by J.F. Powers
The bad news began on a Sunday with a sermon, the salient parts of which Joe caught while pacing back and forth where once petunias had bloomed . . .
“The story is told of a certain man punished for working on the Sabbath and other holy days. Which is not to say that circumstances don’t, sometimes, alter cases. Contrary to what the Pharisees of old believed, they having had the nerve to rebuke Our Lord for allowing his hungry disciples to pick corn on the Sabbath. What, replied Our Lord, of David and his men when they were hungry and went into the house of God and ate the holy bread? ‘The Sabbath was made for people, and not people for the Sabbath.’ Be that as it may. A certain man, though repeatedly cautioned by the local clergy, and by his neighbors, against working on the Sabbath and other holy days, persisted in his fell course. And on one such day, going into his vineyard in Cockaigne, or perhaps it was Champagne, in what is now known as France, had scarcely put foot to spade when, lo and behold, his head was twisted around backwards and locked, so to speak, in this ungainly and painful position, so that he was perforce looking out behind him. Something like this, only more so, all the way around. Ouch. Well, my good people, you can imagine the effect of this on the man’s neighbors and their children. To say nothing of his own wife and children. Yes, indeed. Fortunately, the poor man’s repentance was so sincere that he was cured of his affliction in a matter of days. Whereupon he gave public thanks to God and St Avit, the latter a holy abbot who flourished in the sixth century and whose feast day (a holy day of obligation in the region) it was when this occurred—the affliction, not the cure—and who, it was generally believed, had worked both miracles.”
Joe hadn’t thought much of or about the sermon at the time. During the week, though, he heard here and there that the Mall crowd—many of them, of course, parishioners—had taken the sermon as a warning to concerns doing business on Sunday, particularly the Great Badger, since it had been first, and was foremost, in the field locally. Joe, the following Saturday when he met Father Felix’s bus, mentioned the sermon, the flak, and was told, “Flak schmak. Nothing could’ve been further from my mind, Joe, but if the cap fits, I always say, wear it.” Words singularly ill chosen, it seemed to Joe, since the monk, who liked to see the world when away from his monastery, and who, some weeks before, had accompanied Bill on a fast shopping trip for boxer shorts, was now wearing the glossy black straw hat presented to him on that otherwise unmemorable occasion by Dave Brock. But Joe said no more about the sermon, hoping it would die a natural death—which it wouldn’t.
In the week after its delivery its effect on the student body of Joe’s school, now in session again, had been woeful, with kids throwing their necks out of joint all over the place, a girl and three boys requiring medical attention, the former now the envy of all in her cervical collar—Joe was glad the old Duke of Brunswick, with his “Pass that to thy neighbor,” had been visited upon the parish during summer vacation.
The effect of the sermon was still being felt in the second week, Bill and Sister, the school principal, both reporting to Joe that children, more girls than boys, were having nightmares about the man with his head on backward. “That so?” Joe said, sorry to hear it, of course, but not knowing (any more than Bill and Sister) what could be done about it.
On Friday of that week, Bill reported to Joe that a sixth-grade girl, kept after school, had seen the man with his head on backward going, apparently frontward, into the girls’ washroom, but that Sister herself, who had heard the girl’s screams and had been the first one to investigate, had found the washroom unoccupied.
What was called assembly, or even convocation, in some schools was called convention (after the Constitutional Convention) in Joe’s, his first principal (now serving in the navy) having had a fixation on the Constitution, bringing in speaker after speaker to talk about it to grade-schoolers—another example, in Joe’s view, of the U.S. Church’s patriotism, nationalism, inferiority complex. But convention, once a monthly pain in the ass to the student body and faculty, had changed, now booked other attractions—missionaries, magicians, acrobats, dieticians, folks singers.
Some of these were down for September, and since this was the first convention of the year, Joe put in an appearance, arriving late with the idea of leaving early. He’d expected to find the folks in their prewashed, stone-ground overalls, and they were, but he hadn’t expected to find Bill in his, to see and hear him up there on the stage with his guitar, playing and singing along.
While they were doing “Ol’ Man Mose”—not very well, Joe thought, remembering Louis Armstrong’s version—the bad weather, which had been carrying on in the distance for the last hour or so, arrived in a big way with thunder and lightning only seconds apart, but the folks, with presence of mind, kept at it even after the lights went out and a child somewhere in the auditorium, in the sudden dark and confusion, screamed:
“I saw ’im! I saw ’im!”
“Stay in your seats!” Joe heard Bill yell, to no avail. “Pray along with me! Hail Mary, full of grace—”
“Stop!”
