Younger Than Springtime

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Although he had told us beforehand that the secret of his “little dinners” was good conversation, by conversation he meant questions and answers between himself and individual guests. He directed questions seriatim to guests and reflected ponderously on their responses.

  I figured that he would not even notice me, much less put me in the witness box.

  “Now, Martin [to the English Jesuit], would you agree with what some of my friends in the State Department tell me, that Germany will not be a great power again for this century?”

  “We should never underestimate the Hun, David.”

  Right on, Father.

  I tried to read the expression on Cordelia’s face. What did she think of this marvelous charade? Probably nothing much. It was simply there. Dinner at the rectory was as neutral and unanalyzed as the giant oak trees in the garden of her house.

  “I, for one,” the monsignor continued, “can’t say I’m sorry. Like you, Martin, I’ve been through two wars with them and that is enough for a lifetime.”

  The curate next to me shifted uneasily. Monsignor noted his movement and withered him with a single look. Obviously, you not only listened to and agreed with the pastor, you kept perfectly still when he was talking.

  “They are a resilient people.”

  “Now you, young man.” He meant me. “Are we to understand that you are a friend of our gifted young pianist of earlier this evening?”

  Damn the priest next to me. His movement had attracted the monsignor’s attention to my red hair.

  “A colleague, Monsignor. We work on a school magazine together.”

  Cordelia continued to be unreadable.

  He raised a shaggy skeptical eyebrow. “Are we to presume that you are the editor of this worthy publication?”

  “No, Monsignor, Miss Lennon is.”

  “Really? How extraordinary! And what then is your role?”

  “I’m her slave, Monsignor. She tells me what work she wants done and I do it.”

  There was a moment of dead silence around the table. I had broken a rule. I had said something that might be funny. Damn it, Cordelia, smile.

  “Remarkable, remarkable. And where might you be from?”

  “Chicago, Monsignor, it’s a city down the Northwestern track from here.”

  Cordelia wasn’t smiling, but the English Jesuit was actually grinning. I dared not glance at the young priest next to me, but his colleague across the table was struggling to contain laughter.

  Into the valley of death rode the Light Brigade. Right?

  “Yes, indeed. It is safe to presume that you are a practicing Catholic?”

  Did I see a quick frown line on my beloved’s fair brow?

  “Yes, Monsignor.”

  “You have a parish?”

  “St. Ursula, Monsignor.”

  “Ah, yes, poor Monsignor Meany, God be good to him. I can’t for the moment recall who replaced him.”

  Why was I on the grill? Was the guy jealous of me? Had he been ogling Cordelia during her recital? Why hadn’t I kept an eye on him?

  “Monsignor Branigan, Monsignor. The school superintendent.”

  “Yes, indeed, I remember now. Hmm. A man of considerable energy.”

  And, by implication, not enough seriousness. No friends at the State Department.

  I’ll get him, Mugsy, I promise I’ll get him.

  “Your father is a working man, I presume?”

  “No, Monsignor.”

  “No?”

  “He doesn’t like to work, so he became an architect.”

  Alf Lennon actually laughed. I now liked him immensely.

  My nymph was biting her lip. Angry because I was being disrespectful? Or because I had never told her that our fathers shared the same occupation?

  “Imagine that! Are you aware of this young man’s father, Dennis?”

  “I can’t say…. What is his first name, uh, Charles?”

  “J. E. O’Malley, sir. John the Evangelist O’Malley. Really.”

  I added the last for Cordelia, across whose beloved brow there were now two frown lines.

  “I seem to remember…Didn’t he win a prize recently?…I remember reading about it somewhere.”

  Cordelia turned to consider her father. Surprised? Or merely loving him.

  “The Liturgical Arts award for church design last year, sir. The new St. Ursula Church.”

  “How extraordinary…. Now, Martin, wouldn’t you say that the most serious problem the world faces is the persistent power of world Communism, far more serious than Fascism ever was?”

  Thus my father and his prize were dismissed, but I had been freed from the gridiron with nothing worse than a draw to my credit.

  “Only if the terrible poverty in western Europe cannot be undone, David.”

  “That is the position of Secretary of State Marshall, whom I am informed, authoritatively, I might add, is viewed with considerable reserve by the State Department professionals. Not a Communist exactly, I hasten to add, but certainly not unsympathetic to their cause.”

  “The misery in Germany and France and in my own country,” his guest replied, “is considerable. Recently some progress has been made, but I fear for our future unless there is more.”

  “The Labor government in England, of course…Well, you’re safe, as we know, from external invasion because of the blessed English Channel.” He finished his fish course, long since disposed of by the rest of us, and waved away the preferred white wine. “The red wine now, please…. But the rest of Europe, would it not be ripe as a plum for the picking should the Red Army elect to move, save for the presence of our brave young fighting men?”

  This was getting to be too much. Even for me. Especially for me.

  “Quite possibly, quite possibly.” The visitor dug into the roast beef, blood rare, as if he were not sure when he would eat his next meal.

  “My sources tell me”—the monsignor heaped his plate high with potatoes, one shanty-Irish trait he had not been able to shed—“that our army is in splendid shape, spoiling for a fight, and that if old Uncle Joe, as I believe the late President Roosevelt called him, should be so incautious as to attack, we would promptly drive them all the way back to the Pacific.”

