by J.F. Powers
They looked into the little room next door to Father Urban’s. It was empty except for a rocking chair and a smoking stand and had a stairway leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. “No heat or electricity in here,” Wilf said, “but when the weather warms up this could become your study, if you like.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so,” said Father Urban.
“That could easily be changed,” Wilf said, referring to the sign on the door, a sign saying TO ATTIC.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I’ll ask Father John then,” Wilf said. “Well, no need to show you the rooms on the north side of the house. They’re not being heated at present.”
So, going down by the front stairway, a rather grand old affair that had stood the years very well, they returned to the first floor. They were still wearing their overcoats, and Father Urban was none too warm in his. “You must save a lot on heat,” he said.
3. ANON
IN THE EVENING, they drove to town. No one was in attendance at the station, not even the dog. Father Urban strolled in, picked up his bag, and strolled out. What if he’d been a thief?
When the train came, Jack wasn’t on it. “He got a ride,” Wilf said. “We’ll go back to the house, and he’ll be there.” Jack wasn’t there, though. “He’ll be here any minute,” Wilf said and got ready for the powwow he’d mentioned earlier.
Father Urban looked through some issues of Life, while Brother Harold, at the long table, worked at his show-card lettering, and Wilf, after putting pencils and scratch pads around at the other table, stared out at the night, fooled with the radio, which had a bad hum, and rocked himself.
About nine o’clock, Wilf left the room, saying, “Have to call him, I guess. Maybe he’s taken ill.” When Wilf re-turned, however, it seemed that he’d only inquired about the long-distance rates. These he discussed at great length with Brother Harold. Whether to call station-to-station or person-to-person—that was the question. There was a difference of thirty cents, which wasn’t much, but why throw it away? Since Father Urban wasn’t asked for an opinion, he said nothing and read on. (Life seemed to feel that money should be no object when it came to national defense.) In the end, Brother Harold more or less prevailed, and Wilf went off again. He returned, however, saying, “Good thing I didn’t call person-to-person. He answered the phone himself.” The pastor for whom Jack was filling in had been delayed, but Jack would be back on the following evening. “So I guess we’ll have to postpone it until then,” Wilf said, removing the pencils and scratch pads from the round table.
Father Urban wasn’t sorry about the postponement, and not only because he wasn’t anxious to see Jack. No, he had seen and heard enough of Wilf for one day.
Except for Brother Harold’s cooking—the fat young man had performed miracles with the big fish, serving it first baked, and then again, in the evening, as a chowder—the picture looked pretty dark at Duesterhaus. After lunch, they had visited the red-brick building. Minor, as Wilf called it, hadn’t been used because the number of retreatants in residence at one time had never exceeded the accommodations in Major—the old mansion. Major was being occupied by the staff because Minor could better stand to be left unheated in the winter. Major, left unheated, would go completely to pieces, Wilf said. This struck Father Urban as a typically Clementine arrangement, eating the stale bread because the fresh would keep. It hurt him to see Minor sitting there cold and empty, with its screens rusting away in the windows, bird nests in its gutters, with a layer of grit everywhere inside, and the toilet bowls dry, each with its rust-line. “Lots of iron in the water.” This didn’t explain why the bowls hadn’t been scoured, though. Everywhere it was the same story. The dock was buckled up in the lake, and the boat, an old flat-bottomed scow shaped like a coffin, was also in the grip of ice. “Winter snuck up on us.” Of the summerhouse, though the screens were gone in places as big as your hand, Wilf said: “Here’s the spot to read your office in the summertime, away from the mosquitoes.” Asked about the mosquitoes, whether they were very bad, he said: “It all depends.” There was a hole in the root-cellar door: “See what the gophers did.” A birdhouse and a long pole had parted company: “See what the wind did.” And when a black dog, the property of a neighboring farmer, came bounding up to Wilf, he thumped its head and said, “If this dog ever has pups, I mean to have one,” to which Father Urban dryly replied, “You may have to wait a long time,” for it was obviously a male dog. “Well, you know what I mean,” Wilf said—and coming from him just then, after all Father Urban had seen and heard, these were mighty reassuring words. They were standing on the front porch of the house, the tour having ended, when a flight of geese rowed by, high in the sky. “Canadian honkers!” Wilf cried. “Hello! Good-bye! See how they follow the leader!” And this, when Father Urban thought about it, as he did that night in bed, was the most disturbing thing Wilf had said all day.
