William Kienzle - The Greatest Evil

There was not really all that much work to do. Surely she had little more to teach him. That business about shielding the archbishop from unnecessary appointments by finding others who could handle the various sorts of demands, advice, etc.; that really was at the heart of the position that Vince Delvecchio was filling for the duration of Shanahan’s illness.

Jan Olivier had grown up sheltered by parents who treasured their one and only child. Parochial schools led to Marygrove, a Catholic womens’ college. And that led to a job in the offices of the archdiocese of Detroit.

She had dated. But her dating and her dates had had to pass her parents’ muster-the upshot being that she was still a virgin. Even though she was living through the turbulent sixties. Even though she had her own apartment.

Maybe, just maybe, after tomorrow night, she would no longer be a maiden lady.

It’s a good thing Mother couldn’t know what her fine Catholic daughter was thinking; she would be mortified!

Shortly after assuming jurisdiction over the Detroit archdiocese, Mark Boyle set the tone for diocesan bureaus. Everyone would be assembled and ready for work by 9 A.M. In the beginning he made it his practice to drop in on the various offices-unannounced and seemingly haphazardly-a few minutes before 9.

It did not take long for the bureaucrats to catch on. Boyle set the style and expected everyone else to follow suit. Rather quickly, everyone did.

Among those who followed faithfully were Father Vincent Delvecchio and Miss Jan Olivier. They both arrived within minutes of each other at approximately 8:30.

Delvecchio began by boning up on the rating system Jan had devised. He’d had no time either last night or this morning to study it.

Jan gathered the messages that had accumulated late yesterday afternoon and the few that had trickled in earlier this morning. She brought them in to the archbishop. She began reading them and, where she had some insight, commenting. Boyle gave directions for their distribution. That meant that either he would handle the matter himself or find someone to take care of it.

Actually, the archbishop had expected Father Delvecchio to be handling this by now. Realistically, he knew that was expecting a bit much. So he made no comment. In another day or so the bright young man would master the job.

Jan brought the messages to Delvecchio and looked over his shoulder as he read and interpreted them. He misread only a couple.

He was alert to her scent. He thought he had read somewhere that perfume takes on a different fragrance as it is applied to different skin. He expected he would never forget what Jan’s perfume did for her. Or what she did for it.

As she leaned over, he felt something touch the back of his neck, just above his clerical collar. It must, he thought, be her breast. That set him off on another fantasy. He certainly did not attempt to escape from her touch, or to push her-or himself-away.

Enough, of that. He had work to do.

He began his second day of phoning, or, rather, returning calls that had been directed at Archbishop Boyle.

He was getting into the swing of it. It was a kick phoning pastors, men much older than he, and, in effect, telling them where to go.

For their part, the pastors hung on his every word, trying to interpret the message within the message-between the lines, as it were.

After talking to Delvecchio, some of them thought: The Arch isn’t going to see me, but I must still be in his good graces-after all, now I’ve got his permission to talk to his senior auxiliary. Maybe that’s enough … maybe I won’t even call that brown-noser after all. Keep ’em guessing. Yeah!

Others thought: Oh, my God! The old man agreed to see me. What the hell, I didn’t expect him to give me an interview. Why is he going to see me personally? What does he know? He can’t know that the guys and I are going to Florida during Advent! Who would have told him! Who would have given us away? I’ll bet it was O’Malley. Sure; that’s why he canceled out on the trip.

In each case, from his listener’s tone, Delvecchio could measure the effect his message was having. He began deliberately changing his speech patterns to create differing pastoral modes.

He enjoyed having and exercising power. It was one of the things he was learning about himself lately.

Around 11:30 he strolled out to Jan’s desk. “Almost lunchtime. Want to go? My treat.” He was smiling, something he seldom did.

She looked up brightly. “Any other day of any other year. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

“My fault, eh? I took your time to teach me my job. Sorry about that. But without your help, I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea of what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“It’s all right. A raincheck … okay?”

“Okay.”

Instead of taking a normal lunch hour, Jan got a carry-out from a nearby drugstore. She also did some judicious shopping in a Woodward Avenue apparel shop. She had no plans for tonight, nor any idea of what would happen. This “date” could lead anywhere; she wanted to be ready for whatever.

It was almost five. The workday was winding down.

Once again, Delvecchio popped up in front of Jan. “Listen, I’ve just got to see someone at the rectory at six-thirty. I figure we’ll be done by seven-thirty. So how ’bout I get to your place about eight?”

The incipient frown that broke out when she’d thought he was canceling their get-together quickly dissipated. “Actually, that’ll be perfect: I need a little time to put dinner together.”

On the way home she stopped at her favorite fish place for some swordfish and at a small bakery for French bread. At home were potatoes, vegetables, and the makings for a tossed salad.

What was it they said in the tribunal? Omnia parata. Everything is ready.

By the time he arrived a minute or two after 8, everything indeed was ready. The table was set, the candles were lit. He handed her a bottle of-light Chardonnay.

As she was putting food on the table, he asked to wash up. Through the door to the bedroom and past the walk-in closet, he was instructed.

He glanced around the bedroom. Typical woman’s room. Lots of frilly things. Lots of white. The bed-queen-size, he conjectured-became the focus of his interest. A bed, in this pagan age, had become the symbol not of sleep and rest, but sex. For just a moment, he imagined himself and Jan together on that bed, naked. It was such a strong image that he had to force his mind to let it go.

He washed his hands and, steadfastly looking away from the bed, returned to the dining room.

The table wasn’t large enough to hold all the serving platters. She kept popping up and down, offering dishes to him, and from time to time dropping dollops on her own plate.

Small talk surrounded how good everything tasted, how easy it had been to make, what had happened at the office today, and the like.

How much this resembled married life, Jan thought. Working couples coming together in the early evening to share the highlights of their day. Even though their conversation was a bit strained, she liked the experience. After all, they had known each other only a couple of days; there was plenty of room to develop.

From the moment he entered her apartment this evening, he had been acutely aware that something was different. That fetching fragrance was the same. The hair was the same. She was wearing a tad more makeup. But her dress: No Marylike creation this.

It was black or possibly a very dark blue. And there wasn’t an extra inch of cloth to it. It met and caressed each and every curve. The neckline was cut so that each time she bent over to serve him, he could see-he couldn’t miss! — more than a hint of full, molded breasts.