William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

“I am so sorry, Father,” Margie said. “I had no idea so many people would be here.” She noticed Koesler’s expression of doubt. “Honest.”

Koesler looked at his watch. Only a couple of minutes.

Margie detected a touch of unease in Koesler’s demeanor. Whatever anxiety was there she did not share. In fact, as far as Margie was concerned, everything was just fine. She didn’t particularly care whether the ceremony began anywhere near on time. In any case, they would not call this a night until Aunt Sophie arrived. And only God and Northwest Airlines had a clue to when that would be.

But she was sympathetic to Koesler’s perceived plight. “I heard a lot of good words about your hospitality … I mean in offering your church for the wake.” She gave Koesler’s arm a friendly, almost motherly pat.

I didn’t so much offer the church , thought Koesler, as it was taken captive. But he let it pass.

Margie, from the vantage of one step below the sanctuary and one above the church’s main floor, scanned the crowd. She shook her head knowingly. “Isn’t it the way of things? Nowadays the only time you get together with relatives and friends is at weddings and funerals.”

Caught by her observation, Koesler looked more closely at his one-and-only-one-time congregation. Outside of Father Dan Reichert-still perched like a hawk in the back of the church taking mental notes for tomorrow’s promised confrontation with Koesler and Cardinal Boyle-Koesler didn’t recognize anyone. No, wait: In the third pew from the front was someone he knew: Patricia Lennon, respected reporter at the Detroit News.

Had she found out about this from one of her many sources? Did an editor assign her to cover this event? It didn’t much matter. She was here. And that meant that some sort of story would be in tomorrow’s paper. That was the bad news. Added to the possible summons by the Cardinal, decidedly bad news.

The good news was that Lennon was a good journalist-fair and reasonable. Over the years, their paths had crossed when Koesler had assisted in various police investigations and Lennon had covered the action.

Margie touched her son’s arm as she addressed Koesler. “Has David given you some useful background on his father?”

Before Koesler could reply, David, with a brief laugh, answered. “Oh, I was definitely not alone in briefing the good father. Quite a few people bent his ear. If the father has an active imagination, he probably could write a book on Dad right about now. How much of what we’ve contributed will prove useful for what Father has to say tonight is anybody’s guess.

“Now”-David stepped away-“if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get myself a ringside seat. Good luck, Padre. You’ll need it.” He headed for one of the seats that his sister was saving.

Now that nearly everyone was seated, the congregation did not seem quite as daunting as it had when milling about. Still there were many more people here than Koesler had anticipated.

“I wouldn’t blame you at all,” Margie said, “if you were quite angry with me. I talked you into all this.”

Now that she had invited the thought, Koesler agreed. He felt like the victim who had been gulled into a trap.

“Believe me,” Margie continued, “I never thought it would turn out like this. So big … I mean so many people. But Moe and I talked about this. I didn’t take him seriously. I didn’t think he was going to die. Now that I look back, I shouldn’t have expected him to live with that pain. But I just didn’t anticipate Moe dead.”

“You talked about this?”

“Well, yes. Except we never thought there’d be any problem with Kaufman Funeral Home. If I had taken him seriously, I would’ve checked all these details and been prepared. He wanted the wake. Now that I look at all these people … well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know that he has more than a very few friends here. Everybody else … well, they couldn’t be described as friends-or even close.”

She gazed into Koesler’s eyes. “I’ll try, I’ll honestly try to make this up to you. It’s just that I would’ve felt as if I had betrayed Moe if we hadn’t been able to do this just the way he wanted. And, as it turned out, you made it happen. I owe you, Father.”

“No, you don’t.” Koesler had been taken aback by Margie’s obviously sincere apology and expression of gratitude. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to play this out as we planned it.”

“The eulogy! I haven’t had an instant to supply you with any background information on Moe. And I promised you. People kept coming up all evening. But you were talking to some people, weren’t you? Maybe they were a help?” She didn’t sound convinced.

“I’ll tell you who talked to me, and in what order. And you can judge for yourself.

“First was Jake Cameron …”

Two vertical lines formed at the bridge of Margie’s nose.

“… then Claire McNern …”

The lines deepened.

“… followed closely by Stan Lacki.”

She seemed puzzled at this name.

“Then came your daughter …”

The lines returned.

“… and, finally, your son.”

The lines were like gashes. “Of all the people in this church tonight, those are exactly the ones I would not have wanted you to talk to.”

“From what they told me, I would have thought you yourself would belong in their number. I got the impression that no one was more shabbily treated than you.”

Margie sighed. “You had to get to know Moe and make some strong allowances for the kind of life he lived. And, on top of that, Moe did not make it easy to get to know him. In fact, he discouraged anybody from getting close to him.

“But he was involved with the kids.” She looked more carefully at Koesler, and speedily decided he knew too much to try to soft-pedal her late husband’s machinations and his habit of manipulating everyone, especially those close to him. “The bottom line,” she declared, “is that he provided his kids with a decent home, good schooling, and almost anything they wanted. That last wasn’t so hot: He gave them everything so he could keep them in line with threats to take the toys away.

“No, skip that last part altogether. Just say that he provided for the kids.

“He was a good doctor. Well, at least he was skilled, even if he was not always true to the Hippocratic oath.

“No, skip the last part. He was a skilled doctor.

“And he was a decent husband. He did not stray all the time … just-no, skip that. We stayed married twenty-one years. That’s got to count for something!”

Margie was close to tears. And she had brought herself to this point.

“This was his idea ….” She brushed away a tear. “Moe was the one who wanted the eulogy. I went along with it without thinking. If I’d given it a second thought, I would’ve realized that we could never get away with this. There just aren’t that many good words to say about him.

“And I’m the one who got you into this.… Boy, what a screwup. What can I say but, I’m sorry? And if you want to call it off, I’ll understand completely.”

Koesler was conscious of how faithfully Margie had tried to fulfill each and every promise she’d made to Moe. He would not let her default in this final pledge.

He looked again, more carefully, at his ersatz congregation. Here and there were people who had the aspect of solemnity one usually finds at a wake. But many seemed to be relishing this moment; an almost palpable smugness emanated from the pews.

All in all, Koesler was determined to take on this naked challenge. Margie had promised her husband, and Koesler had given his word to her. “You go take your place, Margie ….” He gestured her toward the seat next to her daughter.