by J.F. Powers
This, coming from a priest, was pretty strong stuff.
The toastmaster called for order.
“Yes?” said Father Urban to an attractive red-haired woman who had her hand up. He was glad to move on to somebody else.
“But we may believe—and isn’t it better if we do?”
“Believe it’s going to rain because the Pope says so?” There was always a pious troublemaker or two in any audience, but they usually weren’t much to look at.
“Yes! Oh, the example you give is ridiculous, of course, but isn’t the Holy Father entitled to all the respect we can give him? As Christ’s vicar on earth?”
The question was tasteless and irrelevant, but Father Urban smiled. He doubted that anyone who meant well toward him and his predominantly non-Catholic audience would have asked such a question. He had no choice but to shoot the woman down. “As a Catholic—that is, as one who respects proper authority—I’m afraid I’d be more inclined to trust the weather bureau in such a matter.”
When Father Urban was able to continue, he was again speaking to the audience at large: “Differences of opinion can occur in any organization, human or divine, large or small—yes, even in the best-run families, between husbands and wives, so I’ve been told anyway.” Laughter. People who, perhaps, hadn’t entirely trusted the speaker until he dealt with the redhead, and then hadn’t been far from carrying him around the room on their shoulders, were now in a mood to get cozy with him. “Now don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that differences of opinion are a good thing in themselves, but I do think there’s a lot to be said for taking them for what they often are—healthy manifestations of the democratic process.” Clapping here and there, but Father Urban could tell it wasn’t going to catch on, and so, quickly, before this would be unnecessary, he raised his hand for silence. “Now that we’re on the subject, let me tell you of another difference of opinion in which I was involved recently. For many years, I traveled out of Chicago, but now, as some of you may know, I’m stationed right here in Minnesota—and very happy to be here, let me say. Where I am was known, until recently, as the Retreat House of the Order of St Clement. Quite a mouthful, you say, and I agree. There are just four of us there, three priests and a brother, and we got to wondering if we couldn’t find another name for the place (which, by the way, I hope you’ll all find time to visit—Catholic or not, it makes no difference to us. Just stop in and say hello). Well, one of our men (the one in charge, as it happened) was all for calling the place Mount St Clement, whereas I was more for St Clement’s Hill, and so we called it that.” Here Father Urban did a doubletake. “Say, I wonder how that happened!” he cried, and drew another fine laugh, and that was it. Waving, and saying, “Good night! Good night!” he sat down—certain that he’d repaired a good part of the damage done by Wilf and the crusade, and also that he’d put the Hill on the map for a lot of people who really mattered in the community. The audience gave him a wonderful hand, almost a standing ovation.
A number of couples came up to him afterward and thanked him for coming, one woman asking if there was any way of obtaining a copy of his talk, and one man saying that, though he was not a Catholic himself, he had always regarded Catholicism as one of the world’s top religions and had never felt closer to it than he had that evening. The toastmaster (not a Catholic himself) expressed regret that Father Urban had been questioned so closely along certain lines. “Not a-tall, not a-tall,” said Father Urban, and accepted an invitation to have a nightcap with the toastmaster and his wife at their home.
Others followed them there. Unfortunately, a couple of ulcer cases, under the spell of Father Urban’s company, seemed to be forgetting themselves. After one drink, Father Urban stood up, saying, “I don’t want you, and your better halves, blaming me for your downfall. Besides, I have to get up in the morning.”
In the car, on the way back to the Hill, Father Urban spoke to the toastmaster, and to one of the ulcer cases who’d come along for the ride, of the great work the Order was doing all over the world, particularly in the Chicago province, and made it sound important and exciting even to himself. The toastmaster, whose name was George, was reluctant to say good night. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we are pretty busy right now,” said Father Urban, but promised to have dinner with both men, separately or together, at his earliest opportunity.
