J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“Am I right, Joe?”

“I guess so.”

“So there you are.” Bill finished his drink and stood up.

“G’night, Joe. Oh, how’s the hand?”

“Thumb. Numb.” But starting to feel, to hurt.

“My fault, Joe, but I’ll say your Mass until such time as you can.”

“Thanks.”

“G’night, Joe.”

“G’night, Bill.”

JOE REACHED FOR the phone, switched hands, and got it with his good one. “St Francis.”

“Barb, Father. The FBI was here.”

“That so?”

“Nice young man, Southerner, very polite and friendly — his name’s Tom — but I thought I’d better warn you, Father.”

“You’re a little late.” Joe assumed she’d had a cordial or two first.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“O.K. I’ll talk to you later. Somebody here now.” Joe hung up and nodded to Tom. “You were saying?”

“Shame we can’t get in touch with Greg, sir.”

“‘In touch,’ huh? So you can lock him up?”

“Not necessarily, sir. Fine family and all — Brad I haven’t met, but Barb I have, and with Scott already serving it’s possible the court would be lenient with Greg, sir, providing he reports for induction.”

“Why would he do that? That’s why he’s on the run.”

“He could change his mind, sir. Hopefully, he already has.”

“That I doubt. It’s a matter of conscience with him.”

“Sir, can you tell me why he didn’t register as an objector?”

“I can. I asked him. When he registered for the draft, he said, he didn’t know what he was doing, and later, when he did, he didn’t want to upset his folks. His father’s mental about the war.”

“Sir, how do you mean that?”

“He’s very enthusiastic about it.”

“A lot of people are, sir.”

“A lot aren’t. I’m not. Greg was hoping it would just go away. A lot of people were. General Maxwell Taylor, some years ago, gave it six months.”

Tom changed the subject. “Barb says you did your best with Greg, sir.”

“That’s what Greg told her.”

“You didn’t do your best, sir?”

“I did. But that wasn’t what his mother thinks it was.”

“May I ask, sir, what it was?”

“You may. I don’t have to tell you, but I will. I advised Greg to follow his conscience, not that he was inclined to do otherwise. I’d tell you — or anybody who came to me for advice — the same thing.”

Tom smiled. “Fortunately for me, sir, I’ve come to you for information, not advice.”

“You’ve had it, anyway.”

Tom shrugged. “No idea, then, how we can get in touch with Greg, sir?”

“No, I can’t help you there.”

“Would you, sir, if you could? That’s just a hypothetical question.”

“Not if it meant Greg would be put away — as it would. That’s just a hypothetical answer.”

Tom smiled. He stood up and went for his briefcase, which was on the desk. “That’ll be all, sir.”

“Not quite.”

Tom left the briefcase on the desk and sat down. “At your service, sir.”

“Is my phone tapped?”

“Not that I know, sir.”

“Would you know if it is?”

Tom shrugged. “I’ll be frank with you, sir. I might, but I don’t.”

“O.K. I’ll be frank with you too. If my phone’s tapped and I can prove it, I’ll sue your ass off.” But how? “How about the mail?”

Tom shrugged.

“Likewise,” Joe said.

“Likewise, sir?”

“I’ll sue your ass off.” How?

“Look, sir, you may not believe it, but this is a national emergency.” As if this, much as Tom wished he could go on being very polite and friendly, might bring Joe to his senses.

Joe sniffed. “You really believe that? Or’s that what you have to say?”

“I really believe that, sir.”

“Shame you’re here then.”

“If called, sir, I’ll go.”

“Great. Not much chance of that, though, is there?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Tom stood up. “If that’s all, sir.” Joe, switching hands, beat him to the briefcase. “What I said about the phone and the mail goes for this thing too, if it’s wired.” With his good hand Joe then shoved the briefcase across the desk to Tom.

“Thank you, sir. Have a good day, sir.”

“I’ll think about it. That’s the best I can do.”

The next morning, throwing out the mail, Joe came upon a postcard from Canada: “Tell mom and dad I’m all right — not to worry. Have good job. Eating balanced diet for them, tying shoes for you. G.”

“Oh, it’s you.” Barb seemed unhappy to see him — had Tom been in touch with her? — but she unlocked and opened the screen door. “Oh, your poor hand !”

“Thumb.”

Barb seemed to think he’d come to tell her about it, and so he did, briefly. “Oh, you poor man !” Barefooted and in shorts — not bad but with a slight skiing movement of her left leg — she led him down into the sunken living room where they sat across from each other in leopard skin — look chairs. “Brad’s not here, Father.”

“Didn’t think he would be.” It was only a little after three. “Should he be?”

Barb made a face — no, dear God, she was crying . “Father, they let Brad go yesterday, but he went back this morning to clean out his desk, and that’s the last I saw of him. When I called the paper around noon—‘ He’s no longer with us .’ Oh, Father ! What if it’s true !” Barb broke down then, wailing.

Joe had to raise his voice to be heard. “Why wouldn’t it be true?”

“Father, what if he’s no longer with us ?” Barb broke down again.

Joe had to yell to be heard. “Shut up! He stopped for a drink. He ran into friends. He’ll be here any minute. You’ll see him all too soon.”

“Father, I’ve been so worried about Brad.”

“I know. You told me the other day. Trouble at the paper.”

“But then I didn’t know why .”

“Brad’s too controversial, you said.”

“No, it’s all my fault, Father. Brad told me last night — they’ve had it in for him ever since my accident at Badger.”

Joe, though he didn’t doubt this (and had been shocked the other day, and was perhaps not the only one — parking lots have eyes — to see Barb, of all people, at Badger), said, “That I doubt, Barb. Brad’s just too controversial. It’s as simple as that.”

But Barb knew better, it seemed, knew he was trying to absolve her, and broke down again.

This time Joe didn’t interrupt her, waited in silence.

“Father, how can people be so shitty?”

“It’s how they’re — we’re — made.”

Barb broke down again, and Joe waited.

“Father, did you ever think life would be like this?”

“Not exactly, no.”

Barb suddenly got up and padded over to the picture window.

“What’d I tell you?” Joe said, and thought, watching Barb return to her chair looking cross, That’s humanity for you.

Brad came into the living room, tossed a couple of magazines on the sectional sofa, and then, only then, noticed that he wasn’t alone. “Hey, look who’s here! I mean me . Ho, ho, ho.”

“Brad, you said you wouldn’t .”

“And didn’t , Buttercup. But now I will. What can I bring you, Padre? Hey, what’s with the hand?”

“Thumb.” Joe told him about it, briefly.

“Well, well. Let’s hope you don’t lose it. In the meantime, what can I bring you?”

“Just a beer, if you’ve got one, and a glass.”

“I shall return,” Brad said, which he did with drinks on a tray — a shot glass and a bottle of Kahlua for Barb, to whom he said, “Ho, ho, ho.”