Joe, it seemed to him later, had lost by that. Although nobody had been seriously hurt in the exodus from the auditorium, several students were subsequently removed from the school, which might have happened anyway—the nightmares continued—and which in any case made it possible to enroll both Lane children, this matter handled by Bill and Sister. Oddly enough, the child who’d screamed when the lights went out and who was questioned by Sister and Bill, had not seen, she said, the man with his head on backward but ol’ man Mose—a relief, in a way. Joe, of course, had to explain his action to Bill. “I don’t say it was wrong for you to pray, Bill, or for those hillbillies to switch to a hymn. It was just that kids were running for the exits.” “So when you said ‘Stop,’ you meant the kids should, Joe?” To this, after a moment, Joe nodded for Bill’s sake. The truth was, though, Joe had been scandalized that prayer was being offered, and this quite apart from the fact it wasn’t working, as a tranquilizer. Did Bill sense this, consider it precious of Joe in the circumstances, and resent it? Did the nuns? (Certainly one of them did: “I don’t know what Our Lady must think of you, Father.”) It did seem to Joe there was an anti-Joe feeling in the air. He wondered if this might not be one of those times when the wise pastor takes off for a week or two, in the hope of absence making the heart grow fonder, if he can find, but not through the Chancery (“Die”), a replacement. The first one to come to mind—but not the first one called, or the second, or the third—said he just might be able to get away from his monastery for a week. “Or possibly two, Joe.”
30. OCTOBER
JOE, SO HE wouldn’t have to put up with people, was traveling in mufti, a dark gray suit and a light gray sport shirt, the latter so he wouldn’t have to wear a tie, which he (and other priests of his generation at that time) thought was carrying camouflage too far, the next thing to cross-dressing.
He entered Canada late in the afternoon, drove another hour, and checked into what appeared to be the only hotel in a fair-sized town. After a poor meal in the dining room, he dropped into the adjoining bar and there he stayed—too long. The next morning he was having a triple order of orange juice in the coffee shop when joined by Duke, somebody he’d met in the bar the night before, who’d right away asked him if he happened to be a Catholic and when told, “Well—yes,” had said, “Takes one to tell one.” Duke was in uranium, Joe in life insurance. (“What company?” “Eternal.” “Oh yes.”) It had been a long night: and among other things they had discussed massage chairs and, in that connection, “one of God’s gentlemen,” as Duke called a certain Father Antoine, of the Blue Friars (Friars Missionary of the Society of St Louis), or Blues, who had a massage chair, a late model Niagara, he’d be only too glad to show Joe if Duke vouched for him, which Duke would be only too glad to do, he’d said, and for some reason remembered that morning (as Joe didn’t at first).
“Joe, if you’re still heading east, stop and see old Tony. Watch for the blue sign.
It’s right on your way, the friary.”
“Sorry, Duke. I might turn myself in.” Joe shook his head of lead.
“Morning sickness?”
“You might say.”
“Hmmm. The trouble is I already gave Tony a ring. He’s expecting you, Joe.”
“Better give him another ring, Duke.”
Duke went away, and came back, frowning. “Joe, I told him what you said, but he’s getting on, you know, and I’m afraid he’s still expecting you.”
“I’m sorry, Duke.”
An hour or so later, seeing the blue sign, Joe changed his mind, turned off the highway, and drove through woods that cried out for forestry before he came to the friary, a nondescript red-brick affair, circa 1900—and likewise Father Antoine. Joe saw him in his room, which said PROCUREUR-PROCURATOR on its door, in a chair much like Joe’s inanimate BarcaLounger in appearance. “How’s Duke keeping?” After that, to which Joe had nodded in a thoughtful manner, Father Antoine fired up his pipe, and his inquisitorial manner, in Joe’s opinion, ill became one of God’s gentlemen.
“Married, Joe?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“No.”
“Expect to be?”
“No.”
“Kind of work you do?”
“Oh, office work.”
“Office manager?”
“Yes. Branch office.”
“Big concern?”
“Well, we’re multinational.”
“Hah. So are we.” Father Antoine, settling deeper into his chair, blew a smoke ring. “Tired of it all, eh? You were thinking of coming in as a brother?”
Joe was thinking of kicking Duke’s ass. “Not exactly.”
Father Antoine appeared to be, if anything, more interested in Joe. “You’ve heard of our program for late vocations—to the priesthood?”
“Can’t say I have, but it’s a thought.”
Father Antoine, just as Joe in his place might have done with a layman, let him have it. “It’s quite a thought, mister.”
“Look, Father. I’m only here to see your chair.”
“My chair?” Father Antoine, it seemed, didn’t understand, and then, it seemed, he did. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
Father Antoine nodded, but more to himself. “Duke didn’t mention the chair. I somehow got the impression you were interested in . . . more than that. I’m sorry, Joe.”
