William Kienzle: Requiem for Moses

Koesler clearly recalled his conversation with Mrs. Green. He had asked how she expected to notify friends and relatives about the wake on such short notice. She had replied that her children, David and Judith, were even then calling people.

At the time, everything seemed to be on a small scale. Two people were making phone calls. That only two were involved in this task surely limited the number who could be notified.

Until this moment, Koesler had been at ease at least as to the size of this evening’s attendance.

It was so obvious. It was so inevitable. And he had been so slow. Of course David and Judith during each call would ask the notified party to pass it on …

Now he wondered and he worried. How successful would this monument to communications be? It was all growing like a worm in compost. How large would his simple but potentially explosive little favor become?

Once again he picked up Harpur’s book and found his place.

The phone rang.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“This is St. Joseph’s Catholic Church?”

“Yes.”

“Somebody called me and said you were going to have the funeral of one Dr. Moses Green. That can’t be true!”

“It isn’t.”

“That’s what I thought. So, the son-of-a-bitch didn’t die.”

“Oh, Dr. Green died all right. And we are going to have a viewing of the body this evening. But we aren’t going to have his funeral.”

“I’ll be damned! He is dead, eh?”

“Did you want to attend this evening?”

“You’re not going to plant him?”

“No, just a wake service.”

“Then tell me this if you can: When and where is he going to be buried?”

“The body will be at McGovern Funeral Home tomorrow morning. I don’t know the time or the place of burial. Somebody at McGovern’s should be able to give you that information.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there. I want to be sure they bury this jerk.”

What an odd call , thought Koesler as he hung up. So much for nil nisi bonum de mortuis -say nothing but good about the dead.

Was this an isolated call, or were there more out there-a legion? — who had no love lost for the doctor. And what could cause a hatred so intense that it transcended death?

These calls that David and Judith were engendering were, Koesler assumed, going out to relatives and friends. Whoever had just called St. Joseph’s clearly was no friend. Why would he be notified? Who would notify him?

This was puzzling.

The phone rang.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“Excuse me, Father …” It was a woman’s voice. “I heard that Dr. Green passed away today. And I also heard he is going to be waked at your parish this evening.”

Finally, somebody’d gotten it right.

“That’s true. Did you want to attend?”

“I was thinking of it.”

“Then you might plan on coming sometime between 6:30 and 9:00.”

“Thank you, Father.” A pause. “I’m a nurse. I work mostly in the OR. I used to assist the doctor in some of his operations.”

“Used to? You haven’t for sometime?”

“Sorry, I thought you knew.”

I’m beginning to think there are lots of things I don’t know. How many of these things I need to know is anybody’s guess , thought Koesler.

“You see,” the nurse explained, “Dr. Green has been ill, very, very ill for at least the past six months. A great deal of back pain. Quite intolerable. He was hospitalized, but the specialists were unable to identify what the trouble was. There was only one certainty, and that was his pain. At times it was unbearable. Eventually, there was general agreement-in which even Dr. Green shared-that he might just as well return home. There was nothing hospital confinement could do for him. From that time on, it was just a case of managing-or trying to manage-the pain.

“So you see, it’s been a long time since we worked together. It’s been a long time since I’ve even seen him.”

“You’ll be coming tonight?” Koesler asked.

“I think so.”

“Fine. If you get here before about seven o’clock, look me up. I’ll be in church trying to get some ideas so I can deliver a very brief eulogy. You could help me.” He heard her gasp. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t think you’d want me to do that, Father.”

“Why ever not?”

“I was calling and planning on attending only out of respect for the dead. Now that you’re pressing me, I’ve got to tell you that I would have a very difficult time telling you anything you’d care to mention in a eulogy. In fact, the best suggestion I can give you is … how shall I put it?… uh, try to stay generic.”

“Generic?”

“I may be wrong, but I don’t think anyone could tell you many uplifting examples from the life of Dr. Green. He was not a very … moral man. Certainly not a moral doctor. But, if I stay on this subject, I’m only going to regret the things I’ll say. Thank you for your information, Father. And good luck in your eulogy.”

What have I gotten myself into? thought Koesler as he hung up.

He started to add up the score. Widow seemingly in husband’s corner. Ditto the first caller. Though, on recollection, neither had much specifically positive to say about the deceased. Of course the widow was juggling a series of deadlines. So her apparent lack of distress and mourning was in keeping. …

But these last two calls painted a dismal picture.

Normally, there was not this much phone activity at St. Joe’s. The parish did subscribe to an answering service. But that was only because Father Koesler was the lone priest stationed here full-time.

He decided to ask the service to cover the phones. The bother of answering all these calls played a minor role in his decision. He was more concerned that something he might say could exacerbate the situation.

As he reached for the receiver to call the service, the phone rang. Too late. He would answer this one and then have the service take over.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“That you, Bob?”

Koesler hesitated. He did not immediately recognize the caller’s voice and he was a little guarded about the use of his first name. Though he did not insist on formality, he was old school enough not to invite informality. “Yes …. Who is this?”

“You don’t recognize me? You should; this is Dan Reichert.”

Dan Reichert. Koesler winced. Even on splendid, carefree days, when his immune system was working on all eight cylinders he never wanted to chat with Dan Reichert.

Reichert was a retired Detroit priest living and helping out somewhat at suburban Our Lady of Sorrows parish. Theologically and philosophically, Reichert was to the right of the late Father Charles E. Coughlin, controversial radio priest of the ’30s, as he was nearly always identified.

Right now, Koesler had enough emotional baggage without adding Father Reichert to the top of the mess. But Reichert was, by definition, a colleague, and his priestly office merited respect. And, as a priest and colleague, it was perfectly natural to be on a first-name basis. “Hi, Dan. What’s on your mind?”

“What’s on my mind is what’s going on in your church this evening.”

How on God’s green earth did Reichert know about that? Before acknowledging the wake, Koesler decided to test the waters. Maybe Reichert was referring to something else … something he only thought would be going on tonight. “What’s that, Dan?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m referring to ….”

He knows. If only I had called the answering service seconds earlier.

“I’m referring,” Reichert said, “to that abomination that you’re allowing to take place in a church. In a consecrated church, God save the mark!”