Chameleon by William X. Kienzle Read Free Book Online

Communications.
    The Office of Communications dispensed information, provided one asked the right question. It produced ambitious television programming—although reception depended on one’s TV set’s ability to pick up a less than powerful signal.
    More than anything, the communications office was a public relations operation, and Father Cletus Bash was the designated official spokesperson for the archdiocese.
    No such office had existed in the local Church until the 1960s. At that time, having been newly established, it took neither itself nor its function very seriously. While other major organizations, such as the auto companies, financial institutions, and the like, were very concerned about their public image, the Catholic Church, by and large, was content that God knew all was well. In a system where the Pope gave the word to the bishops, who passed it on to their priests, who preached it to the laity, who did what they were told, whatever image was projected by this efficient procedure just didn’t seem very important.
    Then, once more due to the Second Vatican Council, things changed. Now, under regular siege not only by the ACLU but even by Catholics who could be and were critical, the Church began to get serious about its image problem. Accordingly, the Office of Communications steadily grew in importance. But the growth of the office was no match for the self-importance of its official spokesman, Father Cletus Bash.
    He had two lay assistants who kept him informed and did menial tasks. They were made to understand that they were not to approach even the neighborhood of becoming spokespersons. In this department one alone talked to the media. One alone appeared in close-ups on TV newscasts. One alone spoke on the record for radio reporters.
    It brought to mind one of Detroit’s most famous priests, Father Charles Coughlin, whose name in after-years was scarcely ever mentioned without the descriptive phrase, “Controversial radio priest of the thirties.” Now it was, “Father Cletus Bash, official spokesman of the Archdiocese of Detroit.”
    If this distinction got to be a bit tiresome—and it did, for everyone but Bash—Father Koesler, a tolerant person, tended to understand and forgive. What he understood particularly were the difficult years Cletus Bash had spent as an army chaplain during the Korean War. And especially the injury he had suffered when, his group under fierce bombardment, a shell had exploded nearby. Of the men in that area, Bash alone had survived. In a series of operations, surgeons were able to form what, for that time, came close to being a bionic man. Still, he had little movement in his left arm. And he had lost the sight in his left eye.
    But he came back. And if he was somewhat more macho than most of the other priests of his generation, he had, thought Koesler, some right to be.
    Yet most of the other priests, as well as all who had to deal with Bash, would have agreed that Koesler understood and forgave a tad too much.
     
     
    “Kind of warm in here, isn’t it?” Bob Meyer commented.
    Bash nodded curtly. He looked around the room. “Too small. Way too small. That’s why it’s so hot. Too many people crammed in here. This whole affair has been badly run. Shows what happens when you let amateurs run things.”
    “Amateurs?” Bob Meyer had been assistant director of communications for many years, through the terms of several directors. He had survived partly by keeping most negative opinions to himself.
    “The nun,” Bash elaborated, “Sister Joan. She’s handled this thing badly from the beginning.”
    Amateur? thought Meyer. My God, she’s the dead woman’s sister, the only close relative! Who else would anyone expect to make final arrangements?
    That’s what Meyer thought. What he said was, “It is a small mortuary. Perhaps she should have picked one of the major parlors.”
    Bash shook his head. “No, not a larger home. A smaller crowd.” Was he the only one