Father Urban spent the next morning in his room, reading his office, cutting his fingernails, gazing out the window at the frozen lake, and listening to the small life around him: Brother Harold singing and running water in the kitchen, Wilf singing and typing in the office, and, close by, in the wall, what sounded like a mouse bowling acorns. During the night, heavier game had passed that way.
“How’s it going?” Wilf said at lunch.
“All right, I guess.”
“You’ll soon get into the swing of things.”
After lunch (fish patties), Father Urban returned to his room, but the sun, which had warmed it in the morning, had gone. Soon he was cold. He found that he could get his hands up his sleeves—what he needed was a muff—but that he couldn’t do as much for his feet. Presently he removed his shoes and got into bed.
Later that afternoon, he pulled himself together and took a walk around the grounds, keeping an eye out for wildlife (and seeing none), and trying to get interested in the trees, which were numerous. They could be broken down into three main groups, red oaks, evergreens, and trees. Here his investigation ended, on account of the cold. He visited the chapel, but didn’t stay long on account of the cold and Wilf (who was there reading his office and wearing his devil’s-food coat). Then he went to the refectory, where it was warm, and looked at Life for a while. (Life seemed to feel that money was no object when it came to national defense.) When he heard Wilf approaching the refectory, he retired to his room. Presently he was in bed again, this time between two blankets, with his shoes on. He had his rosary with him, and began the Glorious Mysteries, but somewhere along the line he forgot what he was doing, and just lay there, watching it get dark in his room.
That evening he came to the table sneezing.
“Oh, oh, I was afraid of that,” Wilf said. “And I’ll bet you’re not wearing long underwear.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“I knew it. I was the same way once.” Wilf said that he’d got over his pride, or whatever it was that kept people from wearing long underwear, and so had Brother Harold. “I’ll bet you wore it when you were a kid.”
Father Urban granted that he had.
“Well, there you are. You’d be surprised how many people wear long underwear, and not just old people, and not just farmers around here. What would you say if I told you lots of people in Chicago and New York, quite young people, wear long underwear?”
“You may be right.”
“That’s what I mean. Who’s to know?”
Father Urban had run across dedicated wearers of long underwear before. They were very sensitive people who were best humored in their cause, but this wasn’t easy to do without seeming to give in to them and it.
Wilf glanced toward the kitchen where Brother Harold, preparing dessert, was using an electric mixer, and said, “I wonder if we couldn’t fix you up with a set between us.”
Father Urban shook his head. “Maybe I’ll get some of my own.”
“If you do—and I really think you should—take my advice and get the two-p
iece kind. Then, when the weather warms up, you can shed the top or bottom, as you see fit. That’s what I do.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Father Urban, and there they left it. No, they didn’t.
“And you’d better get some before that cold gets any worse,” Wilf said when Brother Harold brought in the dessert. They’d dined on baked fish—another one, though, the beginning of another cycle—and Father Urban had left some on his plate, which did not escape Wilf’s eye. “Now you take your Eskimos. They never catch cold, you’ll notice”—as if you could see them right out the window—“and I’ll tell you why. They can’t afford to. Even the dumbest Eskimo knows he’s got to take care of himself. So what does he do? He eats plenty of fish.”
When it was time to drive to the station, Wilf came into the refectory wearing his fur hat and devil’s-food coat. “How you feelin’ now?” Perhaps five minutes had elapsed since he’d asked about Father Urban’s health.
“Better.”
“Good. I don’t want to postpone it again.”
“Be sure and give Jack my regards,” said Father Urban.
Wilf had advised him to give up any notion he might have of going to the station, and Father Urban had done so—willingly. He didn’t want Jack to assume, as he naturally would if he saw him at the station, that he had responded to the invitation extended to him in the Pump Room, and was only visiting. Oh, much better that Jack get it all straight from the outset, from Wilf.
