Wheat That Springeth Green

  While Father Felix took it from there, Joe moved out of range, into the sun. Pausing before a little pile of cigarette butts in the gravel of the parking lot, he thought of inspecting the ashtrays of the nearest cars, thought again, and moved on, thinking, As this church is the house of God, my good people, so this parking lot is—forget it. “You’re good people,” he called out to a young couple heading for the church. “Good and late.” No response. People weren’t what they used to be. Formerly able to take and even enjoy a little friendly needling from their pastor, like the customers in a nightclub where an insulting waiter is part of the show, people were touchy nowadays. They wanted their “rights.” They wanted a priest to act like a minister, to thank them for showing up—“So nice to see you,” “So glad you could come”—and still they emptied their ashtrays in his parking lot.

  Joe entered the rectory by the back door, washed his hands at the kitchen sink, slipped into his illustrated apron (gift of a parishioner), which he wore inside out over his cassock so the funny stuff was hidden, and set about making Father Felix’s breakfast.

  When Bill, on his way over to church to help Father Felix with Communion, passed through the kitchen, Joe looked up from the breadboard, from sawing an orange, and said, “This isn’t for me”—what he’d said to explain his continuing presence in the kitchen on Bill’s first Sunday morning in residence, and what had since become a family joke, something to say when making another drink, when not declining dessert, or having a second—and when Bill went out the back door Joe intoned, “The story is told . . .” Another family joke. So far, there were just the two, but there should be more in time.

  Father Felix sailed through the kitchen in his forest-green habit and sat down for his breakfast—or brunch, as he sometimes called it with a chuckle—in the dining room. (Joe and Bill had breakfast in the kitchen on Sunday, in Mrs P.’s absence, but Joe felt that Father Felix deserved better, as a man of the old school and as hard-to-get weekend help.) After serving him, Joe sank down at the other end of the table with a cup of coffee (what he really wanted was a cold beer). “How’s everything at the Big House, Father?”

  “About the same.” Father Felix helped himself to the strawberry preserves, praising the brand, Smucker’s. He preferred strawberry to red raspberry, he said, and red to black raspberry, as a rule, and didn’t care for the monastery stuff these days, as the nuns (who spent too much time in supermarkets) went in for short cuts, skimped on the natural ingredients. “And make too much plum.”

  “That so?” Joe had heard it all before. As a rule, he didn’t sit with Father Felix at breakfast.

  “My, but those were fine berries.” Father Felix was referring, Joe knew, to some strawberries no longer grown at the monastery. “Little Scarlets. Small, yes, but with a most delicate flavor. And then Brother, he went and dug ’em out.”

  “Brother Gardener?” said Joe, as if in some doubt.

  Father Felix, carried away by anger, could only reply by nodding.

  “More toast, Father?”

  “All right.” Father Felix helped himself to more preserves. He kept getting ahead of himself—always more preserves than toast.

  Joe produced another slice from the kitchen, and also the coffeepot. “Warm that up for you?”

  “All right.” But first Father Felix drained his cup. “You make good coffee here.”

  Joe poured, sat down again, considering what he had to say. (On his last trip to the kitchen, he had removed his apron as a hint to Father Felix that the dining room was closing.) “Father, I was thinking”—and Joe had been thinking this ever since Bill moved in—“you could go back on the one-thirty bus.”

  Father Felix, who ordinarily returned to the monastery on the six-thirty bus, gazed away, masticating, sheeplike. He seemed to be saying that there ought to be a reason for such a drastic and sudden change in his routine.

  “Know you want to get back as soon as possible,” Joe said. Monks, he’d often been told (by monks), are never happy away from their monastery. Between them and their real estate, there is a body-and-soul relationship, a strange bond. Monks are the homeowners, the solid citizens, of the ecclesiastical establishment. Other varieties of religious, and even secular priests like Joe—although he’d built a school, a convent, and now a rectory—are hoboes by comparison. That was certainly the impression you got if you spent any time with monks. So, really, what Joe was suggesting—that Father Felix return to his monastery a few hours earlier than usual—wasn’t so bad, was it? “Of course, it’s up to you, Father.”

  Father Felix folded his napkin, though it was headed for the laundry, and then he rolled it. He seemed to be looking for his napkin ring, and then he seemed to remember it was at the monastery and he wasn’t.

  Bill barged in, saying, “That was Potter on the phone. Looks like there’ll be one more, Father.”

  Seeing that he had no choice, Joe informed Father Felix that a couple of Bill’s friends—classmates—were coming to dinner, and that Mrs P. would report at three. “She’s been having car trouble,” he added, hoping, he guessed, to change the subject.

  “Who else is coming?” Father Felix said to Bill.

  “Name’s Conklin. Classmate. Ex-classmate.”

  Joe didn’t like the sound of it. “Dropout?”

  Bill observed a moment of silence. “None of us knew why Conk left. I don’t think Conk did—at the time.”

  “That’s often the case, Bill. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Father Felix, looking at Joe.

  “Who said it was?” Joe inquired, and then continued with Bill. “So now he’s married. Right?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  Joe waited for clarification.

