Foley had a distinct-nay, unique-way of clearing his throat. He would half bury his chin in his clerical collar, cover his mouth with a closed fist, and clear his throat with a series of rumbling sounds.
The cough was the result of a combination of causes, including nearly fifty years of cigarette smoking, inveterate tea drinking, and, eventually, sheer habit. While he had quit smoking some ten years ago, his hack sounded as authentic as if he had just walked off a tobacco plantation.
Five years ago he had retired as archbishop of Cincinnati. The stated reason for his retirement was his age-seventy-and ill health. Both reasons were real enough, but the more pressing issue was that in some Curial circles he was considered “soft” on such issues as homosexuality and abortion. Foley wasn’t really an advocate of either practice. He just loved everybody-including sinners and those considered by highly placed authorities to be sinners. The longer he lived, the more accepting and nonjudgmental he became-attributes not at all prized by the present administration in Rome. However, a few years before, Rome itself had been burned by the reaction of American bishops when a liberal West Coast bishop had his local authority shredded by some bureaucrats in Rome. Not wishing to be twice burned, yet not willing to endure any hint of doctrinal deviation, Rome had applied considerable pressure as Foley neared compulsory retirement age.
The archbishop, a loyal churchman despite his humanistic leanings, complied with Rome’s wishes. He retired, but stayed on in a private Cincinnati home as bishop-emeritus. However, despite his striving to maintain a very low profile, his popularity remained strong. He was invited to meetings of such fringe groups as former priests, and women who demanded ordination. Often, he attended. The good man had great difficulty refusing invitations, particularly those from people who were hurting.
Pressure was applied again: this time, to leave Cincinnati and the people with whom he’d built a long-standing, mutual love affair.
Obediently, he packed. But where to go? He prayed. His prayers were answered almost ideally by an invitation to reside in Detroit.
Detroit had become known throughout the country and the entire Catholic world as an “open” diocese. The Second Vatican Council had hit Detroit harder than any other U.S. diocese and certainly no less forcefully than any other diocese in the world.
Rome was not enthused by the Detroit Syndrome. But there were some substantial if subtle differences between Detroit and Cincinnati. Detroit’s archbishop, Mark Boyle, was a Cardinal, a “prince of the Church,” That, plus Boyle’s popularity among his confreres, had earned him the first elected presidency of the newly formed U.S. Bishops’ Conference. Even Rome had to take these facts into consideration.
There were also differences between Boyle and Foley.
Larry Foley’s conscience and conviction led him to more or less sympathize with the spirit of the fringe and outlawed groups with whom he dealt. Mark Boyle, on the other hand, seldom if ever swerved from the vera doctrina, the true doctrine as interpreted by Rome.
Boyle’s great virtue-or flaw, depending on which side of the fence one sat-was his ability to co-exist with those whose opinions he did not share. Without shouting, “Off with their heads!”
Thus Boyle got along with Foley as well or better than with just about any other bishop in captivity. They had been friends for years; it was only natural that Foley had considered Boyle’s invitation to reside in Detroit as heaven-sent.
With this background, Koesler understood why Archbishop Foley would receive mixed reviews from the people in this room. Many of them had the “bureaucratic mind” that disapproved of Foley as a maverick, while others appreciated him to the extent of loving him.
Among the latter was Sister Joan Donovan. While making no effort to conceal the details of her sister’s life and death, she had, with anxiety, let her wish be known that her sister receive a Catholic burial.
Archbishop Foley had been the first-and, actually, the foremost-to respond to her appeal. He told Joan it would be an honor for him to preside over the Mass of Resurrection and burial. Thus Sister Joan joined the long line of those beholden to him.
Foley was here to lead the rosary. To that purpose he now made his way toward the front of the room where a kneeler had been placed before the bier.
The archbishop gave new meaning to fragility. Thin as a pipe cleaner, he was slightly stooped. Although he bore a generally dour face topped by wispy white hair, it was his eyes that distinguished him. They were blue and danced with merriment.
Even the soft whispering gradually ceased as Foley shuffled to the front of the room. As he reached the casket, Sister Joan stepped forward and joined him. For several moments they stood gazing at the remains of Helen Donovan. Foley had spoken words of consolation at the time he’d agreed to preside at the funeral, so there was no need to go into that again.
“She was very beautiful,” Foley said finally. He had never met Helen Donovan in life.
Joan nodded, “She looks quite natural. I was told the bullet entered the rear of her head and didn’t come out. So I guess there was no extensive damage in the front to …” She choked back a heavy pressure in her throat.
“… repair?” Foley supplied.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Foley joined his hands as if in prayer. “Now that I’ve finally seen her, I am amazed how much she resembles you.”
“Oh, she was much prettier.”
“No, not really. She’s lovely, of course. But then, so are you.”
“Oh, come now!” Joan touched the bishop’s arm. It was as if she were holding naked bone.
“No, no. You are both lovely ladies. Now, if an old coot like me can’t get away with passing a compliment with no strings attached, who in God’s green world can?”
Joan smiled briefly. “You know, Bishop, she and I were never close. That surprises me now that I look back on it. We were the only children in our family, both girls. You’d think we would have appreciated each other, shared things. But aside of my hand-me-downs we shared almost nothing. I got excellent marks in school-that sort of challenged her. I did well in academics; she did not. But she did better in almost everything else.”
They fell silent for a few moments.
“Your sister is grateful to you now,” Foley said. “Grateful that you’ve gone to all this trouble to have her buried properly.”
“Oh, do you really think so? I’ve been wondering whether I’m doing all this for her or for myself. For a long, long time she couldn’t have cared less about the church or religion. What difference would this ceremony make to her now?”
“Well, m’dear, I’ve always thought that when we die, we will be judged by love. I am so very, desperately grateful that when I go, I will not be judged by any fellow human-no matter how understanding and forgiving that person may be. No, your sister’s been judged by the only one who goes on loving us no matter what we do. Keep in mind the words of St. John, ‘God is love and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him.’ Forgive the sexist pronouns, m’dear.”
Strange, thought Joan, he hasn’t said anything I didn’t know. And yet I feel so much better, so very much better.
“And while we’re at it,” Foley added, “we might remember some other words from Scripture: ‘It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.’ Will you join me on the kneeler? I promise I won’t get fresh.”
Joan almost laughed out loud.
As they knelt, most of those in the room followed suit. Archbishop Foley led the group in the glorious mysteries. To even slightly old-fashioned Catholics, the rosary, particularly in this setting, was a consolation. To others, the whole thing was a mystery-not joyful, not sorrowful, not glorious. Just a mystery.