Bishop as Pawn by William X. Kienzle Page A

looks fine, Herbert. Just the way you left it.”
    Herbert’s home indeed was in good repair for a structure that went back nearly a century. He had taken exquisite care of it for as long as he could—which was up to only a few years ago. And though no one had taken over Herbert’s careful maintenance, his work endured even now. The priests of Ste. Anne’s were hopeful some young couple would buy the roomy home and raise their family there. Hope for a renewed neighborhood was part and parcel of the Ste. Anne’s community whose pastor fervently declared that he did not come to Ste. Anne’s to be curator of a museum but pastor of a parish.
    “There’ve been some people—some young people—looking at your house, Herbert. Be nice if they moved in, wouldn’t it? Your father raised his family there and so did you. Now, please God, it should be somebody else’s turn.”
    Carleson considered it futile to pretend with Herbert that he would ever return to his old home. If the old man was aware of anything, it was that he was going nowhere except heaven.
    “Herb, did you hear the one about the priest who visited a parishioner in a hospital just about like this? The patient had oxygen tubes in his nostrils and seemed to be asleep. The priest leaned over the bed to get a better look at the man.
    “All of a sudden, the guy’s eyes popped open. He gasped a few times. And the priest thought, ‘Oh, my God, the poor guy is breathing his last’ The patient made a motion as if he wanted writing materials. A last message to his loved ones, thought the priest, as he slipped a pad and pen into the poor soul’s hands.
    “And while the guy scribbled on the pad and wheezed and gasped, the priest anointed him. Just as he finished absolving him, the guy gave one last gasp and died.
    “‘What a blessing and grace it was—really providential—that I could be with the poor man just as he breathed his last,’ the priest thought. ‘I’ll just have to get this final message to his family.’
    “So the priest slips the pad out of the guy’s hand and looks at what’s written there. It reads, ‘You’re standing on my air hose!’”
    Carleson looked at Herbert. Nothing. That was what the priest had expected. But, against all expectations, he had hoped for some sign. A twitching at the mouth. Something in the eyes. An alertness.
    Nothing.
    Was he talking to a vegetable? Was there any use to this? He might as well be talking to himself.
    He’d felt this way on previous visits.
    “You know that bishop I’ve told you about, Herbert. You remember him, don’t you?”
    Nothing.
    “Ramon Diego’s the name. He certainly wasn’t what I bargained for when I signed up for Detroit. I know I’ve told you all about this before, Herbert, but something big has happened, and you’re about the only person I can confide in.
    “At first, Herbert, I figured it wouldn’t be too bad. Somehow, as it came out of the mouth of Cardinal Boyle, it sounded as if the diocese was giving me a break.” He smiled. “It must be that soft, Irish brogue he can’t quite get out of his speech.
    “Anyway, I should have known better, but as Boyle explained it, it made some kind of crazy sense. I had all the experience I’d ever need for working with a Hispanic group. But I was kind of light on ministry in a big American urban setting.
    “That’s where Ramon Diego was supposed to come in. His Texan background was supposed to fill in the gaps for me.
    “And I bought it! Can you imagine!” He shook his head. “I thought, well, maybe I’ve spent just about all my time in the sticks, but it can’t be that hard to get used to a big city and racial instead of just economic prejudice and bigotry.
    “Maybe it was because Boyle mentioned this experience-gathering would be only for a limited period of time.” He shook his head again. “ When he didn’t put a cap on it—a few weeks, a month or so—I should have tumbled … and renegotiated.
    “But … I