Wilf was still up—up in the Rec Room, admiring it in the large mirror which now hung on one wall and added another dimension to the room, in Wilf’s opinion, but which, in Father Urban’s opinion, only added insult to injury.
“How’d it go?”
“Oh, all right, I guess. By the way, they tried to give me something, but I gave it back to them.”
“How much?”
“I couldn’t say. It was in an envelope, and I just handed it back. ‘Merry Christmas from the Order,’ I said.”
“Probably wasn’t a whole lot anyway.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Father Urban, and wasn’t a bit annoyed with Wilf, for a change. A few hours away from Wilf and the Hill—a few hours spent with real people, in real places—had given him a lift.
Father Urban’s appearance before the Commercial Club made the front page of the Great Plains Record, a paper Wilf read. It was clear from the account that the speaker had been badgered about the crusade—that it had not figured in his talk—and yet Wilf, who was interested in making the Hill better known, and might have thanked Father Urban for doing so, said not a word. A few days later, the Farmer came out with a rather garbled version of the Record’s story (the mute tumbler was described as a Clementine “fryer”), and still there was nothing from Wilf, no commendation, no comment.
Father Urban clipped both accounts and sent them to Billy Cosgrove—just for laughs, he said in his covering letter, although in truth he was rather pleased with his remarks and believed that Billy would be. “Clippings enjoyed here,” Billy responded at once, by card, which was the first communication Father Urban had received from him since arriving at the Hill. “And re your transfer, I’ll say that’s one hell of a way to run a railroad.”
Right as Billy was, Father Urban didn’t want the exchange to end on that note, and shot off a card: “St Paul tells us, ‘We know that to them that love God all things work together unto good.’ Just—Fr Urban.”
A couple of nights before Christmas, after the evening meal, Father Urban was the first one back in the refectory. Brother Harold was in the kitchen, Wilf was in the office, and Jack was in the chapel. Father Urban turned on the tree (which Wilf, doubtless, had been the one to turn off a few minutes earlier) and plugged in the nativity crib. Slowly, around and around the Holy Family, the oxen, sheep, and shepherds filed by, disappearing and reappearing in the wings, and out front the Three Kings bowed down, straightened up, and bowed down again. The crib had arrived that morning, a gift from Billy. There were many presents under the tree, most of them for Father Urban, and forwarded to him from the Novitiate where he usually spent the holidays, for few of his admirers knew of his new assignment. He hadn’t mentioned it on his Christmas cards (which, it would seem he’d mailed from some stopping-off place, as in other years). He might be back on the road where he belonged in another year, back at the Novitiate again, distributing the loot to those who otherwise got nothing at all for Christmas. This would be a bad year for some of the old men at the Novitiate. This year Jack, Wilf, and Brother Harold would all be wearing, eating, smoking, or otherwise using the stuff in the months ahead. Father Urban was grateful for whatever came his way, of course (one year he’d got seven electric razors), but when he thought of Billy he couldn’t help thinking that what might have been a mighty river flowing to the whole Order’s benefit had, through Father Boniface’s folly, been reduced to a trickle. A wicker hamper of food and liquor, and a nativity crib. Maybe the crib was a little like ducks in a shooting gallery, as Jack had said when he saw it work, but Father Urban rather liked it, and would say so. “Dear Billy . . .”
“Balsam,” said Wilf, entering the refectory. “You wouldn’t get that nice clean smell with spruce.”
“That’s right,” said Father Urban. He’d been lucky in the woods, it seemed, for he hadn’t known balsam from spruce. That morning, when Wilf had got out the little plastic tree he’d used the year before, Father Urban, saying nothing and acting on the old seminary principle of don’t-ask-if-you-can’t-take-no-for-an-answer, had gone for the ax. He’d returned from the woods with a seven-footer. “Hey, what is this?” Wilf had admitted, though, that the real tree made the plastic one look sick, had put it away, and surrendered the single cord of lights to Father Urban. Wilf had come off pretty well in the incident, showing that he—at least when he had no choice—could appreciate a right action.
