Wheat That Springeth Green

by J.F. Powers

  “Asked Greg to wait,” Bill said, “but didn’t think you’d be so long.”

  “Took longer than I thought.” Joe hadn’t said where he was going, only “Some calls to make,” which, though, had turned out to be the truth by the time he’d tracked his old confessor back to the hospital and found him snoring in his bed. “Sorry, Greg.”

  “No harm done,” Father Felix said. “Gave us a chance to rap.”

  Joe, thinking the word would soon be obsolete but not soon enough, seated himself in his BarcaLounger—it was warm. Bill? Father Felix? Bill.

  “Greg was telling us about his draft problem,” Bill said to Joe.

  “Care to tell me about it, Greg?”

  “You already know. Barb told you.”

  Barb, huh? “Your mother didn’t tell me much. I didn’t ask her to. Thought I’d wait and ask you.”

  “Against war, is all. Lotta shit.”

  “Now, now,” said Father Felix. “We’re all against war, if it comes to that, Greg.”

  “If? You mean until.”

  True, Joe thought.

  “It hasn’t come to that yet,” Father Felix said. “This war is still undeclared, Greg.”

  “For you, not for me.”

  True, Joe thought.

  Bill said, “Greg told us he was a language major before he dropped out of college, Joe.”

  “So?”

  “So we were wondering if he could maybe go on with his education in the service—maybe learn Russian.”

  “Or even Chinese,” said Father Felix.

  Joe, sorry but not surprised to see Greg close his eyes and shake his head in dismay as seen on TV, said, “Not his immediate problem, is it—going on with his education?”

  “Maybe not,” Bill said, “but I understand only one in ten sees action.”

  Greg opened his eyes. “I don’t intend to be one of the ten, or the nine. And I don’t intend to throw myself on the mercies of my local draft board as a c.o.”

  “You’d be wise not to do that,” Father Felix said. “Greg, if it’s such a matter of conscience with you and worst comes to worst shoot at their legs. That’s what I’d do.”

  “I can’t tell—is he kiddin’?” Greg said to Joe.

  “Afraid not.” Joe got up to go to the bathroom, saying, “I’ve heard that one before, though not recently. In the seminary. It’s a crazy world.”

  “That may be,” Father Felix said, his voice following Joe into the bathroom, “but there’s more than one way to be against war and—what’s more to the point—to work for peace.”

  “Shoot over their heads?” said Greg.

  Joe, listening to their conversation while he made himself a drink in the bathroom, appeared among them again, still listening.

  “Greg, have you thought—enough, I mean—of your folks?” said Bill.

  “And your brother in Nam?” said Father Felix.

  “Don’t forget the fuckin’ neighbors,” said Greg.

  Joe—he’d heard enough—spoke then.

  WITH SOME AUTHORITY

  Since he was (and the fathers, here, weren’t) Greg’s pastor, and since he had given some thought to the subject of war, more than most people and certainly more than most clergy [“Humph!” said Father Felix], including St Thomas Aquinas and the late Cardinal Spellman [“Dear me!” said Father Felix], he (Joe) spoke with some authority and wished, if possible, to be heard [“Humph!” said Father Felix].

  HOPING FOR BEST

  The fathers, here, wanted Greg to go on with his education and to enjoy the benefits he’d have coming to him, not least the respect and gratitude of the nation—“It says here”—and of the copulating neighbors [“Joe, this is a serious business,” said Father Felix, and Bill nodded]. The fathers, here, also wanted Greg to realize that if he followed another course he’d be giving himself, and those near and dear to him, a lot of grief. He’d be in jail, or on the run, marked for life. So Greg should be in no doubt that the fathers, here, meant well by him and hoped for the best.

  INVIDIOUS COMPARISON

  But then the fathers, there, in Italy and Germany, during the Second World War and before—Abyssinia and Spain—had also meant well by their people and hoped for the best.

  “An invidious comparison!” cried Father Felix. “The Italian and German clergy were placed in a very unfortunate position in the Second World War.”

