J. Powers - Morte D'Urban

Father Urban spent the next morning in his room, reading his office, cutting his fingernails, gazing out the window at the frozen lake, and listening to the small life around him: Brother Harold singing and running water in the kitchen, Wilf singing and typing in the office, and, close by, in the wall, what sounded like a mouse bowling acorns. During the night, heavier game had passed that way.

“How’s it going?” Wilf said at lunch.

“All right, I guess.”

“You’ll soon get into the swing of things.”

After lunch (fish patties), Father Urban returned to his room, but the sun, which had warmed it in the morning, had gone. Soon he was cold. He found that he could get his hands up his sleeves — what he needed was a muff — but that he couldn’t do as much for his feet. Presently he removed his shoes and got into bed.

Later that afternoon, he pulled himself together and took a walk around the grounds, keeping an eye out for wildlife (and seeing none), and trying to get interested in the trees, which were numerous. They could be broken down into three main groups, red oaks, evergreens, and trees. Here his investigation ended, on account of the cold. He visited the chapel, but didn’t stay long on account of the cold and Wilf (who was there reading his office and wearing his devil’s-food coat). Then he went to the refectory, where it was warm, and looked at Life for a while. ( Life seemed to feel that money was no object when it came to national defense.) When he heard Wilf approaching the refectory, he retired to his room. Presently he was in bed again, this time between two blankets, with his shoes on. He had his rosary with him, and began the Glorious Mysteries, but somewhere along the line he forgot what he was doing, and just lay there, watching it get dark in his room.

That evening he came to the table sneezing.

“Oh, oh, I was afraid of that,” Wilf said. “And I’ll bet you’re not wearing long underwear.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not.”

“I knew it. I was the same way once.” Wilf said that he’d got over his pride, or whatever it was that kept people from wearing long underwear, and so had Brother Harold. “I’ll bet you wore it when you were a kid.”

Father Urban granted that he had.

“Well, there you are. You’d be surprised how many people wear long underwear, and not just old people, and not just farmers around here. What would you say if I told you lots of people in Chicago and New York, quite young people, wear long underwear?”

“You may be right.”

“That’s what I mean. Who’s to know?”

Father Urban had run across dedicated wearers of long underwear before. They were very sensitive people who were best humored in their cause, but this wasn’t easy to do without seeming to give in to them and it.

Wilf glanced toward the kitchen where Brother Harold, preparing dessert, was using an electric mixer, and said, “I wonder if we couldn’t fix you up with a set between us.”

Father Urban shook his head. “Maybe I’ll get some of my own.”

“If you do — and I really think you should — take my advice and get the two-piece kind. Then, when the weather warms up, you can shed the top or bottom, as you see fit. That’s what I do.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Father Urban, and there they left it. No, they didn’t.

“And you’d better get some before that cold gets any worse,” Wilf said when Brother Harold brought in the dessert. They’d dined on baked fish — another one, though, the beginning of another cycle — and Father Urban had left some on his plate, which did not escape Wilf’s eye. “Now you take your Eskimos. They never catch cold, you’ll notice”—as if you could see them right out the window—“and I’ll tell you why. They can’t afford to. Even the dumbest Eskimo knows he’s got to take care of himself. So what does he do? He eats plenty of fish.”

When it was time to drive to the station, Wilf came into the refectory wearing his fur hat and devil’s-food coat. “How you feelin’ now?” Perhaps five minutes had elapsed since he’d asked about Father Urban’s health.

“Better.”

“Good. I don’t want to postpone it again.”

“Be sure and give Jack my regards,” said Father Urban.

Wilf had advised him to give up any notion he might have of going to the station, and Father Urban had done so — willingly. He didn’t want Jack to assume, as he naturally would if he saw him at the station, that he had responded to the invitation extended to him in the Pump Room, and was only visiting. Oh, much better that Jack get it all straight from the outset, from Wilf.

When the pickup truck, one bright headlight, one dim, turned into the driveway, Father Urban moved away from the window, sat down, and took up a copy of Life . He was studying it when Wilf and Jack entered the refectory. “Oh,” he said, rising. “Glad to see you.”

“Glad to see you ,” said Jack.

They shook hands, and then Jack removed his glasses, which had misted over in the warm refectory, and got out his handkerchief. “Cold,” he said.

And thus passed the dreaded moment of meeting, with Jack polishing his glasses, and Father Urban feeling grateful to him for saying nothing about the matter that must have been uppermost in his mind.

And if this wasn’t the case, if Jack wasn’t trying to make it easy on him, but was having trouble finding the right words, he would have to wait until later, for the pencils and scratchpads were out now, and Wilf and Brother Harold were taking their places at the round table. Father Urban and Jack joined them.

POWWOW

Present were the Rev. Fathers Wilfrid (Bestudik), John (Kelleher), and Urban (Roche), with Brother Harold (Peters) recording .

The Rector, after calling upon Father John for an invocation, which was offered, stated that he would deal with the past, present, and future, but before doing so he said he thought those present should join together and give the foundation a name that would be in keeping with its present purpose and would identify it in the minds of others. “The Order of St Clement” as a name hadn’t caught on. People in the area were still referring to the place by other names .

RECTOR: Now I was thinking of Mount St Clement. Or St Clement’s Hill, if you like. There aren’t too many possibilities, actually. At least I haven’t thought of many. Of course, if any of you here can come up with something better, fine.

FR JOHN: I can’t.

RECTOR: I’ve given the matter quite a lot of thought, and I don’t believe we can do much better than Mount St Clement.

FR URBAN: I haven’t given the matter any thought at all, but St Clement’s Hill strikes me as better than Mount St Clement — if only because what we have here is only a hill.

RECTOR: I realize that, of course, but liberties are frequently taken in things like this. I could give you several examples. However, I don’t think it makes too much difference.

FR URBAN: In my opinion, we’d do well to call a hill a hill here.

RECTOR: Good enough. St Clement’s Hill then — unless, of course, Chicago takes exception.

FR JOHN: Yes.

The Rector said that St Clement’s Hill had been the residence of a rich man, a public institution, and a sanitarium before passing into the hands of the Order. Perhaps it should be mentioned that the grounds had been the scene of a domestic tragedy years ago, the original owner and his wife and another having died by violent means. The son of the original owner had married a Catholic, and she, now a widow and a woman of advanced age, had regained possession of the property and had presented it to the Order. Under the terms of the deed, she and her deceased husband were commemorated daily at the Rector’s Mass. The Rector, shortly after he arrived at St Clement’s Hill, had gone to see her, to pay his respects. He had found her not easy to talk to. In fact, she had the television going all the time he was there. He hadn’t been sure that she understood who he was .