J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

“Like it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like it a lot?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kiss it.”

He hesitated.

She laughed at him. “You don’t have to.” She put her legs down and cupped one of her creamy cherry-tipped orbs.

“Kiss it.”

He did.

“Suck it.”

He did.

“Now this one.”

He did.

“Double feature, huh?”

He raised his head—“Uh-huh”—and put it down.

“Betcha’d like another girl.”

He shook his head, not raising it.

“You’re sweet. I mean another girl and me.”

Silence.

“Two at one go, I mean.”

Silence.

“Wouldja?”

He nodded, not raising his head.

“Cost ya.”

He nodded, nuzzling.

“See whut I can do. That’s enougha that. Put it in.”

He and she did.

Silence.

“Grunt,” she said.

He did.

“Growl,” she said.

He did.

Silence.

“Dora, I don’t know how long…”

“That’s all right, hon. You’ll last longer next time.”

“ Tonight? ”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“O.K.” O.K.!

“ Not yet! ”

He looked where she was looking, behind him, and seeing her —she’d been hiding behind the curtains in the closet thing and was naked except for brassiere and pumps — he panicked and pulled out of Dora and out of the condom too!

“Oh, shit !” Dora said, fishing for it.

Frances laughed at her and said to him, “Do me .”

He’d done her a little later, with Dora watching, and then, a little later, Dora again, but from behind, with Frances watching, and then, a little later, Frances from behind, but standing up, with Dora watching and making coffee. Before he left that night, remembering “Cost ya,” he asked, “What’s the damage?” And Frances said, “We’ll send you a bill at the end of the month.” A joke? No, and of course it was all Frances’s idea, he had received a bill at the end of August, in the mail, an itemized bill for services rendered, for Frances’s on the first night, for hers and Dora’s on the following nights. During that three-week period, at the start of it, he’d dropped in at the station only once in the evening, briefly, for condoms — a gross. To meet his expenses, he’d had to resign from the Christmas Club at the First National and dip — no, dig —into his regular account. The night he paid up (before Frances arrived), Dora, who was sitting on his lap, said, “I hate to set ya back so much, but it wouldn’t be fair to charge less for her.” “My pleasure, and I expect to pay for it. I enjoy doing business with you both,” said the tipsy, vicious youth with the wisdom of Solomon, improving on it by copping a feel. He was getting all he’d bargained for and more from both babes, as they were from him — they called him “Arm and Hammer.” There wasn’t anything the three of them could think of doing they hadn’t done, though at first he’d hesitated, but only at first, and now he really was blasé.

Then it all ended.

“Like a runny nose, that’s right, Dick, only it’s his penis,” said Father Zahn and, putting his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, asked Joe, “How long?” “How d’ya mean, Father?” “How long’s it been acting up?” “What? Oh. About a week.” Father Zahn repeated this over the phone. “Well, what’s the usual, Dick? I see. So football’s out. Can’t say I’m sorry, but On Wisconski will be. He’s been after the boy, which is why the boy had the nerve to come and see me. I’ll tell On something — pernicious anemia, maybe — anything but the truth. You know how he is. He had to get rid of another pup. ‘They’re never the same, once they get a taste of it.’ I wouldn’t exactly know. But the boy should definitely be fit in the spring? Good. Dash man — my best. Afraid so.” Father Zahn put his hand over the mouthpiece. “He asked if it was you , Joe. He’ll treat you right and this’ll all be strictly confidential.” Father Zahn repeated that part over the phone. “His folks mustn’t know, Dick. No, no, I understand the other party’s being seen to — parties, actually. No, he won’t give you their names, Dick — would you ? Thanks, Dick. I know you will. And send me the bill. He’ll be right over.” Father Zahn hung up. “Well, you heard that, Joe. Dr Leonard’s expecting you. Physicians and Accountants Building. Better run. Oh, by the way, how long since your last confession?”

“ Madre di Dio! You married man?” “No, Father.” “You work — got job?” “No, Father.” “What you do?” “Nothing, Father.” “You student?” “Yes, Father.” “How old you?” “Fifteen, Father.” “ Madre di Dio! You sick?” “No, Father.” “In a good health?” “Yes, Father.” “For a your penance you pray rosary every day till next confession.” “Yes, Father.” “That a not all. You run mile morning, mile night. Make good act contrition. God bless.”

JOE KNEW FROM his reading that some of the best saints had worn hair shirts. Catherine of Siena. Bernard of Clairvaux. And that Thomas à Becket, when murdered in the cathedral, had been wearing one that was crawling with vermin. (That, though, was pushing the penitential idea too far, Joe thought.) He had heard that hair shirts were still being worn, even in this country, by the tough contemplative orders — the Carthusians, the Trappists. But he had never seen one until he and a few of his fellow seminarians were invited to “take tea or beer” in the Rector’s study one evening, it being the policy of the Rector, a stylish gray man, new at the job, to have everybody in at least once during the academic year.

The hair shirt — actually, this one was sleeveless, not a shirt but a vest of a coarse black-and-brown fabric that Joe later learned was goat’s hair, woven like chain mail or a Brillo pad — was on a coat hanger hooked to an arm of the floor lamp by the Rector’s chair, and not a pleasant sight. It was there to be asked about, Joe thought, and for that reason he wouldn’t ask about it. But Cooney, his best friend, did.

“My cilicium —my hair shirt,” said the Rector. “Back from the cleaner’s.” Seeing that Hrdlicka (a simple soul) believed him, the Rector said to Joe, “No, I’m afraid an old friend sent it to me as a joke”—as if Joe (pretty sophisticated), and not Hrdlicka, needed help, and for this Joe had to admire the Rector.

The next time Joe saw the hair shirt, three months later, he didn’t see it as a joke at all. Joe in those months, during and after the annual retreat — six days when the seminarians, lectured by an outside expert in the field, considered the state of their souls — had taken a big step up, spiritually. Oh, he still had a long way to go, but could now look back and down, like a man climbing a mountain, and see where he’d been. He could see himself as he’d been when he entered the seminary, down there in the foothills of sentimentality, sound asleep and dreaming that he would someday do great things for God, the Church, and his parishioners, and would thus, incidentally, make the world a better place. He could see himself as he’d been later on, on the lower slopes of reality, waking up and fearing that he too would poop out when put to the test, as others had, to judge by what was happening and not happening in parishes he knew about, to say nothing of the world. And now he’d changed again — this time for good, he believed. He had grown up. Now he knew what he was doing, or, anyway, what he was trying to do — simply the hardest job in the world: getting to know God, growing more like God, growing in holiness. Holiness, as the retreatmaster had said, was the only ambition worthy of the priest and therefore of candidates for the priesthood. Holiness was the point of all the lives of the saints, the point where all those glorious lives converged, and what the whole world was crying for. “And,” the retreatmaster had said, “you can’t give what you haven’t got, lads.”