Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 63 – FATHER JULES AND COMPANY

  Father Jules called a meeting of the men of the church. Some of the women were offended that they were left out, but since many of them were perpetually offended, he was well practiced in ignoring their sniffs and cold looks. Some of the men, however, were quite concerned.

  "You do not know how much trouble you are causing me with my wife, Father," one man said. "Really, she thinks we are up to no good whenever men get together by themselves."

  "That is your problem," Father Jules said. The men sputtered. Father Jules smiled at them. "You will just have to educate your women, gentlemen, or you will have to learn to assume an air of mystery. In any case, I want no apologies for this project. Do you understand me?"

  "Not yet," a man who looked like an athlete said, with the hint of a wink. "You must explain your project first, I think."

  "I think you are right, Philip," Father Jules said. But this was all new territory, and difficult territory at that, and he wasn't sure how to proceed.

  Philip went up to him. "Have a little faith, Father," he whispered in the priest's ear.

  Father Jules stood tall and announced that they were walking down the street to see something. He briskly led his mostly-baffled flock of men – Philip was in on the secret, and could barely hide his chuckles – down three blocks, into a somewhat run-down building, and up flight after flight of stairs, letting men catch up to him as best they could. It was a motley parade of men: all ages, but mostly older, all levels of fitness, but mostly frail or flabby. Nearly half of his followers were walking with heads bent, or at least eyes downcast. It was embarrassing, but Father Jules felt his doubts about the value of this project vanishing. It was needed, obviously.

  The men were astonished to find themselves in a room that took up half the building on its floor, a room with nothing in it but a rowing machine, a basketball hoop, three basketballs, and a punching bag.

  Father Jules waited until everyone was inside the room, which took a while because the slowest stair climbers took a long time to catch up. He was strangely pleased that having everyone all together seemed to fill the room just the right amount: not too crowded, not too empty.

  "Now, then," he said. "I have had keys made for all of you. Once a day, every day but Sunday, except when you are out of town, each of you is to come up here, let yourself in, and hit the punching bag at least three times," he said.

  They looked at him like he was crazy. He faltered. He'd known this would be hard to sell, but he hadn't quite realized how crazy it was until this very moment.

  "You can hit it more than that, of course, if you would like," Philip said. "As long as you are doing it for exercise, and not to fantasize that you are pummeling someone who has upset you. Down that road lies madness, you know, and Father will have to take it away from us if we misuse it."

  "So you're in on this, are you?" an older man said. "I thought so."

  Philip smiled. "Ah, c'mon. Three hits on one bag per day? Tell me you cannot handle that? It's fun, too."

  The men looked anxiously between Father Jules and Philip.

  "Here's the deal," Father Jules said. "Catholics around here have obtained a reputation for being wimps."

  "But three hits a day won't build any muscle!" a young man complained.

  "Of course you are right. Such little exercise won't turn us into muscle men. But the punching bag gives us a start, and more than that, it gives us a reason to come up here. If you would rather shoot baskets, or row on the machine, it is all the same, as long as you come and do something. We will keep this a true man's club, I think. Your boys may come, but only with you to bring them. And do not bring the littlest ones. We must have a place for men to meet as men, and plot how we improve our reputations and standing in the community."

  Murmurs went through the little gathering. Some of the murmurs were nervous, but most were approving. "You're a genius, Father. I always knew it," one man said.

  "On the flip side, for anyone who wants to be alone, this is a big room, so we can give each other space when someone wants it, no? Even if several of us happen to show up at once?" Philip said. "And we can sit on the floor, if we feel like it."

  "Hear! Hear!" a man said. "My wife won't even let me use a footstool at home. I tell you, I am not allowed to sit with my feet up, or any other way that I might feel like it. I vote for sitting on the floor."

  Some men didn't understand that he was announcing a general principle. They sat straight down – rather defiantly, Father Jules thought.

  "Here, I will show everyone the way to use the punching bag, so that you do not hurt yourselves," Philip said. "And then I will show you how to use the rowing machine. There will more equipment later, if you will help acquire it, but this is what we have for now."

  "I use a similar rowing machine at my gym," a young man said. "I know how it works."

  "Here, then you show everyone that, while I show them this," Philip said, hopping over to the punching bag before momentum was lost. The enthusiasm was growing, which was encouraging. He winked at Father Jules.

  Father Jules sat to one side, on the floor, with his back to the wall, watching his flock, or at least the masculine sliver of it, and daydreamed of what he might do next for them.

  He wanted to make the men start saying hello to non-Catholics, at least one new person a week – but not to witness, at least not until they were better schooled. He'd inherited a badly catechized congregation. He dreaded to think what some of them might put forth as Catholic teaching. For that matter, few of them seemed to understand even the basics of Christianity – for instance, that sin broke a man away from God, but confession and repentance could provide the necessary reconciliation, thanks be to Christ Jesus, who made it possible. For now, for starters, he simply wanted to end the isolation that had become habitual with too many in the congregation. The isolation was letting their sense of charity toward others get withered, and that wasn't good.

