“Just this: When Audrey told me that her marriage to Schneider had been validated, I blew my cork. But later, when I got to thinking about it, I figured she must be confused. A priest couldn’t do that … he couldn’t just run roughshod over all those laws. I mean, they’re your laws-laws of the Catholic Church. He’s not some kid priest; he’s been around.
“When she married Schneider, they couldn’t get around her previous marriage to me. I made sure all the i’s were dotted and all the t’s crossed. I guess they thought they had some small chance if I were to cooperate. Of course, I refused any cooperation.” He laughed sharply. “Why in hell would I be cooperative when I went through all that trouble to make certain there were no loopholes?”
“Why, indeed?”
Koesler noted repeatedly during this narration how inordinately pleased Kleimer was that he had been able to foil his former wife’s every attempt at happiness. And how disgruntled, how angry he was, that somehow, despite his best efforts, she had somehow achieved that happiness.
Kleimer by no means was the only person Koesler had ever known who was so filled with hatred. Oddly, this sort of venom was frequently found between people who had once been the best of friends or even lovers.
When a marriage went sour, it was most rare that the process of dismantling the relationship was accomplished amicably. From time to time, Koesler would reflect on a couple who at one time had sat in his office planning their wedding. They could not be more in love. They looked at each other with adoration and hunger.
Then, sometimes, years later, the same couple would be back for marriage counseling. Now, they refused to look at one another. The animosity was palpable.
What had happened? The chemistry was so precarious.
While, in Koesler’s experience, there were many contenders for the title of “meanest former spouse,” at this point Kleimer was the leading candidate.
One of Koesler’s weaknesses-at least he considered the trait less than Christ-like-was his dislike for persons such as this. No, he did not much care for Bradley Kleimer. But the priest tried not to betray his feelings. There was always the possibility, no matter how slight, that such a person might turn about and learn to forget rather than harbor vindictiveness. To love rather than to hate. To rejoice in the good fortune of a former friend or spouse rather than seeking vengeance.
But, to be perfectly honest, he did not hold out much hope for Kleimer.
“Anyway,” Kleimer was saying, “after I had a chance to reflect on what Audrey told me, I had to think there was something else going on. But what? Then I thought maybe Carleson was able to find something wrong with that dispensation we got from the impediment of mixed religion. But what in hell could’ve gone wrong?
“That’s when I thought of Henry VIII, who got a dispensation and then challenged the validity of his marriage because of the dispensation-just as if it had never been given. Could that have happened to me? Could they have found some flaw in the dispensation we got?
“Well, you’re the expert when it comes to Church law. What do you think?”
Koesler did not appreciate the corner Kleimer had forced him into.
To begin, Koesler had no way of knowing what had happened between the Schuylers and Father Carleson. Perhaps Carleson had discovered a loophole. Unlikely … but possible. Or he might have worked out an arrangement whereby they agreed to live together as brother and sister rather than as husband and wife.
At very best, such an unrealistic relationship was awkward. At best it would be strained; at worst, intolerable.
There were several other possible arrangements that might have been found and agreed upon. But, in short, Koesler did not know exactly what had happened. However, after his conversation with Carleson Sunday night, Koesler knew full well that the priest was fully capable of doing just what Audrey Schuyler had implied. He knew that in Detroit some priests retained the approach that requires anyone with a previous marriage to acquire not only a civil divorce but an annulment-a ruling by the Tribunal or Church marriage court that the previous marriage was null, that it never existed. Indeed, such is the letter of the law.
Other priests might counsel such a couple to get married in any manner recognized by the state and just continue receiving the sacraments. This is sometimes referred to as “the pastoral solution.”
Still others, mainly in low profile, perhaps in the core city, will witness the remarriage-in direct contravention of Church law.
Father Carleson, however, never even asked couples who came to him whether there was a previous marriage to be dealt with. Koesler had concluded that Carleson was a do er, not merely an observer. He might well have waved aside all restrictions plus lots of laws, and simply witnessed the couple’s marital promises.
“Well-?” said an impatient Kleimer.
“Well, I don’t know what happened. It’s like when a surgeon performs an operation. Then someone like yourself goes to a second doctor to ask what the first doctor did. Doctor number two would have to be at a loss as to what happened. He’d have to have been there, seen the X rays, shared in the examination, witnessed the operation.” Koesler hoped Kleimer was understanding all this. “I have no clue as to what Father Carleson found or did.”
Kleimer checked his watch. He should get back to find out what Quirt had or hadn’t accomplished. But he wanted some answers from Koesler more satisfying than a plea of ignorance. “Okay. Lemme ask a couple of procedural questions. If Carleson somehow was able to validate that marriage, shouldn’t there be a record of it somewhere?”
“Yes,” Koesler answered truthfully, if with some reluctance. “There might be a notation in the marriage register at Ste. Anne’s. There also ought to be a notation in the baptismal records of both parties.”
“So …” Kleimer felt he was finally getting someplace. “… if there’s nothing in the records, they’re still locked out of the Church as much as they were when they married in the civil ceremony.”
“Not necessarily. They might have agreed to a brother and sister living arrangement.”
“Oh, yeah; I read about that when I married Audrey.”
Once again, Koesler was impressed by the extent of Kleimer’s preparation for his eventual vindictiveness.
“But,” Kleimer continued, “if they agreed to that, they couldn’t have intercourse. It’d be a sin for them to do anything sexual more than a brother and sister might do … right?”
Koesler, with an increasing sense of distaste, nodded wordlessly.
Kleimer seemed quite satisfied that the Schuylers, even though squared away with their God, would still be miserable. Then furrows formed in his forehead. “Hey, wait a minute! I’m thinking of what kind of guy this Carleson is. Diego seems to have made a lot of trouble for a lot of people. But nobody does anything about it but Carleson. He’s an action guy. He doesn’t wait around for things to happen; he makes them happen. He killed a bishop. It’d take a lot less to say the hell with some Church marriage laws and just witness the marriage of a couple of people who canonically couldn’t get married … no?”
“You’re jumping the gun badly. Father Carleson has been accused of murder. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty. Your premise is unfounded.” But Koesler feared that the astute attorney had detected his unspoken fleeting agreement with that premise.
“Son of a bitch …” Kleimer was no longer addressing Koesler, or anyone else for that matter. He was talking to himself. “This thing works both ways. If he can overlook every law of the Church and act out his contempt for those laws, why couldn’t he do the same with another law against murder, and just do what he feels is necessary?” He had him! “Sure! I’m gonna hang that bastard!”
Kleimer rose and slipped into his overcoat as Koesler said, in an alarmed tone, “Wait a minute, Mr. Kleimer. You’re dealing with two different kinds of law here. God’s law is not always the same as Church law.”