No Greater Love by William Kienzle Read Free Book Online Page B

assignment. He was beginning to feel sorry for his classmate. Boyle had given McNiff a rugged row to hoe. Considering his age and physical condition, McNiff might well be flirting with death.
    â€œI need help, Bob. And I need it bad.”
    Koesler could tell, both from this plea and from his longtime familiarity with his classmate, that the situation was taking a lot out of the man. McNiff was not one to ask for help. Knowing this, Koesler was motivated to supply whatever help he could. “In what way? How can I help you?”
    McNiff shook his head. This was draining him. “I need someone to confide in. I need to bounce ideas off someone I can trust. I need someone I can relax with. I need a friend—preferably someone who knows and understands my assignment here. And, to top everything off, someone who agrees with the need for this mission.
    â€œAlso,” he added parenthetically, “someone who’s got the time to do all this. Someone”—he winked one bloodshot eye—maybe who is retired.”
    Koesler chuckled. “Did you gerrymander these criteria to fit perfectly my present lifestyle, or do I just happen to fit the bill?”
    â€œWould I do anything underhanded to you?”
    â€œYes.”
    McNiff barely smiled.
    â€œBut,” Koesler said, “I’m still not clear on what you expect of me. Do you see this as-yet-anonymous ‘helper’ as someone who responds to your decisions on a full-time basis?”
    â€œNo, not at all. Let’s say for sake of argument that you were this as-yet-anonymous helper. I envision it this way. You’d have a suite here in the seminary. It would be yours to use as you will: complete freedom to come and go as you wish.
    â€œIt would be nice if you would attend—concelebrate—our daily liturgies. If you wished, you could also help out at the parish of your choice on a daily basis or on weekends.
    â€œIf you wanted, you could teach a class here. You’d get to know some of the students better. And you’d be sitting in on the faculty meetings, since you would be, in effect, an adjunct professor—”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œI’ve given that some thought—”
    â€œYou’ve given some thought to everything.”
    McNiff was undeterred. “You spent some years at the diocesan paper. You could teach a course in journalism … or maybe creative writing.”
    â€œMy career in journalism was at a small weekly paper that specialized in Catholic news and opinion. That’s not a lot of background for a course. As to ‘creative writing,’ what’s the opposite—’destructive writing’?
    â€œI don’t mean to put you down, Little Pat; I just don’t think I’m qualified to teach one of your standard subjects.”
    McNiff sighed impatiently. “Look, Bob, within limitations, we can do pretty much what we want in creating and staffing classes. You could float a bit. Drop into the Homiletics class occasionally. You’re a good speaker; for the love of Pete, I asked you to give the eulogy for both my parents. I didn’t ask for you at that important time in my life because you were chopped liver!
    â€œHey, you’ve been a parish priest for forty-five years. For a dozen of those years you were also editor of the Detroit Catholic. Bob”—McNiff was both pleading and exhorting—“give the kids the benefit of your experience.”
    Koesler looked out the window in deep thought. “If I give them the benefit of my experience,” he said, finally, “won’t they begin to tumble to what you’re doing? I mean, I am not now, not have I been for a very long time, a member of the conservative wing of the Church. Nor do I even fit in with those conservatives that you’re looking for now—the ones with a high degree of tolerance. I’m a liberal who tolerates conservatives—at least the ones who