The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  “Eighth, Father.” Stanley’s hands were folded and placed on the edge of the table.

  “Eighth!” Simpson enthused. “Why, it’s just about time for you to make up your mind about what you’re going to do when you grow up.”

  Silence. Stanley could see no question to be fielded.

  “So,” Simpson solicited, “have you made up your mind? Got any ideas?”

  “I don’t know, Father. I’d like to be a secretary, I think.”

  “A secretary!” Father Simpson exploded. He did that well.

  “Or not,” said Stanley agreeably.

  “Girls become secretaries. Men have secretaries.”

  Stanley wondered where was the secretary for Father Simpson. But he didn’t ask.

  After piling three quarters of the bacon and eggs on his own plate, Simpson slid the rest onto Stanley’s plate. “You know you’re the best altar boy we’ve got,” the priest observed.

  “Yes, Father.” There was no doubt in Stanley’s mind; he had been sole server too often to wonder if all those absentees were in the running for fidelity.

  “You know, Stanley, we old bucks start looking for someone to take our place when we begin to run out of steam.”

  “Yes, Father.” Actually, the lad had given no thought to the matter of succession. Now that his attention had been called to it, he wondered what this had to do with anything.

  The toast popped up. Simpson took a piece, hesitated, and looked at Stanley’s plate. The boy had consumed only a meager amount of food. The priest took both slices of toast for himself.

  “What gets me wondering, Stanley, is why I never hear you talk about becoming a priest.”

  “A priest!” It was as if Stanley had never before heard the word.

  “Yes, my boy. You must’ve pictured yourself saying Mass someday. Don’t tell me the thought has never crossed your mind.”

  “Sure, Father. But I can’t be.”

  “Can’t be a priest! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “My father isn’t Catholic.”

  “That probably explains why I never see him in church. But what’s that got to do with your becoming a priest?”

  “’Cause my folks weren’t married in church.”

  “They weren’t?”

  “A justice of the peace.”

  “Well, well.”

  “My mother and I talked this over before. She told me she was proud of me—serving Mass and all—and did I ever think of being a priest. I told her no. I like serving Mass, but I don’t want to say Mass.”

  “You don’t!”

  “No, Father. Then she told me that was good because Church law said I couldn’t qualify for the vocation.”

  “She did?”

  “She told me about my cousin in Ohio …” Stanley nodded vigorously. “My cousin wanted to be a priest but he was turned down by his pastor.”

  “Because his parents weren’t married in church?”

  Stanley nodded again. “My mother told me about all this because she said she didn’t want me to be disappointed. And I told her not to worry because I would offer it up.”

  “What if we got your folks married by a priest? By me?”

  “I haven’t told you the whole story, Father. My dad was married before. The pastor—the one who was here before you?—well, he told them they couldn’t get their marriage blessed because my dad was married before. That’s what made it impossible for my cousin. The difference is that my cousin wanted to be a priest. I don’t.” Stanley went on eating slowly.

  Father Simpson was no expert on Church law. Few of his contemporary peers were. But the situation Stanley had described rang a bell. Things that might scandalize the Faithful—like a physical deformity, or being an ecclesiastical bastard—such circumstances formed an impediment to Holy Orders.

  What to do about this?

  Simpson was skidding emotionally from an ecstatic high to a depressing low. He had thought he’d stumbled across a ticket out of Guadaloop. Now it seemed the ticket had already been punched.

  Things were so serious he put down his knife and fork. Then a light began to appear at the end of this tunnel. “Stanley, my boy, how would you like it if we could get your folks married?”

  “You could do that?”

  “I think so. There’s been a lot of movement lately in granting annulments. That would clear the path for your father to be freed from his previous marriage. Then he could marry your mother in the Church.”

  Actually, the Church movement toward easier annulments was occurring only in Simpson’s imagination and desire.

  Father Simpson was heading down an extremely risky road. Should he continue in this direction, he could find himself in a lot of trouble. But as protection, he was counting on location. After all, Guadaloop was not a Grosse Pointe address. Who cared what went on in this depressed neighborhood?

  Was it worth a try? That depended on how badly one wanted to escape the slow quicksand of Guadaloop. This one, Father Simpson, wanted out enough to lie, simulate a sacrament, and engage in fraud.

  Simpson’s only qualm was whether the mere fact that he had produced an honest-to-God seminarian from this parish might not be sufficient for the chancery to see him in a new light.

  Would they delay recognition—make him wait for Stanley’s actual ordination? The boy was just entering the eighth grade. Plus twelve years in the seminary would make thirteen years all told.

  Could Simpson hold on—could he abide for that length of time? Yes! Even thirteen years down the road was worth the investment. He would still have a few good years left, God willing. Years in which he could enjoy his just reward.

  “You could do that?” Stanley’s face radiated happiness.

  “I think we’ve got a good chance.”

  “Would my father have to become a Catholic?” The boy’s brow knitted. “I don’t think he would go that far.”

