William Kienzle - Chameleon

The hat was never actually worn. During the ceremony of installation it was held above, then touched to the Cardinal’s head, not to be used again until the Cardinal died. Then it was suspended from the cathedral ceiling. According to Church wags, it would not fall until the Cardinal was released from purgatory. Which ensured a torture lasting centuries. If so, more recent Cardinals could be grateful the custom of the red hat had been abolished.

Koesler was nearing the coffin. Tomorrow morning Cardinal Boyle would be principal celebrant at the Mass of Resurrection. Many archbishops and prelates from neighboring dioceses would concelebrate, From Detroit the body would be shipped to Cincinnati, where another funeral Mass would be offered. Finally to Florida for the final Mass and burial.

There he was. Koesler had lost track of time and distance. He was surprised to find himself standing alongside the casket.

The vestments were sumptuously ornate. Moving upward from the polished black shoes there was a spotless, starched alb, then the white chasuble glittering with inlaid gems; white ceremonial gloves covered his hands; the pallium , emblem of an archbishop, crossed his chest; on his head was the white miter. Koesler judged the miter would have to be removed or they’d never get the casket closed.

Foley’s face was the only body part not covered. In death his years had caught up with him. He appeared skeletal. Had it not been for the wrinkles, his face might have been mistaken for a bare skull.

A shiver shook Koesler. He could scarcely believe this was all that remained of the kindly gentleman with the musical voice who spoke so forcefully just yesterday afternoon.

Someone coughed. It startled Koesler. How longhad he been standing there? It was not like him to be thoughtless of others. He was holding up the line. He moved from the bier quickly and was about to enter a nearby pew when he heard a muffled sob. He turned to see who had been so moved.

Third behind him in line was Sister Joan Donovan. A handkerchief was held tightly to her mouth. Tears flowed down her cheeks. Koesler waited as she viewed the body. Then, wordlessly, he led her to the pew and seated himself beside her. Soon the weeping stopped and she regained control.

“Excuse me, Father,” she said. “I didn’t intend to make such a fool of myself. I just couldn’t stop crying once I got in that line.”

“You know what they say,” Koesler said, “there’s no one as dead as a dead priest unless it’s a dead bishop. I think Archbishop Foley would be very pleased that you were so moved.” He amended himself. “The archbishop is pleased that you cared.”

“It’s just that he was sokind when Helen was … when Helen died. While I was worried whether she could have a Church burial, he called and volunteered to offer the Mass. And then at the wake, he was just like a father … or a grandfather. He was such a support. I hardly knew him before Helen died and, in a day, it was as if he’d been part of my life for aslongas I could remember.”

“Some people have the ability. I guess I should say ‘charism.’ It’s rare. But, I agree, Archbishop Foley had it.”

Father Koesler and Sister Joan fell silent. He glanced at her. The tears had stopped flowing. She seemed at peace and lost in thought.

She was right, thought Koesler. The archbishop had excelled in humanity. Koesler had witnessed Foley participating in liturgical functions innumerable times. He always seemed distracted, constandy called back by a master of ceremonies from a private reverie. But present at all times was the hint of humor and a concern for odiers that was open and genuine. The two men had met personally only once. Yet it was as Sister Joan noted: It seemed as if Koesler had known him, and known him well, for a long time, He wasn’t some remote dignitary lying in state, but a friend.

There was a rustle behind him; Something brushed against the back of his head. “Sorry,” a male voice said.

As Koesler halfway turned, he recognized two priests of roughly his vintage. They were about to be seated direcdy behind him. One of their coats had brushed him as diey entered the pew. He nodded. “Ted … Harry.”

Almost simultaneously, they replied, “Bob.”

The two priests setded into the pew, making barely audible rustling noises as they shifted about in search of comfort, knowing all the while they would never find it.

After a few minutes, they began talking to each other in tones that shifted between normal speaking volume and a whisper. At any rate, they were a distraction. Koesler glanced at Joan, wondering if they were disturbing her. Apparently not; she seemed transfixed as she gazed steadfastly at the remains of the man who, in so brief a time, had made such a lasting impression on her. She was not disturbed by the conversation going on behind hen

He was. Koesler tried recollecting his thoughts in prayer, but the conversation continued to distract him. He decided that living with it was an easier course than creating a small scene.

“Too bad about the old man.” Koesler thought it was Ted, but was not going to turn around to make certain.

“Yeah. He seemed like anice enough guy. How long’s hebeen here … a year?”

“About. He could’ve lived in Florida, you know. That’s where he was born and raised.”

“I knew that, but I’d forgotten. Retired in Florida! And it’s his home at that. Why in hell would he want to come up here?”

“The boss. They got along like brodiers.”

“I don’t think I like anybody that much.” They both chuckled. “Think the boss will go down now that Foley’s gone?”

“Hard to tell. If I had a last buck I’d bet against it. What’s there to do there now for him? He’s not a golfer. For him it’s just a long walk in the sunshine interrupted by hitting a ball with a stick.”

Silence. Then, “When we goin’ down?”

“Dunno. I was waiting for you to make up your mind.”

“Lent comes early this year,”

“When?”

“Sometime late February.”

“Wow! We better get on the ball.”

“A Titleist, preferably.”

Another chuckle. “Got to get back before Ash Wednesday.”

“It’ll be great getting down there. Winter’s just beginning here and already I’m tired of it.” A pause. “It just doesn’t seem right somehow,”

“What?”

“That the boss won’t be down. I mean with Foley gone and all. One thing you gotta admit: Nobody works any harder than the Cardinal. I didn’t think I’d ever say that about any priest, let alone a bishop, but, dammit, the guy deserves some time off. Personally, I hope he does go down.”

“Yeah, it’d be nice seeing him relaxed. I’d even buy him a drink.”

“You? With the tightest pockets in the diocese, you’d buy him a drink? Somehow I got to get the message through to him. Then he’ll go for sure.”

They laughed. Silence. Then: “Oh, I almost forgot: You wanna play a little cards tonight?”

“Tonight? Where?”

“The chancery.”

“The chancery? Clete Bash having a party?”

“Uh-huh. Some of me guys are from out of town. Here for the funeral tomorrow. Staying at the chancery overnight.”

“Sounds like it could be fun, despite Bash.”

“Why’despite Bash’?”

“Guy’s a prick.”

“What’s he done to you?”

“Nothing. I’m just sick and tired of seeing his mug on TV all the time. Who the hell’s he think he is, Walter Cronkite?”

“You got the wrong guy. Cronkite was anchor. Bash is a-whaddyacallit-a press officer-like that McLaughlin, the Jebbie, for Nixon. Besides, he doesn’t like wild card games.”

“Who?”

“Bash. They’re alot of fun.”