J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

He (Joe) and a couple of others at the seminary had decided to refuse deferment as divinity students, to register as conscientious objectors, but the Rector had got wind of this and had registered them himself. When they received their deferments and might have objected, they had said the hell with it. They had let it ride. “I still think about it. So whenever I run across somebody like Greg, which isn’t often, I feel like Diogenes — a dishonest one.”

“The Rector did the right thing,” Father Felix said. “You must’ve thought so too.”

“That so?” said Joe.

“If not, why’d you let it ride?”

“For the same reason I still think about it. I was remiss — chicken, I mean.” Joe turned to Greg. “As your pastor, I had to tell you what I have. In a way, I wish you’d say the hell with it and report for induction — I don’t want to be blamed for what may happen to you if you don’t. (You could, yes, maybe go on with your education, become an officer, have your uniforms custom-made and your hair cut.) But I have to follow my conscience, informed or not, and you do. That , despite all the evidence to the contrary, is the mind of the Church.”

Father Felix said, “I don’t say you’re wrong about that, Joe, in principle, but I do say you may have given Greg the wrong impression. Commentators have often remarked on Our Lord’s kindness to the military. If he disapproved of their calling, why didn’t he say so, admonish them? Remember, in the Garden of Gethsemane, how he admonished Peter for cutting off the ear of the high priest’s servant? ‘Don’t you know I could call on my Father in heaven and he would send me more than twelve legions on angels?’ Strange words indeed from one supposedly opposed to anything military?”

Joe, looking cross-eyed, got up. “Beer, anyone?”

“No, thanks,” Bill said. “It’s late.”

“No, thanks,” Father Felix said. “Have to hit the sack.”

“Beer, Greg?”

“No, thanks. I’ll have what you’re having. No, just kiddin’, I’m leaving.”

Father Felix and Bill said good night to Greg—“You mean good-bye ”—and Joe walked him to the front door where they shook hands and Joe would have liked to give him his blessing.

“Poor Barb,” Greg said. “She had you all wrong.”

“Don’t blame your mother for that, Greg. Before you go, do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure. What?”

“Tie your shoes.”

Greg looked at Joe. “Why?”

“Just as a favor to me,” Joe said.

Greg dropped down to tie his shoes, and while he was down Joe secretly blessed him.

The next day, Sunday, between Masses, Joe got a phone call from Barb.

“I just called to thank you, Father. You did your best.”

“Greg say that?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“He’s gone, Father, but Brad doesn’t know yet. So if you should see him…”

“I won’t say anything, Barb.”

“Thanks, Father.”

“ SIGNAL WHEN YOU throw that thing,” Joe said, having fumbled what was practically a wild pitch, snatched up the ball, shook it at Bill to settle him down, and whipped it back. Plunk .

The temperature was in the high eighties, but they’d had ice cream for dessert and were working it off, Joe in the shade of the rectory, Bill in the shade of the garage, the sun between them — a problem too in old outdoor ball parks, Joe thought, the sinking sun, the creeping shade.

Bill signaled with a flick of his gloved hand and threw another fast curve, a slider. Pop .

“That’s better.” Plunk .

“Somebody asked me if we were taking donations to Arf.” Pop .

“Who?” Plunk .

“Mr Lane.” Pop .

Plunk .

“I said I’d let him know.” Pop .

“You know the answer to that.” Plunk .

“I guess I was thinking of our assessment.” Pop .

“Bill, if somebody wants to donate to Arf, O.K., but not through the parish. It would reflect on others.” Plunk .

“Joe, what if others wanted to?” Pop .

“No good, Bill. Not through the parish. It’d make others look bad. They’re protected against that.” Plunk .

“Yeah.” Pop .

“People slip you a donation, Bill, or try to, for something like Arf and think they’re not only building themselves up with you, which may be so, but performing an act of true charity, an almsdeed — not so. Or when they contribute to the support of the Church, when all they’re doing is paying for goods and services.” Plunk .

“See what you mean, Joe. An almsdeed should be in secret. ‘And thy Father, who sees in secret, will reward thee.’” Pop .

“Right. Otherwise, apart from the material good it might do, it’s money wasted.” Plunk .

“Wow, Joe.” Pop .

“Hardball, Bill. Scripture’s rough and tough and hard to stay with. People can’t have it both ways, and we — the clergy — can’t, though God knows we try.” Plunk .

“Be a lot more charity — true charity, Joe — if everybody looked at it like that.” Pop .

“And a lot less strong-arm stuff like Arf.” Plunk .

Pop .

Plunk .

“Man I ran into last night, Joe, said he talked to you about registering, but didn’t get around to it. Name’s Gumball.” Pop .

“Oh, yes. Phoned. Never came in.” Plunk .

“Said to tell you he’s sorry about that, Joe.” Pop .

“So when’s he coming in?” Plunk .

“Joe, I told him he wouldn’t have to, in the circumstances [“ What circumstances?”], since I’d seen him and all his free time goes on the house. Hers too. They’re redoing the place from scratch. But he said he’d put a check in the mail.” Pop .

“Great.” Plunk .

“How d’ya mean, Joe?” Pop .

“I tell man he, or his wife, has to come in to register, and you tell him forget it.” Plunk .

“I thought, in the circumstances…” Pop .

Plunk .

Pop .

“You want to be the good shamus, Bill.” Plunk .

Pop .

“And you want me to be the bad one.” Plunk .

Pop .

“No way to run a parish, Bill.” Plunk .

Pop .

Plunk .

Pop .

“O.K., Bill. Man won’t have to come in.” Plunk .

Pop .

“But only because I don’t want you to look bad — and the Church.” Plunk .

Pop .

Plunk .

Pop .

Plunk .

“ Ow! ”

On seeing the new patient at his front door — this was, in fact, their first meeting — Dr Wylie had said, “Oh, shit,” but had turned off the TV within and rushed the patient over to the clinic next door, turned on the TV there, and ministered to him silently during the rest of Gunsmoke .

Now that the air had cleared, physician could consult with patient. “Mind telling me how it happened?”

Joe did mind, some. “Playing catch in the yard. Hardball.”

“No shit? In that getup? You don’t look it.”

Joe, immaculate in black and white, found this line of questioning hard to take from a professional man of his generation (and, incidentally, short stature) who wore cowboy boots, overalls, no shirt, and a lavaliere. “Had a bath and changed before I came here.” And also had a drink — should’ve had two.

“Hard to dress yourself, wasn’t it, with one hand?”