J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

And yet there was Joe moving about with his bottle, his last one, sharing it with others, knocking back drinks from its handy cup cap, giving what succor he could to others, not once speaking of his own plight, which nobody else did either, even parenthetically, until…

“Boy, oh boy! Am I ever glad now !” cried Schwinghammer, who’d planned to install Joe’s fiscal system until talked out of it, told in a nice way he just didn’t have the parish for it, by Joe . Nothing about that now, no thanks, no sympathy, from Schwinghammer, just gloating, neighing. “Boy, oh boy!”

Examined by Schwinghammer, who was drinking from a murky cut-glass vase, and by a responsible first assistant with a bad cigar, Joe did his best to defend his system without running down theirs (Sunday envelope/special collections unlimited). “I try to budget for everything that comes along.”

Pogatznick, coming along then, said, “You budget for this ?” and set Schwinghammer to neighing again.

Serene, an example to them and to himself, Joe said, “A lot depends on my assessment, of course. What that is, I don’t know — and don’t want to, now.” And added, hoping it wouldn’t unduly annoy those who’d called home, and wouldn’t sound as mealy-mouthed to them as it did to him: “I’m on retreat now.” He drew aside for a moment in order to fill his cup, and was about to reenter the conversation when he changed his mind and moved on, hearing “Boy, oh boy!”

Sometime later, coming out of a room, he ran into Cooney.

“Joe, don’t try to look so good. What d’ya mean you budget for everything that comes along?”

“Lou, I said I try to.”

“Joe, you don’t even try to budget for this .”

Joe didn’t like the sound of it. “You call home, Lou?”

“I did — and it’s bad, real bad.”

“How bad?”

“Not gonna tell you that.”

“O.K., Lou. You don’t have to.”

“Tell you this. It’s bad, real bad.”

“O.K., Lou. I heard you.”

“Joe, don’t try to look so good. That’s all I ask.”

Cooney went off as he’d come, in a huff, weaving, and Joe moved on.

The last conference was a barnburner on the subject of the Good Thief, after which came solemn benediction, the papal blessing, and the group picture. This would show the retreatmaster, the Rector, the permanent members of Egan’s set, and (for no reason that Joe could see) Mooney, in the first row. Joe was in the second row, between a country pastor and a responsible first assistant. Cooney and Rooney were nowhere — they’d checked out in the night. Father Stock was another — there were many that year — who missed the group picture, the siren heard the day before having been an ambulance’s, sounding for him, and he was now doing as well as could be expected, it was said, in the hospital. (His car, about which there had been so many futile announcements in the refectory—“Will the owner of…” —was towed off by a wrecker, Joe and others watching in silence.)

Joe came away from the retreat a grand to the good, but was worried, despite appearances, about the future, i.e., his assessment.

THE FIRST THING Joe did on his return, late that afternoon, was sift through the pile of mail on his desk, but saw nothing from the Chancery, and went upstairs where he found Father Felix in the study having a beer and watching TV, a children’s program.

“Ah, you’re back, Joe.”

“Where’s Bill?”

“He’s not downstairs?”

“No. His little car’s gone.”

“Then he’s not back yet.”

“Back from where?”

“That I couldn’t say.”

“How long’s he been gone?”

Father Felix, shaking a voluminous sleeve of his forest-green habit to expose his watch, which had a black dial, said, “Should be back shortly,” and resumed his viewing. A bear in a tux was slapping a double bass — he was good, but the background music (“Ain’t Misbehavin’”) made him sound better than he was.

“What’s it all about, Father?” Joe asked.

Father Felix, presumably thinking he was being asked about the program, chuckled.

Joe left him.

In the kitchen, hearing that Young Father had driven off before noon with Father Potter and Mr Conklin, Joe said, “Oh, I see,” as if things weren’t as bad as Mrs P. seemed to think. And hearing that Father Potter and Mr Conklin had spent the night in the rectory, Joe nodded — the best he could do, since things were as bad as Mrs P. seemed to think. “Father, they drank seventeen bottles of beer! And that crazy Mr Conklin! Oh, Father !” Mrs P. turned away and ran water hard into the sink.

Joe left her.

What a homecoming!

Joe returned to the study, picked up his bag, which he’d put down while talking to Father Felix (from whom he now received a benign nod), and went into his bedroom, where he immediately inspected the sheets and pillowcase. Nice and fresh. But then Mrs P. would change them. Ask her. No, no. Ask Father Felix. No. The wily monk would continue to cover for Bill, and for this, perhaps, he shouldn’t be blamed, although monks, Joe believed, had a vested interest in chaos, felt better about themselves if things went wrong in the world (since they’d renounced it).

When Joe came out of the bedroom, Father Felix inquired, “Bill back yet?”

“That I couldn’t say,” Joe replied, and kept going. He went down to his office and got busy — dusted his desk, dust-mopped the floor, threw out the mail. What he wanted to do was phone Holy Sepulcher, where Potter was the second assistant, but how do it without letting whoever answered — maybe the first assistant, Lefty Beeman — know he was looking for Bill? He didn’t want that. SS Francis and Clare’s wasn’t that kind of parish, or hadn’t been until now. And the odds were that Bill would show up for dinner, or at least would call and explain, though it was late for that now. Anyway, Joe did nothing — wisely, as it turned out after the phone rang.

“Hate to bother you, Joe, but Airhead called in from your place last night. Got me out of bed. Said he was spending the rest of the night there. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“He’s not here now, Lefty.”

“Take it you haven’t seen him.”

“No, but I just came off retreat.”

“Nijinsky’s not back yet”—Lefty meant the pastor—“assuming he went.”

“He was there.”

“What’d you think of it this year, Joe?”

“Not a good year.”

“No, but What’s-his-name…”

“Po.”

“He’s not a bad guy if you can get him alone. I had a little talk with him. He’s on cigars, you know. And hopefully…”

Joe was silent, waiting for clarification.

“Joe, did you know I gave up smoking?”

“No.”

“You see, I’ve got this little rubber cigar. Got it from Horse. He got it from Beans. The idea’s not to break the chain. I’m going into my third solid week. You still on cigars, Joe?”

“Wouldn’t say I’m on ’em. Smoke one now and then. Babies.”

“Like to have a little talk with you, Joe. And hopefully…”

Joe was silent, but not waiting for clarification.

“Joe, how’s about us breaking bread sometime? Only let me know ahead. It’s hard for me to get away. Nijinsky’s never here, and Airhead’s always out — and now he’s disappeared. Joe, is Bill there?”

“Not at the moment, no. Should be back shortly.”

“Had a little talk with Bill and What’s-his-name. You know about him , Joe? And this married woman?”

“If you’re talking about Conklin, I did hear something, yes.”