“We, too, have been on the streets. As you know, Don Vittorio, not much separates Toronto from Detroit.”
“Sister cities.”
“Yes. And we have been able to get some information. Not all. But some.” Licata shifted in his chair and drew himself closer to Gigante. “We are certain it is not the work of one. It is a conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy!” Now there was a concept Gigante found familiar.
“Yes. A conspiracy. And one that we in Detroit are most interested in. So, before you put out your contract, we would like you to consider what we have to propose.”
Gigante spread his hands. “But of course. We are brothers. Your cause is our cause.”
5.
Peculiar to the Catholic priesthood of the Latin rite, as compared with any other vocation in Western civilization, is that upon death there are no direct descendants. Often there are not even immediate survivors. The priest leaves neither wife nor child. At most, a few parishioners or consanguines make up the mourners. Seldom does a mourner at a priest’s funeral need to be assisted from the scene overcome by grief.
This is even more true in the case of a deceased bishop. Not only does the bishop rarely leave any close kin, but he has been buffered from the laity by layers of clerical bureaucracy.
The funeral of a bishop, then, as far as the laity is concerned, is usually marked by one-tenth sorrow and nine-tenths curiosity. On the part of the visiting, concelebrating clergy, it is largely a social function wherein old but seldom-visited confreres bring each other up to date.
Then, too, as far as the clergy are concerned, theirs is a strong and active faith in an eternal life after death. So it is quite natural, even supernatural, that a priest’s funeral can truly be said to be celebrated.
In any case, there were no moist eyes as the faithful gathered for the Mass of Resurrection for His Eminence Adrian Cardinal Claret.
The laity—by invitation only—were already in their places in the cathedral. The congregation included most of the movers and shakers of Toronto, Catholic and non. But the clergy would occupy the majority of places in the cathedral. It was a notable cast of clerics.
The Apostolic Pro-Nuncio, Archbishop Tito Fulmo, would represent the Vatican. Canada’s only other Cardinal, Andrew Audette of Quebec, would be principal concelebrant of the Mass. Ten of the thirteen American Cardinals were present to concelebrate, as well as hundreds of Canadian bishops and priests, along with a few from the United States. Of the latter, most would be from Buffalo and Detroit.
Bishops were vesting in the cathedral rectory, while the priests vested in the school across the street.
Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle found himself in a peculiar hierarchical position. His elevation to the Cardinalate had recently been announced. But he had not yet been to Rome for the ceremonies that would make him a Cardinal. So, while he vested with the other archbishops, several Cardinals stopped by to say a few words to their new brother in this extremely limited, exclusive, and august club.
“I believe,” Boyle was saying to Archbishop Leo Bernard of Cincinnati, “that the vocation crisis in the Archdiocese of Detroit could correctly be described as catastrophic.”
“Congratulations, Eminence,” said a passing Cardinal.
“Thank you, Eminence.”
“It’s not much better in Cincinnati,” Bernard replied. “I don’t know what we’re going to do for priests in the near future. I read an article the other day by some priest who claims the problem is rectory life. That you can’t expect men of different ages, experiences, and tastes to live together without tension, friction, and eventually, a great deal of stress.”
“I read that article too. It ran in our paper, the Detroit Catholic. If you ask me, it is nonsense. Priests need priests. Once you have priests living in apartments, alone, you have created a fraught situation—”
“Ad multos annos, Eminence,” said a passing Cardinal.
“Thank you, Eminence.
“As far back as any of us can remember, and more,” Boyle continued, as he tied his cincture and adjusted the alb at his ankles, “rectory life has proven not only practical but desirable. Without rectory life, where would the priest be when the faithful need him in an emergency?”
“I fully agree, Mark. And in addition to what you noted, what could we possibly do with all those rectories? There are few families who would consider buying a building that had been built as a combination home and office. And, speaking of buildings, what are you doing with that huge minor seminary of yours? What is it . . . Sacred Heart?”
“Yes. Well, we have moved just about every small diocesan department we can think of into that building. Let’s see, we have the Department of Formation, the Office of Pastoral Ministry, the Hispanic Office, the Black Secretariat, Senior Citizens—”
“When’s the consistory, Mark?” a passing Cardinal inquired.
“The last week of April, Eminence.”
“Good! We’ll be there. Congratulations, Eminence.”
“Thank you, Eminence.
“In any case,” Boyle continued, as he adjusted his pectoral cross, which now hung outside the alb, “you can see what it is we are attempting. Keeping the building filled—at least as much as humanly possible—and useful. If it is difficult to put a rectory on the market, trying to sell a seminary complex simply is an almost impossible concept. And to think that not twenty years ago, we were considering building additions to the seminary.”
“Pope John, when he called the Second Vatican Council, couldn’t have known how much ‘fresh air’ those open windows of his were going to let in.”
Archbishop Boyle shook his head. It was impossible to understand the workings of the Holy Spirit.
“Eminentissimi ac Reυerendissimi,” one of the masters of ceremony loudly enounced, “procedamus in pace.”
“In nomine Christi, Amen,” the bishops responded.
In the school hallway, one of the masters of ceremony called out, “Reυerendi, procedamus in pace.’’
“In nomine Christi, Amen,” the priests—at least those older priests who understood Latin—responded.
The procession into the cathedral had begun.
“Bob Koesler.” The tall, trim, blond priest extended his right hand to the younger priest who had become his procession partner.
“Ouellet, Maurice Ouellet.” The two shook hands. “Where’re you from, Father?”
“Detroit.” Koesler pondered momentarily. “Ouellet . . . weren’t you Cardinal Claret’s secretary . . . the one who was with him when he was attacked?”
The younger man looked pained. “So I was mentioned in the Detroit papers too. Yes, I’m the one. But I’m trying to forget it.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right. It’s just that I’ve told the story to the police so many times I’ve grown tired of it. Besides, I’ve had nightmares practically every night since.”
“Sorry again.” Intent on changing the subject, Koesler inclined his head toward a series of spires in the area. “I guess there’s no mystery about why they call this Church Street.”
Ouellet’s gaze followed in the direction of Koesler’s nod. He smiled. “They also call it ‘Redemption Street.’”
“Oh? Because of all the churches?”
“No.” Ouellet directed his companion’s attention across the street. Koesler laughed. Almost every other establishment was a pawnshop.
The clerical procession wound its serpentine way from Church Street, down Shuter to Bond along a tall, black, wrought-iron fence. The first segment of the procession was mainly in a black and white motif as the priests marched in their black cassocks, white surplices, and a white or golden stole over their shoulders. They were followed by the red uniforms of the monsignors. Then came the impressive purple of the bishops. Finally, there was the breathtaking crimson of the Cardinals.