Free Dead Wrong by William X. Kienzle

had nothing to do with how heavy or how light they were, but how they were constructed. If the altar was ‘permanent,’ the relic—just a sliver of a bone from one of the saints—would be placed in the altar. If it was ‘portable,’ the relic was placed in a rectangular stone and the stone was placed in the altar.
    “There also was a cloth into which a relic was sewn. That made it convenient for, say, chaplains, who were obliged to use whatever surface was at hand for an altar—an ordinary table or a rock … or maybe the hood of a Jeep. But you can see how much importance the Church placed on continuing that tradition.”
    “Which gets us back to your celebration today,” Maureen said to Brenda. “What is this about not getting a shipment of bones?”
    “Yes,” Koesler asked, “why would they send just bones? I thought the relics were sent from Rome already in their reliquaries—their containers?”
    “Apparently not,” Brenda said. “They used to send a bone—a tibia or something—along with authenticating papers. Then one of the chancery priests would get the job of shattering the bone into tiny fragments for the altars.”
    Koesler laughed. “Knowing the gang at the chancery, they probably called him ‘the bone guy’ or just ‘Bones.’ Who was it … anybody down there remember?”
    “They were talking about that today. They weren’t sure who it was. Somebody said it was a priest who later became bishop of Saginaw.”
    “It may well have been. His name slips my mind. It is … uh …”
    “But how come they stopped doing that?” Maureen asked. “Didn’t you say you were celebrating a nonevent?”
    “Apparently it’s not as firm an obligation anymore. Plus somebody said that the rule now is that the relic is placed under the altar— and it’s not supposed to be a sliver anymore,” Brenda said.
    “A recognizable piece of human anatomy?” Koesler immediately regretted he’d said that. In another group such an observation might have encouraged a ribald stream of humor. But not in this setting. He had little to fear.
    “Well, that seems to make sense,” Eileen remarked.
    “They even got rid of the closet where the bones were mashed,” Brenda said.
    “How do you get rid of a closet?” Maureen wanted to know.
    “When they renovated the chancery a while back,” Brenda explained, “they just extended the hallway.”
    “The closet became part of the hallway?” Maureen asked.
    “Uh-huh. The closet used to be right across from the archives. Now that area is wide open.”
    “So then,” Mary Lou said, “the saints who contribute their bones to altars don’t have to be martyrs?”
    “Most of them are,” Koesler said. “But I guess they don’t have to be.”
    Koesler and the others had almost forgotten Mary Lou. After her unsuccessful attempts to foul the mood of this party, she had been quiet. And, thanks mostly to Brenda, the ensuing conversation had been light and jovial. Just as it should be.
    Now Mary Lou had reentered the flow. Her tone had not improved. Koesler feared the dinner was about to be torpedoed.
    “Then just about any saint could qualify to be an altar relic … right?” Mary Lou pressed.
    “I suppose—”
    “How about Mary Magdalene?”
    “Hmmm …” Koesler thought for a moment. “I suppose … I guess so … if you could find her. Far as I know, no one’s ever found her, or identified her grave. Which brings up—”
    “I was just thinking,” Mary Lou said, “Mary Magdalene was a whore … a slut, an adulteress.”
    “Well, yes …” Koesler feared he knew where this was leading. “… but that was before she became a disciple of Christ and changed her life.”
    “But before she did that,” Mary Lou persisted, “before she changed her life, she slept with lots of men. She wouldn’t have given a damn whether her partners were married or not … would she?”
    “Mary Lou!” Maureen spoke loudly, in a shocked tone.
    “See, Brenda, there’s