“Inspector, you know me too well.”
The waiter presented the check, which Koznicki quickly grabbed, over Koesler’s protestation. “Inspector! This was my party. I’m the one who invited you to lunch. Please, let me have the check!”
“Some other time, Father.” Koznicki smiled at his friend, glanced at the check’s total, covered it with a credit card, and handed both to the waiter. “It is my pleasure. Please allow me to take care of it.”
It was useless to argue. Koesler shrugged resignedly. The waiter retreated happily. He figured he was likely to get a more realistic tip from a layman than from a priest.
In Koznicki’s case, Koesler knew the inspector was motivated by simple friendship. But the incident caused him to wonder in general. Was it that the laity considered priests to be so poorly paid that they could not afford to pay their own way, let alone someone else’s? Was it that the laity wanted to pay their priest’s freight in return or anticipation of some spiritual favor. . a sort of pious buying of votes?
It was true that a priest’s salary, with the exception of those diocesan priests who earned a side income, was technically well below a living wage. However, it increased significantly in value when one considered perks and gratuities that scarcely ever quit. Free room and board, free medical and dental expenses, and on and on.
Almost every time he considered the subject, Koesler would entertain positive thoughts about the aborted worker-priest movement of France. Particularly since he had delegated so many pastoral responsibilities that hitherto had been considered the private preserve of him whose hands had been consecrated, he wondered if he should go out and at least try to get a job.
He spent very little time on that thought. For what secular work was he qualified? Who would hire a priest? What would be the reaction of his ecclesiastical superiors? His peers? Knowing the answers to those questions, he did not generally waste time on considerations that were doomed to a dead end.
Although he didn’t much want to attend the God Squad meeting tonight, he would. For one, he would not disappoint his friend, Inspector Koznicki. Additionally, it might be instructive.
But first, this evening, he would drop in on the wake of Hank (“TheHun”) Hunsinger.
“Good evening, Father. Who is it you’re here to see?”
“Mr. Hunsinger.”
The funeral director looked disappointed. Hackett Funeral Home was not designed to act as the penultimate resting place for the Hun. It was an ancient, boxlike structure that simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate the numbers who had come to mourn or merely view the deceased athlete.
Hank Hunsinger’s was not the only body presently preserved in Hackett’s. Jose Gonzales’ remains also were on display in a very small slumber room. The funeral director had hoped Koesler had come for the Gonzales group. It was past the appointed time for Jose’s farewell rosary. Once the rosary had been recited, most of the Gonzales people would depart, leaving more room for the ever-fluctuating crowd for Hunsinger.
So it was with less than his usual peculiar mixture of accommodation, reverence, sympathy, and affability that he escorted Koesler through the crowd and into the parlor containing the Hun’s remains. From that point on, Koesler was on his own. As well he might be; he had gone through similar scenes countless times.
Standing just inside the door, the priest attentively surveyed the room. Its panels slid aside, the room was several times its original size. Still the hallways were full of people waiting for the opportunity to file past the bier and have a last glimpse of the Hun. The line of people doing just that was moving almost imperceptibly. None of this was of any practical concern to Koesler. Marked by his roman collar, he could squeeze by anyone, go anywhere in the room he wished. People would step aside and even apologize for being in his way.
As he looked around, he saw few familiar faces. Except for the multitude, it was his standard experience at a funeral home. A few, a very few, spoke to each other in whispered tones. There was the muffled shuffle of feet advancing toward or retreating from the casket. Most of the people sat statuelike on the small folding chairs staring straight ahead as if they too had died.
Here and there, Koesler recognized isolated members of what was becoming a familiar cast of characters: the God Squad. They were to meet at the Galloway house after these services. Mrs. Galloway was nowhere to be seen. She must, Koesler assumed, be preparing for the arrival of the men. Or maybe she had just decided not to attend the rosary for Hunsinger.
The scene of relative inactivity had a soporific effect. Koesler’s mind wandered back to a similar scene many years earlier in this very home. His father had died after a long illness and his wake was held here at Hackett’s. Koesler had arrived to find a group of his friends gathered in the hallway. They were taking up a collection among themselves for stipends for Masses for his father. It had taken him several minutes to convince them that they were bringing coals to Newcastle. All of his many priest friends were offering Masses for the happy repose of his father’s soul; one thing no one needed to be concerned with was prayers for any priest’s relative.
Koesler was also reminded of the eve of his father’s funeral. That night, he and his mother were the last on hand at the funeral home. They stood alone beside the bier. He urged her to leave with him. She spoke, but not to him. To his father. That surprised him; he had never known his parents to be overtly affectionate with each other. “Good night, my darling,” she had said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the last time before we meet in heaven.” He nearly broke down.
The following year, his mother followed his father.
“What do you think of the house, Bob? Is this SRO or isn’t it?”
Koesler’s reverie was shattered. It was Father Peter Forbes, pastor of Holy Redeemer. They knew each other casually but with the familiarity almost completely reserved to priests.
“Yeah,” Koesler responded, “you’ve got a good crowd tonight. I was just remembering the wakes for my parents. They were held right here and with just about as many people as are here tonight.”
“But a different crowd, Bob.” Forbes had not been stationed at Redeemer when Koesler’s parents had died, but the Redemptorist spoke from experience. “Most of these folks are here out of curiosity. The death got lots of publicity. And after all, Hank Hunsinger was a celebrity, especially in this town. These folks want to tell their friends they attended the Hun’s funeral. Some of them just want to see a celebrity-even a dead one. Besides, there’s a live one over there.” Forbes nodded in the direction of Bobby Cobb.
Cobb and his wife were among the very few blacks in the crowd. Besides being a celebrity in his own right, Cobb and his wife were so outrageously attractive that they were the object of many a surreptitious glance.
“There are some genuine mourners here, of course,” Forbes continued, “but I’m sure most of them are curiosity seekers. Even though I wasn’t here for your parents’ funerals, I’m sure you had a big turnout of people who were genuinely sympathetic and supportive.”
Koesler nodded affirmation. It was always thus with parents or close relatives of a priest. Besides the relatives and friends of the family, there were many parishioners and former parishioners, as well as priestly classmates and friends, to swell the total. And always they formed a group of sincere and sympathetic mourners.
“Was there a problem with the funeral?” Koesler inquired.
“Problem?”
“I mean with Christian burial. I got to know Hunsinger only over the past couple of months or so. But I got the impression he hadn’t seen the inside of a Catholic church-or any church, for that matter-in a great number of years.”
“It’s true; that could have been a problem,” Forbes reflected. “There is one overwhelming reason we really went to bat for this one: Mrs. Hunsinger. She has been so faithful and exemplary a Catholic all her life, we just couldn’t let her down. Hell, even the Chancery guys got the point after I explained it to them.”