Pogatznick, coming along then, said, “You budget for this?” and set Schwinghammer to neighing again.
Serene, an example to them and to himself, Joe said, “A lot depends on my assessment, of course. What that is, I don’t know—and don’t want to, now.” And added, hoping it wouldn’t unduly annoy those who’d called home, and wouldn’t sound as mealy-mouthed to them as it did to him: “I’m on retreat now.” He drew aside for a moment in order to fill his cup, and was about to reenter the conversation when he changed his mind and moved on, hearing “Boy, oh boy!”
Sometime later, coming out of a room, he ran into Cooney.
“Joe, don’t try to look so good. What d’ya mean you budget for everything that comes along?”
“Lou, I said I try to.”
“Joe, you don’t even try to budget for this.”
Joe didn’t like the sound of it. “You call home, Lou?”
“I did—and it’s bad, real bad.”
“How bad?”
“Not gonna tell you that.”
“O.K., Lou. You don’t have to.”
“Tell you this. It’s bad, real bad.”
“O.K., Lou. I heard you.”
“Joe, don’t try to look so good. That’s all I ask.”
Cooney went off as he’d come, in a huff, weaving, and Joe moved on.
The last conference was a barnburner on the subject of the Good Thief, after which came solemn benediction, the papal blessing, and the group picture. This would show the retreatmaster, the Rector, the permanent members of Egan’s set, and (for no reason that Joe could see) Mooney, in the first row. Joe was in the second row, between a country pastor and a responsible first assistant. Cooney and Rooney were nowhere—they’d checked out in the night. Father Stock was another—there were many that year—who missed the group picture, the siren heard the day before having been an ambulance’s, sounding for him, and he was now doing as well as could be expected, it was said, in the hospital. (His car, about which there had been so many futile announcements in the refectory—“Will the owner of . . .” —was towed off by a wrecker, Joe and others watching in silence.)
Joe came away from the retreat a grand to the good, but was worried, despite appearances, about the future, i.e., his assessment.
20. THE MUSTACHE JOB
THE FIRST THING Joe did on his return, late that afternoon, was sift through the pile of mail on his desk, but saw nothing from the Chancery, and went upstairs where he found Father Felix in the study having a beer and watching TV, a children’s program.
“Ah, you’re back, Joe.”
“Where’s Bill?”
“He’s not downstairs?”
“No. His little car’s gone.”
“Then he’s not back yet.”
“Back from where?”
“That I couldn’t say.”
“How long’s he been gone?”
Father Felix, shaking a voluminous sleeve of his forest-green habit to expose his watch, which had a black dial, said, “Should be back shortly,” and resumed his viewing. A bear in a tux was slapping a double bass—he was good, but the background music (“Ain’t Misbehavin’”) made him sound better than he was.
“What’s it all about, Father?” Joe asked.
Father Felix, presumably thinking he was being asked about the program, chuckled.
Joe left him.
In the kitchen, hearing that Young Father had driven off before noon with Father Potter and Mr Conklin, Joe said, “Oh, I see,” as if things weren’t as bad as Mrs P. seemed to think. And hearing that Father Potter and Mr Conklin had spent the night in the rectory, Joe nodded—the best he could do, since things were as bad as Mrs P. seemed to think. “Father, they drank seventeen bottles of beer! And that crazy Mr Conklin! Oh, Father!” Mrs P. turned away and ran water hard into the sink.
Joe left her.
What a homecoming!
Joe returned to the study, picked up his bag, which he’d put down while talking to Father Felix (from whom he now received a benign nod), and went into his bedroom, where he immediately inspected the sheets and pillowcase. Nice and fresh. But then Mrs P. would change them. Ask her. No, no. Ask Father Felix. No. The wily monk would continue to cover for Bill, and for this, perhaps, he shouldn’t be blamed, although monks, Joe believed, had a vested interest in chaos, felt better about themselves if things went wrong in the world (since they’d renounced it).
When Joe came out of the bedroom, Father Felix inquired, “Bill back yet?”
