Wheat That Springeth Green

by J.F. Powers

  Joe’s next thought was not to call the Arch right away, but to try to understand what was going on, and so he made a list:

  a) Arch doesn’t know what he’s doing, that I turned down Cheerleaders.

  b) Arch knows what he’s doing, that I turned down Cheerleaders, but thinks I was wrong to do so.

  c) Arch, in either case, probably aware of my infamy (in eyes of Mall crowd) and hopes, by having his picture taken with me and mine with him and Cheerleaders, to improve my image (in eyes of entire community).

  d) Arch, in any case, doing business as usual—P.R.

  Joe decided to leave well (lousy) enough alone, not to call the Arch, and for the next few hours he tried to be himself, which, in the circumstances, was hard for him. In the evening, as usual, he visited dp’s, forcing himself to do this, as he’d have to force himself in the morning, if by then he found the strength or the weakness—which would it be?—to do “the other.” Could something like this, for all its absurdity, be of divine or diabolic origin, a trial of humility or a temptation to pride, meant to build him up or tear him down? Or was it just more of the same, just nothing—in that case perhaps diabolic?

  At last! A saint for today! Blessed Joseph of Inglenook, help of victims of P.R., pray for us!

  As it happened, except for forcing himself to visit dp’s, he gained nothing by it and returned to the rectory in a state of acute dehydration. He was on his second drink when Bill returned, came in from what he called “chores,” and after taking a phone call in his room, reported to the study with a beer.

  “Bad news, Joe. Al Fresco’s in the hospital. Bleeding ulcer.”

  Joe was sorrier than he would have thought to hear this, but said, “What he gets for eating beans out of the can.”

  “Frucht’s afraid Al won’t be back.”

  “Don’t need two men at Holy Cross. Slum parishes aren’t what they used to be. Somebody should tell the Arch.”

  “He’s got the shakes.”

  “Who?”

  “Fruchtenberg. He’s in charge.”

  Joe sniffed. “What’s the difference in a parish like that?” And got up to make a drink. He was back to thinking of his own trouble, of ways out, trying to see this as one of those situations from which the wise pastor ostensibly retires and handles through his assistant—“Father flew to Florida, Your Excellency, to be at the bedside of his parents [“One of his parents, Bill”] and deeply regrets he can’t be with us today”—and was still getting nowhere. Oh, the humiliation there’d be for him when he told Bill, who really should be told, the Cheerleaders were coming—assuming Bill didn’t already know this (from Lane?) and hadn’t meant anything ominous by it when, presumably speaking only of the Arch’s engagement to bless the rectory, he’d said what he had (“I guess I figured since it hadn’t happened, it wouldn’t . . . like the end of the world”). If Bill did know the Cheerleaders were coming (and if he did, why didn’t he say so?), the humiliation for Joe would be even greater when, if . . . no, don’t. Don’t tell Bill. Let it ride. Let it all happen in the morning . . . like the end of the world. No, Bill should be told even if he already knew, for Joe didn’t know that, and therefore when he came out of the bathroom with his drink he said:

  “Bill, I called Toohey.”

  Bill just looked at Joe.

  “About ‘the other.’ Remember?”

  Bill nodded, sort of.

  “Bill, what it is . . . is.” Joe shook his head and was, though he’d been about to go through with it again, silent again, looking down into his glass.

  “Joe, I know what it is—and I’m sorry.”

  Joe looked up from his glass, blushing.

  Bill, also blushing, tried to explain. He said that Herb had met the Arch at some affair in the city and had got him to say yes to the Cheerleaders, but that this had happened before Joe said no to them, at which point Herb had been in a bind. Then, when, later, the Arch promised Joe to come out and bless the rectory, Bill had been in a bind. But had been hoping—“You said there was a good chance, Joe”—that Toohey would somehow queer the deal. “If that had happened, Joe, there wouldn’t be any problem. I mean, Herb would understand—he’s not a bad guy, Joe. He thought you’d be pleased. I wasn’t so sure. But I didn’t think you’d mind—to this extent.”