When the pickup truck, one bright headlight, one dim, turned into the driveway, Father Urban moved away from the window, sat down, and took up a copy of Life. He was studying it when Wilf and Jack entered the refectory. “Oh,” he said, rising. “Glad to see you.”
“Glad to see you,” said Jack.
They shook hands, and then Jack removed his glasses, which had misted over in the warm refectory, and got out his handkerchief. “Cold,” he said.
And thus passed the dreaded moment of meeting, with Jack polishing his glasses, and Father Urban feeling grateful to him for saying nothing about the matter that must have been uppermost in his mind.
And if this wasn’t the case, if Jack wasn’t trying to make it easy on him, but was having trouble finding the right words, he would have to wait until later, for the pencils and scratchpads were out now, and Wilf and Brother Harold were taking their places at the round table. Father Urban and Jack joined them.
POWWOW
Present were the Rev. Fathers Wilfrid (Bestudik), John (Kelleher), and Urban (Roche), with Brother Harold (Peters) recording.
The Rector, after calling upon Father John for an invocation, which was offered, stated that he would deal with the past, present, and future, but before doing so he said he thought those present should join together and give the foundation a name that would be in keeping with its present purpose and would identify it in the minds of others. “The Order of St Clement” as a name hadn’t caught on. People in the area were still referring to the place by other names.
RECTOR: Now I was thinking of Mount St Clement. Or St Clement’s Hill, if you like. There aren’t too many possibilities, actually. At least I haven’t thought of many. Of course, if any of you here can come up with something better, fine.
FR JOHN: I can’t.
RECTOR: I’ve given the matter quite a lot of thought, and I don’t believe we can do much better than Mount St Clement.
FR URBAN: I haven’t given the matter any thought at all, but St Clement’s Hill strikes me as better than Mount St Clement—if only because what we have here is only a hill.
RECTOR: I realize that, of course, but liberties are frequently taken in things like this. I could give you several examples. However, I don’t think it makes too much difference.
FR URBAN: In my opinion, we’d do well to call a hill a hill here.
RECTOR: Good enough. St Clement’s Hill then—unless, of course, Chicago takes exception.
FR JOHN: Yes.
The Rector said that St Clement’s Hill had been the residence of a rich man, a public institution, and a sanitarium before passing into the hands of the Order. Perhaps it should be mentioned that the grounds had been the scene of a domestic tragedy years ago, the original owner and his wife and another having died by violent means. The son of the original owner had married a Catholic, and she, now a widow and a woman of advanced age, had regained possession of the property and had presented it to the Order. Under the terms of the deed, she and her deceased husband were commemorated daily at the Rector’s Mass. The Rector, shortly after he arrived at St Clement’s Hill, had gone to see her, to pay his respects. He had found her not easy to talk to. In fact, she had the television going all the time he was there. He hadn’t been sure that she understood who he was.
FR URBAN: When was this?
RECTOR: About a year ago.
FR URBAN: And you haven’t been back to see her?
RECTOR: No.
FR URBAN: Bum’s rush?
RECTOR: No, but she didn’t ask me to come back, and didn’t pay much attention to me while I was there. She’s an old woman.
FR URBAN: Any idea why she should wish this place off on us?
RECTOR: I wouldn’t say that. I daresay there are plenty of other orders that would be glad to have it.
FR URBAN: Who closed the deal?
RECTOR: Chicago. She wrote to us.
FR URBAN: But somebody must have looked at it first.
RECTOR: Father Provincial made a special trip up here.
FR URBAN: I see. What’s the old woman’s name?
RECTOR: Thwaites. Mrs Andrew Thwaites.
FR URBAN: I take it she lives near by?
RECTOR: Lake Lucille. That’s near Great Plains.
FR URBAN: That a town—Lake Lucille?
RECTOR: No, just a lake—a very nice lake. She has a house there, a big place, more room than she needs.
FR URBAN: Any surviving heirs?
RECTOR: Yes, but they don’t live with her.
FR URBAN: And you don’t feel that Mrs Thwaites is interested in doing any more for us here?