“That I couldn’t say,” Joe replied, and kept going. He went down to his office and got busy—dusted his desk, dust-mopped the floor, threw out the mail. What he wanted to do was phone Holy Sepulcher, where Potter was the second assistant, but how do it without letting whoever answered—maybe the first assistant, Lefty Beeman—know he was looking for Bill? He didn’t want that. SS Francis and Clare’s wasn’t that kind of parish, or hadn’t been until now. And the odds were that Bill would show up for dinner, or at least would call and explain, though it was late for that now. Anyway, Joe did nothing—wisely, as it turned out after the phone rang.
“Hate to bother you, Joe, but Airhead called in from your place last night. Got me out of bed. Said he was spending the rest of the night there. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“He’s not here now, Lefty.”
“Take it you haven’t seen him.”
“No, but I just came off retreat.”
“Nijinsky’s not back yet”—Lefty meant the pastor—“assuming he went.”
“He was there.”
“What’d you think of it this year, Joe?”
“Not a good year.”
“No, but What’s-his-name . . .”
“Po.”
“He’s not a bad guy if you can get him alone. I had a little talk with him. He’s on cigars, you know. And hopefully . . .”
Joe was silent, waiting for clarification.
“Joe, did you know I gave up smoking?”
“No.”
“You see, I’ve got this little rubber cigar. Got it from Horse. He got it from Beans. The idea’s not to break the chain. I’m going into my third solid week. You still on cigars, Joe?”
“Wouldn’t say I’m on ’em. Smoke one now and then. Babies.”
“Like to have a little talk with you, Joe. And hopefully . . .”
Joe was silent, but not waiting for clarification.
“Joe, how’s about us breaking bread sometime? Only let me know ahead. It’s hard for me to get away. Nijinsky’s never here, and Airhead’s always out—and now he’s disappeared. Joe, is Bill there?”
“Not at the moment, no. Should be back shortly.”
“Had a little talk with Bill and What’s-his-name. You know about him, Joe? And this married woman?”
“If you’re talking about Conklin, I did hear something, yes.”
“Did you hear they broke it off?”
“No, but I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yes, but Airhead’s trying to save the relationship—some relationship. And so’s Bill, I guess.”
Joe was silent.
“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, Joe. I know how you feel. I wanted to kick all their asses.”
“It’s a crazy world, Left.”
“Joe, how’re things?”
“O.K.”
“What about this new drive? Were you badly hit?”
“Haven’t heard yet.”
“We got ours today, and it’s rough—not that I’ll lose any sleep.”
“Didn’t get ours yet.”
“Joe, what happens when you do? With your system?”
“We’ll see.”
“I used to worry about money, Joe. No more.”
“You will, Left. You’ll get another parish.”
“Nice of you to say that, Joe. Say, would you ask Airhead to call in if he shows up there?”
“O.K.”
“And if Bill shows up here—”
Joe hu
ng up.
At six o’clock he rose from his desk and stood by it for the Angelus, after which the phone rang—a question from the kitchen, Joe replying, “No, we’ll eat at the usual time.” He covered Bill’s typewriter and went up to the dining room where Father Felix was waiting for him. “How was the retreat, Joe?” “Not a good year.” During dinner, Father Felix spoke of outstanding men at the monastery, original thinkers but sound, some with parish experience like himself, ideal men to preach a diocesan priests’ retreat, Joe occasionally inquiring, “That so?” Nothing was said about Bill, whose empty plate, though, kept saying to Joe, “Where’s Bill?”
When the phone rang at 6:29 Mrs P. answered it in the kitchen, from which she came running. “It’s Young Father, Father. He wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll take it in the study,” Joe said, rising from the table, serene, an example to interested observers, unfortunately not noticing that he was wearing his napkin (tucked under his belt, out of his sight) until he sat down and picked up the phone in the study. “Thanks, Mrs Pelissier”—meaning she could and should hang up, which she did. “Bill, where the hell are you?”
“Father, I won’t be home for dinner.”
“You mean you weren’t.”
“Can’t make it, Father. Couldn’t.”
“Why’s that, Bill?”
“Couldn’t leave, Father. Can’t.”
“Bill, you sound tired.”
“I am, Father.”
“Bill, the thing to do when you’re tired is come home.”
“Father, I’m with others.”
