Polonia,” their word to describe a Polish community outside of Poland. In effect, it was a little Poland.
But time, very hard work, and a touch of upward mobility had seen many, especially the young, leave for the suburbs, particularly Warren and Sterling Heights. Still, St. Hedwig’s boasted a solid nucleus of Poles as well as a functioning parochial grade and high school—rare now in the city.
Even though the neighborhood, centered at Junction and Michigan Avenue, was changing, the homes, by and large, still exhibited the tidiness and cleanliness that so exemplified the Poles. Traveling through the neighborhood one was impressed with the mint condition of most of the houses. Large two-, even three-storied homes; wood and brick; lots of whites, yellows, greens, and browns. Large porches, furnished—even featuring that monument to summertime conversation, the porch swing.
The only readily perceivable fly in this ointment was the closeness of these immense houses. One could visualize residents shaking hands—or fists—from one living room to the one next door. Even more maddening was the concomitant lack of privacy. It was difficult to keep conversations, not to mention loud quarrels, all in the family.
It was into this predominantly quiet neighborhood about nine months previously that a tiny religious community had moved.
There were five of them—a priest and four religious Brothers. They called themselves the Congregation of St. Stephen. They dressed in dark gray habits that covered the body from shoulders to feet. They wore sandals, a cincture, or cord, tied about the waist, and a scapular that covered their shoulders and fell to the ground fore and aft. Affixed to the neck of their habit was a cowl, which they often pulled over their heads like a hood. In the spectrum of post-Vatican Council II ecclesial theology, they were viewed as extremely conservative.
Before even considering converting anyone to their way of life, they first had to convert an abandoned bank building into a quasi-monastery.
The bank, an obsolete branch of First Standard Bank and Trust, had become an anachronistic eyesore to its parent company. So, in a gesture rich in spiritual generosity, First Standard gave the old building to Sacred Heart Seminary and took a seventy-five thousand dollar tax write-off. In time, Sacred Heart was happy and relieved to lease the place to the Congregation of St. Stephen for next to nothing.
Father Robert, the leader of this little group, presented himself and his papers to the chancellor of the Archdiocese of Detroit, who, after giving the matter a modicum of thought, could find no earthly or celestial use in the diocese for either Father Robert or his band. The diocese was already sufficiently torn between liberal and conservative factions without introducing another polarizing group into parish life. However, he wished Father Robert well, and forgot about him.
That is, until the first soundings of the possibility of miraculous goings-on at the new monastery were heard. That began in about the fifth month of the monastery’s existence. Thus it had been going on for about four months now. Nothing for the local hierarchy to be unduly alarmed over, but something to watch and monitor.
The hierarchy were not the only ones watching and monitoring. The former bank, the present monastery, was located on the southeast corner of Bushey and Michigan, only four blocks from St. Hedwig’s. At first, the priests of St. Hedwig’s, Conventual Franciscans—OEM Conv., or Black Franciscans—paid little mind to the ragtag band in the bank building. The Franks had enough to occupy their time in the parish. But, as the months passed, the Congregation of St. Stephen began to grow in popularity and, more threateningly, in the size of its flock. And there were those rumors of miracles. Or, at least, miraculous answers to the prayers of this Father Robert.
Distressing.
The monks were not much given to external works of charity, nor, for that matter, did they seem to have much of anything to do with the outside world. Those curious enough to wonder about the purpose of the Congregation were compelled to conclude that their principal concern was contemplation and prayer.
As a contemplative, prayer-oriented religious order, the Congregation of St. Stephen was not alone in the Archdiocese of Detroit. Not counting various rather informal houses of prayer, there were the Monasteries of the Blessed Sacrament and St. Therese of the Child Jesus, Sisters Disciples of the Divine Master and Sisters of the Cross of the Good Shepherd.
To date, the monks of the Congregation had spent most of their time making the considerable alterations necessary to turn a bank into a monastery. The principal obstacle, of course, was poverty. For them, poverty was not only a vow, it was a way of life. But things were improving financially. Freewill donations that had trickled in at the beginning were increasing markedly. This was particularly true with regard to the people who found Father Robert’s prayers effective.
