But one thing Michael Smith had learned over the years: Nothing conceivable to man is impossible.
THIRTY-ONE
I WONDERED … would you give the eulogy?”
“Sure, Stan,” Father Koesler responded without hesitation.
Most priests consider it an honor to be asked to give the eulogy of a priest’s relative—or of a fellow priest. In the laity’s parlance, the practice might be termed a professional courtesy. To priests, it is another manifestation of bonding. At this most solemn moment, the celebration of the end of mortal life, priests tend to gather and offer prayer and moral support.
“Lily …” Koesler said. “ … that was that your mother’s name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And how old was she?”
“Ninety-four. She would have been ninety-five next month.”
Koesler had never felt at ease with the small talk exchange that usually followed a death notice. Obviously, Stan’s mother had lived an uncommonly long life. It was no surprise to Stan’s few friends that his priesthood was his mother’s pride. She had basked in the sublime vocation of her son the priest.
“Well,” Koesler said, “you made her proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know.” No one knew what Stan had paid for that pride. It had cost him his life. He had paid a profound price for his mother’s happiness. But, he felt, the price was worth it.
The Bensons were a reclusive family. Koesler had known them as well or better than anyone else. He was inquiring into Stan’s memories of his mother to get more personal detail for the eulogy. It was like pulling impacted teeth.
This was Monday. The funeral would be Wednesday morning, with a wake Tuesday evening.
As it turned out, the wake was peculiar in that hardly anyone attended. That was extremely odd for a prayer service and viewing of a priest’s mother. But very few were in any way close to either Stan or his mother.
Manny and Alice, Sister Rose and Michael Smith attended. But they spent most of their time in conversation with each other. The Toccos and Michael had long since buried the hatchet, although not very deep.
A more representative crowd showed up for the funeral itself. A couple of auxiliary bishops attended, some priests concelebrated. A few of Stan’s former parishioners were there. Lily had outlived most of her contemporaries.
Stan Benson was the picture of self-control. Inside he was screaming. Now his mother knew. Now she knew what her joy had cost him. Could she be happy knowing this? He loved her. He always had. He didn’t regret the sacrifice he had been forced to make.
It’s unfair, Momma. I shouldn’t have to stand over your casket. I can’t cry. No one will let me. I don’t mind your wanting me to be a priest. I would have done anything for you. I proved that by sacrificing my life. Don’t blame yourself, Momma. You wanted what you thought would be best for me. Rest now, Momma. You’ve had a long and mostly happy life. I will probably follow you shortly. I pray you will be there to welcome me home.
The funeral service continued toward its conclusion. Stan had presided over so many similar liturgies, he scarcely paid any attention to the routine that washed over him. He did hear Father Koesler’s eulogy. For what little he had to work with, Bob did a fine job. He just had not known her very well. Perhaps not even Lily’s husband, Stan’s father, had known Lily Benson as well as did her son.
The final requiem was sung. The congregation left to go about their business. A few journeyed to the cemetery. Koesler was the only priest besides Stan at the graveside. The ceremony was characteristically brief. Finally, only Benson and Koesler remained.
“Thank you, Bob,” Benson said, turning to his most dependable friend. “The eulogy was beautiful.”
“I wish I had known her better. There was probably lots more to touch upon.”
“The ‘lots more’ would’ve had to come from me. And I didn’t have the gumption to say it. But there is one more thing you could do.”
“Anything.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Of course.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure. Where?”
“St. John’s. Our old alma mater.”
“Eight o’clock okay?”
“I’ll meet you at the foyer.”
They shook hands and parted.
THIRTY-TWO
THEY MET PROMPTLY AT EIGHT.
There was a wedding going on in the chapel. But the room they chose to use was empty and available. In the distance, they could dimly hear the sounds of a wedding and the organ.
“I have been keeping a secret for a long, long time,” Stan said. “Since I was an altar boy at Our Lady of Guadalupe parish.”
“Man, that is a while!” A thought occurred to Koesler. “Did you want to make this a Confession?”
“No,” Stan replied. “That won’t be necessary.” He paused several moments. “This is very difficult,” he said finally.
Koesler nodded sympathetically, understandingly, supportively.
Another long pause.
“Maybe,” Koesler suggested, “if we walk around? Like we used to do?”
“Maybe.”
They left the building and began walking together through the various gardens and shrines.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Koesler asked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to waste your time.”
“You’re not wasting my time, Stan. It’s just that I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Okay. Here goes.” Stan seemed to take a deep breath. “It begins with my parents.”
“Yes?”
“They weren’t married in the Church.”
“Well, they must have had their marriage convalidated; they went to Communion regularly.”
“They did … and they didn’t.”
Stan recounted his days as just about the only faithful altar boy Guadalupe parish had. His father had been married before and couldn’t qualify for a nullity. His parents had gotten married eventually, but only civil law recognized the marriage. Stan’s mother had been carefully taught by the Church that her marital state was leading her into everlasting hellfire.
Koesler understood. He’d seen this sort of case many times. He knew about the torture of the threat of hell. In his later years as a priest he had tried to alleviate that threat and restore couples to confidence in God’s love.
