J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“ Bill? ”

“For me ?” said the curate, who had been typing away, or, anyway, typing.

Joe tried to look right through the wall. (The door between the offices was open, but the angle was wrong.) “Take it over there,” he said, and switched the call.

There were no further developments that day with respect to the curate’s identity, but Joe was pleased to see the young man wearing black and white — black shoes, socks, trousers, and white shirt — at dinner, and afterward, with a few more things to say to him, things best said in private (out of Mrs P.’s hearing), Joe took him into the study.

“Try one of these,” Joe said, producing a box of baby cigars when the curate got out his cigarettes. “They’re better for you. I don’t say good; I say better.”

“O.K. Thanks.”

“Don’t forget to put your little car in the garage tonight, Father.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“ I’m not worried about it, but we don’t want the place looking like a trailer camp. Lots of miles per gallon, huh?”

“I can’t say yet.”

“Well, when you can, don’t . Most small-car owners, that’s all they talk about. I don’t suppose you’ll use any, but your gas and oil are on the house. Go to Smiley’s Shell, here in town, and tell ’em who you are.” Tell me! “Your dry cleaning’s on the house. Also laundry. Hard on it, sending it out, but don’t try to economize. You’ll have a liberal clothing allowance.” Did the curate realize how lucky he was to have Joe for his pastor? Joe doubted it. “By the way, and I should’ve told you this before last night, the curfew blows at nine.”

“You’re kiddin’!”

“Afraid not.”

The curate shook his head in, as seen on television, dismay.

“O.K., Father. Let’s see if I can make myself understood. Let’s say you’re me, and I’m you, and this is my third day on the job. On the first day, I show up at the last possible minute. On the second day, I go out for dinner and come in eleven hours later. The next morning you have to call me down to the office. And now you sound like you want to stay out all night. I do, I mean. Remember, I’m you. I guess I expect to come and go as I please. I guess I think I’m old enough to look after myself — and maybe I am. Let’s say I am, Father. But, Father — remember now you’re me— how do you know? ”

“I don’t. I just assume you’re an adult and I treat you like one.”

“You do, huh?”

“Until I have reason not to.”

“Until, huh? And then what — slam on the brakes?”

“If necessary.”

“No good, Father. It’s punitive then. This way, no. It’s just one of the house rules — like black socks and no overalls. There’s nothing personal about it. And look. Don’t take it so hard. You want to go somewhere — a movie, a ball game — we’ll work it out so you can. Maybe so we both can. So put your little car away, Father, and I’ll make us a drink.”

ON THURSDAY MORNING, as usual, Joe knocked out the church bulletin and, though it lacked something again, he was about to put it to bed when, inspired, he phoned the state highway department, was switched to the license division, and spoke to a voice that seemed to be coming out of a can.

“O.K.,” it said. “Color and make?”

“VW Beetle. Light brown, or dark yellow — sort of a caramel color.”

“Brown VW Beetle. O.K., who’s calling?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Is this an accident case?”

“Oh, no.”

“Sometimes people leave the scene of an accident. Then they get to thinking they might’ve been seen and reported. So they try and fix it up with the damaged car’s owner before he or she goes to the police.”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. It’s a long story, and I won’t go into it, but I can tell you it’s not an accident case. No damage of any kind. The car’s right here.”

“Where?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“How long’s the car been there?”

“Since Saturday, but that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“You have reason to believe the car’s been abandoned or stolen?”

“No, no. I just thought you could tell me the owner’s name if I gave you the license number. That’s all.”

“It’s not the policy of this division of the department to give out information unless we know why we’re doing it and who we’re dealing with. We get a lot of calls — all kinds, mister. Some stud sees a broad, takes down her license number, and calls us. For all I know, you’re one of those .”

“This is Father Hackett, SS Francis and Clare’s, Inglenook?”

“Oh, hello, Father. Captain O’Connell here. Sorry I didn’t know it was you, Father. You see, we have to be pretty careful. I don’t have to tell you why.”

“No.”

“Father, you say the car’s there?”

“Yes.”

“In your parking lot?”

“In my driveway.”

“And you want it moved?”

“No, no, Captain.”

“You don’t want it moved, Father, or you don’t want it moved by the police ?”

“I don’t want it moved, Captain. Believe me, I don’t want it moved.”

“Father, you know what I think?”

“What?”

“You want this information so you can ask the owner in a nice way to move his or her car.”

“No, no. I don’t want him to move it.”

“Father, would you mind telling us why you want this information?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Father, it’s not the policy of this division of the department to give out information unless we know why we’re doing it.”

“I see.”

“I know you wouldn’t want us to make an exception in your case.”

“If it’s not the policy, no.”

“Father, if you could give us some idea why you want this information.”

“I’d rather not, Captain.”

“Then all I can say, Father, is get in touch with your local police. They have access to this information. They’ll ask why you want it, but maybe you wouldn’t mind telling them.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just forget the whole thing.”

“Nice talking to you, Father.”

“And to you, Captain.”

So Joe gathered up the bulletin copy, put on his hat, opened the door between the offices (had closed it before making the last phone call), and said to the curate (who was typing, so to speak), “Stepping out. Won’t be long.”

On the memo pad in his car he jotted down the purpose of his trip (BULL, BEER). But when he arrived at the Universe , where the bulletin was printed, he drove on. Thought he might, in the next hour or so, find out what he hadn’t in more than a week? No, the odds were against it, about a hundred to one. But he still had an option or two — or three. Could go with the information he had, simply, chummily billing the curate as “Father Bill.” Could call the VW people in Whipple, ask if they still had that light brown or dark yellow beetle, and take it from there. Could sneak into the curate’s room and go through his books for one, probably a text, with his name in it.

At the Licensed Vintner’s he exchanged his nice clean case for an unclean one (Mr Barnes not there).

Approaching Smiley’s Shell he saw the lessee out by the pumps, and drove in. “New customer for you, Jack, but a poor one, drives a Beetle — my assistant. I’ll pick up the tab.”

“I know, Father. He came in yesterday.”

At a hundred to one! “Have him sign for it?”

“Naw. I just put it down.”

Joe sniffed. “ That how we do?”

“How we do with you, Father.”