William Kienzle - Chameleon

“Stapleton!” Koesler exclaimed. “Fred Stapleton? There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Bash responded. “What’ll anyone have to drink?”

“Pass here,” Jeffrey said. “The cheese and crackers should hit the spot.”

“Nothing here either.” Koesler made a sandwich.

“How about a beer?” Young said.

Bash returned to the fridge for beers for himself and Young.

“I hadn’t thought of it before,” Young said, “but Carson is not a bad bet. Good God, how many times has he taken the lead in protests? Why for heaven’s sake, he’s forever in the papers and onTV.”

“Before Vatican II, nobody ever heard of him,” Bash said. “But after the council … well, the guy never lets up. He’s forever up on the ramparts protecting Mother Church.”

Young nodded. “And now Mother Church may need protection from Arnold Carson.”

“Who’s Fred Stapleton?” Jeffrey asked. “Not the psychologist!”

“The very same,” Bash affirmed. “Don’t forget, he is an ‘ex.’“

Jeffrey smiled briefly. “I guess I had forgotten or at least overlooked the fact that he’d been a priest. But that was a long time ago. Now I tend to think of him as a psychologist. And a good one. At least very popular. He’s always being asked to give his opinion in local cases. He’s in the media more than just about any other local psychologist. What in the world would make him a suspect?”

“Not because he’s a shrink,” Bash said. “Because he’s an ‘ex.’“

“Come on …” Young had drained half his glass in a ehugalug. “There are hundreds of ex-priests around here. All of them suspects?”

“It’s because of his work for CORPUS. He’s become a militant,” Bash said. “And some say he is verging on becoming extreme.”

“Fred? Extreme?” Koesler was astonished. “That doesn’t make sense. Fred is one of the sanest, most reasonable men I’ve ever known.”

“About your time, wasn’t he, Bob?” Young asked.

“A year or two behind me, as I recall,” Koesler said. “But I know him as well as I knew most of my classmates. He really couldn’t qualify as a violent person. Just the opposite.”

“Seen him lately?” Bash asked.

“Well, no,” Koesler admitted. “It’s been a while. After he left and got into the psychology field we sort of drifted apart. I referred a couple of cases to him but that’s about it.”

“People change,” Bash observed.

“Not Fred. Not that much,” Koesler protested.

“You never know,” Bash said. “Besides, I’m not up to arguing the point. I’m just telling you what I got from my sources. But I can tell you one thing: If the investigation of these guys leaks, I’ll be more prepared for the press than anybody else in town. And we’re talking national coverage, gentlemen, not just the local guys.”

“Refresh me,” Jeffrey said, “what’s CORPUS again? It rings a bell, but I’m drawing a blank.”

“A bunch of exes,” Young said. “They want to getback in, fully functioning as priests-wives, kids, and all. Say, Clete, how about another beer?”

“You finish that one already?” Bash said. “You better slow up.” But he went to the fridge and brought back another beer for the monsignor.

“Okay, I remember CORPUS now,” Jeffrey said. “They’ve got just about all the arguments on their side: history, early tradition, and now the admission of converted married Protestant ministers. They’ve got it all. And they haven’t got a chance.”

“They’ve got one more thing you didn’t mention, Quent,” Koesler said. “We’re running out of priests. They’ve got need on their side. There are thousands of inactive priests who want to become active again. They’re completely trained. All that’s required is for the Pope to open the door and a good portion of our desperate need would be solved.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Jeffrey said. “The bottom line is canon law-and canon law holds all the cards.”

“Quent is right, Bob,” Young said. “The Church in Rome really got stung when these guys quit. It’s been a constant source of embarrassment to the Church that these men resigned from an office that brooked no resignation. They took on a lifelong commitment and then left it. In effect, the Church told the world, This is the highest vocation known to mankind; only the best and brightest can qualify. And then thousands of the best and brightest leave, That hurt. And the Church is not going to forget about that. Nor is the Church going to let them forget about it.”

“Now that I think about it,” Bash said, “that’s probably what would turn Fred Stapleton to violence: the sheer frustration of trying to accomplish the impossible.” He nodded. “It makes sense.”

“Maybe,” Koesler said. “But I just don’t see it. Carson, possibly Butnot Stapleton. No,” he shook his head, “not Stapleton.”

“Come on, Bob,” Young said, “you just admitted it’s been a while since you’ve had any contact with Stapleton. People change.”

“What is this?” Bash demanded. “Are we hosting a convention or playing poker?”

“Right! Where were we?” Young looked about him.

“Your deal, Del,” Jeffrey said, and began gathering the cards to give them to Young.

“Any more beer in the fridge?” Young wanted to know.

“More than even you can drink,” Bash answered. He went to get the beer. “Better be careful, Del. You’re the designated driver for your car.”

They laughed. Each of them was his own designated driver since each had come alone. Only Clete Bash would not be driving. And that only because he was already home.

As Del Young began shuffling cards with hazy determination, Koesler studied the group.

Three priests and a deacon. All four men were of a certain age, so they had much in common in addition to their vocation. They had each developed in the pre-Vatican II Church and all had been through the trauma of ensuing radical change. The only noteworthy thing about this group was how easily Quent Jeffrey had fit in with the priests.

The permanent deacon program produced deacons, not priests. With a preparation program of just a few short years, deacons were to priests what the ninety-day-wonders of World War II were to traditional military officers.

Added to that, the vast majority of permanent deacons were married. They quite naturally structured their lives around their families. Another sharply dividing feature from the celibate priests.

That had to be one of the reasons the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey fit into this group far more snugly than the average permanent deacon. He had been married. Now he was a widower, his children grown and living their own lives.

Here they were-four bachelors. Three had consciously chosen the celibate life. One had backed into it unintentionally, as it were. A married clergy was on the Way for the Roman Catholic Church-indeed, it had already begun-once the law of celibacy became optional. Koesler was certain of this. He had no idea how the Church could possibly continue without a sacramental ministry. And you needed priests to do the sacramental things.

Even now, there were “no-priest” parishes. On Sundays a nun or a layperson would lead a prayer service during which Communion would be distributed. But sometime before that prayer service, a priest had to offer Mass and leave behind him those consecrated wafers that were distributed at the Communion service.

There was just no getting around it: Priests were the only ones who could confect the Eucharist. And the Eucharist was at the center and heart of Catholicism. Koesler simply could not conjure up his Church without the Eucharist and the priest to confect the sacrament.