Morte D'Urban

by J.F. Powers

  There wasn’t a peep from Wilf.

  “Take your time,” Father Urban said to Jack.

  While Jack was meditating his next move, Father Urban got up and went over to the crib. He squatted down. He peered inside the stable, which was dimly lit by a blue bulb—and yes, something was wrong. Not what he’d expected, though. Vibrations hadn’t eased the bambino out of bed. The child wasn’t there.

  Father Urban, hearing the newspaper crackle, sensed that he was under observation and stood up, saying, “If this is somebody’s idea of a joke . . .”

  Jack and Brother Harold gave Father Urban their attention.

  Wilf, significantly, hid behind the paper.

  “I don’t think it’s very funny,” Father Urban said and told Jack that the bambino was missing. “No, it’s not there.”

  But Jack had to see for himself. He got down on all fours and started to feel around inside the stable.

  “Look out!” cried Father Urban, as the shepherd with the crook drew nigh to Jack’s hand. “You can see it’s not there—and I want to know why.”

  Brother Harold bent to his work. Wilf rattled his paper, taking a fresh grip on it, and settled deeper in his chair. Then he dispatched a message over the wall:

  “He’s not born yet.”

  Father Urban had anticipated something of the sort and was not amused. Nor, apparently, was Jack. He rose from the floor, slowly until he reached a certain point, then reared up like a horse to more than his full height, and settled down to it painfully. He returned to his chair. He looked worried, as well he might, for he hated trouble.

  Father Urban stood his ground, by the tree—his tree, you might say. “All right, Father,” he said, his tone threatening, the undisguised, true voice of his feelings—in this matter, and others.

  Wilf was silent and invisible.

  Father Urban wavered. Should he go back to the game, and say nothing? Or say nothing, and go off to bed? Or make a stand? It’s my crib, he could say. He didn’t care for the sound of it. He glanced at Jack, who was staring down at the checkers. Why didn’t Jack say something? Jack was chicken. And Brother Harold was on Wilf’s side—my boss, may he always be in the right, but, right or wrong, my boss.

  Father Urban went over and sat down. He knew what he had to do—nothing. He had Wilf where he wanted him. As long as the situation remained unchanged, each passing moment would redound to one man’s credit and to the other’s shame. It was Wilf’s move.

  It was Father Urban’s move in the other game—the one he was playing with Jack—and he made it: a bad one. Jack, of course, showed him no mercy. Father Urban sniffed. It occurred to him that Jack would have been an entirely different sort of person if he’d handled himself as he did his checkers. Jack could have been a big success in life—and not a very nice person to know. He certainly got back at the world in checkers.

  Something was coming over the wall: “Hospital nun I knew in Omaha, she used to take all the baby Jesuses out of the cribs. Every floor had its own tree and crib. She put ’em all back on Christmas morning.”

  Not good enough, Wilf. They wouldn’t be there on Christmas morning. They’d be out in parishes. Brother Harold could put the bambino back on Christmas morning, but it wouldn’t be the same thing, and Wilf knew it. Father Urban held to his strategy of silence.

  More was coming over the wall: “Thanks to one little nun, everybody’s attention was focused on the true meaning of the time before Christmas—on the idea of waiting.”

  Nobody else said anything. Jack, though he appeared apprehensive, was winning another game, and Brother Harold was puddling away at his work—to look at him, you’d think nothing was wrong—and Father Urban was waiting.

  “It’s still Advent,” Wilf murmured, turning a page.

  Father Urban sensed that Wilf had stolen a look at him.

  Jack cleared his throat. “I see what you mean, Father,” he said, and cleared his throat again. “But I’ve been wondering if the shepherds should be present yet. Or even Mary and Joseph —in the attitudes we see them in, I mean. And the Magi. The animals, yes, but not running around in circles.” Thus spoke Jack to Wilf, who had let down the wall and now sat with it crushed in his lap, and for some moments thereafter both men were silent, each staring into space—while Father Urban asked himself what he was doing there. Why had he been cast into outer darkness, thrown among fools and failures? What star had led him to this?