  “As they were in the First World War,” Joe said, “enemies then, marching to different drummers, actually the same one, not hating each other, though, only hating each other’s ideas. Used to hear that one a lot during the last war—last but two, I mean.”

  “I didn’t,” said Father Felix.

  “Never heard it?” said Joe.

  “Rarely,” said Father Felix. “In any case, Joe, judge not, lest ye . . .”

  “Gotcha. Dresden, Hiroshima, Nagasaki.”

  PASSING THE BUCK

  For the faithful to have followed another course in Germany would have meant, as it did mean for a few, the ax—literally. Heroic virtue had been called for, and this for most people, paralyzed or galvanized by nationalism, the bad wine of the country, was unthinkable—literally. [“Don’t blame the clergy,” said Father Felix.] The German clergy, knowing what people are like in wartime and not being so different themselves—as we aren’t—had once again passed the buck, which was passed on to their dear brothers in Christ in, for a start, Czechoslovakia, then Poland, then France. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori! How sweet and meet it is to die for my country! And to take a few with me, with ecclesiastical approbation. That the faithful—faithful to what?—expect no more from themselves and the Church, this is the world’s worst and longest-running scandal. [“Don’t blame the Church,” said Father Felix.]

  JESUS WEPT

  Those words were said to be the saddest ever written, but that was before the conditions for a just war were written. Namely, that there be grave and just cause for war, that it be declared and conducted according to law, that it not be protracted, that the peace be just, and so on. These conditions, written in the days of “the Christian Prince” (who’d reigned only in the minds of theologians), hadn’t been met then, and today, more than ever before, were unmeetable, and yet were still serving as an out. [“Don’t blame the theologians,” said Father Felix.]

  PRIMACY OF CONSCIENCE

  The just-war theologians would have a lot to answer for in the next world. In holding that conscripts could usually presume that their country was right, and if in doubt could prudently acquiesce because the civil and ecclesiastical authorities were probably right, and if wrong could not be blamed if acting in conscience, St Thomas and others had dated badly. But what they had said about the primacy of conscience [“An informed conscience,” said Father Felix, and Bill nodded], informed or not, if sincere, was still true. The authorities today could no more vouch for the consciences of others than the Christian Prince could in the Thirteenth, the Greatest—or Hitler or Mussolini could in the Twentieth, the Crappiest—of Centuries. Or FDR. Or JFK. Or LBJ. “Think of him closeted with his advisers, agonizing over meeting the conditions for a just war.” The Church’s problem, however (though you’d never know it), is not the odd conscientious objector, or even the unconscientious objector to war but the mass of conscientious, not so conscientious, and unconscientious acceptors of war—and herself. The Church, in playing footsie with the powers that be, from Constantine to LBJ, had been remiss.

  “Remiss?” said Greg. “You mean chicken.”

  “O.K.,” Joe said. “I’ll buy that.”

  “No, no,” said Father Felix.

  “Joe,” said Bill.

  DISHONEST DIOGENES

  He (Joe) and a couple of others at the seminary had decided to refuse deferment as divinity students, to register as conscientious objectors, but the Rector had got wind of this and had registered them himself. When they received their deferments and might have objected, they had said the hell with it. They had let it ride. “I
still think about it. So whenever I run across somebody like Greg, which isn’t often, I feel like Diogenes—a dishonest one.”

  “The Rector did the right thing,” Father Felix said. “You must’ve thought so too.”

  “That so?” said Joe.

  “If not, why’d you let it ride?”

  “For the same reason I still think about it. I was remiss—chicken, I mean.” Joe turned to Greg. “As your pastor, I had to tell you what I have. In a way, I wish you’d say the hell with it and report for induction—I don’t want to be blamed for what may happen to you if you don’t. (You could, yes, maybe go on with your education, become an officer, have your uniforms custom-made and your hair cut.) But I have to follow my conscience, informed or not, and you do. That, despite all the evidence to the contrary, is the mind of the Church.”