Now, the building, at least the interior, no longer so clearly denoted its previous function. Simple cells for the monks had been constructed at the
rear of the building. Naturally, the Congregation could not afford stained glass, but the windows were heavily tinted in dusky colors. This, plus extremely inadequate lighting, created a rather grim atmosphere.
A modest altar for Mass and reservation of the Blessed Sacrament was built. The altar, on a raised platform, was flanked by what had to pass as chair stalls. Three chairs on one side, one on the other.
Mass was offered each day at noon. Three monks, who, being approximately the same size, and with cowls pulled over their heads, seemed clones of one another, took their places to the altar’s right. The fourth Brother was alone at the altar’s left. He seemed not to fit with the rest. Taller, more athletically built, he cut a decidedly impressive figure.
The congregation was left to shift for itself. There were no pews and few chairs. Many simply stood for the length of the services.
But most, in keeping with the generally conservative tone of the entire enterprise, knelt throughout. This was no easy venture on the rock-hard uneven terrazzo floor.
Today’s Mass was nearing conclusion.
Father Robert, assisted by Brother Paul, the tall one, was distributing Communion. The congregation numbered well in excess of two hundred—phenomenal, especially for a weekday. Many were attending on their lunch hour.
Toward the rear of the chapel, two women who had managed to find chairs, conversed in whispers.
“Have you been here before?”
“Oh, yes, many times.” She seemed somewhat uncomfortable talking in church, but reluctantly willing to help this obvious neophyte.
“It’s so dark!”
“That’s the way they want it, I guess. They painted the windows.”
“That’s bad enough, but the lighting is so poor.”
“So are they. Very poor. They can’t afford much.”
The first woman wondered about that. She had observed people before and even during the service stuffing money—mostly folding money—into collection boxes conspicuously placed around the chapel. But who knew what they did with the money? They certainly seemed to be poor. “Father Robert is the only one who hasn’t pulled that hood over his head. And I still can’t quite tell what he looks like.”
“That is strange, isn’t it?” the second woman responded. “Actually, this is the only time that he doesn’t wear his cowl—when he says Mass. The rest of the time, as far as I can tell, all of them wear the cowl all the time . . . at least when there’s anyone around.”
“So, this is the only time you get a look at Father Robert . . .” The first woman squinted. “I wish the light were better.”
“It’s not just the light. Father Robert always keeps his head down, sort of bowed. Very humble.” She nodded authoritatively. “Yes, a very humble man. That must be why it’s so difficult to see what he looks like. Very humble.”
Father Robert traced a sign of the cross in the air, intoning, “Benedicat vos, Omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus.”
The Mass was over.
Mass at this monastery was always offered in Latin. In itself that was not necessarily significant. But the Latin liturgy had come to connote a conservative presence. However, mat connotation was mostly in the mind of the worshiper.
Popularly, the Latin rite was equated with the entire Catholic Church, which was termed the Roman Catholic Church. Historically, this was most inaccurate.
The Church of the Apostles was, of course, entirely Jewish. But as it centered and grew in Rome, the language of the early Church became Latin.
Then, as the Church spread to other countries, worship was expressed in the language of each local region. Thus, rites other than Latin were established, most of which exist today—rites such as Chaldean, Greek, Coptic, Maronite, Russian, and so on.
Nonetheless, it is true that the Latin rite is, by far, the most widespread.
The Council of Trent, which rambled off and on from 1545 to 1563, authorized a formula for worship in the Latin rite. It was known as the Tridentine—from Trent—Mass. That ritual continued unbroken for close to four hundred years. So one might easily understand why Latin-rite Catholics got used to it.
It was not until the Second Vatican Council in the early 1960s that permission was granted for the vernacular to be substituted for Latin in the Latin rite. The Council made it most clear that Latin remained the official language of the Latin rite and that any vernacular version had to be approved by Rome before permission to use it was granted.
Thus, the language of priority throughout the Latin rite of the Catholic Church remained Latin. English, in the eyes of the Church, was the equivalent of a poor cousin, a substitute at best.
When English was introduced in the United States Mass, there was enormous opposition to it. Now, some twenty years later, the English liturgy was taken, generally, as the norm in the English-speaking world. When the new liturgy was offered in its original Latin form—the Tridentine had been phased out—people tended to interpret this not as a return to their roots, but as an expression of a conservative or rightist philosophy and theology.
