William Kienzle - The Greatest Evil

This was a different situation.

Koesler no longer was in any sort of assignment to St. William’s. Yet he intended to go well out of his way to care for a former parishioner. Without doubt there was a base here that needed touching. And no better time than now to touch it.

It took Father Koesler all of five minutes-he hit only one red light-to reach St. William’s church and rectory.

He parked on Gunston and stood on the sidewalk remembering his first taste of parochial life as a young priest.

Visions rose before him: There was his suite: sitting room, bedroom, and bath. His chances of duplicating the spaciousness of these facilities in any future assignment seemed remote. There was Father Farmer’s suite, with five bottles of beer peacefully cooling on the windowsill-Farmer’s silent revenge for the lack of provided alcohol and the locked refrigerator.

The visions receded as Koesler climbed the steps, rang the bell, and dutifully recited the Hail Mary that, the sign said, would bring a priest to the door. It did.

Father Frank Henry was a bit young to be a full-fledged curmudgeon. But he made up for this drawback with a nasty disposition.

“Well, the prodigal son returns.” It was neither an original nor a particularly appropriate greeting. But that was Henry’s way.

“Hello, Frank. Is the boss receiving?”

“No, I think I heard him say he was going skating.” Henry’s macabre sense of humor was functioning. Father Walsh, the “boss,” had only one leg. Poor circulation had cost him his right leg and threatened his very life. So he might or might not have been up and able to receive visitors just now, but he was not skating.

For whatever reasons, Fathers Walsh and Koesler had struck up an instant May-September friendship. Walsh was old-fashioned enough to address all priests-even Robert Koesler, who was but one-third the older man’s age-as “Father.”

The purpose of Koesler’s visit was to inform the priests of this parish of the critical illness of one of their parishioners. The other matter on Koesler’s mind was a bit murky. The problem had to do with Koesler’s intent to visit Louise Delvecchio with more than passing regularity. Would this involve any territorial law that required pastoral permission? Or was it a courtesy simply to inform the pastor?

Koesler knew of no law forbidding a priest visitation rights, even when he was not assigned to that parish. He was touching this base merely to make sure there would be no problem from any quarter.

“I assume,” Koesler said, “the boss has skated as far as the living room.”

“That’s a fair guess.” Henry stepped aside and motioned Koesler in.

A case might be made to explain Henry’s brusqueness. Like many another Detroit priest, he was in a holding pattern for a pastorate-waiting for his own parish. Now forty, he’d been a priest for fifteen years. He had more than enough experience to be a pastor, but there were no vacancies. With hardly any priests retiring, he simply had to wait his turn. In effect, he was being squeezed between the older clergy hanging in there and the eager young priests coming up behind him.

Additionally, thanks to his abrasive disposition, he would have to wait still longer while many of his classmates were rewarded with their own fiefdoms preceding him.

As Koesler entered the spacious living area, Father Walsh looked up from the whispered praying of his breviary. Instantly, a smile covered his face.

Koesler glanced through the archway to the dining room. There lining the mantel were legions of medications the pastor consumed with meals.

“What brings good old Father Koesler back to St. William’s?” Walsh greeted.

“I’ve got some bad news that you need to know and I need to talk to you about.” Koesler sat down in a chair directly across from the elderly priest. He had hoped that Frank Henry would go on about his business. No such luck; Henry seated himself near the large window overlooking Outer Drive.

Walsh looked deeply concerned. “Well, let’s have it.” He had coped with his share and more of bad news.

“It’s Louise Delvecchio. She’s just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”

Henry seemed shocked. Walsh groaned. “Can they operate?”

Koesler shook his head. “It’s inoperable. They got to it too late.”

“That happens …” Walsh had known it to happen many times in his sixty years.

“Is she going to have radiation therapy?” Henry asked.

“No. It was sort of a family decision.”

“They’re making a mistake,” Henry said. “A big mistake. That’s her one chance.”

“It’s a crapshoot,” Walsh offered. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. You choose therapy, it doesn’t work, the patient just gets sicker. You skip therapy, you wonder forever what would’ve happened if you’d taken the radiation.”

“They considered both options rather thoroughly. Dr. Schmidt was there during the entire debate.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” Henry turned full attention to Koesler. “Doc Schmidt was there; I can understand that. But you? What were you doing there?”

“Louise called. The doctor set up this family meeting yesterday. All the kids were there this morning. I was kind of surprised that Vincent got a furlough from the seminary. Even for an event like this … especially since neither the rector nor Vincent knew how serious the situation was.”

“I see,” Walsh murmured.

“Which brings me to the second point,” Koesler said, addressing the pastor. “I’ve grown very close to this family. I think you knew that when I was stationed here. And I’ve stayed in touch-since I left here. That’s probably why Louise asked me to be with them this morning.” Koesler ignored Henry’s glower. “I promised them I would look in regularly and help as much as I can. It was, admittedly, a pretty rash statement. I know that now. I feel I should’ve asked you first to see how you felt about it.

“I must admit, I don’t know what the proper procedure is in a case like this. But I felt that I should at least inform you about what’s happened and what I intend to do to help. I don’t really know whether there’s any kind of permission I need …”

“Well”-Henry was sitting on the edge of his chair-“I remember how close you were to that family when you were here. If you’ll recall, I told you not to-I warned you about friendships with parishioners. It leads to poor professional standards. You didn’t listen to me … and now look what’s happened!”

“Father …” Walsh said. But Henry blazed away. “What kind of message is this going to send to the people of St. William’s parish? That they can’t depend on the priests the bishop sent here for the care of souls? That somehow the priests of this parish are incompetent? That if parishioners want the very best, they need to send for you-”

“That’ll be enough, Father!” It was as harsh a tone as Koesler had ever heard Walsh use.

Walsh turned his wheelchair to face Koesler. “I don’t think any of Father Henry’s worries are going to be realized.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Father,” Koesler said. “Because there’s one more thing you’re going to have dumped in your lap regarding Louise Delvecchio.”

“What’s that?” Henry’s emotional temperature was percolating-increased measurably by Walsh’s rebuke.

“You see,” Koesler began, “the final decision on how to proceed with Louise’s condition was not merely a choice of therapy or death. And this solution was arrived at by Vincent: They are going to have a miracle.”

Koesler would not have stated the matter this bluntly had not Henry been close to exploding. “A miracle? A miracle!” Henry was livid. “Just a miracle!” He was almost sneering. “Any particular time?” he asked derisively.