William Kienzle - The Greatest Evil

More months.

Occasionally and apologetically, one or the other Morris would stop by after Mass or perhaps phone, just to make sure no notification had come in. Invariably Father Koesler would assure them that nothing had happened. He would also assure them that just as soon as any word was received, he would let them know immediately.

After two and a half years, the lives of the Morrises had stretched so taut that Frank and Martha almost began to wish word would never come. As long as they no longer wondered and worried at the start of each day whether they would ever hear from the Curia in Rome, things would be better. The decision-granted or denied-seemed increasingly unreal. The mere act of waiting became the only reality.

Then the call came.

Father Koesler visited them in the evening, having earlier phoned to make sure they would both be in.

Martha was certain from the tone of Father’s voice that their waiting was over and, also from his voice, that the petition had been denied.

Frank did not want to speculate on either possibility.

But neither could eat any dinner.

At seven, as promised, Father Koesler arrived. When they were all seated, he delivered the negative verdict with more sympathy and compassion that he would have thought he possessed.

The petition had been denied.

All that work and sacrifice and prayer for literally nothing.

Martha seemed to shrink a bit as she absorbed the finality of Rome’s decision.

Father Koesler-who seldom cried-was barely able to hold back tears.

Frank alone kept his head. “Is there anything else we can do, Father?”

“If there is, I don’t know what,” Koesler said. “And neither does anyone else I consulted earlier today. Without using any names, I checked in with my Canon Law professor and a couple of older priests whose judgment I respect. Nothing.”

“How about this ‘brother and sister’ that we’ve been doing for the past couple of years?” Frank probed. “The Vatican seems to be terribly interested in our sex lives. How about if we promise no sex for the rest of our lives? Or at least until my former wife dies?”

“Frankie!” Martha was shocked.

“That’s okay, Martha,” Koesler reassured her. “The same thought occurred to me, Frank. I didn’t think you’d be open to that option, but it never hurts to check … so I did. It seems the Vatican thinks you’re both too young to make such a long-term promise. No …” He shook his head. “… it won’t work. Nothing will.”

Koesler did not think it right to drop this bomb of rejection and just walk away. So he settled in for a long visit.

Martha made coffee and the conversation rambled over many subjects. At last, Koesler felt that their churning stomachs had settled and the Morrises were more at ease than they had been.

He reminded them over and over that as they loved God, so God loved them. Their consciences were at peace with God. And that was what mainly counted.

However, even as he spoke, he wondered about the widening dichotomy between their consciences and Church law. According to the “rules,” they were “living in sin.” But, somehow, he was unable to see this. He had never before felt this way about Church law. He found this disturbing.

It was getting late. After a few more supportive words, Koesler made his exit.

Frank and Martha stood staring out their front window watching the red rear lights of Koesler’s car slowly disappear down their narrow residential street. Even after the car turned the corner and the lights were out of sight, they continued to watch, wordlessly.

Frank finally broke the silence. “Well, Marty, my girl, I really think we gave it our best shot.”

She did not respond.

“As I always say, there’s nothing more to be done once you’ve done your best.”

“That’s true,” she said finally, “We did all we could, Frankie. So did Father Koesler. He’s so young … I hope he never gets jaded.”

“Aye. Amen to that, Marty. Now, we’ve had a long, hard evening. Why don’t you go climb into bed? I’ve got just a couple of things that have to be attended to. I’ll be right up.”

Martha turned to take the stairs, then turned back. “Long as you’re at it, you might just check the furnace. It’s been acting up lately.”

She turned, then once more turned back. “Oh, and by the way: You don’t have to use the guest room anymore.”

He looked at her and winked.

She went upstairs and as she prepared for bed, she let the tears flow. And freely flow they did. She made no sound; she didn’t want Frank to know how deeply hurt she was.

She slipped between the sheets, but try as she might, she couldn’t stay awake to welcome Frank. Well, she thought, we’ve done without each other’s intimacy for better than two years now; one more night won’t make that much difference.

The explosion almost catapulted her out of bed.

Her first thought was that the furnace had blown up. And she had asked Frank to look at it.

She threw on a robe and dashed down the stairs.

At first she did not comprehend.

Why was Frank on the floor?

Why was his shotgun on the floor?

Why did Frank not have the back of his head? Where was the back of Frank’s head?

“Frankie! Frankie! What’s happened? Get up! Get up!”

Not really knowing what she was doing, she picked up the phone. The police … call the police. After a helpful operator put through the call, Martha, between sobs, got across what had happened.

She hung up the phone, then turned in confusion. Frank … She knelt by her husband and straightened his clothing. She did not want him to appear disheveled. Not with company coming.

She didn’t have to wait long. The Conner Street station was only a few blocks away. Within minutes the police entered the house and seemed to be everywhere at once.

The first officer through the door saw immediately what had happened. He raised Martha to her feet and helped her to the couch, then sat down next to her. She leaned toward him. He put an arm around her shoulder.

She looked up at him. “Is he hurt badly?”

He knew the question was produced by panic. “Yes, he is. I’m real sorry, ma’am. Can you tell me what happened?”

She looked bewildered at all the activity going on around her. The last thing she could remember was trying to stay awake and failing. Then she thought, Maybe this is a dream. Maybe she would wake up and her darling Frankie would be here and take care of everything as he always did.

Something else told her that nothing would be right ever again.

She tried to answer questions. Yes, they both had had depressing news just this evening. She couldn’t explain; it was too complicated.

She continued trying to be helpful.

Was there someone who could come and stay with her? She gave them Louise’s number. They phoned, and Louise, shocked, said she’d be right over.

An officer handed a piece of paper to the officer sitting beside Martha. He read it quickly, then handed it to her. “This is for you, ma’am. Is this your husband’s writing?”

Martha looked at the note and nodded. Why would Frank write her a letter?

The officer rose from the couch and checked on the progress being made by his team. Things were being wrapped up. Frank’s covered body was on a gurney. The officer returned to Martha. “We won’t have to ask you any more questions tonight, ma’am. Do you have anything to help you sleep?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Your sister’s here, ma’am. We’ll go now. Your husband’s body will be at the morgue. I’m sure they’ll release it very soon. You can start making funeral arrangements. And, ma’am, I’m very, very sorry.”