by J.F. Powers
“As a nun?” inquired Father Boniface.
“Yes,” said Father Urban, and this, he could see, was very good news to Father Boniface and to others who might have thought that Maid Marian was just doing time in a nunnery. “Mr Thwaites’s real interest, though, is in the spiritual classics. The children’s classics he calls his ‘bread and butter’ books.”
Father Excelsior nodded. “That’s a term we use in the trade,” he said.
“I don’t have to tell anybody here that such books could be a real shot in the arm to vocations,” said Father Urban.
“Mr Thwaites would like us to act as his publisher,” Father Boniface said. “Why us?”
“He wants a Catholic publisher, of course, and a good one,” Father Urban said. “Mr Thwaites has connections with the Dolomites, and did approach them, I understand, but now he and his mother—she’s a strong influence on him—would rather have us.” There was a bit more to it, which Father Urban didn’t go into. Dickie demanded that both the children’s and spiritual classics bear the name of Richard Lyons Thwaites as general editor. (“Coming from one who’ll not only do the work but foot the bill, a perfectly reasonable request, and I’m certainly amenable to it,” Father Excelsior had said to Father Urban the day before.) The Dolomites, however, didn’t care to be associated in any way with Dickie in Bishop Dullinger’s mind. Their big idea in life was keeping in with Dullinger. What would he think? What would he say? What would he do? Dickie also demanded that the spiritual classics, though bearing the imprint of the Millstone Press, be given a pleasing format, go forth into the world as “Eight Seasons Editions,” and be so announced and advertised. This, too, Father Excelsior said he’d accept, if necessary. The director of the Millstone Press had been having a hard time of it. He was another who’d be happy when Father Boniface’s three years were up. “Thousands for pamphlets, hundreds for the Clementine, and pennies for books.” Father Urban and Father Excelsior had decided it would be better not to raise the Eight Seasons issue at the chapter meeting, since it was a detail over which men with little interest in the larger concerns of publishing might choose up sides.
Father Excelsior had come prepared, if need be, to speak on the subject of editor and publisher, which subject (like those of writer and reader, writer and publisher, publisher and reader, reader and editor, writer and editor, and bookseller and all of these, in all possible combinations) was one he’d always done justice to at conventions and book fairs, but there was no need to hear any more from Father Excelsior that morning. With no more ado, the marriage arranged by him and Father Urban, the marriage between the Millstone Press and Eight Seasons Editions (though not in precisely those terms), was voted, Father Boniface said, “Permission granted,” and the meeting ended, as it had begun, with a prayer.
After that, many men, among them some who’d once been indifferent and even hostile, came up to Father Urban. They congratulated him, wished him well, pressed his hand, or just stood and gaped at him. Presently, when the room had cleared, Father Urban and his faction (and Father Siegfried) went off for a cup of coffee—swept off like Robin Hood and his merry men.
That night Father Urban departed from Union Station on the Western Star.
In the afternoon, before leaving the Novitiate, he had visited with his old confessor Father August. In the evening, he had dined with Billy and Father Louis in the Pump Room. Lobster and champagne, and Billy reaching the stage where he asked waiters why there were more horse’s asses—“horshes’s ashes”—in the world than horses, an old question with Billy, and Father Louis getting off on his favorite topic. Hard as it was for a superior man to keep from going sour in the Order of St Clement—no one knew this better than Father Urban—Father Louis might have handled himself better than he had in the Pump Room. “Clementines, Dalmatians, Dolomites—all third raters,” he’d informed Billy. Father Urban had hotly denied this, where the Clementines were concerned, citing Father Excelsior and one or two others. To this, with a great show of judiciousness, Father Louis had replied, “We have very few second-rate men.” Here Billy had laughed, and perhaps he hadn’t been scandalized (always the danger with laymen), and perhaps he’d believed Father Urban when he said that Father Louis was only joking, but it was still one hell of a thing to tell a benefactor. Wasn’t it odd, though? Father Urban, thinking it would be well for the Order if somebody on the spot kept in touch with Billy, had considered Father Louis the best available man for the job and had brought him along to dinner. Billy and Father Louis were compatible, but in a negative sort of way, and Father Urban rather hoped they wouldn’t be seeing too much of each other in his absence.
