William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

Koesler smiled. “At this stage in my life, I can’t think too many women would be concerned about that.”

She put his hat and coat in the closet and turned to him. “May I get you something to drink? A little wine, maybe?”

“Don’t go to any trouble. But maybe some coffee or tea?”

“I just brewed some coffee.” She disappeared into what he assumed was the kitchen.

Left alone, Koesler walked through the open areas, which turned out to be the living room and the dining room. Both had swinging doors to the kitchen; but in both cases the doors were closed.

Running from the dining room was a corridor. Koesler assumed that led to bedrooms, bathrooms, perhaps dens. He pictured them in plurals since the areas he could see were so spacious. And very bright.

Huge windows covered an immense amount of wall space encompassing an arresting vista. Particularly dramatic was the view of what had given Detroit its name: the river. That this eighteenth-floor apartment was lavishly furnished and clearly expensive did not surprise him. From all the hearsay shared with him at the wake, Koesler would have been surprised only if this setting were not opulent.

Margie reentered the room, bearing a silver tray holding two filled cups, cream and sugar, and a small plate with cookies. She placed the tray on a low table between two couches. She sat at one couch while he took the other facing her.

Koesler tasted the coffee. Very hot with excellent flavor. Whenever he tasted exceptional coffee, he had an urge to share his own brew with whoever served him. Perhaps one day-one never knew-he would have an opportunity to make coffee for Margie Green.

“I don’t know whether I should feel awkward,” she said.

“Now what?”

“Well, I phoned you at St. Joseph’s earlier this morning. Your … secretary, is it? She identified herself as Mrs. O’Connor … she said you were out. She remembered me.”

How could she possibly forget? thought Koesler.

“She said,” Margie continued, “that you were at a news conference at the seminary, and that I could try there. So I phoned and left a message. There was nothing urgent about it. I mean you got here so soon after I phoned. I hope I didn’t take you away from something important.”

Her misgiving was well placed, he reflected. He’d hated having to leave the conference just when things were beginning to pop. And all because he’d assumed there was some sort of emergency. But he would not further embarrass her. “No. No, what was going on there could get along very well without me.”

Koesler picked up a cookie. In the process of breaking it in two, a crumb took flight and buried itself in the shag rug. Why did this seem to happen to him whenever he felt out of his milieu? Sometimes it was an antique chair coming apart under his weight. Sometimes it was an errant crumb. Always it was somewhat humiliating. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t think of it. The cleaning woman will be here later.”

Koesler brightened. “Lucky today was her day to come in.”

“She comes in every day … at least lately. Moe developed an allergy to dust … or, at least, so he said. So we upped her schedule to every day. The place is clean. God, is it clean! And he’s quiet about that anyway.”

Koesler never ceased to wonder at the chemistry that developed between married couples. The relationship began, for him at least, when a man and a woman, usually young, showed up at the rectory to arrange for their wedding. Almost without exception, the chemistry was perfect. They sat close to each other. They held hands. They stole glances at each other. Sometimes they were embarrassingly affectionate.

And so they were married.

Then the chemistry really went to work. Often, at least from what he’d seen, not only did the fires of passion cool, but the two seemed to treat each other with disrespect and scorn. Take Margie’s statement that her husband’s allergy complaint might be imaginary and that only daily cleaning would satisfy him. The opposite reaction-genuine concern for the comfort and well-being of the spouse-happened rarely.

Koesler wanted to ask about her husband. But first on his agenda was to discover why she had called him and had gone to the trouble of tracking him down at the seminary. All right, so it wasn’t an emergency. What then?

“Mrs. Green, your coffee is excellent, as is your company. And we have established that you asked me here for something less than an emergency. Just what is it you want of me?”

“Oh …” She displayed a combination of dismay and self-deprecation. “… of course. How silly of me.” She went to a nearby secretary. She took out a checkbook and began writing. “I told you when you agreed to hold the wake service that I would try to express my gratitude.” She ripped the check free and handed it to him.

It was made out to him personally for three thousand dollars.

He was dumbfounded. “Mrs. Green, this is impossible!”

Her brow furrowed. “Not enough?” she asked, sincerely.

He shook his head. “Way too much. You see, the archdiocese sets an amount-called a stipend-for services such as funerals and weddings. What the stipend means is that this represents the maximum a priest may accept. The local amount of stipends is fifty dollars for a wedding or a funeral.

“But there are a couple of other considerations,” he said, as he laid the check on the table between them. “You made the check out to me. If there were an offering due, it would be made out to the parish, and for no more than the stipend calls for.

“Secondly, we didn’t have a funeral. We didn’t even have the wake we had agreed upon.

“What it comes down to, Mrs. Green, is that you owe neither me nor the parish anything.”

It seemed he might as well be speaking in a foreign and unintelligible tongue. Margie pushed the check toward him. “Why don’t you just keep it, Father? I really want you to have it. You really went out on a limb for me. I feel I owe you. And I want you to have this as a freewill donation-or whatever. What I want to say is, It’s yours.”

Gently, he eased the check back in her direction. It was, he thought, like playing checkers or chess-or a Ouija board. “I can’t take it … for a great number of reasons. If you feel some compulsion to donate, send whatever you wish to the parish. Or, better yet”-his face broke into a grin-“drop it into the collection at Sunday Mass.”

She shrugged and picked up the check. “You’ve got a point.” She smiled. “I should start going to church again.”

He broke another cookie, carefully. “I came here primarily because you asked for me. I would never have imposed on you. But, now that I’m here, I have been wondering: How is your husband? At the news conference, some of the reporters wondered if he was really alive.”

She made a face. “Oh, he’s alive all right.”

“I don’t hear anyone stirring.”

“The only time he makes any noise-lately, at least-is when he wants something.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Green-”

“Oh, please: Call me Margie.”

“Margie. But I thought you would be much more impressed than you seem to be with what’s happened to your husband.”

“Oh, I was impressed all right. Monday night I was impressed as all hell. And I was pretty overwhelmed Tuesday morning. Then I had to admit that what was holding most of my interest was whether he would be much changed by what had happened. It was sort of like watching a cocoon to see what kind of butterfly will develop and emerge.”

“You don’t seem terribly pleased by what came out.”

She sighed. “He hasn’t completely recovered yet. But the signs are that it’s going to be the same old Moe.”