Along with the ancient structures he’d inherited-church, rectory, and home for janitor and family-was a conscientious Italian gentleman who would have qualified as a sexton but that he did not need to dig graves. He certainly was much more than simply a janitor. He was electrician, plumber, horticulturist, and, frequently, early morning Mass server.
But Dominic-no one called him Nick, or even Dom, for that matter-was, like all else on the corner of Jay and Orleans streets, ancient. He was susceptible to the minor aches and pains that can be doubly troubling for the elderly. Presently, it was a mild case of the flu. Koesler had insisted that Dominic remain in the warmth of his home and the care of his devoted wife.
But somebody had to move this snow. And unlike his former suburban parish, where there had been substitute janitors, there was no money allocated here for that-nor were there any volunteering parishioners. So Koesler shoveled snow. And if he wondered whether this exercise might kill him, he had only to remember the sage advice of Irene Casey: “It’s good for you.”
But, he thought, it might have been better had he been able to use the snowblower rather than the present shovel.
The blower had been a present he had won for Dominic from a reluctant parish council. Koesler would never forget the first morning Dominic used the blower. It brought to mind the experience of a previous janitor in a previous parish. After the first few swipes, the janitor, looking like a snowman, had entered the toasty rectory kitchen to announce, “I’m-a-not like-a that machine.” But once he’d gotten the knack of turning the spout in any direction but directly at himself, all had gone well.
Koesler did not have to worry about the spout; he couldn’t get the motor to start. It was an ongoing manifestation of his undeclared war on machines and tools. After some twenty tugs on the ignition rope, he decided that if this kept up he was about to leave his game in the garage and be physically unable to push either the blower or a shovel.
Maybe there was something to that warning about heart attacks. He was now perspiring freely. He had cleared a path from the rectory to the church and also the church’s front steps, as well as the sidewalk from Orleans to the parking lot. That would accommodate the faithful few who attended daily Mass.
He returned to the rectory, showered quickly, and donned a cassock. As he descended the stairs to the first floor, he caught the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He smiled: Mary O’Connor had arrived. Business for this twenty-seventh day of December had begun.
Mary O’Connor, a widow, had, in a sense, come with him from the suburban parish to the central city. In suburbia she had been the parish secretary and general factotum. She was easily capable of managing all the necessary nitty-gritty of parochial life if only he would stay out of her way. He did and she did.
When he applied for St. Joseph’s parish Mary was faced either with having to get used to an entirely new and different style of pastoring, or retirement. Neither alternative had she found particularly appealing. So when Father Koesler hesitantly asked whether she would consider working with him again downtown, her problem was solved. Her only continuing concerns were the daily drive between Dearborn and Detroit, and getting used to how this antique parish functioned. She decided to live with the former and gradually solve the latter.
All that shoveling, plus his failed attempts at getting the blower started, had reduced Koesler’s routine to rubble. He had time only to duck briefly into the kitchen, acknowledge Mary’s presence, and hurry over to church.
He had practically no time for any last-minute preparation for the day’s brief homily, but this day he didn’t need much time. It was the feast day of St. John the Evangelist, one of Koesler’s favorite saints. Author of the fourth Gospel and three touchingly simple Epistles, he was self-identified and known as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” John alone, of all the apostles, stayed with Jesus at the cross to the end.
And yet, what an odd and controversial conclusion to his own life. Tradition has it that he was the only apostle to escape literal martyrdom. Yet he is considered a martyr, since legend has it that the Roman emperor Domitian had John plunged into a cauldron of boiling oil from which he miraculously emerged alive. If this really happened, one wonders why Domitian didn’t try it again. Maybe there was some sort of Roman law forbidding double jeopardy. Maybe pardon was a reward for escaping death. Maybe it never happened.
In any case, Koesler determined to develop a three-minute homily on John as a very old man constantly urging his disciples to love one another. When they complained about this repetition, John assured them that, “It is the word of the Lord and if you keep it, you do enough.”
The fervorino on love went over well with Koesler’s tiny but devout congregation.
By the time he finished Mass, Koesler could almost taste the coffee Mary O’Connor was keeping hot for him. It was not yet midmorning but already he felt as if he’d put in a considerable day.
Cold cereal, a banana, and coffee would constitute breakfast. As he began eating, Mary joined him, pouring herself a cup of coffee. This was unusual. Ordinarily, he breakfasted alone while Mary continued to prepare St. Joseph’s books and records for the twenty-first century.
“Did you hear the news?” Mary asked.
Koesler looked up, startled. They did not often discuss current events unless it was something of truly pressing importance, “No, I guess not.” He’d heard the eleven o’clock news last evening, but that had contained nothing that Mary would consider vital. “I haven’t started the Free Press yet and, seeing my duty, I cleared snow instead of listening to the radio. Something important happen?”
“Sister Joan Donovan’s sister was murdered.”
“The delegate for religious? I didn’t know she had a sister.” This though Koesler had been around long enough to be extremely familiar with the archdiocesan structure and personnel.
Mary sat down opposite him, cradling her cup. “My impression is that not many people knew. According to the news report, her sister was a high-priced call girl.”
“No kidding!”
“The report I heard said she was killed at St. Leo’s convent … at least that’s where they found her body.”
“Wait a minute: Sister Joan lives at St. Leo’s. Everybody knows that. Was her sister visiting her?”
“I don’t really know. The report was kind of sketchy and I’m not sure of all the details. I guess the body was found sometime this morning-not too long ago; there’s nothing in the paper about it.” A playful expression crept into Mary’s eyes. “It’s times like this that I wish I knew someone who knew somebody in the police department so we could find out what really happened.”
Only gradually did what she was saying dawn on Koesler, “You mean-” He smiled as he shook his head. “Oh, no!”
“Just think, we’d be the only civilians in this area who would know what the police know.” Her suggestion was made mostly in jest.
“You make much-much too much-of my contacts with the police, Mary. Just because I know a few names in the department doesn’t mean I can get any special treatment,”
He was being unassuming.
He had, in the course of several homicide investigations, collaborated with the Detroit Police Department, and over the years he’d become fast friends with the head of the Homicide Division, In any case, it was the furthest thing from his style to bother an extremely busy police force just to get a little gratuitous information. But she was teasing, and he knew it.