When Father Urban arrived back at St Monica’s, as he did about 3:30 P.M. the next day, he saw Monsignor Renton’s black car parked in front of the rectory and hurried inside. Monsignor Renton wasn’t there, though. (“He must be in the church,” said Mrs Burns.) When Monsignor Renton entered the rectory, Father Urban was on the phone. “That was the Chancery,” he said, after hanging up. “I suppose you’ve heard the bad news.” Father Udovic, come Monday, would be pastor of St Monica’s.
Monsignor Renton sighed and said, “It may not be permanent.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Father Urban. Until a moment ago, until he’d asked who the new chancellor of the diocese would be, he’d had no particular reason to dislike Father Udovic. “Nobody,” Father Udovic had replied, “I’ll have two jobs. It shouldn’t be so hard.” Father Urban, feeling that the importance of the job that had been his in everything but name for so many weeks was being grossly underestimated, had let the man know what might be regarded as the lesser of his two labors: “No, I suppose not—not in a diocese like this.”
“Rather see it go to Cox or Box,” said Monsignor Renton, which showed how he felt about the appointment—and perhaps that he did regard it as permanent. “I thought the idea was for you to stay on here until ordinations in June, but something must have happened to that. You didn’t ask to be relieved, did you?”
“No,” said Father Urban, feeling, though, that he was responsible for Father Udovic’s appointment, and would be so judged if Monsignor Renton ever found out about the interview with the Bishop.
“Dear James should have his head examined,” said Monsignor Renton.
“By the way, how’d you make out?” Father Urban asked. He was asking about the third horse in his three-horse parlay, Billy and Father Boniface being the first two, and both winners. It had been left to Monsignor Renton to approach the Bishop (whose approval was required for any expansion) in the matter of the golf course.
“It’s all set,” said Monsignor Renton.
Father Urban phoned Wilf and told him that all was well, and then he said to Monsignor Renton: “How about a drink, Red?”
Monsignor Renton was in a melancholy mood. “No,” he said.
“Don’t take it so hard, Red. How about a cigar?”
Monsignor Renton felt better after lighting up a Dunhill Monte Cristo Colorado Maduro No. 1—Father Urban had replenished his supply in Chicago. They fell to discussing the course, and got so worked up about it that they just had to have a look at the site. They jumped into the Imperial, Father Urban taking the wheel and racing against darkness. Mr Hanson and Rex were home, and the thin little woods looked the same to Father Urban, but it did seem to him that Mr Hanson and Rex were less friendly than before. “Is something wrong?” Father Urban asked.
“Yar,” said Mr Hanson. He said he wanted a few days to think over the deal. “I better talk to the other fellers.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Father Urban. After a bit, after exercising great patience, he got at the trouble. It wasn’t greed. No, while Father Urban was away in Chicago, Wilf had visited Mr Hanson. Citing the condition of the house and the barn, Wilf had asked Mr Hanson, in effect, to show cause why he shouldn’t throw in the dog.
“Then you’re taking Rex to California?” said Father Urban, noticing that Rex was following the conversation closely.
Mr Hanson shook his head.
“You’re not? Did you tell Father Wilfrid that?”
“I didn’t tell him nothing. I got to get my price.” Mr Hanson seemed to think that Wilf, by harping on the condition of the barn and house, had been trying to beat down the price.
“Will you throw in the dog?”
“Yar.”
“It’s a deal,” said Father Urban. He asked Mr Hanson to meet him at a bank in Great Plains the next morning, and wrote down the name of the bank. “Rex’ll have a good home, Mr Hanson.”
“Yar, O.K.”