  “Whyn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Herb asked me not to. He said if you found out he went to the Arch before he went to you, you’d think he’d gone over your head. You would’ve too.”

  Joe, not saying so but agreeing, was silent, wondering whether he’d have had the guts to say no if he’d known the Arch had said yes, whether, in fact, since that was the situation now, he had the guts to say no now.

  “Joe, as I see it, when the Arch said yes to Herb, the whatchamacallit was cast.”

  “The die.”

  “Right. Joe, what is this die?”

  “It’s the singular for dice.”

  “I see. So what’s the deal on tomorrow, Joe?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Bill finished his beer and rose to leave, which was all right with Joe that night—it wasn’t that he was sore at Bill, it was just that there was nothing to say. “See you in the morning, Joe.”

  “Uh-huh.” In the morning. What a thing to say, even if Bill hadn’t, and he hadn’t, meant anything ominous by it.

  “Joe, I don’t know if you’ve thought of it or not, but as I see it, you ought to try to see this as a, well, cross.”

  Joe sniffed. “Some cross,” he said.

  “G’night, Joe.”

  “G’night, Bill.”

  A couple of drinks later, around midnight, Joe did what he should have done earlier, hours earlier, called the Arch and heard him say:

  “Hello. This is a recorded message. Please identify yourself and state your business briefly. If necessary, I’ll get back to you. Go ahead.”

  “Father Hackett, SS Francis and Clare’s, Inglenook,” Joe said, making an effort to speak effortlessly. “This is about tomorrow morning, Your Excellency. I think you should know, if you don’t, that I said no, nothing doing, to the Cheerleaders, that congratulatory group. This is such a low-grade operation that I don’t think a priest, and even less a bishop—the Church, Your Excellency—should have anything to do with it. So, when I learned, as I did only this morning, that it’s on and that you’re in on it, well, to put it mildly, Your Excellency, it came as one hell of a shock to me. I realize it’s late, but not too late, I hope, to call off your visitation tomorrow, even if this means postponing the blessing. That’s all I have to say. Thank you. G’night.”

  That “G’night” could sound silly in the morning, perhaps alcoholic, Joe thought, and was about to go into the bathroom with his empty glass when he didn’t, surprising himself but not much (the next time might be different). He wandered over to the windows and seeing the weather ball—red—wished he had the whole message back. Would that have been—to have said nothing—to despair? NOO, said the water tank. Was this—to have said something—to hope? NOO. Did anything mean anything? NOO. Was that the phone? NOO.

  “St Francis.”

  “You’re St Francis, I’m Lyndon B. Johnson.”

  “Not tonight.”

  In the morning, Joe got up with difficulty, with a head of lead, but wasn’t sorry (had feared he might be) that he’d called the Arch so late. For now there was a sporting chance—he rated it two to one—that the Chancery would call to say the Arch was indisposed, in which case, if the Cheerleaders had to be so informed, Bill (“Herb would understand”) could handle it. So, before going over to church for his Mass—naturally, when he could have used the sleep, he had the early one—Joe told Bill (still in bed) to be sure and find out, if word came from the Chancery of the Arch’s indisposition, whether the Cheerleaders had been so informed. “And don’t let Toohey hang up on you. Take a firm line with him. That’s what I do.”

  After Mass, when Joe asked him, Bill said there hadn’t been any word from
the Chancery. It was still early, too early, Joe told himself. He had orange juice for breakfast, while scourging himself with thoughts about cutting down on his drinking, then went and sat in his office. When the time was now or never, you’d think, to call off an eleven o’clock engagement—one involving, among other things, a big bass drum—there was still no word from the Chancery. The odds had gone up to five to one, and these were Joe’s odds—any other bookmaker would have doubled them. Then—it could be anybody, though—the phone rang.

  “St Francis.”