  “I guess he thinks about it,” Bill said.

  Father Felix nodded. “We all do.”

  “That so?” said Joe.

  “Is it all right, then?” Bill asked.

  Joe looked at Bill intently. “Is what all right?”

  “For Conk to come? He’s a pretty lonely guy.”

  Father Felix was nodding away, apparently giving his permission.

  “It’s your party,” Joe said, and rose from the table in an energetic manner, as a subtle hint to Father Felix. “I’d ask you to stay for it, Father. Or Bill would—it’s his party. But we plan to sit down—or stand up, it’s buffet—around five. You’d have to eat and run.” And somebody—Joe—would have to drive Father Felix to the bus.

  “But stay if you like,” Bill said.

  “All right,” said Father Felix.

  Joe and Father Felix were watching the Twins game and drinking beer in the pastor’s study when Bill brought in his friends and introduced them. The heavy one wearing a collar, which showed that he, or his pastor, was still holding the line, was Hennessy. The exhibitionist in overalls and a faded Brahms T-shirt was Potter. And the other one, the one with the handlebar mustache, a nasty affair, was Conklin.

  “What’s the score?” Bill asked, as if he cared.

  “Four to one,” Joe said.

  “Twins?”

  “No.”

  Potter and Conklin moved off to case the bookshelves, and Father Felix joined them, but Hennessy stood by, attending to the conversation.

  “What inning?” Bill asked.

  “Seventh.”

  “Who’s pitching?”

  Joe took a step toward the television set.

  “Leave it on,” Bill said. “We’re going to my room for a drink.”

  Bill and his friends then departed, Hennessy murmuring, “See you later.”

  “Fine young men,” said Father Felix.

  “Uh-huh,” Joe said. “Split a bottle, Father?”

  “All right.”

  Joe carried the empties into the kitchen. “Everything O.K. in here?” he said to Mrs P., and opened the refrigerator—always an embarrassing act for him, even when alone. He had cut down on snacking, though, had suffered less from “night hunger” since Bill moved in.

  ?
??Sure you want to eat in the study, Father?”

  “It’s Bill’s party,” Joe said, although he felt as Mrs P. did about eating in the study.

  But Bill had come out against eating in the dining room. “You at the head of the table, me at the other end—what a drag.” Joe had offered to let Bill sit at the head of the table and not to sit at the other end himself, lest it appear to be the head, but Bill hadn’t wanted that either. “All this formality—what a drag.” Bill had proposed that they start off in the kitchen, get the food right off the stove, and go on from there. “Maybe finish up in my room. Be more natural that way.” “Or out in the yard, like a dog with a bone. Be more natural that way.” Joe had then proposed that they eat in the study, which was roomy and clubby and may have been what Bill had wanted all along.

  “He’s lucky he’s got you for a pastor,” said Mrs P.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Joe said, but didn’t argue the point. He returned to the study and poured half of the beer—more than half—into Father Felix’s glass. “Hey. How’d that man get on second?”

  Father Felix observed the television screen closely and nodded, as if to say yes, Joe was right, there was a man on second.

  “The official scorer has ruled it a single and an error, not a double,” said the announcer.

  “Who made the error?” Joe said, more to the announcer than to Father Felix.

  “According to our records, that’s the first error Tony’s made this season,” said the announcer.

  “What’s so wonderful about that?” Joe said to the announcer. “He’s an outfielder.”

  Father Felix got up and, as was his habit from time to time, left the room.

  After a bit, Joe went to see if anything was wrong, but Father Felix, who used the lavatory off the guest room, wasn’t there. Then, listening in the hallway, Joe heard the old monk’s voice among the others in Bill’s room, and returned to the study. Sitting there alone, finishing off Father Felix’s beer, Joe asked himself, What’s wrong with this picture? Nothing, really, he told himself. The curate was entertaining in his room so as not to interfere with the game, the visiting priest was a fair-weather fan, if that, and so, really, nothing was wrong—it meant nothing, nothing personal that the pastor sat alone. He didn’t like it, though.

  17. PRIESTLY FELLOWSHIP

  CONTINUED

  FOR SOME TIME, Mrs P. had been bringing things into the study and arranging them on the library table, which had lost its somewhat refectory look (Bill’s idea) when Mrs P. covered it with an ecru lace tablecloth. Joe, when he might have spoken up for the bare honest wood (Bill’s idea), hadn’t, and now it was too late.

  “Should I call the others, Father?” Mrs P. sounded apprehensive—the others were getting kind of loud in Bill’s room.

  “No, I’ll do it.” But when Joe imagined himself at Bill’s door, looking in on a scene he’d been more or less excluded from, he decided to phone. “Bill?” What the hell was this? Either Bill or Father Felix should’ve answered, or Hennessy or Potter, but not Conklin.

  They came into the study like conventioneers, carrying glasses, and formed a circle that did not include Joe, who, on hearing Conklin say that his mustache was considered “cruel” by women, wanted to hit him. Then they were roughhousing, saying “Pass that to thy neighbor!” “Fine young men,” said Father Felix, laughing to see such sport. “Uh-huh,” Joe said, and moved in on them, ending a series of blows. Conklin, fist raised, appeared to entertain the thought of starting another series, beginning with Joe, but changed his mind, which was just as well, though it still made for nervous laughter at Joe’s expense.

