“Joe, your time’ll come,” Lefty Beeman said early that evening, New Year’s Eve, in the Robin Hood Room of the Hotel Garrison, while, instead of dessert, they were having another drink, after which, if they didn’t have another, they’d go on to St Isidore’s for poker. “Sure, you were let down when this kid, What’s-his-name, that was getting his degree in social work, went over the hill. Never should’ve been ordained, of course. [“Or, anyway, allowed to travel without a companion,” Joe said.] Joe, when I heard he had his own apartment in D.C. — Joe, the greatest occasion of sin in the world today is the apartment, not the parked car. Could do more good, they say, these kids, if they didn’t live in rectories. Depends what you mean by good, I tell ’em. Too bad, I tell ’em, St Francis Assisi, and the other one, the Apostle of the Indies (they never heard of him or the Indies), didn’t have their own apartments — could’ve done more good. Not criticizing you, Joe, though I was surprised when you moved out of Trinity, but that was before I got transferred there. I’d move out and live at the Athletic Club myself if beggars could be choosers, which they can’t under our lousy system. Don’t get me started on that. [“I won’t,” Joe said, beckoning to the waitress before asking Lefty, “Care for another?”] Thanks. Joe, be happy where you are. And don’t think you’d be happier in parish work. You wouldn’t. Lots of changes since you were in it, all for the bad. I fear for the future of our parishes. So be happy where you are, Joe. I would. I know, I know, don’t tell me — it’d never do to have a radical at Charities. Don’t get me started on that. [“I won’t.”] Joe, when you were sent to Charities after you did so well at Holy Faith (and, frankly, I didn’t), I said to myself, ‘Joe was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and Big Albert’”—the Arch’s middle name was Magnus—“‘wants him to have a taste of the other.’ But that doesn’t explain why you’re still there. [Joe shook his head.] Joe, you must be the only guy from your class still without a parish, not counting that prick Toohey at the Chancery. [Joe nodded.] Well, Joe, I think I may have the answer. You see, something you said a while ago started me thinking — about this anonymous gift that comes in every year about this time and takes care of the deficit to the penny. Oh, sure, it could be some kind of bequest — some angel, dead or alive — that Paddy’s keeping to himself. But that’s not what figures, Joe. You know what figures, Joe? [“What?”] Paddy. An inside job. And I’ll tell you why—anonymous and to the penny. Are you runnin’ with me, Joe? [Joe shook his head, and before the waitress, about to drop the check on the table halfway between him and Lefty, could do so, Joe took the check from her and palmed it.] Thanks. Here’s what it comes down to, Joe. Big Albert just wants somebody that’s not a radical and can pick up the tab. Not a bad idea, Joe. And you’re the best he can do. You’ll never be in Paddy’s class as a capitalist, but you’re — correct me if I’m wrong — you’re an only child. And under our lousy system — maybe in your case it’s a good thing — you should be rolling in it someday. By the way, how’re the folks? [“Fine. In Florida now.”] Good for them. So, when this other kid, What’s-his-name, gets back from Catholic U. with his degree — and there’s a good chance he will — I understand he doesn’t have his own apartment — he’ll step into your shoes and you’ll step into Paddy’s. That’s my prediction, Joe. Sort of a bombshell to you, huh?”
Joe treated Lefty with a certain respect, uncommon among their brother clergy, because he felt sorry for the man (a two-time loser as a pastor and now busted to curate again) and because the man was older (ten years older, looking ten more), and also because Lefty, in his youth, had caught the eye of the immortal Connie Mack and had gone to spring training in 1930 with the championship A’s, with all-time greats like Grove, Earnshaw, Cochrane, Foxx, Dykes, and Simmons, about whom Joe had learned little from Lefty. “Earnshaw on his day was harder to hit than Grove, they say.” “They do?” “Ever pitch to old Double X?” “Old Who?” As was true of many players, some of the best, the history and mystique of the national game evidently meant little to Lefty, as the history and mystique of the Church evidently did to many priests, some of the best. Joe wouldn’t be surprised at the Last Judgment, though, if Lefty was sent to the right, with the sheep — another reason for treating the man with a certain respect. In the meantime, however, Joe doubted that their association was good for them, their vices being the same, food and drink. Joe, if expecting to dine alone, flinched when Lefty rose from his table to welcome him to the Robin Hood Room and, later, suggested that they have their coffee in the adjoining bar, the Little John Lounge, where he was chaplain, he said, since he’d been in on the death of a prominent judge there—“Gave him conditional absolution.” Lefty was good company, but he might have been better. Joe sometimes lost patience with him, as he had on New Year’s Eve, when they hadn’t gone on to St Isidore’s for poker, when Joe had begged off, not wanting to hear Lefty’s prediction repeated in the presence of others, and claiming an upset stomach — mind, actually. Joe had seen in the new year alone in his quarters at the Athletic Club with Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians, at one low point seeing himself (if Lefty was right) as the little kid who gets to play with the big kids because it’s his ball.
In the following days, in the course of his duties — Mass at Trinity early in the morning; court during the forenoon; Charities until quitting time or later — Joe carried on as before, but his life now looked and felt different to him because of Lefty’s prediction. He could believe that he’d been sent to Charities for a reason and that he was still there (held over by the first What’s-his-name’s defection?) for the same reason, but not that this was the reason advanced by Lefty. Even if proved right in his prediction, Lefty could be wrong in his thinking: if Joe did become Director, might this not be for another reason? Such as? Well, somebody had to be Director when Paddy retired. Let’s start over. Lefty, in his thinking and therefore in his prediction, was wrong. Was there any evidence to suggest that Joe would become Director, apart from the circumstantial evidence of his original and continuing appointment? No, none. Was there any evidence, apart from the circumstantial (“anonymous and to the penny”), to suggest that Paddy, whose directorate antedated the Arch’s episcopate, was picking up the tab? No, none. Ask Paddy? No, because, even if he answered the question, the answer, if yes, would diminish the quality of his alms (“Cast thy bread upon the waters”), and if no, would embarrass him, seem to condemn him for not doing more. No, no good.
In any case, whether or not Paddy was picking up the tab was beside the point, as Joe came to see his own situation — as that of the rich young man in Scripture who, when told by Our Lord to sell what he had and give the proceeds to the poor, had taken a powder. Joe could say that he wasn’t rich now and never would be, would only be fairly well off, and that he couldn’t dispose of what he didn’t have yet, but not that he couldn’t declare himself now by intention, by desire. That was what counted, and counted for just as much, in the eyes of God and the Church, when to act materially was impossible — otherwise, religion, for most people, would be a spectator sport.