  “This is just to confirm he’ll be out there at eleven sharp,” Toohey said, and hung up.

  For the next hour, with the door closed between the offices, Joe was in a state, walking around in circles, shooting out of orbit from time to time to do some dusting, until, to get away from Bill’s typing, music to Joe’s ears these days but that day deafening, he went upstairs to his halloween bathroom where, standing before the open medicine cabinet, having already had four aspirins, and an eyecup catching his eye, he changed his prescription, poured himself a small gin and knelt down (the frosted window was up a bit) to see if he’d heard what he thought he had in the street, yes, at the curb, disembarking from their cars, their drum from a station wagon, the Cheerleaders in full fig (male and female made he them, but for this?), and a heavily armed photographer, no, two, oh, no, Brad . . . all of them, a hellish host, advancing on the rectory, and then, sliding into the breach of the driveway, the archiepiscopal car of hearselike length and breadth and hue, the rocket trail of mud splashmarks on its flank giving it a sinister GHQ look to Joe, who, rising from his knees, joints buckling, staggered away from the window and poured himself another small gin and, hearing the doorbell, seated himself on the toilet, its lid down not for the purpose it then served, not for sitting on while sipping an aperitif, but on general principles, and heard, as he’d known he would, Bill come for him, announce through the bathroom door, calmly, the end of the world.

  “The Arch’s here, Joe, and Toohey’s in a hurry.”

  Silence.

  “Joe?”

  Silence.

  Bill tried the door—locked.

  Joe, afraid he was getting in too deep, replied, feebly, “Not feeling well, Bill.”

  “Not feeling well, Joe?”

  “Awful.”

  “Indigestion?”

  “You might say.”

  “Joe, you need a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “O.K., Joe. I’ll tell ’em what you said.”

  Thinking how that would sound to the Arch and Toohey if they’d both audited his nocturnal message, or if the Arch hadn’t and Toohey had broken it down for him—“Don’t be surprised, Bishop, if he’s indisposed”—Joe rose up, took a swig of Lavoris for his breath’s sake, and would have rushed out the door if it hadn’t been locked, unlocked it, and rushed out.

  When he came to the front door and heard the voices on the other side, he was tempted to go down to his office, to the lavatory there, but didn’t. He went out the front door and was warmly received by the Cheerleaders—Herb, however, not among them—and by the Arch, who called to Toohey (who stood apart, with Brad, in the shade of the rectory), “What’d I tell you, Monsignor?”

  “Thought we’d do it here on the steps,” the Universe photographer said to Joe.

  “That so?”

  The NS photographer, coming out of the shade, said to Joe, “They say we can’t shoot it, Father.”

  “That so?”

  “Say they have your permission.”

  “That so?”

  “And we don’t.”

  “O.K. You’ve got it.”

  “Thanks, Father. You won’t regret it. We’re shootin’ color.”

  If the Cheerleaders and the man from the Universe (who, though, didn’t seem to give a shit) had expected Joe’s decision to be reversed by higher authority, they were mistaken, since there is no higher authority on earth than a pastor in his parish, and the Arch, knowing this and smiling away, was obviously pleased with Joe for being so masterful, so pastorful, as Joe was, while aware that all he’d done, in the interest of fair play, was assure that the task at hand be performed by both executioners.

  “Thought we’d do it here on the steps,” said the one.

  “Where the hell else?” said the other.

  So—with the Arch in the middle, and next to him Joe and Bill, and next to them two females, with four males behind, and kneeling down in front, alongside the drum, two more, one of whom struck the drum before each take (three takes), making for smiles and merriment all around, with one grim exception—the deed was done.[1]

  Joe, first to break out of formation, was approached by Toohey, who said, “Hope you’re ready for him inside,” or, as Joe construed it, Look, Shorty, if it’s slipped your mind what else he’s here for, better round up some holy water and a candle.

  “The curate took care of everything,” Joe said.

