by J.F. Powers
Father Urban had had trouble with confessors in the past. For some reason, men he’d select for their mature outlook, men who’d appear to be well aware of their spiritual and intellectual limitations before and after, wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to show off while they had Father Urban in the confessional. The case of Monsignor Renton was somewhat different. He, too, had changed, but only once. He was now the same in and out of the box. He just wasn’t the man Father Urban had asked to be his confessor on the night they’d met—a man chosen not only for his mature outlook but for his availability and status in the diocese. Monsignor Renton had talked less and listened more on that night. He hadn’t been the same since.
Father Urban listened in long-suffering silence the next time he went to confession, while the man ground his ax and made points he wouldn’t have been able to get away with in the upper room, but when he cited the case of the young pastor—“a fine young fella”—who had driven himself into a mental institution “as a result of overindulgence in spurious activity,” and now, during meals, walked around the dining hall saying “hello” to the other patients because life had become a never-ending parish supper to him, Father Urban cut in: “Why are you telling me this?” “Pray for him, Father. That will be your penance this time. Forty years ago, we weren’t expected to do so much selling, nagging, and hand-holding. Ah, well. Now make a good act of contrition, and pray for my intention.”
Father Urban knew where he was with himself, and Monsignor Renton’s effect on him, in or out of the confessional, would be small. For himself, he wasn’t worried. But what of the man’s effect on Phil? Even before Father Urban discovered what was almost certainly behind Monsignor Renton’s opposition to a new church—the old church—Father Urban had regarded the man as a bad influence on Phil, and since then had been trying to counteract that influence. Uphill work. Phil was weak, Monsignor Renton was strong, and Father Urban, though strong, had no desire to come between old friends. Hence his sometimes halting speech, his turning of the other cheek. “Your ass is out, Father”—“And yet, Monsignor . . .”
That was how it had gone again, in the upper room, on New Year’s Eve, and was still going, much later.
Monsignor Renton, who had an edge on, said: “Frankly, if I had to put up a new church—one of these hatcheries, with silo attached—I think I’d rather cut my throat.”
“Fortunately, you don’t have to do either,” Father Urban said, taking a harder line with the man, and keeping the issue before Phil.
“If I had my way, there’d be a church down in Orchard Park.”
“If,” said Father Urban.
Phil, sunk in his chair, said, “Has there been any more talk of that, Red?”
All such talk began and ended with Monsignor Renton, Father Urban knew. Phil must have known it, too, but he was hoping. Wasn’t it cruel of Monsignor Renton to hold out this hope to Phil?
Monsignor Renton said he wasn’t getting anywhere with the other consultors. “They’re years behind me in their thinking.”
“And drinking,” said Father Urban.
“Oh, I don’t say the present population warrants it, but give ’em time.” Monsignor Renton cited the case of the pastor (“No, not in this diocese”) who had enlarged his plant, both school and church, to accommodate a housing development, and then had been left holding the bag when a new bishop came in and built right in the development. “I wouldn’t like to see that happen to Phil.”
“What would you like to see happen to Phil?”
Monsignor Renton, not answering the question, got up and went to the window facing the street. It was time for one of his curates to come for him and Phil. It was ninety miles to the North Coast Limited’s nearest stop. “Those two jokers of mine! Never know where they are! And they want me to pay for the gas! That’s one problem you don’t have, Phil.”
“No,” said Father Urban. Phil always knew where Johnny Chumley was—in church or in bed.
“Should be two kinds of men in every busy parish,” Phil said. “Priest-priests and priest-promoters. Johnny says.”
“The boy has a good mind for an ex-athlete,” said Monsignor Renton.
“I take it he wants to be one of the priest-priests?” said Father Urban.
Phil made no reply, but Father Urban didn’t regard his silence as pointed. Often, in conversation late at night in the upper room, Phil just conked out. Phil had a big ditch in his personality, and when he was down in it, as he appeared to be now, he was very quiet. “I’m neither,” he said presently.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Father Urban said, though he was afraid Phil was right. “Which one would be the boss? Did he say?” Father Urban was thinking of the weeks ahead with the curate.
“You’ll have to ask him about that,” Phil said.
“Has a good mind,” said Monsignor Renton.
“He may have a good mind, but I’m not so sure he’s right about this,” Father Urban said, addressing himself to Phil. “When you consider what’s at stake”—not only the spiritual welfare of Phil’s people but Phil’s own soul was at stake—“I’d say a man has to be both. At least a man can try. Sometimes that’s the most a man can do.” Father Urban paused to give Phil a chance to think it over, and Phil really did appear to be doing this. Phil had drunk more than usual that night, hoping, he said, to rest better on the train, and this may have been a factor in Father Urban’s favor. “Phil, a man can be both.”
“Like Jekyll and Hyde,” said Monsignor Renton.
“Otherwise, we wouldn’t be placed in the position we are, placed under the necessity to be both.” For a moment there, before, Father Urban had been getting through to Phil, but now Phil was gone—he was down in his ditch. And who had put him there? His best friend, and worst enemy—who now, commenting as he had before on Orchard Park, whose windows, yards, and rooftops were all lit up for Christmas, said: “The fires of hell, and in the summertime, with those barbecue pits going, it smells like Afghanistan. Used to be a great place for ducks, didn’t it, Phil? Right on the flyway. Oh well.”