  Also, he wanted very much to have the men build stronger, more romantic marriages, such as Catholics were supposed to have. Having children was one thing, and very good – but he could sense that some of the wives in his flock were desperate for a kind word or an unbegged compliment, or even just an everyday conversation. Some of them, he sensed, would always be shrews (like the poor, the whiny will always be with us, as the bishop liked to joke behind closed doors), but the others were merely frustrated. Merely frustrated? What a thought. What a horrible sentence for an innocent person, to be trapped in a marriage that had gone stale through neglect. The Bible spoke, again and again, place after place, of lively, poetic relations between man and wife. His men should aim for no less.

  The Song of Songs came to mind. It was, of course, to be read four ways. As an illustration of God's love for mankind. As a way of showing how beautiful a well-disposed soul was to God. As a way of explaining the depth and beauty of the relationship between heaven and earth. And, last but not least, as a prod to men to marry and then shower their wives with praise. Women could learn from it too, of course, but he'd been taught, and was quite sure from his own observation and reflection, that the book was aimed primarily at men. Most men, by their nature, generally had to be reminded to continue to praise and encourage a woman whose heart they had captured, or so it all too often seemed.

  Perhaps Philip, or Leandre (when he was back in town), would encourage men in that respect? Ah, that was a thought. Let the happiest married men encourage the other married men.

  And the men who ought to be married, but weren't yet? Surely they should be taken in hand and taught these sorts of things. But perhaps that would happen naturally? Once the men got into the habit of coming up here, that is?

  Father Jules bit back a smile. The second story room corresponding to this one had been available, but Philip had insisted on renting the upper floor, on the grounds that the stair climbing was the only sure exercise many of the men would get. "I tell you, Father," Philip had said, "What will make this plan work are
the stair climbing and the fact that each of them has a key to a room reserved only for men. Mark my words, the men of this parish will treasure those keys. It will be like being boys again, and having a tree house or a cave or an attic where no one else is allowed. Men should not be forced to outgrow their tree houses, I tell you. It is bad for them."

  Father Jules had smiled indulgently at Philip when he'd made this wild-sounding proclamation, but watching the men he wasn't so sure he should have smirked. Philip was handing out keys, and at least half the men were joyously finding secret hiding places to carry them. And, too, some of them were off to one side, earnestly discussing clubhouse rules they thought should be posted on the wall – basic boys-only tree house stuff if ever he saw it.

  He could just imagine what he'd tell the bishop when he went to see him in a week. "And what have you been doing with yourself lately, Jules?" the bishop would ask. "Anything new?"

  "Oh, nothing much. I have built the world's largest tree house and only let my male parishioners above a certain age through the door. That is all." Oh, that ought to fly well, he thought. But, then again, this was a bishop who had a soft spot in his heart for men's ministries, and a burning desire to see more Catholics leave behind the unchristian timidity that seemed to have overtaken so many men in the church.

  A lively discussion caught his attention. Aristide was explaining that he thought it would be wonderful to ride a bike around the room, and Brian was saying it was a crazy idea, and Aristide was countering that he knew it was crazy but that was one of the reasons he wanted to do it.

  Another conversation caught the priest's ear. Joseph was telling three others that his genius of an intellectual son had left behind a trampoline (not a big one, but a little one upon which a person jogged) when he moved to America, and his wife had tried to throw it away, considering it a hazard beyond words to ankles, but he had saved it from the dustbin and had it hidden away, and used it when she was out of the house, and he would bring it here, just as soon as she left to visit her sister, which was only in a week.

  Father Jules shook his head. There would be many moral issues that would have to be addressed, he supposed, while the men got used to their new freedom. But probably that was good.

  Philip came over and sat beside him. "We've created a few monsters, I think," he said amiably. "But I'm sure most of them will be better men in the long run, once they get over their giddiness and stop to think what they are saying and plotting, eh?"

  "We can only hope," Father Jules said.

  "Oh, now, we can provide good soil and a bit of proper weeding and watering, I think, if we want to do this man-gardening properly, eh?"

  "Is that how you see this project? As man gardening?"

  "It is one of the ways I see it. Now, if you will excuse me, Rainier is being an Extra Grace Required sort of person at every turn, the spoilsport, and Jean-Marc does not seem to have any extra grace on hand. I think I will go smooth a few feathers, or ruffle them, however the case calls for it."

  "You would have made a good priest."

  "Perish the thought. I wasn't half the man I am now until I married Hannah, for one thing. And for another I am patient only in spurts. And I laugh at the wrong things. And I'm an idiot surprisingly often. And-"

  "And Rainier, meanwhile, is pulling everyone down around him. I will take a turn at him, I think, if you'd like to rest a bit."