  “No, he wouldn’t have to convert,” Simpson assured him. “He would be happy to do this for your mother, wouldn’t he … don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes! Sure! He would do anything for my mother.” Stanley hesitated. “He might even become a Catholic if he had to. He went that far before when they first got married. But the other priest said he couldn’t help even if Dad did want to … become Catholic, I mean.”

  “Fine! Dandy!” Simpson enthused. “I’ll set up an appointment to meet with your parents. Then you can get busy with the eighth grade so you’ll be ready for the seminary’s entrance test.”

  “Entrance test? I don’t understand, Father …”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re a smart lad. It’ll be a breeze … you’ll see.”

  “But I don’t want to be a priest, Father. I told you.” Stanley felt close to tears.

  “What can be so bad about a seminary? You’ll get a first-rate education. Besides, just entering a seminary doesn’t guarantee that you’re going to be ordained. It’s a time when you decide—gradually—if you really want to. And all the while the faculty has to decide whether you’re qualified.”

  “But I don’t need to go there! I already know I don’t want to be a priest!”

  Simpson took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Son,” he said gravely, “do you have any idea how much your mother wants you to be a priest? Do you know how happy you’d make her by becoming a priest? You must see that!”

  Stanley’s tears overflowed.

  “I’ve got a hunch,” Simpson, heedless, continued, “that you are going to be surprised at how much you’ll like the seminary. You’ll make friendships there that will last a lifetime.”

  “But … but … my mother never said anything about my being able to be a priest—”

  “That’s because before this it was an impossibility. But think: Now it’s going to be a possibility … a distinct possibility. Think how much it will hurt her when she knows that you refuse to go to the seminary even though you are free to do so. And suppose you make it all the way through and you’r
e ordained: Can you imagine how happy and pleased and enraptured she’ll be when you give her your first priestly blessing?

  “That’s what it comes down to, Stanley. It comes down to: How much do you love your mother? Are you going to break her heart or are you going to make her one of the happiest women in the world?”

  Silence.

  “May I go now, Father?” Stanley’s words were a near gurgle through the sobs in his throat.

  “Certainly. But don’t say anything to your parents until after I meet with them. Let me break the news and explain everything to them.”

  Young Stanley nodded, then left, his shoulders sagging.

  Simpson rubbed his hands together. Not a bad ploy if he did say so himself. He had always thought Church law was crazy when it came to marriage. It wouldn’t bother him in the least to smash a couple or three of those laws.

  Now he would have to enlist the willing cooperation of the boy’s parents … to get Stanley into the seminary—and keep him there.

  No problem anticipated in that direction. Mr. Benson will see the advantage of having his son’s education taken care of. And Mrs. Benson—well, Mrs. Benson will be on cloud nine!

  And I, he exulted, I’ll be on a fast train out of Guadaloopville!

  He smiled—totally self-satisfied.

  TEN

  HOLY REDEEMER’S SCHOOLS opened on schedule.

  The IHM nuns taught grade school in the same building and the same classrooms they had been using over the years. Except that now there was no segregation by sex. The elementary pupils were given slips of paper informing them which classrooms were theirs. The pupils were assigned alphabetically.

  High school was another story. Not only were the boys and girls integrated—again alphabetically—but the Sisters had replaced the Brothers.

  The new system would require time and patience to get used to. Initially, the high schoolers missed the Brothers’ rough-and-tumble manner. Of course the students had had nuns as teachers from grade one through grade six. But the Brothers had taught the boys from grades seven through twelve.

  Everyone from the archdiocesan education office downtown to the teachers in the classrooms were prepared for disciplinary problems and even some defections.

  The reality was heartening. The high school boys seemed to consider their female teachers as ladies who should be treated as such. They were deferential. The nuns were quietly grateful.

  Here and there were empty seats of students expected to be aboard but who were not. The seats were quickly filled from a sizable waiting list.

  Among those who would be sorely missed were Rose Smith and Alice McMann. Although they were not leaving the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, they were kissing the integrated halls and classrooms of Redeemer High good-bye.

  They were excellent students—though Rose was by far superior. The two would have raised the bell curve of academic achievement markedly.

  But the faculty was certain that Redeemer would somehow survive without them.

  Henry and Lucy Smith had exploded on learning of the planned integration of Redeemer’s schools.

  There were vague threats to remove their children from that school. Cooler heads prevailed, though there was precious little time.

  The first decision was to leave Michael in Redeemer’s eighth grade. He would have girls his own age as classmates, but only for one year. If he couldn’t withstand temptation for one scholastic year, he didn’t deserve to be a priest.

  Besides, in his buddy, Manny Tocco, he would have a strong personality to steady him.

  Until now, Mr. and Mrs. Smith had not been all that happy over the boys’ friendship. Manny could be too rough on occasion. There was that famous—or infamous—fight that everyone seemed to be talking about. Both Manny and Michael had learned valuable if unexpected lessons from the singular episode.

  Ordinarily, honest-to-God upperclassmen, particularly those who had just entered high school, would lord it over eighth graders, who seemed neither fish nor fowl.

  Not that many schools housed all the full twelve grades. In the schools that comprised the primary grades, the eighth graders became king of the castle. But they would be at the bottom of the heap when they moved into the ninth, the first year of high school.