Stan continued. Because of his fidelity as a Mass server, his mother thought that he wanted to be a priest. Actually, he just loved the Mass. He didn’t want to “do” Mass. He didn’t want to be a priest. But his mother never knew that. All she saw was his fidelity. Like too many people who assume something is so just because they want it to be, Stan’s mother added two and two and got five. After all, how could a boy be faithful to Mass and not want to be a priest?
Whatever, her convoluted thinking only added to her torture. Not only was she responsible for her own damnation, she had led her husband down the same path. If their marriage was invalid, it couldn’t be invalid for only one partner. And now, the final blow that intensified her torture: Her nonmarriage had made a bastard of her son. And that bastardy would block his entry to the seminary and his vocation as a priest.
Enter Father Ed Simpson.
There was something wrong at this point in Stan’s narration. Koesler could not put his finger on it. He would have to wait till Stan completed his story. “You mean Ed Simpson, pastor of Guadalupe?”
“The very one.” Stan had never figured out why Father Simpson was so determined that he become a priest. But the old man certainly seemed determined that Stan do just that. Simpson effectively built a dilemma around the boy. Simpson was going to completely save Mrs. Benson’s soul—as well as Mr. Benson’s. But Simpson was also going to shepherd little Stan into the seminary.
Lily would be ecstatic. But to complete her happiness, Stan would have to become a priest. It’s what she wanted more than anything in the world. She had been convinced from the
start that Stan wanted to be a priest. She wanted that too. With her marriage fixed, no obstacle stood before her son. But should Stan fail, his mother’s bliss would be shattered.
As a final touch, Simpson gathered the necessary documents, forging at least Lily’s marriage record. With that taken care of, the marriage repaired and all, nothing stood in Stanley’s path to the seminary and the priesthood. Should he back away, Mother would be crushed—which was the last thing in the world Stan wanted.
“How,” Koesler interrupted, “did Simpson convalidate the marriage? I haven’t heard a single word that sounds like Tribunal.”
“That’s almost the weirdest part,” Stan said. “Did you ever hear of a ‘Missionaries’ Privilege’?”
“I must confess I’ve heard of the Missionary position.”
Ignoring the levity, Benson proceeded to explain Simpson’s claim to have received Pontifical permission to let owners of harems select one member as his true and only wife and thus conform to Christian monogamy.
“Half of that is believable,” Koesler said. “I have heard of the custom in mission territories to downsize to one wife. But that Simpson had one of those alleged permissions left over, and that he would spend it on your mother … well, I find that just ridiculous.”
“That’s what it seemed like even to me at the time.”
“Then why didn’t you tell your mother it was a hoax?”
“God forgive me …” Benson bowed his head. “ … but Simpson had made my mother happy and at peace for the first time in many long years.”
Koesler nodded. “Of course. As long as she believed Simpson’s malarkey, she would be happy and at peace.”
“Happy and at peace,” Benson repeated. “I dedicated my life to that—keeping her happy and at peace. I could never let her know the truth. And so, of course, I had to get into the seminary, and the priesthood.
“But I had to keep all this a secret. Her welfare—her happiness—depended on no one’s knowing our secret. The truth would’ve destroyed her.
“So I’ve gone through my life keeping what is now termed a low profile. That meant I had to divorce myself from any and every decision or action that might be the least bit controversial.
“A good example: When Manny and Alice wanted me to solve their granddaughter’s problem with a Communion wafer having no gluten, I knew what they requested was correct. I also knew that if I didn’t follow the Church guidelines, I almost certainly would attract a spotlight. Some reporter, some bitter conservative or Church official, might start digging around, talking to my mother, finding out about Simpson’s crackpot privilege. That could destroy the fiction I’d created. Actually, the fiction I’d built on Simpson’s fiction.”
“I would never have guessed,” Koesler said in wonderment. “What a story!”
They walked on in silence. Koesler found the tale difficult to sort out. “So,” he said finally, “you said this isn’t a confession. Besides, I can’t think of any sin you might have committed. So … why? Why tell me now? Because your mother is gone?”
Stan shook his head. “Because I don’t know what my status is. I knew there was some kind of impediment to Orders if a guy was illegitimate. I was illegitimate in the eyes of the Church. If you want to discount Simpson’s make-believe convalidation, I’m still illegitimate. So, what’s my standing in the Church? I honestly don’t know.”
“I know the Canon Law prof skipped over the Order impediments for our class,” Koesler said. “Yours too?”
Stan nodded.
“I think,” Koesler said, “he passed over them because there were two thousand four hundred and fourteen laws to study and he could be pretty sure that if any of us had an impediment, the system—records and so forth—would have flushed them out.
“But you had a vested interest in the answer to your situation. How come you didn’t look it up on your own?”
“Because I’m weak!” Stan’s reply was almost shouted.
“Keep it down,” Koesler cautioned. “Somebody else might be out here.” After a moment, he asked, “What do you mean you’re ‘weak’?”
Stan sighed. “Did you ever come across somebody who had the symptoms of, say, cancer, but didn’t go to a doctor for a checkup because he was afraid of what the examination might disclose?”