  “Charles was in the Army in Germany, Monsignor, for two years.”

  Cordelia.

  Traitor.

  “Who? Oh yes, the inestimable Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Charles O’Malley, Monsignor. Charles C. O’Malley.”

  “Indeed. So you were in the service in Germany, young man?”

  “An elite unit, Monsignor.” Cordelia, small bite of beef on her fork, was a witch.

  “Astonishing…. Is this true, young man?”

  “I was in the Constabulary, Monsignor.” I put my fork down. “A kind of mobile military police unit, responsible for order in the countryside. Perhaps like a mixture of state police and National Guard in this country.”

  “So you would be familiar with the condition of our troops. They are, I presume, battle ready?”

  “No, Monsignor.” I picked up my fork and wolfed down a substantial mouthful of potatoes. I never denied that I was shanty Irish. “They’re not.”

  “Truly?” The man seemed genuinely agitated. “I should think they would be prepared to resist an invasion.”

  “Cordelia was right, Monsignor. I guess my outfit was an elite unit, fancy blue braid and putties and helmets and yellow scarves. And to tell you the truth, we would not have been able to form a skirmish line that would repel an attack by the Little Sisters of the Poor.”

  The English Jesuit whooped with laughter. Denny Lennon really and truly smiled. Not only did my love’s lip corners turn up in approval; her eyes shone. The curate next to me seemed to be choking.

  Charles C. O’Malley never had the sense to quit when he was ahead.

  “In my squad—I was a sergeant, Mr. Lennon, which will show you in what shape the army is—at least six men didn’t know how to remove the safety f
rom their weapons. Nor was I about to teach them because I was afraid that if they did release the safety they might shoot me in the back by accident.”

  I was even farther ahead now. Time to quit.

  So, I didn’t quit.

  “The only reason to be hopeful is that our intelligence reports indicate that the other side is in even worse shape than we are. As I’m sure your reading of history discloses, Monsignor, armies of occupation have always been demoralized and barely effective at anything besides black market trade.”

  Now everyone was super solemn. Had I gone too far or had I scared them?

  To hell with it.

  “Remarkable.” The Monsignor considered me gravely. “I shall have to inquire of my friends in government whether the situation may be rather more grim than they are willing to admit…. Now, Martin, let us hear about your new work.”

  The elderly Jesuit’s new work, it seemed, was about love. Most of the discussion, like all abstract reflection, was far above me. Cordelia listened with rapt attention.

  It seemed that the Jesuit was responding to two men—“Bishop Nygren” and “DeRougemont,” both of whom had thus far escaped my attention. The question was whether love could be totally unselfish or whether it always must involve some self-seeking.

  Angels on the head of a pin, I thought with some disgust.

  One form of love, I could not determine which, was called “agape” the other “eros.”

  Love, it seemed to me then, was obviously love; debate about such ethereal questions was ridiculous. If you had ever been in love, you know what love is, right?

  Wrong, Chucky Ducky, dead wrong, but you were too young then to be expected to know any better.

  Perhaps also too much “in love.”

  Much later, the table having been cleared, the monsignor sat up straight, glanced around as if taking a roll call. “Well, now, Martin,” he said sighing as if he had played a vigorous game of touch football. “What’s your solution?”

  I glanced around the table. With the exception of my intensely attentive beloved, everyone seemed to be dozing.

  “I don’t know that I have a solution, old fellow; it may be one of those ultimately insoluble puzzles, a maze from which there is no escape, if you take my meaning. Still, I wonder sometimes whether one might not come moderately close to an answer—know the direction of it, you see—if one says that love, of God or of another human, is not so much the desire to possess the other totally as the desire to be possessed totally by the other…”

  Bang.

  I knew he was right. I would check the notion with Christopher when I was back in the shadow of the Golden Dome, but I was back in the shadow of the Golden Dome, but the strange old Jesuit had put his finger on it. I didn’t like his solution, not one bit, but he had said it all.

  “Now that is a very striking thought, Martin. If I may, let me see if I can find some reaction among our friends round the table. Let me see…Cordelia, my dear, you are young and the young are supposed to be wise in the ways of love. What do you think of Father’s definition?”

  “Not a definition certainly”—the Englishman, coughed modesty—“just the hint of an explanation, if you take my meaning.”

  “Well, yes; Cordelia, how would you react to his hint of an explanation: love is the desire to be possessed totally by another?”

  “The other,” she corrected him, her eyes shining brightly. “I find it an extremely challenging insight, Monsignor.”

  She didn’t look at me, understandably I suppose.

  “Very interesting indeed.” His eyes swiveled around the table and found me again. “Ah, yes, Charles, our expert on armies of occupation. Have you given any thought to this matter?”

  “A little, Monsignor.”

  “And how are you affected by the description of love as the desire to be totally possessed by another?”

  “The other.” If he didn’t see the difference, he didn’t know from nothing.

  “Of course.” He waved his hand.

  “Frankly, Monsignor, I think that Father is absolutely right. That’s what love is.”