“Bill, just tell others what I said.”
“Father, they’re asleep.”
“You mean passed out?”
“Father, I can’t leave ’em here.”
“Bill, where the hell are you?”
“In the city, in a place called the Bow Wow—it’s a great big bar.”
“Yes, isn’t it? Look, Bill. They know how to handle a thing like this in a place like that. I know the management there. Ask the management—Dom, if he’s there—to help you. Put others in a cab. Put yourself in one—another one—if you can’t drive.”
“I can drive, Father. I’m cold sober.”
“Good. Then you should be back shortly.”
Joe and Father Felix were watching TV when Bill’s little car pulled into the driveway. Joe, saying nothing to the monk, left the study and was in the kitchen running water into the sink when Bill came in the back door—except for the way he was dressed (overalls and T-shirt), he appeared to be all right, just a bit drawn and embarrassed.
“Thought I’d make some coffee,” Joe said. “Care for a cup?”
“Shower first, Father.”
Joe was ready with the coffee in Bill’s room and, to explain his presence there, said, “Father’s in the study” (meaning we don’t want the monk, who already knows too much, in on this) when Bill came out of the bathroom in his pajamas, though it was only eight-thirty. Only, yes, but why had it taken Bill an hour and a half—at least an hour too long—to drive from the Bow Wow? Bill had a lot to explain, but he appeared to realize this and said:
“Father, it all started last night at Holy Sepulcher, but I wasn’t there—I was here”—as if he deserved credit for that. He said that Potter and Conklin had been in the rumpus room at Holy Sepulcher when Father Beeman came in with Father Power [“Horse,” Joe said]. There had been an argument about Conklin and the married woman—they were no longer seeing each other because of his infidelity [“His, huh?”], but Potter hoped to save the relationship, or, if not, that they’d all be friends [“All?”], Conklin, the woman, and her husband [“Bill, there used to be a thing called common sense”]. During the argument, Conklin had swung on Father Power [“What? A layman hit a priest!”]. Helped by Father Power, Father Beeman, who’d been doing some work on the snooker table, going over the fuzzy places in the cloth with an electric razor, had used this to shave off Conklin’s mustache, not all of it, just one side [“Holy Moses”]. Potter and Conklin had then driven out to see Bill and stayed late [“Late?”]. In fact, they had stayed the night [“Where’d they sleep?”]. They hadn’t slept, had sat up all night talking in the study [“Talking about what?”], about the Church, the clergy, the mustache, Conk bitter about it, Pot blaming himself, saying things like “There is no greater love, than one lay down one’s life for one’s friend” [“Hallucinating, huh?”]. Bill had been sympathetic at first, as had Father Felix [“What? I thought he was in bed”], who, after a bit, had gone to bed [“Good”], as Bill had finally [“Good”]. Pot and Conk were still at it in the morning [“Still in the study?”], still in the study. Bill had said Mass [“What about Airhead?”], Pot hadn’t, and Bill, though tired, had gone to his office as usual [“Good”]. He had left Pot and Conk in the dining room arguing with Father Felix [“Arguing?”] about the Age of Faith [“Oh, no!”], when priests were priests and monks were monks [“Gotcha”]. Father Felix had come down to the other office with his breviary and closed the doors [“Hah!”], and Pot and Conk had come down to Bill’s office and sat around [“Great”] until they decided to go out for a beer [“Out, huh?”]. To get rid of them, Bill had agreed to go along, but in his car, so he could leave them as soon as possible [“Uh-huh”], but hadn’t been able to, and later had to stay and look after them [“What about earlier, Bill?”]. It had been a mistake not to leave earlier. “Father, I’m sorry about that—and other things.” Bill had had too much to drink, and for that he blamed himself. But it had been Pot’s idea [“To have too much to drink?”] to stay with, and stand up for, Conk (as Pot had failed to do when Conk lost half of his mustache) should the necessity arise, as it had [“At the Bow Wow?”]. No, but before that, they had been in other places [“Like?”], like the Blue Forest, a strip joint [“In the afternoon?”], for the businessmen’s matinee [“I see. How was it?”]