  Father Felix said, “I don’t say you’re wrong about that, Joe, in principle, but I do say you may have given Greg the wrong impression. Commentators have often remarked on Our Lord’s kindness to the military. If he disapproved of their calling, why didn’t he say so, admonish them? Remember, in the Garden of Gethsemane, how he admonished Peter for cutting off the ear of the high priest’s servant? ‘Don’t you know I could call on my Father in heaven and he would send me more than twelve legions on angels?’ Strange words indeed from one supposedly opposed to anything military?”

  Joe, looking cross-eyed, got up. “Beer, anyone?”

  “No, thanks,” Bill said. “It’s late.”

  “No, thanks,” Father Felix said. “Have to hit the sack.”

  “Beer, Greg?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll have what you’re having. No, just kiddin’, I’m leaving.”

  Father Felix and Bill said good night to Greg—“You mean good-bye”—and Joe walked him to the front door where they shook hands and Joe would have liked to give him his blessing.

  “Poor Barb,” Greg said. “She had you all wrong.”

  “Don’t blame your mother for that, Greg. Before you go, do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Tie your shoes.”

  Greg looked at Joe. “Why?”

  “Just as a favor to me,” Joe said.

  Greg dropped down to tie his shoes, and while he was down Joe secretly blessed him.

  The next day, Sunday, between Masses, Joe got a phone call from Barb.

  “I just called to thank you, Father. You did your best.”

  “Greg say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s gone, Father, but Brad doesn’t know yet. So if you should see him . . .”

  “I won’t say anything, Barb.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  24. AN INSPECTOR CALLS

  “SIGNAL WHEN YOU throw that thing,” Joe said, having fumbled what was practically a wild pitch, snatched up the ball, shook it at Bill to settle him down, and whipped it back. Plunk.

  The temperature was in the high eighties, but they’d had ice cream for dessert and were working it off, Joe in the shade of the rectory, Bill in the shade of the garage, the sun between them—a problem too in old outdoor ball parks, Joe thought, the sinking sun, the creeping shade.

  Bill signaled with a flick of his gloved hand and threw another fast curve, a slider. Pop.

  “That’s better.” Plunk.

  “Somebody asked me if we were taking donations to Arf.” Pop.

  “Who?” Plunk.

  “Mr Lane.” Pop.

  Plunk.

  “I said I’d let him know.” Pop.

  “You know the answer to that.” Plunk.

  “I guess I was thinking of our assessment.” Pop.

  “Bill, if somebody wants to donate to Arf, O.K., but not through the parish. It would reflect on others.” Plunk.

  “Joe, what if others wanted to?” Pop.

  “No good, Bill. Not through the parish. It’d make others look bad. They’re protected against that.” Plunk.

  “Yeah.” Pop.

  “People slip you a donation, Bill, or try to, for something like Arf and think they’re not only building themselves up with you, which may be so, but performing an act of true charity, an almsdeed—not so. Or when they contribute to the support of the Church, when all they’re doing is paying for goods and services.” Plunk.

  “See what you mean, Joe. An almsdeed should be in secret. ‘And thy Father, who sees in secret, will reward thee.’” Pop.

  “Right. Otherwise, apart from the material good it might do, it’s money wasted.” Plunk.

  “Wow, Joe.” Pop.

  “Hardball, Bill. Scripture’s rough and tough and hard to stay with. People can’t have it both ways, and we—the clergy—can’t, though God knows we try.” Plunk.

  “Be a lot more charity—true charity, Joe—if everybody looked at it like that.” Pop.

  “And a lot less strong-arm stuff like Arf.” Plunk.

  Pop.

  Plunk.

  “Man I ran into last night, Joe, said he talked to you about registering, but didn’t get around to it. Name’s Gumball.” Pop.

  “Oh, yes. Phoned. Never came in.” Plunk.

  “Said to tell you he’s sorry about that, Joe.” Pop.

  “So when’s he coming in?” Plunk.

  “Joe, I told him he wouldn’t have to, in the circumstances [“What circumstances?”], since I’d seen him and all his free time goes on the house. Hers too. They’re redoing the place from scratch. But he said he’d put a check in the mail.” Pop.

  “Great.” Plunk.