  Everyone around the table seemed to have awakened and to be staring fixedly at me.

  “And?”

  “And, Monsignor, if being possessed totally by the other is what love is, then love scares the hell out of me.”

  The assembly gasped.

  The Jesuit applauded.

  Monsignor Redmond suggested that Maude lead the ladies into the study, “all we have for a drawing room, my dear; we’ll join you shortly.”

  When we followed them into the study half an hour later, the Jesuit clapped me on the back. “Jolly good, old fellow, jolly good.”

  “Keeps David on his toes. Good thing too,” Dennis Lennon murmured.

  After she had planted a chaste good-night kiss on my lips later in the evening, Cordelia seemed to agree. “I’m so proud of you, Charles. So proud.”

  So, I hadn’t done too badly after all.

  I lay in bed in my guest room wide awake for hours. At first, I fantasized about Cordelia, only a few doors away down the corridor. Somehow, it was hard to be too detailed in my images about a young woman who was sleeping in what had been until recently her nursery.

  Then I thought about what was really on my mind—love as the desire to be totally possessed.

  Did my beautiful sleeping Cordelia want to be totally possessed by me? By anyone indeed, but in the present set of circumstances by me?

  She certainly thought she did.

  And did I want to be totally possessed by the other—whoever the other might be?

  Not on your life.

  11

  A couple of nights after my improbable adventures in Lake Forest, I was back where I belonged, in the rough-and-tumble world of the St. Ursula chapter of the Catholic War Veterans. To be precise I was sitting on the running board of Jimmy Rizzo’s ancient Chevy, guzzling from a Coke bottle while Monica Sullivan sat next to me, a bottle of beer in her hand.

  Somehow, in Monica’s pretty little hand, a beer bottle seemed elegant and refined.

  “The men in that red Ford,” she said, pointing to a car parked at the outer limits of right field, “are the private detectives my father has hired to watch me.”

  “For what?”

  “Some evidence that I’ve lost my virginity, I suppose.”

  “That’s not exactly against the law.”

  “I know. But if Jimmy and I should be sleeping together that would somehow prove that he’s right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, Chuck. It’s an obsession with him…. He’s forbidden everyone else in our family to speak with me. I’m under interdict.”

  “Do they obey it?”

  “Mom calls me on the phone when he’s not around. She begs me to give ‘that Dago’ up.”

  “Hardly calculated to be an effective plea.”

  “No, but she’s beside herself with grief. I am very sorry for her. It’s terrible for all of us.”

  I was sitting on the running board with the captain’s lady because my talents were not required in right field any longer. Tim Boylan, trim and alert again, was back in left field, and Danny Cummins, our left fielder, had been moved to right. We hadn’t lost a game yet and would probably win the Catholic War Veterans city championship. We were dusting off the team from St. Lucy’s this evening. With the lure of the championship cup (less than ten dollars on the trophy market!), softball had become a serious business. Charles C. O’Malley was thrown into the breach only when we were so far ahead that he couldn’t blow it.

  I accepted this rebuff with characteristic fatalism.

  This would probably be the last summer for the Catholic War Veterans. The war had been over now for four years. Most of them had college degrees and jobs and many had wives and children. The postwar world would not survive into 1950.

  It was a sound prediction. I did not anticipate that in a year there would be another war,
one that would quickly be forgotten, but which would cause grave problems for my generation and for my family and friends.

  I had come to the reluctant conclusion that the Depression would not return for a long time. That should have made me happy. Our family was unlikely ever to be poor again. But all my plans had assumed that the postwar prosperity could not last. What was left of my plans?

  I was working for O’Hanlon and O’Halloran, Certified Public Accounts, during the summer. I earned less than I had the previous summer. The job was exactly the opposite of my stint on the exchange. The work was smooth, orderly, and efficient. It was also boring. My responsibilities demanded nothing more than the accounting skills I had earned in my courses at Bamberg. Indeed the senior partners, reliable, sound, honest men, had learned their accounting at DeLaSalle High School when they were adolescents. The firm had a superb reputation. It would do your work more quickly and less expensively than some of the bigger and more prestigious firms—so long as there was nothing complicated in your operation.

  In other words, the firm was steady, moderately prosperous, safe, and dull.

  Really dull.

  That’s what I thought I had wanted when I had planned my life out during the Depression. There was always work, I believed, for accountants.

  Dull work.

  Once again my plans had somehow not fit reality.

  Since I was quick at what I did, I had lots of time to fantasize about life and about what my life would look like in ten years. The fantasies were not all that appealing, save for the images of Cordelia that often inhabited them. Even if my workaday life were dull, Cordelia at home waiting for me would make all the difference in the world.

  Wouldn’t she?

  I realized the irony of my advice to Jimmy Rizzo and Tim Boylan that they should take risks; I was not taking risks myself. I argued that I was not averse to risk taking, but what were the risks I was supposed to take?

  Wasn’t I taking enough of a risk in courting Cordelia?

  “So what happens next?” I asked Monica Sullivan.

  “Nothing is definite…I mean it is definite that James and I will marry. I have, as your sister Jane says, slammed the door shut on that.”

  “Ah,” I said.