That evening Father Urban paid a call on one of the bank’s vice presidents, on the George whose virus he’d asked about earlier in the week. Father Urban had a check from Billy—a check for enough to purchase the land, to pay for building and furnishing the course, and more (“While you’re at it, why don’t you buy yourself a decent rowboat?”), but it was a personal check, made out to Father Urban, and that was where George came in. Father Urban and George worked it all out, while Marge, George’s wife, served them coffee. George’s bank would stand back of the sum to go to Mr Hanson until Billy’s check cleared, and thereafter St Clement’s Hill would do business with George’s bank. This was a big step up. Until then, there having being nothing much to put in a bank, Wilf had run the whole operation out of his shoe, paying bills by postal money order.
The next morning Father Urban and Mr Hanson met at the bank. Mr Hanson, after signing the necessary documents, was given a certified check, and thus he got his price, and his land and dog became the property of the Order of St Clement. Father Urban called up Wilf to tell him the good news.
“I’ve always admired that Rex,” said Wilf.
“Yes, I know,” said Father Urban.
“Guess what?” said Wilf.
“What?”
“Some guys in town, here, were after that property. Wanted it for summer cottages.”
“You don’t say.”
“I just got wind of it. That wouldn’t have been so good for us, you know. Loss of privacy. And guess who one of ’em was.”
“Who?”
“Wacker at the station.”
10. TWENTY-FOUR HOURS IN A STRANGE DIOCESE
EARLY IN APRIL, as stump removal began, the sound of dynamiting echoed over the land, two farmers who understood such things doing the job, with Father Urban, Wilf, Rex, and, sometimes, retreatants moving from eminence to eminence, away from the noise and flying debris. The open craters, some to be transformed into sand traps, awaited the coming of Mr Robertson. He came with a young assistant, and the two of them spent three days laying out the course, using only steel tape, stakes and string, the naked eye, and binoculars. “She’ll be a little jewel in a few years,” Mr Robertson said, in departing. “But always remember a golf course is like a fancy woman—you have to take care of it.” “I’ll remember that,” said Father Urban, with a smile. “And don’t think you can cheat your course,” said Mr Robertson. “No,” said Father Urban. “Take care of your course,” said Mr Robertson, “and your course will take care of you.” “O.K.” “And it’d be nice if those boys I’m sending up”—Mr Robertson was sending up a couple of expert workmen to do the greens—“could get in some fishing while they’re here.” “We’ll see what we can do, Chub.” “And I’ll be up again, maybe in June.”
By June, the course was beginning to feel and smell right, sweet and right, especially on warm days after mowing. Two mowers, a big one for the fairways, a small one for the greens, had been purchased out of the fund established from Billy’s check in George’s bank, and the course was now playable except for the greens. The workmen who’d built these had come and gone long ago, but their craft—it was really an art—lived after them. Father Urban watched over the greens, saw to it that they were given their formula of fertilizer, were gently watered, mowed, and weeded—by young men in bare feet. First Father Urban employed Brother Harold (who’d reached the point in the chapel where he needed to get away from it and think, before going on) and later a few youngsters from among those now arriving in shifts from the Novitiate. By their willing labor, the fairways, too, were kept spick-and-span. When their holiday in the land of sky-blue waters ended, not a few of these lads expressed the hope that they’d be stationed at the Hill someday. Father Urban made a point of walking and talking with them all (they took it as a special treat when he joined their bull sessions), and he was not content with hero worship. He tried to breathe into them a quality that he could only hope and pray would take root and become the mark of them all—as, say, scholarliness is the mark of the Jesuit—for there was no use denying that the Clementines lacked distinction and distinctiveness, or persona. What Father Urban would have called this special something he was trying to impart to the young, he didn’t know, but he felt that he had succeeded here and there, and that the Order, to say nothing of St Clement’s Hill, would be a better place for those who’d come after him.
Mr Robertson arrived at the end of June and pronounced the greens playable. “You’ve done well here,” he said to Father Urban, “but don’t get careless. I see signs of night-crawlers and pocket gophers.”