  However, at schools such as Redeemer, eighth graders would, in effect, go nowhere when they eventually passed into high school.

  There was something decidedly out of the ordinary in the way in which upperclassmen—high schoolers—treated Manny and Michael.

  It seems that Switch and Blade were familiar to many Redeemerites. The duo’s MO was identical in repeated forays, especially in the parking lots of the church and school. Switch would play provocateur; Blade would take the lead. They would never attack more than two at a time. And that only if the prey were small and not likely to put up much of a fight.

  That’s what made their encounter with Manny and Mike so pivotal.

  Undoubtedly the villains had reconnoitered Mike and Manny as the boys played their innocent game of catch. Since neither of the boys was particularly large; they appeared to be easy pickings.

  The tale of how Manny took Blade was repeated and embellished as school got under way. Everyone seemed to defer to Manny and, by extension, Michael.

  To top off the straight story, neither Switch nor Blade had been seen anywhere in the vicinity of that celebrated parking lot since.

  Manny did not anticipate further fights. For one thing, Mrs. Tocco would not overlook another torn and bloody outfit. For another, Manny had fought that day only in self-defense. That would be the only reason he might fight again. And with his reputation as it was, that seemed a remote possibility.

  Though he had played a minor, almost negligible role, Michael had indeed been part of that war of liberation. Besides, he was Manny’s sidekick and, as such, shared in the respect newly accorded his friend.

  All the while, Mike was learning that it definitely paid to be aggressive on occasion. If one never asserted oneself, one stood a good chance of being bullied. Later, much later, this principle would play a defining part in Mike’s life. For now, Manny’s reputation protected both him and Mike.

  This benefit was not a one-way street. Mike tutored Manny, who did well in his studies. But he could have done better.

  Both boys took to heart Bob Koesler’s warning that the seminary was serious about study and accomplishment. At his suggestion, they concentrated on their English studies and even anticipated the beginning of a long career in Latin. After all, they were members of the Latin Rite of the Roman Catholic Church. And one day, please God, they would conduct almost all the Liturgy in that ancient language.

  It was, however, not all study and no play. Manny and Michael made Redeemer’s eighth grade intermural football and basketball teams. Together they starred in an unbeaten season. Their simple formula was for Michael to get the ball to Manny and watch his teammate score.

  From the stands, the Toccos and Smiths cheered on their sons.

  All seemed well.

  But unbeknownst to anyone, seeds had been planted that would ripen in ways no one could have anticipated.

  Sacred Heart Seminary, was, unlike all Gaul, divided into only two entities: Day Dogs and House Rats. It depended on whether the student was a boarder or one who lived at home and commuted.

  Both Bob Koesler and Pat McNiff lived close enough to commute to school. Based solely on their chance encounter on registration day, each became the first friend the other made. There would be many other circles of friendship.

  Most of the boys came from parochial schools. Nothing odd about that. The priesthood enjoyed a preferential place in Catholic schools. Almost everyone who became a seminarian had been encouraged in his choice by nuns, who were always on the lookout for candidates for the religious life.

  Bob Koesler alone had come directly from parochial grades staffed by the Brothers of Mary. Even so, it was a bit of a cultural shock now to be taught by pri
ests.

  Perhaps Bob’s biggest surprise was his fellow seminarians. These were young men pursuing the most sublime calling in all of Catholicism; he had half expected to find them wearing subtle halos.

  Surprise: They were typical boys, pulling practical jokes, breaking nonessential seminary rules, competing fiercely in everything from physical games to academic achievement.

  In no time, he fell into the rhythm of the place. In no time, he and his classmates might just as well have been together for years instead of mere weeks.

  Bob did not need to be reminded that his goal was twelve long years off. But it seemed they were going to be good years.

  He had no way of knowing that he might have profited from an academic minor in the police procedures of murder investigations.

  The upcoming drastic change in the staffing of Redeemer’s schools outraged the Smiths, who felt betrayed. Their feelings were mirrored by those of the McManns.

  Henry Smith “chaired” a meeting of the four parents. The young people were not invited.

  All agreed that they could do nothing to challenge the move. Legal action was out of the question; the school obviously was within its rights in making this policy change.

  So, what to do?

  “Let’s begin,” Smith said, “with Michael.”

  “You can’t do that without considering Mike’s buddy Manny,” his wife suggested. “They’re practically inseparable.”

  “I’ve already talked to Mike about that. The Toccos have decided to let Manny continue at Redeemer for the eighth grade. Then, when his class gets to high school, he’ll be going to the seminary.”

  “The alternative,” Lucy Smith said, “is to send Michael to an all-boys Catholic school for the eighth grade. Then he and Manny would join up again for high school in the seminary.”

  “Of course,” Nat McMann interjected, “there’s the question of a significant raise in tuition … and transportation.”

  Nat and June McMann might as well have been disinterested bystanders when it came to the boys, neither of whom belonged to them. But there existed the possibility that their daughter Alice might be swept up in the Smiths’ plans for Rose.