“Red, you might as well know it now,” Phil said. “I’m building.”
Monsignor Renton wheeled around. “Holy Paul!”
“Congratulations, Phil,” said Father Urban. “Wonderful.”
For the moment, Monsignor Renton was silent, again gazing out the window.
But he would have Phil to himself for the next month, and doubtless would do his damnedest to get him to change his mind. Phil had to be shored up against him, strengthened in his great decision, committed to it irrevocably, if possible. “Have you told the Bishop, Phil?” said Father Urban.
“Not exactly. I want to know where I am before I see him.”
“Good idea, Phil.”
“Maybe take the census first.”
“Very good idea, Phil. How would it be if we did that while you’re gone? Save time.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on you, Father. It can wait.”
“If you want my advice, Phil, don’t rush into this thing,” said Monsignor Renton, coming away from the window.
For the next few minutes, he did everything he could to disrupt the conversation and to draw attention to himself. He brought up entirely unrelated matters. He predicted strikes and shortages. He stood between them so they couldn’t see each other. He ran around in circles looking for his collar (when a car horn tooted below). He followed too closely on the stairs. He fell down on the sidewalk.
And through it all, Father Urban persevered, making the most of his last minutes with Phil. Jogging alongside the moving car, he yelled, “At least we can start on the census!” and peered inside to catch Phil’s reaction to this, but could not, for Monsignor Renton scooted forward on the back seat and called on the driver for more speed. Father Urban had to let go of the door handle then.
He saw Phil’s hand flutter up in the rear window of the big black car, and fall, and though he knew he would not be seen or heard by Phil, he waved and yelled, “
’Bye!” Phil must have heard him, though, for the hand fluttered up again. Father Urban’s last impression was of a man being taken for a ride. To Father Urban, Phil’s hand had cried, “Help!”
8. SECOND ONLY TO STANDARD OIL
FATHER URBAN HAD given Mrs Burns a cookbook for Christmas inscribed, “To the last one in the world who needs it, Mrs Burns, from one who knows, yours in Christ, Father Urban.” Since then relations between them had become ecstatic on Mrs Burns’s side. Relations had been splendid before, though, for Father Urban had a way with housekeepers, and Mrs Burns obviously liked the idea of having a priest around the rectory. “Thank God!” she’d cry when Father Urban arrived for the weekend. “Another mouth to feed, Mrs Burns.” “Father, I don’t mind that.” What Mrs Burns, a white-haired, well-made widow, did mind was the telephone.
With Phil out of the picture, Father Urban was able to act. “How about it, Father?” he said to Father Chumley. One man would take all A.M. calls, the other man all P.M. calls, and thus life would be made easier for Mrs Burns, said Father Urban. What he did not say was that Father Chumley, if the plan were adopted, would have to cut down on his time in church and give the diocese more of a return on its investment. “O.K.,” said Father Chumley, accepting the new plan, and gracefully at that. Perhaps the curate didn’t need a fire-eating pastor to shove him around. Perhaps he only needed a push, a gentle push, from the right sort of older man.
However, on the first night the new plan was in effect, Father Urban, who had the P.M. hours, took a call at three in the morning. Making no attempt to rouse the curate, he went out and anointed a parishioner. He would’ve said nothing about it. Mrs Burns heard him go out, though, and spoke to Father Chumley in the morning.
“I guess I forgot to turn on my phone,” the curate confessed at breakfast.
Father Urban, who had moved into Phil’s quarters to be near a phone, said, “I guess I forgot to turn mine off.”
Father Chumley looked sad.
“Forget it,” said Father Urban. He hadn’t intended to suggest that this, perhaps, was the difference between them. “I was happy to go out. I really was. It made me feel like a priest —for a change.”
“Why, Father!” cried Mrs Burns. “What a thing to say!”
Father Chumley had smiled, though, at Father Urban’s little tribute to the infantry.
“It’s the truth, Mrs Burns.” Father Urban told them about the old Clementine priest, too long a seminary professor, who had witnessed a street accident and cried out, “For God’s sake—call a priest!”
Father Chumley smiled again, and Mrs Burns laughed.
“Anyway, I’m glad to be here—on the firing line.”
“And we’re glad you’re here,” said Father Chumley.
“Indeed we are,” cried Mrs Burns.
Overnight, it seemed, and without seeking it, Father Urban had gained the ascendancy in the house. There was a better feeling between the priests, although Father Urban felt that he was still regarded as something of a showboat by the curate. Mrs Burns, however, had no reservations about Father Urban. If he in any way fell short of the ideal (and of course he did), Mrs Burns didn’t know it. His word was law, but she still ran for the telephone.
“No! No! Mustn’t touch!”
Or Johnny, as Father Urban now called the curate, would be the one to head her off.
And then they’d all have a good laugh.
Suddenly St Monica’s was a busy, happy rectory.