RECTOR: No, I don’t—but of course we can’t complain. Now then.
St Clement’s Hill had presented numerous problems at first, and still did. The Rector had arrived on the scene about a year ago—one year ago yesterday, to be precise. In the meantime, many of the problems either had been or were being solved. For example, there had been no means of transportation in the beginning, but this problem had been solved—not to everyone’s satisfaction, perhaps—but in the best possible way. Many of the achievements of the past year could be seen. There were others, though, that could not be seen. For example, it had been necessary to sink a deeper well, an operation requiring skilled professional labor and therefore a costly one. It had been money well spent, however, since there was now a plentiful supply of water. For drinking purposes, the water was excellent. Visitors praised it.
RECTOR: In my opinion, our water is something that could be—well, talked up.
FR URBAN: You don’t mean it’s therapeutic, do you?
RECTOR: For all I know it is. But I was talking about the way it tastes. Our water tastes good.
FR URBAN: Has it been tested for purity?
RECTOR: Yes, and it’s right up there. The iron content is very low—for this part of the country. The main thing, though, is that it tastes so good. I don’t know but what I prefer it to the water at the Novitiate. But be that as it may.
Sewage disposal could become troublesome in the future, and a new system would be expensive unless they did the work themselves. The digging they could do, but the rest of it—laying out a drainage field and putting down pipes—this, if not done by professionals, had to be carried out under expert supervision, since there was always the danger of polluting the fresh water supply. Unfortunately, such co-operative arrangements weren’t always too successful.
FR URBAN: No?
RECTOR: No. Brother Harold and I did a little work in Parlor B while Parlor A was bei
ng papered. After the men went home at night, we used their steamer—I don’t know whether you’ve ever seen one or not. Steams the old paper right off the wall. Really does the job. We were just trying to help. The men didn’t like it. Something about the union. As a result, I changed my mind about letting them finish Parlor B. I’m afraid they didn’t take it very well.
FR JOHN: Too bad.
RECTOR: Yes, but it couldn’t be helped.
FR URBAN: Assuming you had an estimate beforehand, as I imagine you did, what was your reason for trying to help? You weren’t paying them by the hour, were you?
RECTOR: No, but I had an estimate in round numbers, and I was trying to keep the cost down to the minimum. In fact, I was hoping to bring it down below that. I thought I was dealing with a Catholic concern.
FR URBAN: Sometimes that can be a mistake.
Perhaps the walls of Parlor B, now stripped of paper, should just be painted. Wallpapering was a tricky business, especially in an old house with high ceilings. The plan was to paint the walls of the Recreation Room, for which new furniture had already been purchased, and pictures of past Provincials would be hung there, as was the custom.
FR URBAN: In seminaries. As I understand it, this is to be a room for retreatants—for laymen—and I think they should be given every consideration.
RECTOR: I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Thank you, Father.
There wasn’t much wrong with the new building (Minor) that a little elbow grease wouldn’t put right when the time came, but the old house (Major) was in some need of repairs and alterations. Something would have to be done about a sacristy for the chapel. Just to erect a plywood cubicle, such as had been done for a confessional, was not the answer. Otherwise, though, the chapel facilities were adequate. If, in the future, it became necessary to heat the house throughout (not all rooms were being heated at the moment), insulation should be installed in the attic. The walls were insulated with sawdust, an acceptable material even by modern standards. Sawdust when wet, however, was worse than no insulation at all, and the roof leaked slightly in the northwest corner, which, unfortunately, caught the prevailing winter winds. Major could badly use a “pointing” job, but this, in itself a large and costly undertaking, would mean doing away with the vines, and this might lead to serious trouble. Therefore, at least for the time being, the Rector was in favor of leaving well enough alone. If this, perhaps, sounded strange to some of those present, he asked them to remember that he had to consider not merely what was desirable but what was desirable and possible. Somewhere the Rector had seen politics defined as the art of the possible. This, it seemed to him, might also be said to define the art of administration. Not that the Rector regarded himself as a great administrator. To this day, he didn’t know why he had been placed in his present position. It had come as a very great surprise to him at the time.
