J. Powers - Morte D'Urban

“I’ve never played it either,” Jack said to Father Urban. “But I’m surprised you haven’t.”

“No, I never have — and I don’t intend to,” said Father Urban, just in case.

“Well, we don’t have a board,” Jack said, as if to reassure him. Jack seemed to know that he was regarded as a nuisance when it came to checkers, and obviously didn’t wish to be, but he couldn’t help it. He loved the game.

From the other side of the newspaper, Wilf said, “Your board’s the same, but your counters are different.”

“Is that so ?” said Father Urban.

“Altogether different. It’s a different game.”

That was exactly the kind of thing that made Father Urban gnash his teeth. “I’d say the principle’s the same,” he said.

After a slight delay, Wilf’s reply was transmitted over the paper wall: “I’d say the principle’s the same in all games.”

Father Urban couldn’t think of a single exception, try as he might. He moved one of his red checkers and turned toward Wilf — but still couldn’t think of anything to say. On the back page of the paper Wilf was reading, there was a very nice picture of Santa Claus — season’s greeting from the friendly merchants of Minneapolis. This was the paper that had published a story about the crusade (“PRIEST RAPS SANTA”), and had then printed a letter from the former who, not content with one helping of bad publicity, said that he was far from wishing any person ill, even a mythical person, but believed that constructive criticism was always in good season, and therefore respectfully suggested that merchants in future concentrate their efforts on St Nicholas’s Day, which fell early in December and was a day long associated with giving in the old world, so that Christmas, the true meaning of Christmas… blah, blah, blah. If the metropolitan press was really interested in what people were doing and thinking throughout the state, why hadn’t it picked up Father Urban’s remarks before the Commercial Club?

Brother Harold entered the refectory, his kitchen chores completed.

“Maybe Brother would like to take my place,” said Father Urban.

“No, Brother’s got his work to do,” said Wilf.

“I thought so,” said Father Urban. It was getting pretty bad when it was generally assumed that he, unlike Wilf and Brother Harold, had nothing better to do with his time than play checkers. He watched Brother Harold go to the long table where he was now working on a commission from Rudy, Wilf’s brother, turning out signs that read “Rudy sez 98¢” and “Rudy sez $1.98” and so on. Some of the signs had ears of corn and straw hats drawn on them. The idea in all this was that Rudy was a country-storekeeper type, which, to Wilf’s chagrin, Father Urban had professed to believe was the truth. (“What’s the matter — can’t your brother spell?”—“Oh, that’s just a merchandising stunt.”)

“If you’d rather not play any more,” Jack said, after he’d set up the board for another.

“Not a-tall. I just thought I’d give somebody else a chance. Go ahead.”

“ You go first.”

“Why should I go first? You won. The one who wins goes first. Come on. Let’s play the game,” said Father Urban. It was getting pretty bad when Jack could condescend to him. Father Urban wished it were possible to spend the evenings in his room, but the only way to keep warm there was to go to bed, and he didn’t want to get into the habit of retiring at 7 P.M. He could so accustom his mind and body to sleep at that early hour that he’d never be much good after supper, which could be a serious handicap if he ever returned to the world.

“Oh my,” Jack said, clutching his head, after making the first move. “You had a phone call this afternoon, Father,” he said to Wilf. “While you and Brother were in town. Long distance.”

Wilf let down the wall. “Reporter?”

“I meant to tell you, and then I guess I forgot.”

“Say he’d call again?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And probably won’t now. Probably had to make his deadline.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Wilf said, and didn’t seem so disappointed.

Father Urban wondered if his remarks before the Commercial Club could have straightened out Wilf’s thinking on the subject of the crusade. Charity toward all, even when a few sharks get in among the swimmers, is always better than holier-than-thou singularity. That, roughly speaking, was the mind of the Church.

“I told the operator you weren’t here,” Jack said. “But then this fella told her he’d talk to anybody.”

“Sounds like the old deadline to me,” Wilf said, behind the wall. “News roundup.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Jack said. “I realize now it was a waste of money, but he said he’d talk to anybody here, and I didn’t have anything to say.”

Wilf let down the wall. “I hope he didn’t take it amiss.”

“He didn’t seem to. No.”

“Let’s hope not,” Wilf said, and raised the wall again. “You never know when we’ll need the press.”

Father Urban stirred. “In my opinion,” he said, for he felt that Wilf was leaving the impression that if Jack had made a statement it would have been in support of the crusade, “you did the right thing, Jack. You had nothing to say, and you said nothing. You can do a lot worse than that.”

There wasn’t a peep from Wilf.

“Take your time,” Father Urban said to Jack.

While Jack was meditating his next move, Father Urban got up and went over to the crib. He squatted down. He peered inside the stable, which was dimly lit by a blue bulb — and yes, something was wrong. Not what he’d expected, though. Vibrations hadn’t eased the bambino out of bed. The child wasn’t there.

Father Urban, hearing the newspaper crackle, sensed that he was under observation and stood up, saying, “If this is somebody’s idea of a joke…”

Jack and Brother Harold gave Father Urban their attention.

Wilf, significantly, hid behind the paper.

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” Father Urban said and told Jack that the bambino was missing. “No, it’s not there.”

But Jack had to see for himself. He got down on all fours and started to feel around inside the stable.

“Look out!” cried Father Urban, as the shepherd with the crook drew nigh to Jack’s hand. “You can see it’s not there — and I want to know why.”

Brother Harold bent to his work. Wilf rattled his paper, taking a fresh grip on it, and settled deeper in his chair. Then he dispatched a message over the wall:

“ He’s not born yet .”

Father Urban had anticipated something of the sort and was not amused. Nor, apparently, was Jack. He rose from the floor, slowly until he reached a certain point, then reared up like a horse to more than his full height, and settled down to it painfully. He returned to his chair. He looked worried, as well he might, for he hated trouble.

Father Urban stood his ground, by the tree — his tree, you might say. “All right, Father,” he said, his tone threatening, the undisguised, true voice of his feelings — in this matter, and others.

Wilf was silent and invisible.

Father Urban wavered. Should he go back to the game, and say nothing? Or say nothing, and go off to bed? Or make a stand? It’s my crib, he could say. He didn’t care for the sound of it. He glanced at Jack, who was staring down at the checkers. Why didn’t Jack say something? Jack was chicken. And Brother Harold was on Wilf’s side — my boss, may he always be in the right, but, right or wrong, my boss.

Father Urban went over and sat down. He knew what he had to do — nothing. He had Wilf where he wanted him. As long as the situation remained unchanged, each passing moment would redound to one man’s credit and to the other’s shame. It was Wilf’s move.