Father Urban had been in and out of a thousand rectories, always taking an oar when necessary, always glad to help out (up to a point), but at St Monica’s it was different. His hand was on the tiller there. He located a map of the parish. He brought it up to date by incorporating Orchard Park. He began the census. The shaded area on the map, the area covered by him in the morning and Johnny in the afternoon, grew, and at night they got together in the upper room to talk over the day’s findings.
They were asking the usual questions. Number of children in the family, whether baptized, attending what school, religion of both father and mother, whether all of age had made their Easter duty, whether all regularly employed had received each his own box of Sunday envelopes, and so on. Phil, it soon appeared, had really fallen down on the job of distributing Sunday envelopes, and so the census-takers carried a supply along with them, one man using his attaché case for this purpose, and the other his Northwest Airlines bag.
They were also trying to find out how people felt about a new church at St Monica’s. This, too, was Father Urban’s idea. Since Phil had said that his decision to build needn’t be kept a secret, Father Urban didn’t see why the people of the parish shouldn’t be let in on it, but he presented it only as a possibility, for he wanted to learn their true feelings. So that the response could be easily tabulated, people were given a choice of four answers: Strongly Favor, Favor, Don’t Favor, and No Opinion. The first thing the survey revealed was that too many people would vote No Opinion if left entirely to themselves, and so Johnny was urged to strive for greater accuracy, a closer fit. Father Urban pointed out that several No Opinions encountered by him hadn’t understood the purpose of the survey. It had to be made crystal clear to some people that their response if favorable, or even strongly favorable, was in no sense a commitment to contribute. Not a-tall. Once this was made crystal clear, Don’t Favors sometimes became Favors or even Strongly Favors. This was Father Urban’s experience anyway.
The early returns showed the Strongly Favors and Favors well in the lead. As for die-hard Don’t Favors, they were generally elderly people who attended the uncrowded early Mass on Sunday and said things like, “Wouldn’t a new church cost too much?” and “I just like the old one.” Fortunately, there weren’t too many of this sort.
Father Urban wanted Phil to put out of mind all thoughts—thoughts he’d expressed on the night he left—of bringing in a professional fund-raising outfit. The professional bleeders, able as they were, saw life everywhere in terms of Chicago and Boston, and if Phil hired one, his parishioners would soon be getting cute little notes asking how much they’d donated to the horses in the past year. They wouldn’t even understand the question. If Phil conducted his own drive, he could tailor his approach to local conditions, and there would be less wear and tear on the parishioners. He’d save a lot, too. It would be harder on Phil, yes, but it could be the making of him as a pastor. It was Father Urban’s hope that the survey would help Phil to do the right thing when the time came, and to this end, the early results were encouraging.
Father Urban and Johnny were alarmed, though, by some of their other findings. Both men were out of touch with hearth and home, the one because of his years of itinerancy and more or less public life, the other because of his years in the seminary and his reclusive habits since then, and so they really couldn’t say whether the squalor in which so many parishioners lived, particularly in Orchard Park, was peculiar to them or was now nationwide, peculiar to the times. It wasn’t squalor such as Father Urban had seen in city slums. No, if anything, the Orchard Parkers possessed more than their share of the world’s goods. Whether the women were unable to keep house, or were unwilling, or both, wasn’t clear to Father Urban, but that they didn’t was a fact too often encountered to be ignored—and not to be passed off with a laughing reference to little ones. What embarrassment there was lacked conviction. The shoes and socks and pajamas and dirty glasses and cups that had a way of disappearing from the living room during the course of his visit—they’d all be back again, he knew. Who was to blame? When, in recent years, Father Urban had read that the American male had gone soft, he’d always considered the source—another green-eyed European, another G.I. who’d married an Asiatic—but Orchard Park suggested that there might be some truth in the charge.
It wasn’t rare for women to return to bed after breakfast, if, indeed, they got up for it. They had no more time sense than Mexicans. “Just say the priest was here,” Father Urban would tell the little barefoote
d creatures who opened the door to him. (In the afternoon, the same thing happened to Johnny. Mama would be taking her nap then.) Sometimes, later in the morning, Father Urban would come upon a gathering of homemakers consuming coffee and pastry. But these easygoing and, for the most part, betrousered queens never guessed what he thought of them, so courtly was his manner. “Ladies, the pleasure was all mine.”
A dog nipped him, a hamster wet on him, a piece of fruitcake played hell with one of his gold inlays, and always he had to watch where he sat down, especially in Orchard Park. It was easy enough to see why Phil, in delicate health, with his rather dismal outlook on life, had excused himself from such activity. Even so, the worst thing about the census was not the taking of it, though at St Monica’s this was aggravated by years of neglect, and by the weather in January and February. The worst thing was the follow-up work. This was why otherwise perfect pastors put off the census. Wouldn’t enough sad cases come to their attention without going out and looking for them? This might become Father Urban’s view if he stayed on the firing line long enough, but this was not his view. A job was being done that badly needed doing at St Monica’s, a tough job. There were days when the temperature never rose above twenty below zero, when thigh-freezing winds raked down from Canada, when the census-takers were tempted to turn back to the rectory. But they didn’t.
“We won’t be crucified,” said Johnny, who tended to think too much in such terms. “We’ll just wear ourselves out, like bees.”