J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“Not today, Father.” The Licensed Vintner’s wife, in mobcap, peasant blouse, and dirndl skirt (approved dress for female employees in the Mall shoppes), put the bottle in a parchment-look bag and slapped it. “There you go, Father.” But not without being preached at. “Have a good day!”

“Uh-huh,” Joe said.

He was getting into his car when the truck driver came up behind him and said something.

“How’s that again?”

“The old man. They let him go.”

“Mr Barnes?”

“Hey, don’t tell ’em I told you.”

“Don’t worry.”

“He’s workin’ out to Badger now, in the liquor store.”

“I see. Thanks.”

Browsing among the shelves in the Great Badger’s liquor store, Joe was accosted by a small humpbacked man in a gray business suit and a black sombrero with silver balls around its brim. “Don’t see what you want, sir, just ask for it. If we haven’t got it, we’ll be happy to get it for you.”

“Thanks. I’m waiting for Mr Barnes.”

“Your customer, Mr Barnes.”

“Yes, sir.” When he’d finished with his other customer, Mr Barnes, in a dark blue blazer with badger rampant on its breast pocket (certainly an improvement on the red shirt, white sleeve garters, and blue leather-look apron he’d worn at the Licensed Vintner’s), came nodding over to where Joe was, by an island display of gin.

“Case of this, Mr Barnes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And a case of my beer. Case of empties outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe, having paid by check, which he’d never done at the Licensed Vintner’s, never having bought a case of anything there except beer, held the door open for Mr Barnes, who had the gin and beer on a dolly, and opened the car trunk for him. Mr Barnes nodded at Joe’s nice clean case, then went to the not-so-clean one on the dolly, opened it, and there, lying on its side, was a fifth of brandy (Christian Brothers).

“Compliments of the management, sir. That was Mr Brock himself who spoke to you.”

“The Great Badger himself?” (The truth was, the man’s face — hat, actually — had been known to Joe from reading the discount house’s shopping news.)

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. Well, be sure and thank him for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Barnes then switched the beer bottles, the full ones for the empties, to Joe’s nice clean case, Joe helping in this operation, in the end laying the fifth of brandy down on its side, and that was it.

“Thanks, Mr Barnes. Glad to see you here.”

“And you, sir.”

Joe was about to drive away when he saw, coming out of the Great Badger, of all places, of all people, Barb, and was seen by her. She rushed (but with a slight skiing movement of her left leg) up to his car and gasped: “Where can we talk?” And like Lot’s wife, she looked back as if they might safely return whence they’d come, perhaps to the coffeeshop. Swiftly, before she turned into a pillar of salt, Joe opened the door on the passenger’s side for her.

“Father, it’s about Greg. His induction notice came today, but he says he won’t go. ‘You quit school, so now you have to go.’ But he says no, he won’t. ‘What’ll your dad say? You’ll break his heart.’ Father, this war means so much to Brad — me too with Scott in it. But, Father, what I’m really worried about is Brad. Things aren’t good for him these days. They don’t appreciate him at the paper. They won’t let him go to Saigon — too controversial, they say. They killed his story on that poor family that lives next to the dump — too controversial, they say. They want him to quit, he says. Father, he’s going through hell these days. And now this. Father, will you talk to Greg?”

“Have him come and see me, Barb.”

Shortly thereafter, from the tire swing in the Gurriers’ yard, Joe, viewing the herd of old cars grazing in the tall grass, said, “Jim, what d’ya mean you’re looking for a ‘buyer’ for your ‘inventory’? What’s it worth?”

“Plenty. Even as scrap.”

“‘Even’?”

“Just one of my options.”

“What’re the others, Jim?”

“Kids buy up these cars. Couple spoken for.”

“What about the rest? Let’s say you don’t find a buyer.”

“Get me a rig in here like they haul new cars on.”

“I see. And what’ll that cost you?”

“Not so much.”

Joe got out of the swing. “You might break even, huh?”

“Wouldn’t pay me,” Jim explained, “just to break even.”

“I see. Haul ’em where?”

“That’s the trouble — I might not have room for ’em if we move back to the city.”

“‘ If ,’ Jim?”

“We might not move back.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” If the proposed expansion of the dump went through, the Gurriers would receive some compensation — on which Joe had assured them he’d make no claim — and they could be back in the inner city where they wanted to be and the action was.

But before Jim could explain, Nan came out of the black house with drinks garnished with mint, which grew on the outer banks of the dump and had also, in the Gurriers’ Holy Family period, cropped up in one of Joe’s sermons — which Nan, it seemed, remembered. “Praised be God for green things,” she said, improving on Joe and Gerard Manley Hopkins. “Jim tell you about this reporter, Father?”

“No.”

“Didn’t get around to it,” Jim explained. “Talkin’ about my inventory.”

“Reporter from the local paper, Father.” Nan was obviously pleased to be the one to tell him the good news. “He’s doing a story about us maybe losing this place. He was real uptight about it.”

“Family man himself,” Jim explained.

Joe, wondering how he could tell them the bad news, decided not to, and used the sprig of mint in his drink to stir the ice cubes in it, then tried it — yes, the red table wine. “Where’re the kids, Nan?”

“At Badger, Father. Registered nurse in the playroom.”

Jim explained, “It’s not free. You have to show a sales slip.”

Nan said, “But I don’t like to park our kids there too long, Father.”

Joe nodded, gravely, in tribute to motherhood, and wanted to depart on that note, but couldn’t, not yet. “Look. If I were you people I wouldn’t count too much on a story in the local paper.”

“Oh, we don’t,” Nan said. “Not on that .”

“The wire services’ll pick it up,” Jim explained.

“And TV,” Nan said.

Joe sniffed. “This reporter tell you that?”

“No, but that’s how it works,” Jim explained.

“You see it all the time,” Nan said.

Joe sniffed. “Look. I thought you people wanted to leave.”

“We did, but now we don’t,” Jim explained.

“And why’s that — Nan?” (Joe preferred, but only slightly, talking to her.)

“Father, until this reporter interviewed us and the kids, and took pictures, I guess we just didn’t know how we really feel about this place.”

“And how’s that, Nan?”

“Father, it’s our home .”

“I see. That how you feel too, Jim?”

“Plus I have to think of my inventory.”

“I see.”

That night when Joe returned to the rectory (having been summoned to the city by the little hospital nun who watched over Father Day) Bill and Father Felix were drinking beer in the study with Greg, a muscular, long-haired type in a (to look on the bright side) plain white T-shirt, but in overalls and sneakers, these with fuzzy worn places around the toes and laces dangling, picking up germs.

“Asked Greg to wait,” Bill said, “but didn’t think you’d be so long.”