J. Powers - Morte D'Urban

Jack obviously didn’t.

“ You’re still wearing Father Chmielewski’s pants! ”

Jack looked down at himself in horror.

“What the hell,” said Father Urban, trying to take Jack’s part, but not finding it easy. “Why, a thing like this could happen to anybody!”

Wilf shook off this remark and put out his arm to ward off any more of the same. He plopped down in his chair and swiveled himself around until Jack and Father Urban were out of his sight. “All right,” he said, swiveling back to them. “Sit down, will you?”

Father Urban and Jack sat down.

“Now this is what we’ll do.” Jack would give Father Chmielewski’s pants to Brother Harold for pressing — and say nothing. No, Jack would give Father Chmielewski’s pants to Wilf, and he would give them to Brother Harold for pressing — and say nothing. Then the following week, Jack would return them to Father Chmielewski, with apologies. No, Jack would just hang them up in the closet of the bedroom he occupied at Father Chmielewski’s — and say nothing — and maybe nothing would be said to him. “If Father Chmielewski talks, we’ll be the laughingstock of the diocese!”

Jack looked miserable.

“What the hell,” said Father Urban.

“You’ll see,” Wilf said. He said that when he first spoke to Father Chmielewski, he had naturally been most concerned about Jack’s wallet (because of the pass), and Father Chmielewski had said that he’d send it over if it was there. That was before Father Chmielewski had gone upstairs to look for it, though, before he discovered what was now known to them all. What Father Chmielewski would do now, Wilf didn’t know. Father Chmielewski had sounded a little confused. “If he does send over the wallet — wallets — well, I’m hoping he doesn’t come himself. I don’t think he will. If he does, though, we’ll have to say something. And if he brings your pants, Father — we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Oh Lord!”

“You don’t think Father Chmielewski thinks we’re trying to steal his pants, do you?” said Father Urban. “Because if you do, the fact that Jack left his wallet — wallets—”

Wilf said, “Shhhh!”

Brother Harold appeared in the doorway. “I’ve made some coffee,” he said to Wilf, and then he stood there, waiting for them to come and get it.

So Wilf, though he doubtless had more to say, said no more then. He rose and led them to the refectory.

It wasn’t the custom for Brother Harold to serve coffee between meals, but perhaps he was being festive that day. He had put out a plate of graham crackers, too, and he had turned on the tree. Something more, however, awaited them in the refectory.

Wilf said, “Hey, where’d that come from?”

Father Urban said, “That’s a color set, isn’t it?”

Brother Harold, who seemed a little surprised that Father Urban would know this, said that there had been some question in his mind about accepting the set, since he had no idea where it had come from. All the dealer knew was that he’d been authorized by the manufacturer to deliver the set to the Hill on Christmas morning and to say that Santa Claus had sent it. (“Heh, heh,” said Wilf.) The dealer and one of his men had erected an antenna on the roof.

“Funny we didn’t notice it,” said Wilf.

“If we want one of those big poles in the yard, we can have one, they said, only we’ll have to wait until spring.”

“Until the ground thaws out, you mean?”

“Yes, Father.”

“But who could’ve sent it?” said Jack.

“Santa Claus.”

“A good question, that,” said Wilf, passing over Father Urban’s remark.

“Yes,” said Father Urban, not that he was in any doubt of the answer.

“Who it was we may never know,” Wilf said, “but I think it’s safe to say it was somebody who was here at some time and liked what he saw.”

“How about the man who gave you the mattress, Father,” said Brother Harold, and somehow conveyed the impression that Wilf was the likeliest object of anonymous benefactions, although such were unheard of at the Hill until now.

“Maybe,” Wilf said, “though I rather doubt it. It could’ve been anybody.”

“It’s better that we don’t know,” said Jack.

Father Urban had been holding back, waiting for the proper moment to enlighten them, but he could feel himself being sealed off. “I think it’s safe to say we have Billy Cosgrove to thank for this. I happen to know he’s given away color sets before — to orphanages, hospitals, and the like.”

“Maybe you’d better drop him a line, Urban, but be circumspect — in case you’re wrong. Of course, when and if it’s established we have Mr Cosgrove to thank, I’ll write him a nice letter.”

To Father Urban it was perfectly clear that Wilf believed Billy to be the donor, but couldn’t accept the implications, and, by making so much of the letter he would write, was trying to carve out more of a part for himself in their good fortune. “We should phone him,” said Father Urban.

“You can’t be that sure,” Wilf said, taking a cup of coffee from Brother Harold. “Careful, Father,” he said, speaking to Jack, whose cup rattled as he started across the room to join them.

“I was never surer of anything in my life,” said Father Urban.

“Well, if you really think Mr Cosgrove expects it…”

“Billy Cosgrove expects nothing.”

“Then to call him long distance seems a little extravagant…”

“He’s been a little extravagant himself, don’t you think?”

Wilf looked over at the set, a beautiful console model.

“As I see it,” Jack said, “whoever’s responsible for this gift doesn’t want us to know who he is. He isn’t seeking our appreciation, if you know what I mean.”

Father Urban gave Jack the merest glance. “You mean well, I’m sure.” Jack didn’t know Billy Cosgrove.

“It might be a mistake ,” Jack said.

“I think you’re right,” Wilf said to Jack. “But you ,” he said to Father Urban, “do what you think best.” Then, saying to himself, “Well, I’ll be darned,” he went over to the set. Unlike Jack, he had some idea of its worth. “And color, you say?”

“Yes, but there’s just black and white now,” Brother Harold said. “Tonight there’ll be color.”

“Let’s see what’s on now,” said Wilf.

“Not now,” said Father Urban to Brother Harold who was bringing him a cup of coffee, and stalked out of the room. Having said what he’d said — that they ought to phone Billy — what else could he do? He went to the office, sat in Wilf’s swivel chair, and put through the call. Presently, the operator informed him that Mr Cosgrove was in Florida — should she try to reach him there? Father Urban said, “Thanks — but that won’t be necessary,” and hung up. He hadn’t wanted to phone Billy. He had been driven to it — by fools.

None of the viewers at the Hill had enjoyed regular access to a TV set before, and so, for a while anyway, they watched the programs with a faith, hope, and charity that must have been rare at the time. “Let’s see what’s on now,” Wilf would say at the start of the evening, and read to them from the program resumés in the Record : “When hated gunfighter is wounded, townspeople bet on the hour he’ll be killed by dead man’s brother.” “In state institution, four old buddies are reunited for group therapy.” Wilf gave them a choice of programs on the two channels they could get, but Father Urban and Jack were glad to let Wilf run the set, and he was fair about it. “If you’d rather have the other one,” he’d say from time to time, or “Let’s see what the other one’s like.”