J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“ Brad .”

Having thoughtfully served others before himself, Brad sat down on the sectional sofa and raised his highball to them, saying, “To me.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Barb, I think Brad’s trying to tell you something.”

“Clever people, these Romans,” said Brad. “O.K. I’ll begin at the beginning.” He said he’d cleaned out his desk and kissed the other cheap help good-bye and was about to leave the office for the last time when the phone rang. Could he have lunch that day with the personnel manager of a large local concern in its canteen? He could. [Barb: “What concern?”] “Wait.” So there he was with the p.m., not a bad-looking woman, another with a game leg, when who should join them in their booth but the c.e.o. himself. [Barb: “C.e.o. of what?”] “Wait.” The p.m. finished her tea and green salad and excused herself — significantly, Brad thought, but after she left, the conversation continued as before, on very general lines. As it did when the c.e.o. showed Brad around the various departments — in automotives, they sat talking in the backseat of a car that was in for a lube job, even when it went up on a lift—“I kid you not”—and in home furnishings they lay talking on water beds, first on twins, then on a double. They were getting to know each other and, at least in Brad’s case, getting to like each other. But the conversation was still on very general lines and going, as far as Brad could tell, nowhere. In the end, though, they had holed up in the c.e.o.’s office. “And well, the upshot is I’ve accepted the editorship of the Great Badger’s Shopping News .”

“Oh,” Barb whispered, “ no .”

“Wait. At more — quite a bit more — than I made at the paper.”

“ No , Brad.”

“Wait. I’ll have my column under my name, and it won’t be cut . My readership will go up— way up.”

“Readership! Nobody reads that thing.”

“Nobody does , Buttercup, but everybody will .”

“Because of your column? Oh, Brad .”

“No, Buttercup. Not because of my column. Not that it won’t help.”

“What else?” Joe asked.

“Wait.” Brad got up and went off with his glass, saying, “I shall return.”

“Oh,” Barb whispered, “ God .”

“Wait,” Joe replied. He felt that more than met the eye, more than Badger’s policy of employing the elderly and handicapped — proselytism at the Mall’s expense might figure in Brad’s case (as in Mr Barnes’s).

“I’ll tell you what else,” Brad said when he returned. “Plenty.” The Shopping News would be renamed and restructured, would become the New Shopper and a tabloid. It would still run Badger’s ads, of course, but ads as well from other local concerns and (these at cost) from the general public — classifieds, wedding announcements, obits, eck cetera, eck cetera. “Wait.” [Barb was making noises.] Why would other local concerns and the general public advertise in the NS ? Circulation. Yes, the old SN had had that . Circulation, yes; readership, no. The NS would have both . It would have circulation because, like the old SN , it would be a throwaway, and it would have readership because, unlike the old SN , it would have readability, would be unthrowawayable. The NS would not be like the lousy Universe , full of crap about the school board and widening the highway. The NS would give people what people want, in easy-to-take capsule form, from the world of politics, sports, crime, space, women, TV, dieting. Furthermore, the NS , unlike the old SN and the lousy Universe , would be controversial. “Controversial but fair,” to quote Dave (the c.e.o., Mr Brock). “He reads these ”—Brad held up the Nation and the New Republic . “He reads books .”

“Hmmm,” Joe said.

Barb was silent, perhaps coming around.

“Now hear this,” Brad said. “Dave wants me to go to Nam for the NS . ‘See what’s going on over there, Brad, and while you’re at it see your boy.’ Earlier, I’d told him about Scott.”

Barb clutched her head. “I hate to say this, Brad, but what about…”

Brad shuddered. “Hardest thing I ever had to do, Butter-cup, but I thought I’d better and I did. I told Dave about Greg. And you know what? He was very understanding. How about that ?”

Joe nodded in approval — what he’d dropped in to tell Barb could now be told to Brad, thanks to Dave, or could it?

Barb poured herself a shot of Kahlua.

Brad tossed back what was left of his drink. “You know what else Dave said? ‘Find out how high up she is and how big around, and we’ll do better.’ He was talking about the weather ball .”

“ Oh oh,” Barb said.

“Oh,” Joe said.

Brad got up, saying, “I shall return.”

“Wait,” Joe said. “I’ve had word from Greg — just a card.” Standing up, switching hands, Joe got the card out of his coat pocket but held on to it, keeping the view of Montreal toward him, his fingers clamped down over the stamp and postmark, while Barb and Brad read the message and had the reference to shoes explained to them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brad said, going for the card. “Where the hell is he?”

Joe, shaking his head and moving away, put the card in his pocket.

“I don’t get it,” Brad said, looking from Joe to Barb.

“Brad, he’s afraid if he tells us where Greg is we’ll tell Tom.”

“Yeah? You know what? I think we should . Come on, Padre. Give.”

Joe, not caring for this at all, sniffed. “I don’t know how you — or Tom — can get in touch with Greg. I don’t have his address. If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. This is how Greg wants it, and my responsibility is to him. He asked me to tell you he’s all right. I’ve done more than that.”

“ We’re his parents,” Barb said. “What about your responsibility to us ?”

“Yeah,” Brad said. “What about that ?”

“I was coming to that.” Joe then came to it. “I thought Greg would tell you this, but he didn’t — probably for my sake. I advised him to follow his conscience — in this matter, as in others. Not that he was inclined not to. And Tom knows this, so you don’t have to tell him.”

Brad, it seemed, was under so much stress he had to sit down, which he did, croaking, “Advised him not to report for induction?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe said to Barb. “I should’ve told you this before.”

“You didn’t have to tell me ,” Brad said. “I knew it in my bones. And you know what else, Padre? Padre, hell! The trouble in Nam’d be all over now if it weren’t for pricks like you!”

Joe, rising swiftly, said, “If I hear from Greg again, I’ll let you know,” and swiftly departed, hearing them call after him:

“Don’t bother!”

“ Do! ”

THERE HADN’T BEEN any more anonymous complaints about Bill. In fact, one night after he’d gone to bed, there had been an anonymous compliment for Bill, which Joe, remembering it the next night, passed on to him. “Some woman phoned to say the Church could do with more young priests like you, Bill. And old ones, I told her. She agreed wholeheartedly.” Bill: “Joe, you’re not so old.” This, though well meant, hardly needed saying, Joe thought, and got up immediately , which he hadn’t meant to do, to freshen his drink. He didn’t know what had appealed to the woman — she’d told him only what he’d told Bill — but he was afraid it might be the same thing that had scandalized the other woman (and her husband), “true charity.” If so, if this thing got going, parishioners, and not only dp’s, would be asking themselves and each other, “Hey, whose writ”—the pastor’s or the assistant’s—”runs here?”