J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“He’s got you, Pot,” Conklin said, and then to Joe: “We may be closer than I thought.”

Joe, not seeing why this, if true, which he doubted, should make Bill and Potter look so sad, said, “And when you consider we work at it full time, unlike the laity — well, it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“It did me,” said Conklin.

Bill sighed, and Potter held out his glass to Conklin for wine — a highball glass with ice in it. Joe said nothing about a proper glass, afraid that Potter (who’d said earlier that he longed for the day when he’d be able to say Mass with a beer mug, a coffee cup, a small flower vase of simple design, because such things were cheap and honest and made, like us, of clay) would refuse a proper glass and, furthermore, would say why . In that way, Potter could easily evade the issue he’d raised, the celibacy issue, as he had the egg. Potter was tricky, had to be watched, but Joe was doing that — and then Father Felix had to butt in.

“There’s been a lot of talk in the monastic community about family life, but whatever the future holds for you fellas, I think it’s safe to say our status, or situation — some would say our lot — won’t change. When you get right down to it, a monastery’s no place for a family man.”

“I’ll buy that,” said Joe.

“Oh, well,” said Father Felix. “The community’s family enough for me.”

And that, thought Joe, is why you’re here.

“When you get right down to it,” Conklin said to Father Felix, “a monastery’s no place for you . Priests weren’t meant to be monks, and monks weren’t meant to be priests — and weren’t in the Age of Faith.”

“We all know that,” Joe said — Conklin sounded just like an ex-seminarian, or an educated layman.

“Times change,” said Father Felix.

“Status seeking,” said Conklin.

Joe gave Bill a look for grinning, and to make it absolutely clear where his sympathies lay, as between Conklin and Father Felix, who appeared to be wounded, Joe fetched the bottle. “Father?”

“All right.”

Joe filled the monk’s glass, also his own, and went back to the table, with Potter’s voice following him. “Why put such a premium on celibacy — on sex, really? Think of the problems it creates.”

“Think of the problems it doesn’t create,” said Joe, and while Potter and the others were thinking of those problems (Joe hoped), he poured the juice from the pitted Bing cherries into the top pan, or blazer. That done, he appeared among them again, saying, “The premium isn’t on sex. It isn’t on celibacy. It’s on efficiency and sanctity.”

“Oh, no !” said Conklin.

“Oh, yes ,” said Joe. “Even if we don’t hear much about that aspect of the priesthood today.” And, having given them more food for thought, Joe left them again, for he still had work to do, but before he reached the table the impressive silence his words had produced was cruelly violated.

“ Father, how can we make sanctity as attractive as sex to the common man? ”

Joe had to expect to hear that famous question even now from men of his era at the seminary — Potter’s permissive pastor was one — but not from someone like Conklin, Joe thought, and showed it, saying, “Good thing I wasn’t with you guys in Bill’s room. You wouldn’t have had anything to talk about.”

“Got to talkin’… in Bill’s room,” Father Felix said, apologetically, and paused to watch his plate (which he’d been holding in a sloping manner) start down his outstretched leg, jump, and land on the floor, right side up. Once, twice, he nodded, as if to say no harm done, but his head hung down, finally, in an uncompleted nod.

Joe sprang into action. Others, nearer to Father Felix, had already sprung. But it was Joe who removed the fork (in the circumstances, a dangerous instrument) from Father Felix’s hand and thrust it at Potter, who hesitated to take it by the greasy end, and it was Joe who deftly kicked the plate aside and told Bill to pick it up, and Joe who instructed Hennessy and Conklin, instead of foolishly trying to firm him up, to lay the helpless monk out on the couch. Joe then changed his mind about that in view of the sepulchral effect it might have on the party. “ Bed room! Bed room!” he cried. “ Not mine! Not mine!” Conklin and Hennessy, frog-marching Father Felix this way and that, didn’t seem to know what they were doing. Then Joe saw what the trouble was. It was Conklin. Why, when there were plenty of clergy present, when the person in distress was himself one of them, why should a layman be playing such an important part? “Here, let me ,” Joe said, shouldering in, but the layman wouldn’t let go. Joe ended up with Hennessy’s portion of Father Felix. And so, borne up by Joe and Conklin, the helpless monk was removed from the scene.

WHEN JOE GOT back from the guest room, he found that the juice, which he had yet to thicken with ½ tsp. of arrowroot dissolved in a little cold water, had already thickened, having been kept at, rather than brought to, a boil. Until then, he had hoped to serve cherries jubilee for dessert and to do the job himself, so Mrs P. wouldn’t have to be present, but now he didn’t know. The juice had definitely lost its liquidity, was hardening or charring at the edges of the top pan, or blazer. To go ahead now, with or without the arrowroot, might be a mistake. So, playing it safe, he blew out the flame, dished up the cherries as they were, room temperature and rather dry without their juice, and served them swiftly, with spoons. He said nothing, and nothing was said.

The conversation died away when he sat down with his dish and spoon. He had tuned in earlier, though, while serving, and was curious to know why Hennessy thought that Conklin shouldn’t go on teaching at the Institute. “If he’s reasonably competent, and if Beans wants him back — well, why not?” Joe said, feeling broad-minded. (Hennessy too had that effect on him.) No response. “I’ll put it another way. What if he shaved off his mustache?”

Potter and Bill shuffled their feet and protested, but Joe ignored them. “Why not?” he asked, speaking directly to Conklin.

“You talkin’ about the mustache or the Institute?”

“Both.”

Potter and Bill protested again.

“It’s a fair question,” said Conklin. “About the Institute. You better tell him, Bill.”

Joe looked at Bill. “Well?”

“Conk’s lost his faith,” Bill said.

“That so?” said Joe. He was sorry to hear it, of course, and felt that more was expected of him, but he also felt that condolences weren’t in order, since some people, especially young people, regard the loss of their faith as a great step forward, and since he wasn’t exactly rolling in the stuff himself. “I see,” he said — now he saw why Conklin had been invited — why so much was being made of him by Potter and Bill — what was really going on. It was an old-fashioned spiritual snipe hunt, such as they’d all read about, with Potter and Bill, if not Hennessy, pleased to be participating, and also, it seemed, the snipe. That was the odd part.

“Conk just doesn’t take God for granted — unlike some of us in the Church,” Potter said, apparently to Joe. “That’s been our trouble all along. Atheism and faith — true faith — have that in common. They don’t take God for granted.”

Joe looked cross-eyed at Hennessy.

“But Conk’s not an atheist,” Bill said to Joe. “Are you, Conk?”

Conklin smiled. “No, but I’m working on it.”

Joe wanted to hit him.

“That’s what I like about Conk,” Potter said, grimly. “He’s honest.”