  “Let’s eat,” Joe said. “Father Felix has to leave early.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me.”

  Joe bumped them over to the food and stationed himself at the end of the table, by the wine, ready to pour and, if possible, to enter the conversation. To Father Felix, first in line, first to reach the wine, Joe said, “Just like the monastery,” referring to the nice display of food on the monk’s plate.

  “Yes.” Father Felix had been saying (to Hennessy) that some days were perhaps better than others to visit the monastery if one wished to eat there. “We have a cafeteria now.”

  “Wine, Father?”

  “What kind is it?”

  Joe, speaking through his nose, named the wine.

  “On second thought, no,” said Father Felix, perhaps wisely, and moved off with his plate, holding it carefully with both hands but in a sloping manner.

  Hennessy was next, and he also refused wine. But he complimented Joe on his building program, calling the rectory “a crackerjack,” which suggested to Joe that the works of Father Finn were still being read and might have figured in Hennessy’s vocation, as they had in his own. “You should see the office area,” Joe said to Hennessy. “Maybe, if there’s time later, I could show you around the plant.”

  “Oh, no!” said Conklin, next in line, and turned to Potter in disgust, but Potter was talking to Bill, and Hennessy (“Maybe later, Father”) was moving off, and so Conklin, after more or less insulting Joe, had to face him alone.

  “Wine, Mr Conklin?”

  “Si, señor.”

  Maybe it went with the mustache, but Joe wondered whether a priest should be so addressed, whether “reverendissimo” or something wouldn’t be more appropriate, whether, in fact, Conklin had meant to pay him back for the “mister.” At the seminary, as Conklin would know, there were still a few reverend fathers who made much of “mister,” hissing it, using it to draw the line between miserable you and glorious them—which hadn’t been Joe’s intention. After all, what was Conklin now, and what was he ever likely to be, but “mister”? It didn’t pay for someone in Conklin’s position to be too sensitive, Joe thought.

  And listened to Potter, who was saying (to Bill) that he’d had a raw egg on his steak tartare in München and enjoyed it. “Mit Ei, they call it there.”

  “You can enjoy it here,” Joe said. “Mrs Pelissier!” he cried, not pronouncing her name as he usually did, but giving it everything it had, which was plenty, in French.

  Joe and everybody (except Father Felix) urged Potter to have a raw egg on his steak tartare, as in München—Mit Ei! Mit Ei! But Potter wouldn’t do it, although Mrs P. produced a dozen nice fresh ones, entering the study in triumph, leaving it in sorrow. Joe almost had one himself, for her sake. Potter came out of it badly.

  Joe was hoping the BarcaLounger would clear when he set forth with glass and plate, but Conklin was in it, and it didn’t, and so he went and sat near Hennessy and Father Felix. “Never cared for buffet,” he told them, and got no response. (Hennessy was saying that the monastic life was beyond one of his modest spiritual means, Father Felix that one never knew until one tried.) Joe tried the other conversation. (Potter was building up the laity, at the expense of the clergy, as was the practice of the clergy these days.) “Some of your best friends must be laymen,” Joe said, and was alarmed to see Potter taking him seriously: that was the trouble with the men of Bill’s generation—not too bright and in love with themselves, they made you want to hit them. “But what about the ones who empty their ashtrays in your parking lot?”

  Potter smiled—now he thought Joe was kidding.

  “Not much you can do,” Conklin said. “Judah took possession of the hill country, but he couldn’t drive out the inhabitants of the plain, because they had chariots of iron.”

  “That so?” said Joe, thinking, What is this? He tried his wine. “Not bad,” he said to Potter and Bill (who still had their drinks from Bill’s room), but he didn’t get through to them. Potter was a talker.

  “What kind is it?” said Father Felix.

  Joe, speaking through his nose, named the wine.

  “Grape,” said Conklin, coming back from the table with the bottle from which only he and Joe had partaken so far, and sitting down with it, in the BarcaLounger. “Anybody else?”

  “No, thanks,” Joe said, and was silent for s
ome time—until he heard Conklin refer to Beans McQueen as Beans. “You a friend of Father McQueen’s?”

  “They taught this course together, at the Institute,” Bill said. “Scripture for the Laity.”

  “That so?” said Joe.

  And the talk went on as before, on two fronts, without Joe, leaving him free to go over to the table for the other bottle of wine. Hennessy wasn’t having any, but Father Felix was. “Grape, you say?” Joe served Father Felix, and also himself, and left the bottle on the coffee table in front of him, but beyond his reach—not that wine, unfortified wine, was really alcoholic, not that he was. He just had to watch himself. He wasn’t a wine drinker, but could see how he might have been one in another time and place—one of those wise old abbés, his mouth a-pucker with Grand Cru, his tongue tasting like steak, solving life’s problems by calling people “my daughter” and “my son.”