Koesler knew any number of people—including himself—who would fit that bill. “Sure.”
“That’s how I am about this. I was afraid to dig into it for fear I would find something really wrong. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve opened the Codex Iuris Canonici and came close to looking up everything in there about impediments to Holy Orders … especially regarding illegitimates. But … my life was in delicate balance. Momma was happy. I couldn’t chance upsetting that cart.”
Koesler shook his head. “I wish you had told me what we were going to discuss this evening; I would’ve looked it up. But I do know enough about it to address your question.”
Stan stood still and shut his eyes tight. “Go ahead.”
“Okay. First of all, there were certain impediments to Orders in 1917 when the earlier Code was promulgated. The idea was to avoid—well, shocking the Faithful. The hierarchy of about a hundred years ago feared the Faithful would be distracted in their worship if the priest was ‘deformed.’ Maybe he had a hunchback, or a clubfoot, or a shriveled arm, or a cleft palate, or a stammer … or maybe there was merely a general awareness that the priest was illegitimate.”
Stan winced. Now he really expected the worst.
“But,” Koesler continued, “there wasn’t any specified penalty to illegitimacy. Illegitimates were termed ‘irregular.’ They could be dispensed by a bishop. It was as simple as that.” Now Koesler knew what had distracted him a few minutes before. It was Stan’s statement that his illegitimacy had blocked his possible ordination.
“Then what about my illegitimate cousin in Ohio?” Stan’s voice was challenging; he wanted to be permanently rid of his doubts. “He was told in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t go to the seminary because his father had been divorced and his parents hadn’t been able to marry in the Church. So he couldn’t be a priest … and that was the only thing he wanted.”
Koesler shrugged. It had gotten too dark for Stan to see the gesture.
“Lots of people made up their minds that illegitimates were banned from the priesthood,” Koesler said. “If you believed this hard enough, it came true. Your cousin got bad advice—undoubtedly from some priest … maybe some priest who even believed it himself. But in any case, when the guy was told by a priest that his illegitimacy barred him from the priesthood, well, of course he believed it. And so it became a fact.
“And you believed the same thing. And it became a fact for you too—at least until Father Simpson made you believe that he could ‘fix’ it.” Koesler shook his head again. “Stan, illegitimacy isn’t even mentioned in connection with Orders in the new 1983 Code.”
“Then …” So heavily had Stan perspired that his clothes were clinging to him. “ … nothing terrible happened? I mean, I ruined my life, but nothing else bad happened?” He felt a wave of relief wash over him—much like the patient who feared having a fatal illness only to find his condition benign. He felt like going out to celebrate. He felt like baying at the moon. He felt like leaping off the ground.
Gradually, Stan sensed that Bob Koesler was not sharing in this elation, this relief, this ebullience. Doubts began to creep into his troubled conscience. “Bob, what’s wrong? You just gave me terrific news. You couldn’t have made me happier. Can’t you share in my happiness?”
Try as he might, for Stan’s sake, Koesler could not. He stood silent.
“What is it, Bob? Tell me!”
Koesler sighed. “I suppose I must …” He hesitated. “But … well, once your awareness settles … uh … you’d probably figure it out for yourself. Or somebody would bring it up in casual conversation. So we should try now to figure some way out of it—”
“
For the love of God, Bob,” Stan’s voice was rising again, “what are you talking about?”
Koesler steered Stan to a nearby bench, and the two sat down.
“Stan,” Koesler began, “you feared there would be dire consequences to your becoming a priest because you were—or are—illegitimate. There aren’t any such consequences. And for that I rejoice with you. But—”
“But what!?”
“Okay. You’ve heard of a shotgun wedding?”
“Of course. It doesn’t have to be a real gun. Just something that forces …” Stan’s voice trailed off. “Just something that forces …” He saw clearly where this was heading. He didn’t want to go there.
“One of the questions,” Koesler said, “that we probe when we are preparing a couple for marriage is whether each of them is entering this life together willingly, under absolutely no force or coercion, or fear. Not infrequently, when someone challenges the validity of a marriage, the contention is that he or she got married to please parents. Or because someone or something was threatening them.
“Now if that’s really the case, the marriage can be declared null and void. In other words, from the very beginning of the couple’s life together, there was no marriage … all because of force and fear.”
Stan’s head drooped until it was almost touching his chest.
Koesler wondered whether he should have brought this up. He tried to convince himself it was better that Stan learn it from a friend than from anyone else. Worse still if Stan had come to this realization himself. And he likely would have; Stan was the type who, if he could dismiss a worrisome concern, would find another one as a replacement.
“What does this mean?” Stan murmured. “I gave my mother a happy life she wouldn’t otherwise have had. I gave Father Simpson whatever—whatever the hell—he was looking for. But at what cost? At … what … cost?”
They sat in silence for what seemed a very long time.
“You didn’t have a chance, Stan,” Koesler said finally, trying to console his friend. “Whichever way you turned, you were boxed in. Your mother was the innocent in all this. She received a bogus miracle from Simpson. You alone could destroy it. And you wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t do that. Not many feeling human beings could destroy their own mother.”
The Gathering Page 27