J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“Thanks, Father, but I don’t think I’m cut out for missionary work.”

“Well, keep us in mind. For someone like you, it wouldn’t necessarily mean Latin America. You see, we have this program, though it’s only in the talking stage, to begin operations in the States. Unquestionably, there’d be a great deal of sentiment and support up here — among people generally, of all creeds or none — for such a move.”

“That so?”

“Unquestionably. It’s true the U.S. is no longer classified as a missionary field, but hopefully something could be done about that, with things as they are down there and becoming more so. The problem may be the U.S. hierarchy — they’d have to apply to Rome for reclassification and they may not be ready yet .”

“Possibly not.”

“Joe, how do you yourself feel about such a program, Father?”

“I’m all for it,” Joe said, “and I’ll see what I can do about the U.S. hierarchy.” With that and a smile, Joe got up to leave.

“Joe, it’s going on eleven, Father. Why not stay for lunch? We’ll have time to talk and time for a brew.”

Joe shook his head, which, he noticed, had lightened and loosened up some. “No, I’d better not, Father. I have to drive.”

“My thought exactly, Joe. Get some food in you, Father.”

Joe shook his head, denying himself, his thirst, and also, he was afraid, Father Antoine his love of company these days. “Well, all right, Tony.”

At the end of his vacation, doing the last eleven days in Montreal without a drop except for wine at his daily Mass and though staying in a hotel, working long hours, sometimes as a priest, at the Catholic Worker house where Greg had what he’d called (on his first postcard) a good job, Joe took leave of the loving and, yes, lovable derelicts, giving them, since they asked for it, his blessing, and went out to his car, which had come in handy during the eleven days and had been puked in twice.

“Do me a favor,” Greg said.

“Sure. What?”

“Keep it up.”

“What?” Joe said, though he knew what.

Greg just looked at him.

“We’ll see,” Joe said then, and drove away.

The morning after the night he got back, and was still keeping it up, though he’d stopped at the friary again, he went to see the Arch.

JOE HAD DRIVEN out to Brad’s place that Sunday afternoon with misgivings, afraid what Barb had said on the phone (“We hope to see you here at two P.M., Father — it’s important”) might mean that Brad had decided to join the Church. But Joe had been wrong. He had simply been tricked into attending a surprise party for himself, a cookout. Already there, sitting or milling around the campfire with the host and hostess, were (in the host’s words) “All your friends, Padre”—Mr Barnes, Earl, Earl’s wife and their kids, the Gurriers and theirs, Father Felix, Lefty, Bill, and Father Day, who’d been picked up at the hospital by Bill, who said Mrs P. couldn’t make it, but sent her best. Joe kept moving around — to give everybody a shot at the guest of honor — and was in, or listened in on, a number of conversations. There was some talk of the national election, in which Joe hadn’t voted and about which he had nothing to say, and much more about Brad’s coming trip to Nam, about which Joe also had nothing to say. Barb, catching Joe alone, said, “I asked him not to mention his trip, but you know how he is, Father.” Joe said he did and told her he’d seen Greg, something of the good job he had, and how good he was at it, which Barb was glad to hear. “But don’t say anything to Brad, Father.” “No, I won’t,” Joe said, and moved on, since Barb had left him for the grill. “Oh, no ,” he said, hearing Bill tell Father Felix that Conklin had not only found his lost faith but was thinking of studying for the priesthood again. “Where?” said Father Felix. “He doesn’t know yet— not here,” Bill said. “Have him drop me a line,” Father Felix said, “or — what’s his address?” Joe moved on. The kids had a football. Before and after eating — steak — he worked out with them, showed them how to get their punts to spiral, and said, inscrutably, the time before the game, when the punters warmed up, was the best part of it. He and the kids had soft drinks again, and he looked cross-eyed and said “Hic” and made them laugh, not as much, though, as he had at first. When it was time for him to leave — so soon, yes, but not too soon — he took Father Day by the arm, walked him out to the car, and settled him in the front seat. Lefty, who’d stood by during this operation in case he was needed and who had then circled the car, pointed out that all its hubcaps were missing. “Yeah, I know,” Joe said. “Dear God,” Lefty said, speaking of Bill, who could be seen and heard with his guitar, leading the singing around the campfire, “look at my candy-ass assistant.” “Yeah, I know,” Joe said — he now had none. A pickup truck pulled into the driveway and Dave Brock, sans sombrero, got out. Joe, because he’d sort of met Dave once and had had a letter of thanks from him after the abortive holdup, introduced Lefty to him, then excused himself, saying, “I have to leave,” and hurried out to his car parked at the curb, his passenger having disappeared from view. When Lefty called after him, “ Sure you don’t want that chair ?” Joe shook his head and kept going, calling back, “ Yes ,” and when Dave called after him, “Where is it you’re stationed now — Holy… Faith?” Joe shook his head and kept going, calling back, “ Cross .”