“Cigar, Urban?”
“I’ve got one here somewhere.” Under the tree there was a box of cigars for Wilf—not what Father Urban would choose for himself but several cuts above what Wilf ordinarily smoked, and was now in the act of touching off.
“By rights, it should be in the chapel,” Wilf said, watching the crib. “It and the tree.”
Father Urban said nothing. He wanted the crib and tree to be where they could be enjoyed in comfort, and he believed that Wilf did, too, and would resolve his scruples without any help.
“One tree, though, wouldn’t be enough in the chapel.”
This would have been Father Urban’s first argument.
“Of course, if we had retreatants here now it would be different. We’d have to do something then.”
Retreatants at Christmastime? The trees were safe in the woods, and Wilf knew it.
“Little chilly in the chapel,” Wilf said, going over to his rocker. “I guess the good Lord will understand.”
Jack, looking as though he’d been outdoors, came in from the chapel and stood by the tree, rubbing his hands.
“All right,” said Father Urban, knowing what was expected of him.
Jack pulled the card table away from the wall, and Father Urban brought up two folding chairs, and thus began another evening of checkers.
On the first night, Wilf and Jack had played, but Wilf had lost every game and hadn’t played since. Perhaps he thought it looked bad for him to lose. If he spent the evening in the refectory, he just sat in his rocker and read the papers. If Father Urban offered him his place at the table, he said, “Thanks, but I have some office to say,” and then he’d continue with the papers. Why should it always be Father Urban and Jack? Why couldn’t Wilf share the burden? Why couldn’t Brother Harold? Even if Father Urban hadn’t discovered anything better to do with himself in the evening, he could get tired of checkers, couldn’t he? He didn’t like the game, and he wasn’t much good at it—although this was maybe the fault of the game. He wondered if its complexity might not be an illusion, if, in fact, there was much more to checkers than there was to ticktacktoe. The man who made the first move won the game, and the man who won got to make the first move in the next game. That might be all there was to checkers—that, and not making any mistakes. Jack made very few.
“Hey, take it easy!” said Father Urban when Jack’s right leg, which had a tendency to vibrate during play, suddenly shot out of control, jarring the table.
“Sorry,” Jack said. Now, though, he was on the move—inching forward on his chair, advancing behind his checkers on the board. Suddenly his respiration dropped to normal, and he sat back.
Usually, when Jack did this, it meant that the turning point in the battle had passed. But had it? Father Urban made one of his unorthodox moves, after which it became clear to him that the decisive action had taken place in another sector. They played out the game, though, and once more Father Urban lost—gracefully, as Wilf hadn’t. Why not? It was just a game, wasn’t it? And what else was Jack good at? It came down to checkers for him. Poor Jack. Of course, his spiritual life was good.
Jack set up the board for another. “What do you know about chess?” he asked.
“I doubt that you’d be so good at chess,” said Father Urban, thinking he’d probably be better at that. “I’ve never played it, though.”
“Chess is a very ancient game,” Wilf informed them from his rocker.
Father Urban glanced over in Wilf’s direction and sniffed. The pity was that a remark like that was actually meant to be instructive. It showed what Wilf thought of them.
“I’ve never played it either,” Jack said to Father Urban. “But I’m surprised you haven’t.”
“No, I never have—and I don’t intend to,” said Father Urban, just in case.
“Well, we don’t have a board,” Jack said, as if to reassure him. Jack seemed to know that he was regarded as a nuisance when it came to checkers, and obviously didn’t wish to be, but he couldn’t help it. He loved the game.
From the other side of the newspaper, Wilf said, “Your board’s the same, but your counters are different.”
“Is that so?” said Father Urban.
“Altogether different. It’s a different game.”
That was exactly the kind of thing that made Father Urban gnash his teeth. “I’d say the principle’s the same,” he said.