  “I don’t know that I ever thought of it like that,” Wilf said at last, in a groping voice. “He’s right, you know”—this to Father Urban who had taken no position in the matter, and took none now, but was determined to stop Wilf if, on the authority of Jack’s doctrine, it was now his intention to leave only the animals, and to immobilize them.

  Wilf went over to the tree, knelt, and disconnected the crib, stopping the animals and shepherds in their tracks. But then, to Father Urban’s surprise, Wilf reached up into the branches of the tree and brought out the bambino and put it back where it belonged—and thus, though it might seem all was well now, they arrived at the moment Father Urban had been waiting for. He let it pass, however.

  “Thanks,” he’d been going to say at that moment. “Thanks,” as he might have said it, would have been quite enough for him. But he had denied himself that pleasure, and if Wilf would just leave it at that, so would he. Wasn’t this the true meaning of Christmas? Joy to the world and peace to men of good will. It was hard, though—oh, very hard—to see someone having it both ways.

  Wilf, having plugged in the crib, returned to his rocker. He picked up the paper, and then, boldly meeting Father Urban’s gaze, he said: “Just shows how wrong we can be sometimes.”

  We! As if Father Urban had been wrong about anything! He glared at Jack, and stared him down, his eyes following Jack’s down to the checkerboard—where he saw a surprising opportunity. He was not forgetting Wilf, but he would deal with Jack first. With his only king, Father Urban jumped this way and that, taking a dreadful toll of Jack’s black men.

  “Why didn’t I see that?” said Jack. Something in his tone, and, on second thought, the easiness of the conquest on the board, suggested to Father Urban that Jack had indeed seen it, had planned it, had offered himself and his black men for sacrifice. Thereupon, though he didn’t like what Jack had done, the desire to deal with Wilf died in Father Urban. In a way, he was sorry.

  Father Urban, and perhaps Wilf and Brother Harold, too, sensed the rare peace now reigning among them, but Jack rejoiced in it visibly. Still, a moment later, it was Jack who broke the spell. “You know, Urban, I don’t feel right about those animals,” he said—not, Father Urban knew, to be critical but just to be saying something. For a moment, they had all been lifted up, and this was Jack’s way of letting them down lightly to earth, where they had to live. “I’ve always understood that what heat there was at Bethlehem came from the animals. By rights, they should be closer to the Holy Family. Of course, I realize that’s not possible in this case.”

  Father Urban looked over at the tree, at the hamper of food and liquor there. “Let’s open one of Billy’s bottles,” he said.

  6. SAILING AGAINST THE WIND

  EARLY IN THE afternoon on Christmas, after a good meal with Phil Smith, pastor of St Monica’s, Great Plains, Father Urban got on the train for Duesterhaus, tired. There had been a midnight Mass at St Monica’s, followed by a series of nightcaps with Phil, so that it was two-thirty before they turned in. Father Urban had risen early, had preached at all Masses, and preached well, but now he was paying. The coach was overheated, as usual, and probably the heavy meal, too, was having a bad effect on him. He would have liked some privacy, but he went to a double seat at the end of the coach because Wilf and Jack would be getting on at Olympe and wouldn’t understand if he sat apart from them. He had something to discuss with Wilf, too. After showing the conductor his pass, he must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew Wilf and Jack were sitting across from him and the conductor was l
eaving—having, it seemed, given Wilf a receipt for Jack’s fare.

  Jack was in trouble. He had lost his wallet. Or at least his wallet—containing miscellaneous slips of paper (nothing, though, that would enable the finder to return the wallet to its owner), money (about $1.25, Jack thought), and one of the two Minnesota Central passes—was missing. Two wallets, in fact, were missing, for Father Chmielewski, the pastor where Jack helped out, had presented him with a new one for Christmas. “I was sorry I didn’t have anything for him.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Wilf. When was the last time Jack had seen his wallet?