“No, I’m sorry, Father. I’m not as concerned about missionary work as I probably should be.”
Father Antoine—he might have done something with such an admission from a layman—said: “In that case, how about a cold bottle of beer?”
“All right.”
“And while I’m up, try the chair.” While Father Antoine was up, taking two bottles out of a small brown refrigerator (“Duke gave me this”), Joe switched from an ordinary club chair to the Niagara, which Father Antoine had to turn on for him. “I don’t use the power much. Oh, sometimes at night if I can’t sleep. But you can drift off, so at night I always buckle up.”
“According to Duke,” Joe said, vibrating nicely, “the Niagara was invented in Pennsylvania and the belts under the seat run on the same principle as the ones for screening coal.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Father Antoine, having polished the glasses with the skirt of his blue-black habit and poured with a practiced hand, served Joe his beer with a quivering head on it. “No, no, don’t move.”
So Joe stayed put, beer in hand, and it too now vibrating nicely. “My—” he said, and about to say curate, started over. “A friend of mine sent a check to your men somewhere in Africa—for a milch cow. They needed one. Also reading matter and T-shirts.”
“‘Milch cow’? Yes, that does sound like our Irish province —it serves Africa and Asia. But when was this?”
“A few months ago.”
“Well, if the check hasn’t cleared yet, better tell your friend to stop payment and write another. You see, we’re—they’re back in Ireland. Forced to leave by the new government.”
“Too bad.”
Father Antoine sighed. “We’re pulling in our horns these days.
“That so?”
“Yes, but there’s plenty to be done in Ireland. Oh, plenty. And on this side of the water.” Father Antoine, perhaps concerned that such candor might be shocking to a layman, was watching Joe closely.
“Here in Canada, you mean?”
“Or thereabouts. Hah.” Father Antoine clapped his glass to his mouth and finished his beer.
So Joe did the same, turned off the Niagara, and stood up with the firm intention of leaving, and held to it firmly when invited to have another “brew” (a word he disliked without knowing why), saying “Thanks, Father, but I have to drive”—sounding mealy-mouthed to himself, in view of his tolerance for alcohol (if beer could be called that), his morning-after thirst, and the old friar’s undoubtable hospitality.
“Split one then.”
“All right.”
After serving Joe (now back in the club chair) and himself, Father Antoine returned to the Niagara and spoke of the Society’s work in Latin America, which he said was going about as well as could be expected. Or not very well, Joe gathered, and was moved to sign a traveler’s check, which was gratefully accepted, and then to ease his conscience further:
“Father, there’s something I have to tell you. You know how it is when you’re traveling if you’re dressed as a priest—people pounce on you.”
Obviously Father Antoine did know—he was of a generation that hadn’t gone in for camouflage—but he said, “ ‘Pounce’? I wouldn’t say that, Joe. People generally mean well.”
“All right, Father. I don’t say they don’t. But there’s still something I have to tell you—I’m a priest myself.”
“Are you now?” (Joe had expected more surprise, less anxiety, and thought the question loaded, that what he was really being asked was, “Are you now?”) “Religious or secular, may I ask?”
“Secular, but in—as we say—good standing. I can show you my driver’s license”—Joe felt for his wallet—“and you can look me up in the Directory.”
“No, no, Joe, Father. I believe you. Where are you? What diocese?”
Joe told him.
“Well, you fooled me, Joe, but I will say this for myself, Father. I thought there was something funny about you right from the start, something that didn’t quite click—from what I’d been given to understand by Duke, but then . . . Poor Duke.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry about that, Father.”
“Joe, it couldn’t be helped, Father. No harm done. I love company these days. And now that I know where you—we—stand, there’s something I have to tell you. Duke was one of us, no, is. ‘Thou art a priest forever.’”
Joe nodded to that.
“If not perhaps”—Father Antoine sighed—“in good standing.”
“Duke just left, or what?”
“Just left. Why, I can’t say. Not women, I think, or even drink, and money’s not enough. I really can’t say.” Father Antoine sighed.
“About all you can say, Father, is there’s a lot of it going around.”
“Never heard it put so well. It’s my theory—and that’s all it is—that Duke now disapproves of himself and is trying to make amends. You’re not the first one he’s sent my way, and probably won’t be the last. (So far, no takers.) I can’t say a lot for Duke’s head, but he has a good heart. He gave me this chair.” Father Antoine sighed. “Poor Duke.”
Joe nodded to that. “He may be back.”
“My hope, of course, and speaking of that, should you ever . . .”
“Thanks, Father, but I don’t think I’m cut out for missionary work.”