The Congregation of St. Stephen, by its unswerving use of the Latin Mass, thus told whoever was interested that a pre-Vatican II spirit could be found here. And the majority of attending Catholics understood that clearly.
There was a good deal of stirring in the Chapel of St. Stephen as the Mass ended. Many in the congregation had to return to work, perhaps picking up a sandwich or a Coney Island on the way.
But some remained. There was more to come.
The three Brothers who had been kneeling to the right of the altar made their way through the chapel, emptying the collection boxes. Father Robert, assisted by Brother Paul, removed his Mass vestments, while a line of people formed down the center of the chapel.
The two women who had been whispering to each other remained in the chapel, but only one of them knew what was going on.
“What’s going on?” the first woman asked.
“Blessings. Father Robert blesses people after the Mass.”
“What’s the big black bag for?” The first woman pointed to a black grip Brother Paul was holding. It was about the size of a valise or the satchel a doctor might carry on calls.
“That’s where they keep the relics that he blesses the people with.”
“Relics? What relics?”
“Relics! Don’t you know what relics are? Say, are you a Catholic?”
“Of course I’m a Catholic. I just never heard of relics.”
Some Catholic! the second woman thought. But, with a sigh, she explained, “There’s three kinds. The first kind is a piece of bone from the saint.”
“How gross!”
“Do you want to know or not?” Her patience was running short.
The other nodded, with some reluctance.
“Well, then, the second class is something the saint owned—like a rosary or a prayer book. And the third kind is something that was touched to the body of a saint.”
“Oh.”
They watched while Father Robert blessed several people.
“Those things he’s using to bless those people,” the first woman observed, “they’re so little ... are you sure they’re relics?”
“Yes,” in an exasperated tone, “those are the first-class relics. There’s only a tiny sliver of the bone.”
“That makes sense.” Pause. “One more question . . .”
“Yes?” Plainly irritated.
“Why does the Brother keep handing him a different relic every time he blesses somebody?”
“Because different saints are better at different things.”
“Huh?”
“How come you don’t know about all this? Everybody knows what you say when you lose something: ‘Dear St. Anthony, please come around; something is lost and can’t be found.’“
“Really!”
“And St. Matthew is the patron saint of tax collectors. And St. Valentine is for lovers. And Cecilia is for singers. And Mary Magdalen is for pr
ostitutes.”
“That figures. And St. Nicholas is for Christmas?”
“No, that’s the baby Jesus!”
“Sorry.”
“Actually,” the second woman added thoughtfully, “there isn’t any first-class relic for Jesus. He ascended into heaven, you see. Maybe a relic of the True Cross . . . no; that would be Easter, wouldn’t it? Or Good Friday—oh, never mind.”
By this time, the two women had worked themselves close enough to the front of the chapel to see more clearly and hear what was going on. While over half of the original congregation had long since departed, the remainder seemed determined to stay with this paraliturgical ceremony to the end.
A young man, whose turn it was, knelt on the floor near Father
Robert, who was seated on an uncomfortable-looking straight-back chair. Seated so close to Father Robert that their knees were touching was Brother Paul.
The kneeling man, perhaps in his early twenties, and whose tattered clothing was in desperate need of cleaning and repair, was saying, just loudly enough to be heard by those nearby, “. . . and so, Father, everything depends on my book. I’ve poured my life into it. I could have gotten a job in a factory and been much better off than I am. I could have done lots of things and made some money or, at least, I could have qualified for unemployment compensation. But I didn’t. I fasted and prayed and wrote. But it’s a good book, Father. It will help people, and if it’s published, I’ll be able to make a living by writing. Everything depends on that book.”
“What kind of book is it, my son?” Father Robert’s voice was muffled, coming from deep within the cowl he’d pulled far over his head, completely concealing his face.
“It’s a spiritual book, Father. I know you’d like it. It’s about the miracles of Garabandal, where the Blessed Mother appeared. I have eyewitness accounts of the miracles and the apparitions of Our Lady. And photos—not very close, I must admit—but photos of the children in ecstasy while they see Our Lady and the Sacred Host floating through the air, snatched right out of the hands of the priest as Our Lady herself gives Communion to the children.”
Eminence Page 5