  The new wallet Jack had seen the evening before, just as they were sitting down to eat, which was when Father Chmielewski had given it to him. Jack had put it in his left back pocket, he remembered, to distribute the weight, since he kept his old wallet in his right back pocket. Had Jack transferred the contents of the old wallet to the new one? No, he hadn’t. Then he couldn’t say that the old wallet had been in his possession at that time? No, as a matter of fact, he couldn’t. He could only assume that it was in its usual place. When was the last time Jack had seen his old wallet? Think. The last time Jack had seen his old wallet? Yesterday—yesterday on the train going to Olympe, if memory served him right. Think. Well, Jack hadn’t intended to mention this, but, well, there had been a little accident at the table the evening before. A cup of coffee had gone into his lap, not very hot coffee, fortunately, but enough (since it had cream in it) to necessitate a change of pants, these kindly lent him by Father Chmielewski, not a bad person, really, when you got to know him. Yes, yes. Had Jack seen his old wallet at that time? He had not. No? No. Father Chmielewski had turned Jack’s pants over to the housekeeper, a fine woman, and she had brought them back later that evening. Now had Jack seen his wallet—his old wallet—at that time? No, he hadn’t. He hadn’t seen either wallet at that time. Had he looked? No, he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? He hadn’t thought to look, and even if he had, he would not have looked. The housekeeper was a very fine woman.

  “The chances are she took the wallets out when she cleaned his pants,” Father Urban said to Wilf.

  “I just can’t believe they’re lost,” Jack said.

  “We don’t have a thing to worry about,” Father Urban said, again to Wilf.

  “A phone call to Father Chmielewski will tell us that,” said Wilf, rather ominously. “I never carry my wallet in my back pocket. There’s too much chance of it riding up when you sit down. Lots of wallets are lost that way.”

  Jack looked miserable. “I always keep my back pocket buttoned,” he said, but this didn’t count for much coming from him just then, as he must have realized.

  “Oh Lord!” Once again, as frequently happened on their little trips, Wilf explored the problem he had with the Minnesota Central. He had written what he considered a very nice letter to the president of the road, requesting another pass, but for some reason he had received no reply—none at all. Six, seven weeks now, had gone by since he had written, and each one of those weeks meant sixty-five cents for a round-trip ticket, which might not seem like very much, but over a long period of time it really mounted up. If they were entitled to two passes, why weren’t they entitled to three? They weren’t joyriding on them. They were serving the same people—a lot of them anyway—that the Minnesota Central was serving. Naturally, Wilf hadn’t put any of this in his letter. He had just written a very nice letter—the kind of letter you’d think would at least be answered. “Oh Lord!”

  Father Urban sighed. He had said all he had to say on this subject several weeks ago—that Wilf might drop a line to Father Louis, since he was responsible for the two passes they had—but Wilf hadn’t responded to this suggestion at all, perhaps because he thought it reflected on him as a good provider.

  The train slowed down and came to rest between two corn fields. Such unscheduled stops were a mysterious feature of travel on the Minnesota Central. Sometimes a fast freight would rattle by, but usually there was no explanation—the engineer who had set traps along the way, and had stopped the train in order to service them, was now retired, Wilf understood.

  “Of course, anything can happen during the Christmas rush,” he said. “I’m always reading about cards and letters being delivered twenty years or more after they were mailed. Still, this may be the man’s way of saying no. I’m not overlooking that possibility.”

  In Father Urban’s opinion, this was more than just a possibility. “You’d be wise not to write again,” he said.

  “But now I may have to! As things stand now, we’re down to one pass!”

  Jack looked miserable. “Now we’re moving,” he said, but he was wrong. They had moved, but they weren’t moving.

  “I don’t think we have a thing to worry about—where Jack’s pass is concerned,” said Father Urban.

  “I hope you’re right,” Wilf said. “And who knows? We may hear something about the other one pretty soon. Maybe even tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “Or the day after.”

  “Yes, that’s more like it.” Wilf was taking the holidays into consideration.

  “Now we’re moving,” Jack said, and this time they really were.

  Father Urban, having done what he could for Jack with Wilf, now went to bat for himself. “Phil Smith’s talking about Florida. Phil and Monsignor Renton.”