By the middle of July, the course was more than fulfilling its threefold purpose: to serve the laity, to serve the secular clergy, and to serve the Order. To the Hill had come a number of those better types who had never made a retreat before and whose support—and not just material support—was required if the place was to succeed as a spiritual powerhouse or oasis (Father Urban used both terms), although the less desirable types were still in the majority. To the Hill, too, had come the diocesan clergy for their annual retreat, which, due to a cancellation, was preached by Father Urban, and this convention was really paying off. Pastors who had once been backward were now sending their parishioners to the Hill and saying that the Clementines were trained to do the job they were doing. In his conferences, Father Urban often referred to parish priests as “those heroic family doctors of the soul” and to himself as “this poor specialist.”
And then, working through Monsignor Renton, Father Urban got the Bishop to come out to the Hill for a meal—and should have left it at that. Urged by Father Urban and Monsignor Renton, the Bishop, who said he’d played before, took to the course. After four holes, on each of which he’d clearly demonstrated that he was a poor sport as well as a lousy golfer, the Bishop quit in a huff. Father Urban was unhappy about this—happy, though, that it was over, for the contrast between his play and the Bishop’s was excruciating. Moreover, the Bishop appeared to regard Father Urban’s near-professional game as unseemly and impertinent in a priest. There were people like that, Father Urban knew, and he was only sorry that the Bishop had to be one of them. He invited the man to come out again, and soon—“All you need, Your Excellency, is practice”—but was rather glad to hear that the sorehead was off for Rome.
Otherwise, Father Urban hadn’t made any mistakes—if, indeed, it was a mistake to extend to the bishop of a diocese the hospitality enjoyed by others.
Mistakes had been made, though. The gates had been opened too wide in the spring when Wilf, hoping to cut costs and perhaps realize a profit on the fund set aside for the course, had accepted outside help. The bad effects of this were still to be seen—all kinds of people playing the course who might or might not have helped enough or at all. Low-level patronage had proved to be more bother than it was worth. Why, there were people who’d bring you fifty feet of leaky hose and act as if they owned the course!
Just about all the trouble and confusion at the Hill that summer could be traced to Wilf, and not only where the course was concerned. Saying they had to meet competition elsewhere, and fancying he had a special way with married couples (“Now my brother Rudy and his wife”), Wilf had scheduled and preached two family retreats, which he called “sweethearts’ retreats,” and, ill attended though they were, there just wasn’t enough space for that sort of thing at the Hill. Talk about Pandora’s box! Minor, where the sw
eethearts, when they weren’t wandering around in the corridors, were holed up in single rooms (“One of the features of these beds is you can stack one on top of another, like bunk beds”), had reminded Father Urban of a Pullman car in an old Follies skit.
In general, though, life became easier and more meaningful that summer at the Hill. The place was actually under new management, but Father Urban let the credit go to Wilf, as rector, and to the brochure, of which there was to be a second edition, with an aerial view of the course and a close-up of the new shrine of Our Lady below No. 5 green. “Yes, we’ve seen a few changes here” was about all Father Urban would ever say in acknowledgment of his achievements.
Father Urban was being used sparingly as a retreatmaster at the Hill, since Wilf and Jack had to be doing something. In fact, Father Urban had preached only one retreat from beginning to end—the one for the diocesan clergy—and that one because Wilf must have recognized that only the best would do. Wilf didn’t say this, of course. No, even though he arranged it so that Father Urban gave a conference to every group that passed through the Hill, Wilf always acted as though this were only a matter of giving retreatants a little variety. “I think they’d like to hear you,” he’d say. Father Urban noticed, though, that Wilf always asked Jack, or one of the visitors vacationing from the Novitiate, to give the next conference: Wilf, although he wanted retreatants to have the best, a little taste of it anyway, didn’t care to follow Father Urban.
The Clementines were still serving the parishes where they traditionally helped out on weekends (except St Monica’s, where Father Udovic was doing without them), Wilf making good use of visitors for this purpose, but Father Urban was left with a certain amount of time on his hands. (He was limiting himself to eighteen holes a day.) And so, with Wilf’s permission, and with Sylvia Bean’s little Barracuda, though he sometimes traveled by rail, Father Urban became the Hill’s roving ambassador of good will.