  They stood together in uneasy silence, watching the Arch and the Cheerleaders, the Arch giving them one and all a lube job. “Get on with it,” Toohey muttered. And the Arch, as if in response, finished up, looked around to see where he was now, and came over to Joe with his hand out, which Joe shook, the Arch saying to him:

  “Nice group, Father. Oh, there’s something in what you said last night, but a lot more in what you did this morning.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Wham!

  The Arch smiled frostily.

  Joe had been hoping for more of a response, believing as he did that the separation of Church and Dreck was a matter of life and death for the world, that the Church was the one force in the world with a chance to save it (but first, “Physician, heal thyself!”), and he was still hoping for more of a response when Toohey intervened, “We’re running late, Bishop,” and so they went inside and got on with the blessing.

  [1] In the color photo that appeared in the NS, the Arch, Joe, and Bill were all smiling broadly, especially Joe, and the Cheerleaders, with all their pomps, were nowhere to be seen.

  PART THREE

  29. SEPTEMBER

  JOE SAT IN the sanctuary of the cathedral with Egan’s set and others either eminent or, like himself, associated in some way with the deceased. Hardly any laity present, and few of the clergy went on to the cemetery. After the prayers at the grave, about to go to his car, Joe was detained by a layman of scholarly mien, well dressed in black but much too tall, who said, “I was instructed by the deceased to give this to you here, in the cemetery, Father. I’m his lawyer.”

  Joe accepted the envelope, reading on it, in shivering blue-black script, Courtesy Mr Von Keillor, and asked, “What if I hadn’t been able to come to the cemetery?”

  “I was instructed to get in touch with you.”

  “And if I hadn’t been able to come to the funeral?”

  “The same.”

  So the deceased had considered that possibility too, as Joe had. He wanted to open the envelope then and there, out of curiosity, and so didn’t. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good day, Father.”

  In the seclusion of his car, Joe opened the envelope and read:

  Dear Joseph—

  You were right.

  I was wrong.

  Pray for me.

  Wm Stock

  A few days later a letter came from Mr Von Keillor saying that the deceased had made a bequest in the amount of $10,000 to Joe. Wondering if the deceased had said why, Joe phoned the long lawyer, who, though, couldn’t or wouldn’t help him in that respect but suggested he get in touch with Father Butler. Joe had already thought of doing this, and now did, by phone.

  “I understand you’re Father Stock’s executor.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you know he left me ten grand.”

  “Yes.”

  “There were other beneficiaries?”

  “Yes. The pastor remembered all his assistants still living.”

  “Still in organized ball, y
ou mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Including Father Day?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. He earned it. How about Beeman?”

  “Who?”

  “Lefty Beeman. He did time there briefly.”

  “Oh. No, none of those. But housekeepers and janitors, or their survivors. Most of the estate went to the Sisters.”

  “That’s good. They earned it. Everybody did. I was wondering, though, why me?”

  Silence.

  “Anything in the will that would explain it?”

  “No.”

  “Anything you might know that might explain it—me being boy from the parish, maybe?”

  “No, not that.”

  “He leave Toohey anything?”

  “Monsignor? No, Father.”

  “That’s good. Look, Father, here’s what I want to know. Did you, by any chance, tell the man I made a contribution to his purse?”

  Silence.

  “Could he have known?”

  Silence.

  “I mean, the exact figure?”

  Silence. And then, with a rush: “Father, I was new. Nothing—just nothing—was coming in until . . . he made me tell him—you know how he was . . .”

  “I do, I do, and I don’t blame you, Father. That’s all I wanted to know. Thanks.”

  So it was as Joe had thought: he had been paid back at the biblical rate of exchange, a hundredfold. Although the money, in view of its source and its suitability, would have to go into the parish account and thus to ARF, Joe would still profit by it greatly—as his benefactor was now, wherever he might be, in a better position to appreciate. For the rest of the year, if not, alas, for the foreseeable future, Joe and Bill could and would suspend their evening operations with dp’s.

  That, then, was the good news in September.