  “They went last year,” Wilf said.

  “I understand you let Louis fill in at St Monica’s last year . . .”

  “Things are different this year. This year I need every man I’ve got.” Wilf thought this over, and then he went on. “To tell you the truth, I was glad to get rid of Louis for a while. He was cold all the time—or said he was—and he wasn’t here for the worst part. I know Louis is a friend of yours, Urban, but I’m afraid he’s not much of a team man.”

  “I thought if I went to St Monica’s I might be able to stimulate interest in the Hill, recruit retreatants, accept speaking engagements, make contacts . . .” Yes, and live and work as a priest.

  “I don’t say you wouldn’t be able to help us there, but you’re needed where you are—and don’t forget the brochure.”

  “I’m not.”

  “In fact, you’d better tell Phil not to count on you for weekends after Lent begins. No, don’t say anything about that. We’ll wait awhile and see how it goes.”

  “Poor Phil,” said Father Urban. Phil, and Phil alone among the diocesan clergy, had given Wilf a hand when he most needed it, the previous winter, and Wilf had said that he’d never forget it. He had since found out, though, that Phil was out of favor at the Chancery. Father Urban tried another angle. “I was more or less under the impression that I’d be able to go there, and so this only came up as an outside possibility, but maybe I’d better mention it—now rather than later.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Renton thinks Phil can get somebody else, if need be. Maybe a Jesuit, he said.” This was something Monsignor Renton had mentioned in passing, with Wilf in mind, Father Urban suspected, but still it had been said.

  “Well, that’s a chance I’m willing to take,” Wilf said. He was irrational on the subject of Jesuits, but not irrational enough to believe that they’d make the mistake of helping a man in Phil’s position.

  “I just thought I’d better mention it,” Father Urban said, and with that he despaired. He had appealed to Wilf’s common sense—it should have told him that Father Urban could best serve the interests of the Order and the Hill by going to St Monica’s. He had appealed to Wilf’s sense of loyalty—it should have made him want to help Phil Smith. He had appealed to Wilf’s fear of Jesuits—it was perhaps his greatest fear. Father Urban couldn’t see why these considerations, all together, shouldn’t override Wilf’s desire to employ him as a common workman. Wilf made so little sense, in fact, that Father Urban wondered if he might not be acting under instructions from Chicago to keep the star of the Order blacked out.

  Brother Harold was waiting for them at
the station in Duesterhaus. Wilf, Jack, and Father Urban packed themselves into the cab of the pickup truck, with Wilf at the wheel, and Brother Harold climbed into the back end and crouched behind the cab.

  “O.K.!” he yelled.

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” Wilf said. It was a cold day, growing colder, with dust blowing in from North Dakota.

  “You mean get some straw for him?” said Father Urban, as they pulled away.

  “As a matter of fact,” Wilf replied, sounding hurt, “I was thinking of canvas. Kind of expensive, though.”

  For the life of him, Father Urban couldn’t see how the Catholic Church (among large corporations) could be rated second only to Standard Oil in efficiency, as Time had reported a few years back.

  When they got back to the Hill, Father Urban picked up his mail, and a box he’d been expecting, and headed for his room where he meant to lie down and rest. On the stairs, he turned and caught a glimpse of Wilf and Jack in the office—of Wilf handing the telephone to Jack. After delivering the mail and the box (which contained an electric heater) to his room, Father Urban put on the heavy sweater he wore around the house and went downstairs. He was thinking Jack might need someone to defend him.

  Wilf was in possession of the telephone, was saying good-bye, hanging up. Apparently he hadn’t trusted Jack to do the talking, after all. “I don’t know what Father Chmielewski must think of us here!” he said to Father Urban. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!” And then to Jack: “Both wallets where you left them! Don’t you see what this means?”

  Jack obviously didn’t.

  “You’re still wearing Father Chmielewski’s pants!”

  Jack looked down at himself in horror.

  “What the hell,” said Father Urban, trying to take Jack’s part, but not finding it easy. “Why, a thing like this could happen to anybody!”