After a slight delay, Wilf’s reply was transmitted over the paper wall: “I’d say the principle’s the same in all games.”
Father Urban couldn’t think of a single exception, try as he might. He moved one of his red checkers and turned toward Wilf—but still couldn’t think of anything to say. On the back page of the paper Wilf was reading, there was a very nice picture of Santa Claus—season’s greeting from the friendly merchants of Minneapolis. This was the paper that had published a story about the crusade (“PRIEST RAPS SANTA”), and had then printed a letter from the former who, not content with one helping of bad publicity, said that he was far from wishing any person ill, even a mythical person, but believed that constructive criticism was always in good season, and therefore respectfully suggested that merchants in future concentrate their efforts on St Nicholas’s Day, which fell early in December and was a day long associated with giving in the old world, so that Christmas, the true meaning of Christmas . . . blah, blah, blah. If the metropolitan press was really interested in what people were doing and thinking throughout the state, why hadn’t it picked up Father Urban’s remarks before the Commercial Club?
Brother Harold entered the refectory, his kitchen chores completed.
“Maybe Brother would like to take my place,” said Father Urban.
“No, Brother’s got his work to do,” said Wilf.
“I thought so,” said Father Urban. It was getting pretty bad when it was generally assumed that he, unlike Wilf and Brother Harold, had nothing better to do with his time than play checkers. He watched Brother Harold go to the long table where he was now working on a commission from Rudy, Wilf’s brother, turning out signs that read “Rudy sez 98¢” and “Rudy sez $1.98” and so on. Some of the signs had ears of corn and straw hats drawn on them. The idea in all this was that Rudy was a country-storekeeper type, which, to Wilf’s chagrin, Father Urban had professed to believe was the truth. (“What’s the matter—can’t your brother spell?”—“Oh, that’s just a merchandising stunt.”)
“If you’d rather not play any more,” Jack said, after he’d set up the board for another.
“Not a-tall. I just thought I’d give somebody else a chance. Go ahead.”
“You go first.”
“Why should I go first? You won. The one who wins goes first. Come on. Let’s play the game,” said Father Urban. It was getting pretty bad when Jack could condescend to him. Father Urban wished it were possible to spend the evenings in his room, but the only way to keep warm there was to go to bed, and he didn’t want to get into the habit of retiring at 7 P.M. He could so accustom his mind and body to sleep at that early hour that he’d never be much good after supper, which could be a serious handicap if he ever returned to the world.
“Oh my,” Jack said, clutching his head, after making the first move. “Y
ou had a phone call this afternoon, Father,” he said to Wilf. “While you and Brother were in town. Long distance.”
Wilf let down the wall. “Reporter?”
“I meant to tell you, and then I guess I forgot.”
“Say he’d call again?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“And probably won’t now. Probably had to make his deadline.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Wilf said, and didn’t seem so disappointed.
Father Urban wondered if his remarks before the Commercial Club could have straightened out Wilf’s thinking on the subject of the crusade. Charity toward all, even when a few sharks get in among the swimmers, is always better than holier-than-thou singularity. That, roughly speaking, was the mind of the Church.
“I told the operator you weren’t here,” Jack said. “But then this fella told her he’d talk to anybody.”
“Sounds like the old deadline to me,” Wilf said, behind the wall. “News roundup.”
“I didn’t know what to say,” Jack said. “I realize now it was a waste of money, but he said he’d talk to anybody here, and I didn’t have anything to say.”
Wilf let down the wall. “I hope he didn’t take it amiss.”
“He didn’t seem to. No.”
“Let’s hope not,” Wilf said, and raised the wall again. “You never know when we’ll need the press.”
Father Urban stirred. “In my opinion,” he said, for he felt that Wilf was leaving the impression that if Jack had made a statement it would have been in support of the crusade, “you did the right thing, Jack. You had nothing to say, and you said nothing. You can do a lot worse than that.”
