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.
The rosary completed, Foley creaked to his feet, said a few more words to Joan, patted her hand, and shuffled toward the exit.
The others waited, either out of genuine respect or in deference to his rank. Then nearly everyone participated in a mass exit. Koesler, intent on speaking to Joan, felt like a salmon swimming upstream.
By the time he reached the front of the room only a few people remained. They were clustered around Sister Joan. As he knelt briefly before the casket, he was struck by Helen’s resemblance to Joan. They were not twins, but they very definitely were look-alike sisters.
As he prayed that Helen be at peace with God, he wondered how two lives so joined in consanguinity could have developed so differently, as Helen and Joan had drifted apart in every conceivable way.
When he finished his prayer, he stood at the rear of the small group offering condolences to Joan. She noticed him standing there awkwardly and broke away long enough to thank him for attending. It was a perfunctory greeting. Koesler was certain that later Joan would not even remember his presence. But that was understandable. It was not at all uncommon for the bereaved to be distracted, even unaware of what was taking place. The death of a loved one may be the ultimate shock.
As Koesler turned to leave, none of the original crowd, outside of the few with Joan, remained—except the ladies who did not represent the Rosary Altar Society. They were in the doorway talking to a black man with an engaging smile.
Koesler knew the man from somewhere. As usual in such situations, he began reflecting on parishes he had served. Frequently, priests’ contacts with laity took place on the parochial level. This was an easy case to check; he had had relatively few black parishioners during his priestly ministry to date. He hoped to correct that imbalance through old St. Joseph’s parish.
But, if not a parish, then where? Of course: Lieutenant Tully. What was that nickname some used? Oh, yes: Zoo.
Koesler was tempted to classify their association as having “worked together” on a couple of cases. But that would be a somewhat grandiose description. Let’s keep things in perspective, he thought: Tully was the cop. And from what Koesler’s close friend Inspector Walter Koznicki had said, Tully was the inspector’s most valued officer in the Homicide Division. From the amateur’s point of view, Koesler would agree at least with the fact
“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.
The rosary completed, Foley creaked to his feet, said a few more words to Joan, patted her hand, and shuffled toward the exit.
The others waited, either out of genuine respect or in deference to his rank. Then nearly everyone participated in a mass exit. Koesler, intent on speaking to Joan, felt like a salmon swimming upstream.
By the time he reached the front of the room only a few people remained. They were clustered around Sister Joan. As he knelt briefly before the casket, he was struck by Helen’s resemblance to Joan. They were not twins, but they very definitely were look-alike sisters.
As he prayed that Helen be at peace with God, he wondered how two lives so joined in consanguinity could have developed so differently, as Helen and Joan had drifted apart in every conceivable way.
When he finished his prayer, he stood at the rear of the small group offering condolences to Joan. She noticed him standing there awkwardly and broke away long enough to thank him for attending. It was a perfunctory greeting. Koesler was certain that later Joan would not even remember his presence. But that was understandable. It was not at all uncommon for the bereaved to be distracted, even unaware of what was taking place. The death of a loved one may be the ultimate shock.
As Koesler turned to leave, none of the original crowd, outside of the few with Joan, remained—except the ladies who did not represent the Rosary Altar Society. They were in the doorway talking to a black man with an engaging smile.
Koesler knew the man from somewhere. As usual in such situations, he began reflecting on parishes he had served. Frequently, priests’ contacts with laity took place on the parochial level. This was an easy case to check; he had had relatively few black parishioners during his priestly ministry to date. He hoped to correct that imbalance through old St. Joseph’s parish.
But, if not a parish, then where? Of course: Lieutenant Tully. What was that nickname some used? Oh, yes: Zoo.
Koesler was tempted to classify their association as having “worked together” on a couple of cases. But that would be a somewhat grandiose description. Let’s keep things in perspective, he thought: Tully was the cop. And from what Koesler’s close friend Inspector Walter Koznicki had said, Tully was the inspector’s most valued officer in the Homicide Division. From the amateur’s point of view, Koesler would agree at least with the fact
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