. “Father, I’ve had it with Pot and Conk.” [“Good,” Joe was going to say, but said, “Oh?”] Bill—this was something he should’ve mentioned earlier—had let Conk use a razor that morning to shave, but Conk hadn’t done anything about his mustache, and was going around like that, with one handlebar, telling people [“Telling ’em what?”], “‘Catholic priests in good standing did this to me.’” [“I see. What’d people say?”] Some were sympathetic, some weren’t—Father Felix was, Mrs P. [Mrs P.!] wasn’t. It was like that everywhere—sort of fifty-fifty. [“And when he was telling people, what’d you guys say?”] Pot had been supportive [“‘Supportive,’ huh?”], Bill hadn’t been, had kept quiet, to his regret then and now. “I’ve really had it with Pot and Conk, Father.” [“Let’s hope so,” Joe was going to say, but said, “So you put ’em in a cab?”] Bill, taking Joe’s advice, had spoken to the management at the Bow Wow [“Fat guy with pimp sideburns? That’s Dom—fairly big contributor when I was at Charities”], but Dom knew about Conk’s mustache from the waitresses and he wasn’t sympathetic, even when told that Pot was a priest (and that Bill was), not believing it until Bill mentioned Joe’s name. Dom had changed then and had said it wouldn’t show proper respect to put Pot in a cab and had wanted to call and pay for a limousine. But Bill had talked him out of that, had brought his Bug around to the rear of the Bow Wow, and two kitchen workers had come out with Pot and helped him into the backseat [“What about Conklin?”]. Conk, who was able to walk, had come out minus —completely minus—his mustache [“No! What’d he say?”]. Conk hadn’t said anything, not a word, until, at Holy Sepulcher, he gave Father Beeman a little plastic bottle—an imitation Old Grand-Dad whiskey bottle—that he’d got from one of those claw machines in an amusement arcade, when he’d said: “‘For you, Father, if thou wouldst be perfect, to go with your rubber cigar.’” [“What a hell of a thing to say to Lefty! What’d he say?”] Father Beeman said thanks. That was all. [“Poor guy. Still, he had it coming.”] Then he and Bill had put Pot to bed. When Bill came downstairs, Conk was gone. Bill had then driven home.
“So that’s it, huh?”
> “More or less.”
Less, Joe was afraid.
“Think I’ll go to bed, Father, unless there’s something you want to say.”
“No.”
“Thanks for not chewing me out. Or is that coming later?”
“No, not if I can help it. Just don’t say anything—about any of this—to Father Felix.”
“I won’t.”
“G’night, Bill.”
“G’night, Joe.”
It was the first time, Joe realized, that Bill had dared, or maybe cared, to call him Joe.
21. THE CRUNCH
THE NEXT MORNING (Saturday) after the mail came, Joe closed the door between the offices and for some reason, maybe to get a hold on himself, dialed Time and Temperature. “Thanks,” he said to the recorded voice. Then he opened and read the letter from the Chancery, stopped at your parish is therefore assessed, but carried on to the end, then started over. To be fair, he couldn’t on the face of it assign the blame to Toohey, since the letter was on stationery and typewritten, or to the Arch, since it just didn’t sound like him (manifest need, manifold purpose), though it was, of course, signed by him. It was manifest that the blame was manifold: Mayer, Mayer and Maher, of Chicago, by appointment consultants in finance and development to the Archdiocese and given office space in the Chancery, offered their special individualized, confidential services to you and your parish, be it large or small, and their Mr McMaster should be contacted by interested pastors without delay.
Joe read the letter again, and that was all he did that morning, again and again.
“Backlog of work, owing to the retreat. Won’t be hearing this afternoon,” he told Bill and Father Felix at lunch. He spent most of the afternoon in thought. But about an hour before dinner, he started typing—just a rough draft.
“Catching up with my correspondence. Won’t be hearing this evening,” he told Bill and Father Felix at dinner.
Hours later, after Bill and Father Felix had gone to bed, Joe was still at his typewriter, firing away.
He was in a dazed state when he put the final product in a protective folder and carried it upstairs. He stopped in the kitchen for ice, and after making himself a drink, settled down in his BarcaLounger to give the final product its final reading, which took a while.