Bishop as Pawn Page 0,1
the topic; the sooner they could pack it in here, the quicker he could get home.
“Then, see …” Mark continued while obediently stacking boxes, “… the archdiocese is divided into five regions, and an auxiliary bishop is responsible for each region—with maybe an exception for our newest auxiliary, Bishop Diego. He’s supposed to look out for the Hispanics.”
“I sure thank you fellas.” Pete, balancing an improbable pile of boxes and gear, exited without further formality.
Charlie smiled at Mark sympathetically. “I thought for a minute you had him there. Maybe next time.”
“If we’d had all the guys here—maybe then Pete would’ve been impressed. Or, if more of the guys had been wearing their clericals … Look: There’s about ten guys left and only one of ’em is wearing a ‘collar.’”
Charlie snorted. “He probably wears a Roman collar in the shower.”
“Huh?”
“Name’s Koesler, Father Robert Koesler. He’s pastor of Old St. Joe’s downtown. I did some work for him last summer. Took census in his parish—almost everybody there lives in a highrise, or an apartment or a condo. A nice guy, but definitely ‘old school.’”
“Oh, yeah …” Mark brightened. “I remember him. Isn’t he the … uh …?”
“‘Detective priest’?” Charlie grinned. “I guess some people think so. But he doesn’t. He told me all he’s done is just supply some information to the police from time to time. No big deal, according to him.”
“Oh …” Mark’s attention turned to another related consideration. “Now that I think of it, how come this isn’t open to all the priests? When Cardinal Boyle has a general meeting everybody shows up.”
“I don’t know …” Charlie grew reflective. “There is a difference. Even when there’s a general meeting, the suburban guys hang out together and the same for the city guys. Must have something to do with their territory. I guess it’s the difference between first, second, and third world countries.”
The two young men, now almost done, were packing away the untouched food, which would be distributed to the needy tomorrow. Charlie chuckled. “Reminds me of something my aunt told me a while back.” Charlie’s aunt was a nun who had a penchant for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong people.
“You know how in the old days if the nuns did something wrong, they had to confess it to all the other nuns in their convent? They called it the Chapter of Faults.
“Anyway, a priest used to say Mass at the convent once a week. The nuns took turns making him a pretty damn good breakfast after Mass. Well, one morning when it was my aunt’s turn, the priest left some bacon and eggs, which my aunt promptly scarfed down. But then she felt guilty. So at the next Chapter of Faults, she confessed, ‘I ate Father’s remains.’”
They both laughed.
“By the way,” Mark said, “who’s the new guy?”
“What new guy?”
“The one who came in with the Ste. Anne’s crew?”
“Oh … okay … I can’t think of his name right now, but he’s about to become a Detroit priest. Didn’t you see the announcement in the Detroit Catholic?”
“I must’ve missed it.”
“He’s a Maryknoller … an older guy.”
Actually, the priest in question was a Maryknoll missionary, or, more technically, a member of the Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America.
“I always thought that a missionary vocation would be sort of thrilling,” Mark mused. “You know: China, Africa, Japan, South America—exotic places. Why would he want to work in Detroit?”
“I don’t know.” Charlie shrugged. “But it’s gonna take him a while.”
“Why?”
“’Cause the Maryknoll order has to let him go before our archdiocese can ‘adopt’ him. It’s a regular process … something about ‘incardination’ and ‘excardination.’ I asked Father Kerin, but he said we’d study it later in Canon Law.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just like all the questions about sex and marriage …”
“‘We’ll study it later,’” they said in unison.
CHAPTER
ONE
“I’m being sued,” Father Bert Echlin stated.
Father Ernie Bell snorted. “If you lose, you’ll have to borrow money to pay off.”
“They always think we’ve got an infinite pile of money back of us,” Father Henry Dorr said.
“Well, we have, in a way.” Father Frank Dempsey chuckled. “If any one of us gets into enough trouble, they can always sell the Sistine Chapel.”
“Who’d want it?” Echlin wondered.
“Why? What are you getting sued for?” Dorr asked,
“My sidewalk.”
“You got a sidewalk?” Dempsey joked.
“I got a sidewalk, okay,” Echlin said. “It looks like it got bombed. I mean, I’m used to potholes in the streets. But in the sidewalks?”
“So it’s an eyesore. What’s so different