J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“Thanks a lot, but some other time,” Joe said, wondering again, Who ?

THEY TOOK A few nights off from their mendicancy to watch the Democratic Convention on TV. This was educational for Bill, with Joe there to tell him who was who, what was what, and to comment on the fashions of the day — these at an all-time low. “Walter Cronkite’s wearing a four-in-hand bib.” “Get a load of the pimp sideburns on Sander Vanocur.” By the end of the second night, the realities of political life, the effects of original sin, were emerging in Chicago, and Joe, who’d been hoping that a groundswell would somehow develop for Gene, was drinking more than usual (Bill too, not, however, the same thing) and feeling mean. “Is this the best we can do?” he’d inquire from time to time, and exclaim, “Get those hillbillies out of the government!” His stock of booze, which he’d let run down — wisely or unwisely, depending on when he thought about it, in the morning or in the evening — had been liquidated the second night. The next morning, with a head of lead, he had resolved to swear off, or anyway cut down, if only for Bill’s sake. So that evening they were drinking beer.

“Actually,” Bill said, “I prefer it.”

“In hot weather,” Joe said, and reached for the phone, on the floor beside his BarcaLounger. “St Francis.”

“Father Schmidt, please.”

“One moment.”

While Bill, who’d turned down the TV sound, took the call, Joe viewed without comment (more hillbillies) and listened in on Bill.

“My fault, Herb. We’ve been so busy here. No, I’ll ask him tonight and get back to you tomorrow. Right. G’night, Herb.” Bill turned up the sound and went to his chair. “That was Mr Lane, Joe.”

“ Herb? ”

“He wants me to call him that.”

“What else does he want?” Both kids in the school?

“That was about the Cheerleaders.”

“The what? Oh.”

The Cheerleaders, whose sole purpose it was to have their picture taken with the principals of new enterprises and construction in Inglenook, and who showed up in beanies and sweaters with “I” on them, with megaphones, pennants, pompons (if female), and a bass drum with a smile painted on it, were in reality Mall-based merchants and professional people, invariably described in the Universe (where the pictures ran when space permitted) as “that congratulatory group.”

“They’d like to come here, Joe.”

“What for?”

“Joe, you know what for.”

Yes, to congratulate him on his new rectory. Either it hadn’t occurred to them to do so before, or they’d known better before Lane came along. “Sorry, Bill, but the answer has to be no. Nothing doing.”

Bill appeared to question his pastor’s judgment. “All right, Joe. I didn’t promise anything. But I didn’t think you’d mind, actually.”

Joe sniffed. “ Actually ,” he said, reaching down for the phone, “I’d rather bite the head off a chicken. St Francis.”

“Joe, you doing anything?”

“No. Not much.”

“Like to talk to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Not on the phone. If it’s all right, I’m coming out. I’m at Horse’s, so I won’t be long. I won’t stay late, Joe.”

“O.K., Left.”

Joe searched his bedroom and the bathroom for bottles possibly mislaid, and returned to his chair, his beer, and the convention. He was troubled, however, by thoughts and pictures of the Cheerleaders. “Bill, if Lane wants to know why not, tell him you don’t know — which you apparently don’t. Or tell him to ask me — which he won’t.”

“All right, Joe.”

“If Father Beeman comes before I get back, tell him I won’t be long.” About to depart, Joe waited for the convention to be gaveled to order by the chair, a Southwesterner, said, “Get those cowboys out of the government,” and left.

Backing out of the driveway, Joe was almost sideswiped by a dented black Impresario, and spoke to the driver. “The back door’s unlocked. I won’t be long. Bill’s in the study.”

“Bill? Want to talk to you .”

“Ride along then.”

Lefty squeezed into Joe’s car and was still gasping from the effort when Joe turned the corner and Big Mouth and Patton came into view, the latter heavily engaged on the rectory lawn.

Lefty yelled out the window: “Church property!”

Big Mouth, nodding and smiling, waved.

“How about that?” Lefty said to Joe. “Parishioner?”

“What else?”

“Kick ass, Joe. That’s what I did when — whenever — I was a pastor. I still do, but not as much.”

“You’re learning, Left. What’s on your mind?”

“Oh.” Lefty opened and shut the glove compartment. “Joe, I don’t know how to tell you this. But maybe you already know.”

“You’ve been offered a parish. Cathedral?” Cruel.

“Joe, this is serious. You sure Bill didn’t tell you?”

“What could Bill tell me?”

“Plenty.”

Joe turned onto the highway, into the slow lane. “Like what?”

“Joe, remember the day I phoned to ask if Airhead was at your place— or Bill?”

Joe was silent.

“The day you came off retreat, Joe. Remember?”

“Not all the details.”

“Did you know those clowns were with this creep Conklin?”

“Not when you phoned. Bill told me later. He told me Conklin was bitter about the clergy — something about losing his mustache, half of it.”

“Joe, I’m sorry about that, and so’s Horse. We got carried away. Conklin’s really hard to take, though I will say this for him — Airhead’s worse. Joe, did Bill tell you where they went that day?”

“More or less.”

“He tell you what they did — maybe not Bill but Airhead and Conklin?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Airhead was lucky, but Conklin caught a dose.”

Joe shook his head, turned into the Great Badger’s parking lot, came to rest near the liquor store, and shook his head again. “It’s a crazy world, Left.”

“There’s more, Joe. Some shit from the state department of health wanted to know if I had VD. Said my name came up in another case. ‘ What case?’ I said. He wouldn’t tell me. That’s how it works, Joe — the burden of proof is on the innocent. You’re supposed to offer to take a physical. ‘You think I’ll do that, that’s where you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘You don’t, there’ll be a sign on the front door,’ this shit says, and shows me the sign. It got kind of wild then. I got carried away, Joe.”

“It’s a crazy world, Left.”

“That’s not all, Joe. I now know the same thing happened to Horse. Only he caved in and took a physical.”

Joe was silent.

“Poor Horse. Instead of keeping it to himself and eating his heart out — they say he’s a slob, and he is, but he’s a sensitive slob — he should’ve come to me .”

“Come to you ,” Joe swiftly replied. “How was he to know he wasn’t alone? Why didn’t you come to him ?” And me ?

“Joe, I did , but by then it was too late.”

“Look. What if Horse had come to you?” Or I had?

Lefty, from the breast pocket of his black summerweight suit, produced a rubber cigar. “Joe,” he said, speaking around it, through his teeth, “I broke the case.”

Joe just looked at him and the cigar.

“Blew it sky high, Joe. The same day this shit called on me. At dinner that night — and, fortunately, Airhead was present — I told Nijinsky I’d sue the state if the sign went up. You know how pale the man is anyway, Joe. Well, he got paler. I felt sorry for him in a way. (This is only his first pastorate, you know.) I offered to take a physical if the case went to court, doubting, I said, that it would. I even offered to take a physical the next day, the result, though, to be my secret until, and if, the case went to court. But nothing seemed to help. Nijinsky was still what I guess you might call speechless. He got up and left the table. So did Airhead then, and drove off. It was around midnight when he knocked on my door. (I was in my skivvies having a nightcap and soaking my dogs — Joe, I have one of these Massagic foot-baths.) Well, Joe, Airhead came clean, told me what I already told you, Joe, about Conklin catching a dose and himself being lucky (not that he won’t have to take a physical now) and also why Conklin brought Horse and me into it: on account of his mustache, Joe, half of it.”