William Kienzle: Requiem for Moses

“Okay.” A smile played about his lips even though he was feeling quite ambivalent at this point. “Level with me. Any more surprises?”

Certain she had won, she would now mention her final two concerns, though she was not sure he would consider them genuine problems. “Well … there is the time for visitation. We wanted it from 6:30 until … well, about midnight.”

“Midnight! Visitation routinely ends about nine. Why in the world are you thinking of midnight?”

“Aunt Sophie.”

“Aunt Sophie? Oh, the only one on your husband’s side of the family who accepted your marriage. What about Aunt Sophie?”

“Did I mention she lives in Florida? I called her right after I notified the kids. She said she would get a flight to Detroit even if she had to charter a plane. And under no circumstances were we to bury Moe until she got here and viewed him.”

“Even then! We’re supposed to keep the church open? What if she doesn’t get here tonight?”

“You don’t know Sophie. She does what she says. If she has to charter a plane, she’ll do it. She’ll be here tonight. If she gets here and the church is locked, she’ll huff and she’ll puff and she’ll blow the place down.”

“Still …”

“Father, I’m sure she’ll be here much earlier than midnight. I was just trying to be honest by drawing a worst-case scenario.”

“Can’t she visit him tomorrow morning if she misses tonight?”

She shook her head. “We’re planning on refrigerating Moe at Kaufman’s. We’ll go directly to the cemetery from the funeral home.” Aware of his growing irritation, she added, “And, Father, we’ll provide security people for the length of the viewing. We’ll guarantee the security of the church. We’ll even lock it before we leave-whatever time that will be.”

“This is growing like Topsy.”

“There’s just one last thing.”

Would this never end?

“Father, I would really appreciate it if you would just say a few words.”

“Say a few words! I didn’t know your husband. I never even met the man-”

“I know. I understand.” She might have been consoling a hurt child. “But this surely can’t be the first time for this sort of thing. A busy priest like yourself, and all the years you’ve been a priest, you can’t have personally known every individual whose funeral you conducted. You must’ve had to eulogize some people you knew no better than you knew my husband.”

Koesler was getting the notion that he was following a script that had been crafted by this woman. Every argument he made, every point he advanced led to a perfect response from her. Every move he made she checked.

“Sure,” he said, “of course I’ve had to do that. But at least the deceased and I were of the same faith. If I could not speak from a personal relationship and knowledge of the deceased, I could talk about our common belief. I have never officiated at a funeral for a non-Catholic. According to your own account, your husband was not only not Catholic, he was only ethnically Jewish. In sum, he was a man of no religion at all.”

“Father, just a few words. Everyone would appreciate that so very much. And remember, a good number of people there will be Catholic.”

“A few words! A few words about what?”

“I’ll tell you all about him … introduce you to some of his friends, acquaintances, his children. You’ll be more comfortable once you meet them. I know you can do this.”

“Well …”

“Just be in the church about seven o’clock. We’ll get you acquainted with some of the people … 7:30, a few words, and you’re done.”

Scheduling seemed to play a significant role in this lady’s life. By sometime tonight-at Aunt Sophie’s good pleasure-the wake would be over. A few words at 7:30 and the eulogy would be done. No one was supposed to think about any specific complication, just about conclusions.

What a woman!

“Okay … okay. Is there anything else? Anything at all?”

With a satisfied smile, she shook her head.

“All right,” he said. “There’s one thing I’ve got to ask you.”

“Of course. Just tell me what the usual offering is and I’ll double it … no, triple it!”

“No, no, not that. The point is that things may get a bit dicey about this. My decision to agree to your request is pretty marginal. I could get into some trouble over it. All I’m asking you to do is to keep this as quiet as you can. The more we can limit and kind of control the information about this wake, the happier I’ll be. Would you see to that?”

“As best I can.” She smiled. “And you may be uninterested in the offering, but I’ll be back soon after we bury my poor husband.”

Koesler saw her to the door and watched as she walked through the adjacent parking lot, entered a Lincoln Town Car, and drove away.

His lingering impression was of a petite, attractive, emotional, feminine bulldozer.

Father Koesler was still standing at the door when he heard a sound behind him. Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary and factotum, had cleared her throat for no other reason than to attract his attention. He turned to face her.

“While you were with that lady, your five o’clock appointment called to cancel.”

He nodded.

“If it’s okay with you,” she said, “I’ll leave now. Everything is taken care of in the office and I left a tuna casserole in the oven for you. All you have to do is heat it. I’ve got the timer set. Just push the start button.”

He laughed. “Did you write my homily for next Sunday?”

“We all have our special talents.”

“Yeah: I preach and you do everything else.”

Her smile seemed to indicate that he was not far wrong. She slipped into her coat and out the door. As she reached the sidewalk, he called out, “Safe home.”

She looked back and waved.

No five o’clock appointment and too early to push the start button. Time to kill. He went upstairs to the den adjoining his bedroom. With this unexpected break he would be able to get several pages into Tom Harpur’s latest book. Koesler greatly admired Harpur’s concept of religion in general and Christianity in particular. Harpur was an interesting man: Anglican priest, Rhodes scholar, now a full-time writer.

Koesler eased into his favorite chair, adjusted the light, and opened the book.

The phone rang.

“Can you tell me, is there gonna be a service for Doc Green at your church tonight?”

“Well, not a service.”

“Didn’t he die?”

“I’ve been told that.”

“What then? He’s not gonna be at your place?”

At this point, Koesler strongly wished he had simply said yes, there would be a service. But it was important that if the chancery got word of this, everyone be in agreement that there was no service, just a wake. “The body will be in state here. It’s a wake, not a service or a funeral.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Not quite.”

“Well, what time is the wake then?”

“You can visit anytime between about 6:30 and whenever Aunt Sophie gets here … say about nine to be safe.”

“Sophie’s gonna be there! In a Catholic church! You gotta be kiddin’.”

“I sincerely wish I were. But, all that aside, would you tell me how you learned of this wake?”

“A friend of mine, one of Doc’s patients, called.”

“Not one of his children.”

“Short notice. They got everybody helping. I forgot to ask the lady who called me about the time. So I thought I’d go right to the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

Koesler hoped his caller did not intend the allusion. He bade farewell and hung up.