J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

That evening, while the curate and Father Felix were over in the church hearing confessions, Joe was in his office telling a thirtyish couple, the Lanes, about the fiscal system at SS Francis and Clare’s, a system used in only two other parishes in the diocese and known among the clergy, variously, as the American plan, the California, the country club, the table d’hôte, the game sanctuary. “So I did away with Sunday envelopes and special collections except Christmas and Easter. No more yackety-yack about money from the pulpit. The Annual Offering covers everything. Tuition, pew rent, Missions, Peter’s Pence, Bishops’ Relief, Catholic University, and so on. Were you at Mass last Sunday? Here, I mean.”

“No, we weren’t,” said Mr. Lane, a beefy type in a gray silk suit. “Not here.”

“Well, we still have a flower collection — flowers for the altar — and if you toss in a quarter, that’s plenty. That way it’s still possible, technically, for parishioners to make an offering at the Offertory. And for visitors, children, and others to contribute.” (Unfortunately, there were others —parishioners — who were against Joe’s system.) “Some say the Annual Offering’s too high — it’s five hundred — but look what other goods and services run you today — a new car, country club membership, major, or even minor, surgery. St Francis,” Joe said, answering the phone, and hearing the question dreaded in every rectory on Saturday night (“What time are Masses tomorrow?”), coldly replied, “Consult the church bulletin.”

“Sorry — we’re new here.”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

The caller gave an address that put him in the parish — not always the case with Saturday night callers — and Joe’s manner changed.

“Welcome aboard. This is your pastor, Father Hackett.”

“Mike Gumball, Father.”

Joe wrote it down and looked at it. “How do you spell your last name, Mike?”

“G-U-M-B-L-E.”

“Got it. Any children, Mike? School-age tots?”

“No, Father. Just Nancy, and she’s preschool.”

“Good. Reason I say that, Mike — we’re full up in some of the grades.” (Joe had also said it for the benefit of the couple in his office.) “Mike, what we have to do now is get you and the family registered as members of the parish. You or your wife’ll have to come in for that. It can’t be done over the phone.”

“I’ll come in, Father.”

“Don’t put it off, Mike. You never know when somebody in the family might need a priest. It could be you. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Father, I don’t know if I can get over there tonight.” (Mike sounded, though young, like a good old-fashioned parishioner to Joe.) “Would tomorrow be all right?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, Mike. How about Monday at eight? P.M., that is.”

“Fine, Father.”

“Now, Mike, if you have the suburban directory there, you’ll find the Mass times listed in the Yellow Pages.”

“O.K., Father. I’ll look ’em up.”

“I can give ’em to you, Mike.”

“No, no, Father.”

“That’s the spirit. G’night, Mike.” Joe hung up, and saw that Mr Lane had his checkbook out.

“You said five hundred, Father?”

“Our fiscal year begins in January, Mr Lane. You can pay for the rest of the year, or you can pay for a year, or monthly, as many people prefer. It’s entirely up to you.”

“How do I make it out, Father?”

Joe gave Mr Lane the little calendar off the desk. “Every family gets one of these at Christmastime. No charge”—this to Mrs Lane, to no visible effect. She was about seven months pregnant and hadn’t spoken to Joe yet. But he stayed with her. “Gives you,” he said, producing another calendar from the bottom drawer of his desk, “the usual days and months, Mass times, confessions, rules for fasting (what’s left of ’em), fire and police numbers, baseball, football, and hockey schedules — everything you need to know, ma’am.”

Mrs Lane regarded Joe solemnly — she was hard to figure.

“Thanks, Father.” Mr Lane handed the calendar to his wife. “She’s French, Father. I was in the Company’s international division when we met.”

“ Comment allez-vous? ” Joe said to Mrs Lane, to no visible effect.

Mr Lane handed the check to Joe (who saw it was for five hundred dollars). “Just consider that for this year, Father. I’m sure you can find good use for the balance. I’ll see you again in January.”

“Very good of you, Mr Lane.” But Joe didn’t want the man to think he’d bought a piece of him. “You realize the balance goes to the parish, not to me personally?”

“Is that how it works?”

“Unless you specify otherwise, yes. The priest has to assume that whatever’s given to him is given to him in his official capacity.”

“Pretty strict.”

“Yes, but a good thing, in a way. So I’ll just put the balance in the building fund”—Joe checked the chart on his desk—“$291.62. Thanks, Mr Lane.”

“Father, I’ve got a thing about building funds. If it’s not too late to specify, I’d like the balance to be used as you think best — to be yours .”

“Oh?” Joe showed more surprise and less concern than he felt. “Well, in that case, thanks again, Mr Lane.” But Joe, more than before, didn’t want the man to think he’d bought him. “Actually, it doesn’t make much difference. I’m plowing my salary, if you can call it that, back into the parish, not to mention what little money I have of my own. A matter of bookkeeping, actually.”

“What I was thinking, Father.”

“This typewriter and the one in the other office, they’re not what I’d have to buy if I were spending parish funds. This is a very nice machine.” Joe turned to admire it.

“We have that model in our office, Father.” But obviously Mr Lane wasn’t interested in typewriters and chose that moment, though he’d been told over the phone that it wouldn’t do him any good, to try again. “Father, you’d think now would be soon enough to enroll kids for school in fall.”

“You would, yes, but you’d be wrong, Mr Lane. The boy, as I said, we can take — as of now. Tomorrow, or the next day, maybe not.”

“I can’t see putting the girl in a public school, Father.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr Lane.” Joe wasn’t a fanatic about education. All he’d wanted was a school where the emphasis was on studies and sports ( mens sana , you might say, in corpore sano ), where those who failed were not passed, where the boys wore dark green blazers and the girls dark green jumpers (“Down with the daily style show!”). But such a school stood out nowadays. Even Protestants and Jews tried to get their kids into Joe’s school.

“Father, how about moving in another desk?”

“No, no. It wouldn’t be fair to the other children in that grade, or to the Sister.”

“What if I talked to the Sister?”

Joe didn’t care for this at all. “No dice.”

“You can’t do anything ?”

“What can I do, Mr Lane? Short of enlarging the school.”

“Can I do anything, Father? Would it help if I gave you another check?”

So. But Joe wasn’t certain he’d been insulted, and didn’t want to be — he gave the man a possible out. “Toward enlarging the school? I’m afraid there are no such plans, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, it’d be yours .”

So. “I’ll put you down for a year, Mr Lane. You won’t have to see me in January.” Joe rose from his desk, moved swiftly to the door, opened it, and stood by it, waiting for the couple to go. When they passed him, he ignored the man (and was himself ignored) but nodded to the woman, feeling sorry for her — probably she’d been afraid all along that something like this would happen, and hence her silence, he thought. He went back to his desk and sat down to think.