J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

The Mass resumed, with celebrant still doing fine, with server, though, distracted by the sounds of the regular collection, never having heard those sounds — the scrape and shuffle of ushers’ shoes, the rustle and clink of dough — so clearly before.

After the ushers retired, there was silence in the body of the church — gratifying to server. Father Stock had returned to the sacristy after the sermon, but he was one of those pastors who, when not conducting services themselves, are all over the place, opening and closing windows, shooing standees into pews, checking the front steps for smokers during the sermon, and evidently he’d left the sacristy by the outside door, gone around to the front of the church, and reentered it there, for server could hear him making a disturbance, crying, “The new priests will now take up a special collection. I’ve asked them to do this. So be generous, good people,” whereupon server turned away from the altar (but so that it was hardly noticeable that he had) in an easy, flowing movement, and saw an usher with two baskets moving up the middle aisle, and heard celebrant, now alongside him, facing the other way (server was facing the altar), whisper to him, “Let’s go, buster.”

So, coming to the usher, celebrant took one basket, server the other. While celebrant went down one side of the middle aisle, doing it, stopping and starting, server went nonstop down the other side — he hadn’t planned this, or this — holding a hand to his mouth as if sick and about to be sicker, and kept going (“Now you’re at the back of the church”), an usher relieving him of the basket and pushing the inner door open for him, into the vestibule.

He ran down the stairs there, shoved the fire door open, and was in the dark tunnel that led to the school, the tiles amplifying and multiplying the sound of his passage so that he didn’t know until he stopped to open the door at the other end, and the lights came on, that he was not alone.

“ Joseph! ”

He kept going, the fire door taking its time closing behind him, now in a corridor lit only by night lights, and with a number of doors to choose from, he chose boys, rather than the obvious but daring alternative, and in darkness ducked into the nearest stall, bolted the door, and in the act of stepping up on the toilet, an old-style institutional high one, was nearly thrown by the skirt of his cassock, hiked it up, stood, and then crouched down on the seat.

Footsteps in the corridor, coming in, lights going on.

“Joseph?”

Silence.

“Joseph!”

Silence.

“Joseph, I know you’re in there.”

Silence.

“Joseph, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Silence.

Footsteps going away, lights left on.

He wanted to come out, the sooner the better, but not too soon. When he did come out, all the way out, into the corridor, he was expecting to meet the man there, but did not; in the vestibule then, but did not. Rather than call attention to himself and, possibly, distract the congregation further, he went out the front door and around to the sacristy, certainly expecting to meet the man there, but did not. Probably, in view of where and how server had last been seen, it was a pleasant surprise to the congregation when he came out of the sacristy and took up his duties again.

Joe had expected — and wanted — to meet the man in the sacristy after Mass, but did not. “What happened after I left?” he asked Toohey. “Have to do it all yourself, or what?” But Toohey gave Joe the silent treatment, and moved away when Joe tried to assist him in unvesting. So Joe, minding his own business, made the change from server to celebrant — could have used a little help with the alb and cincture. By that time, Toohey had left the sacristy in his new — too new — black suit for the church lawn, where he would be giving his blessing to those near and dear to him (and to those who made a point of collecting the blessings of new priests), and where Father Stock would be playing the part of the popular pastor he wasn’t, when he should have been in the sacristy clarifying the situation for Joe, or Joe for him.

What was the situation now? Had the man, after what had happened at the ten, changed his mind? Was loath, though, to admit it, being a pastor? And hence his absence? Or did the envelope (it was still there on the counter) mean something — that the situation was unchanged? The same again at the eleven? If so, now was the time to have it out with the man. Look, Father, better call off the special collection at my Mass, or let the ushers handle it. Otherwise I’m not going on. Wham! Now, now, Joseph. Now, now yourself, Father. Though small for my age, I’m a big boy now, a priest, no less. If you want to take this to the Chancery, Father — well, I wish you would. Actually, I’m the one who should. Wham! Whether I will or not, depends on what happens at the eleven. I’ll wait and see how it goes. O.K., Father? [Toohey returned to the sacristy and selected a surplice and cassock from the stock there — no problem, he was average.] Comparisons are invidious, I know, Joseph, but look at Michael, here, he’s not complaining. Michael’s a fink, Father. Michael sucks, Father. And what about… No, say nothing about the offering — it spoke for itself. And nothing about the man’s breach of faith — too vague, that, but not the man’s obduracy and greed. No, say nothing about them — they spoke for themselves. But have it out with the man, clarify the situation, while there was still time. Yes, but how ? Where the hell was the man?

Toohey, standing by the doorway to the sanctuary, suddenly moved out into it, ringing the bell, but Joe, while dialoguing with the man, had also been keeping an eye on the fink, and wasn’t left at the post. And so the eleven began.

Celebrant read the right prayers, made the right moves, but fortunately for him and the congregation (and for celebrants and congregations everywhere) the efficacy of the Mass depends on a gift of God as irreducible as it is unreturnable, and not on the mental state of the celebrant, who, in the case of this one, deficient, distracted, was like a man drifting down a river in a boat without oars, blind to the scenery along the shore, hearing the roar of the cataract ahead.

When it was time for the sermon, celebrant and server settled down on the sedilia, while preacher came out of the sacristy and climbed into the pulpit. He read the announcements, he preached, he returned to the sacristy — all as before.

Celebrant returned to the altar and soon heard, as before, the sounds of the regular collection. After the ushers retired (the dangerous time), there was silence in the body of the church — gratifying to celebrant. Celebrant then heard, of all people, server addressing the congregation: “Father and I, both of us newly ordained and from this parish, will now take up a special collection. The pastor has asked us to do this. So be generous, good people,” whereupon celebrant turned away from the altar in despair, saw an usher with two bas-kets moving up the middle aisle, saw server open the gates in the communion rail and then stand there waiting for celebrant.

Who, coming to the usher, took the basket from him (server having already taken the other) and did one side of the middle aisle (Hi, Mom; hi, Dad) while server did the other. Returning to the front of the church by the side aisles, celebrant by one, server by the other, not forgetting that they’d done only half of the wide middle sections, they worked back as before so people could see them. And likewise they did the side sections, front to back after which they came up the middle aisle together , left the baskets at the communion rail, on the altar side, making it easier for someone (at this Mass, Father Stock’s assistant) to come out of the sacristy and take them away, and harder for someone in the congregation to run up and grab them. Then the Mass resumed.