“Well, keep us in mind. For someone like you, it wouldn’t necessarily mean Latin America. You see, we have this program, though it’s only in the talking stage, to begin operations in the States. Unquestionably, there’d be a g
reat deal of sentiment and support up here—among people generally, of all creeds or none—for such a move.”
“That so?”
“Unquestionably. It’s true the U.S. is no longer classified as a missionary field, but hopefully something could be done about that, with things as they are down there and becoming more so. The problem may be the U.S. hierarchy—they’d have to apply to Rome for reclassification and they may not be ready yet.”
“Possibly not.”
“Joe, how do you yourself feel about such a program, Father?”
“I’m all for it,” Joe said, “and I’ll see what I can do about the U.S. hierarchy.” With that and a smile, Joe got up to leave.
“Joe, it’s going on eleven, Father. Why not stay for lunch? We’ll have time to talk and time for a brew.”
Joe shook his head, which, he noticed, had lightened and loosened up some. “No, I’d better not, Father. I have to drive.”
“My thought exactly, Joe. Get some food in you, Father.”
Joe shook his head, denying himself, his thirst, and also, he was afraid, Father Antoine his love of company these days. “Well, all right, Tony.”
At the end of his vacation, doing the last eleven days in Montreal without a drop except for wine at his daily Mass and though staying in a hotel, working long hours, sometimes as a priest, at the Catholic Worker house where Greg had what he’d called (on his first postcard) a good job, Joe took leave of the loving and, yes, lovable derelicts, giving them, since they asked for it, his blessing, and went out to his car, which had come in handy during the eleven days and had been puked in twice.
“Do me a favor,” Greg said.
“Sure. What?”
“Keep it up.”
“What?” Joe said, though he knew what.
Greg just looked at him.
“We’ll see,” Joe said then, and drove away.
The morning after the night he got back, and was still keeping it up, though he’d stopped at the friary again, he went to see the Arch.
31. NOVEMBER
JOE HAD DRIVEN out to Brad’s place that Sunday afternoon with misgivings, afraid what Barb had said on the phone (“We hope to see you here at two P.M., Father—it’s important”) might mean that Brad had decided to join the Church. But Joe had been wrong. He had simply been tricked into attending a surprise party for himself, a cookout. Already there, sitting or milling around the campfire with the host and hostess, were (in the host’s words) “All your friends, Padre”—Mr Barnes, Earl, Earl’s wife and their kids, the Gurriers and theirs, Father Felix, Lefty, Bill, and Father Day, who’d been picked up at the hospital by Bill, who said Mrs P. couldn’t make it, but sent her best. Joe kept moving around—to give everybody a shot at the guest of honor—and was in, or listened in on, a number of conversations. There was some talk of the national election, in which Joe hadn’t voted and about which he had nothing to say, and much more about Brad’s coming trip to Nam, about which Joe also had nothing to say. Barb, catching Joe alone, said, “I asked him not to mention his trip, but you know how he is, Father.” Joe said he did and told her he’d seen Greg, something of the good job he had, and how good he was at it, which Barb was glad to hear. “But don’t say anything to Brad, Father.” “No, I won’t,” Joe said, and moved on, since Barb had left him for the grill. “Oh, no,” he said, hearing Bill tell Father Felix that Conklin had not only found his lost faith but was thinking of studying for the priesthood again. “Where?” said Father Felix. “He doesn’t know yet—not here,” Bill said. “Have him drop me a line,” Father Felix said, “or—what’s his address?” Joe moved on. The kids had a football. Before and after eating—steak—he worked out with them, showed them how to get their punts to spiral, and said, inscrutably, the time before the game, when the punters warmed up, was the best part of it. He and the kids had soft drinks again, and he looked cross-eyed and said “Hic” and made them laugh, not as much, though, as he had at first. When it was time for him to leave—so soon, yes, but not too soon—he took Father Day by the arm, walked him out to the car, and settled him in the front seat. Lefty, who’d stood by during this operation in case he was needed and who had then circled the car, pointed out that all its hubcaps were missing. “Yeah, I know,” Joe said. “Dear God,” Lefty said, speaking of Bill, who could be seen and heard with his guitar, leading the singing around the campfire, “look at my candy-ass assistant.” “Yeah, I know,” Joe said—he now had none. A pickup truck pulled into the driveway and Dave Brock, sans sombrero, got out. Joe, because he’d sort of met Dave once and had had a letter of thanks from him after the abortive holdup, introduced Lefty to him, then excused himself, saying, “I have to leave,” and hurried out to his car parked at the curb, his passenger having disappeared from view. When Lefty called after him, “Sure you don’t want that chair?” Joe shook his head and kept going, calling back, “Yes,” and when Dave called after him, “Where is it you’re stationed now—Holy . . . Faith?” Joe shook his head and kept going, calling back, “Cross.”