  “How d’ya mean, Joe?” Pop.

  “I tell man he, or his wife, has to come in to register, and you tell him forget it.” Plunk.

  “I thought, in the circumstances . . .” Pop.

  Plunk.

  Pop.

  “You want to be the good shamus, Bill.” Plunk.

  Pop.

  “And you want me to be the bad one.” Plunk.

  Pop.

  “No way to run a parish, Bill.” Plunk.

  Pop.

  Plunk.

  Pop.

  “O.K., Bill. Man won’t have to come in.” Plunk.

  Pop.

  “But only because I don’t want you to look bad—and the Church.” Plunk.

  Pop.

  Plunk.

  Pop.

  Plunk.

  “Ow!”

  On seeing the new patient at his front door—this was, in fact, their first meeting—Dr Wylie had said, “Oh, shit,” but had turned off the TV within and rushed the patient over to the clinic next door, turned on the TV there, and ministered to him silently during the rest of Gunsmoke.

  Now that the air had cleared, physician could consult with patient. “Mind telling me how it happened?”

  Joe did mind, some. “Playing catch in the yard. Hardball.”

  “No shit? In that getup? You don’t look it.”

  Joe, immaculate in black and white, found this line of questioning hard to take from a professional man of his generation (and, incidentally, short stature) who wore cowboy boots, overalls, no shirt, and a lavaliere. “Had a bath and changed before I came here.” And also had a drink—should’ve had two.

  “Hard to dress yourself, wasn’t it, with one hand?”

  “Yes.” And to make a drink.

  Dr Wylie blew smoke in Joe’s face, saying, “Well, that’s what you get for playing catch in weather like this.”

  “Just trying to keep in shape.”

  “Keep? You sure as hell don’t look like you’re in shape to me.”

  “Let’s just say I’m trying to keep my weight down.”

  “Keep? Down to what? You’re twenty pounds overweight.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t want to be thirty.”

  “Sure as hell will be if all you’re doing about it is playing catch with kids. Had a physical lately?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s your regular quack?”

  “Don’t have one—
haven’t since I was a kid.”

  “About time you had one then. But don’t think I’m looking for business. Mind if I ask how old you are?”

  For some reason, Joe did mind. “Forty-four.”

  “Yeah? Guess how old I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Go ahead, guess. I won’t bill you for it.”

  “Thanks. You’re about my age, maybe younger.”

  “Like hell I am. I’m fifty-four.” Dr Wylie stubbed out his cigarette. “How do I do it, huh?”

  “You’re on some new special diet?”

  “Diet, shit. I eat like a horse, drink like a fish.” Dr Wylie lit a cigarette. “Try again.”

  “You smoke a lot?”

  Dr Wylie, as if he’d underestimated Joe, looked at him with qualified respect. “Smoking can be a factor in weight control, and to that extent it’s a plus, but there are minuses too. The Surgeon General has determined that smoking is dangerous to your health.”

  Joe nodded.

  “But smoking, or nonsmoking, could never account for this.” Dr Wylie, seen now in profile, hands hooked and pulling against each other, biceps and pectorals tumescent, lacking only grease, posed like the late Charles Atlas.

  Joe nodded.

  Dr Wylie relaxed then, only to expose a muscular calf and flex it.

  Joe nodded.

  Dr Wylie slapped his belly, which was tight as a drum, and glanced at Joe’s, which was embarrassing.

  But Joe nodded.

  “How do I do it, huh?”

  “You pump iron?”

  “Iron, shit.”

  Joe nodded.

  Dr Wylie laughed. “O.K., I’ll tell you. Last thing I do at night—drunk or sober—is go for a little ride.”

  In case this meant what Joe thought it might and he was about to be tempted to have sex on medical grounds—celibacy was still the Church’s trump and why the heathen rage—Joe waited for clarification and did not nod.

  “Sleep like a log.”

  Joe did not nod.

  “Wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  Joe did not nod.

  “See that horse in the lobby?”

  Joe looked in the direction indicated, trying to see through the cinder block wall, but couldn’t. “Horse?”