Nearing the city limits and advocating as he did the returnable bottle, Joe deplored the heavy fall of beer cans along the way, the shining fruits of the weekend. To his surprise, he drove by several big ammunition-depot-type liquor stores such as he ordinarily patronized when stocking up on the hard stuff (the Licensed Vintner and his son being Catholics and Mr Barnes a non-Catholic), and so, having shown a firmer resolve to amend his life than he might have if he’d stopped and bought a case of gin (though he might weaken when he passed that way again), Joe felt better about himself when he arrived at the hospital and knocked on the chaplain’s, Father Day’s, door.
“Ah, Joe!”
“Time to turn myself in again, Father.”
Slowly, because Father Day had a game leg from one of his, now, rare sprees, they went up the corridor to the chapel and into a box where Joe knelt and waited for his old confessor to sit down and slide the wicket between them.
“All right, Joe.”
“Bless me, Father. Sorry to say I’m still eating and drinking more than I should, especially the latter. And still not as good as I should be with the parishioners — they still give me a pain in the ass. I’m sorry, Father.”
“Parishioners are people, Joe, and people have souls.”
“I know, Father. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be downhearted, Joe. Don’t despair. Be on your guard there. Despair’s really presumption, you know. Expecting too much. We can’t change the world, Joe. Our Blessed Lord couldn’t do it, Joe. But we can change ourselves. That’s enough. Sometimes it’s too much. Prayer, Joe, more prayer. Our best bet. Take it from me, though God knows, and so do you, I’ve made a bollux of my life.”
“No, no, Father.”
“Good of you, Joe. I am doing better these days.” (Joe heard his old confessor knock on wood.) “All right, Joe. For your penance, the same again — the holy rosary daily. Let’s make that nightly, Joe. Pray for my intention. Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus… ego te absolvo a peccatis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Love God, Joe, and have a trick in you.”
After walking his old confessor back to his room, Joe looked in on patients from the parish. He planned to turn over the bulk of his practice to his curate if he ever got one, for this part of his job, with the growth of the parish, was getting to be too much for one man, the maternity cases alone. Sure, birth was a big deal — after death, the biggest deal — but what was there to say about either one of them, after a point? To pass the time that morning, Joe said to a nun who came in with a glass, “Sister, you still on the hard stuff?” and got a laugh. Top banana in the maternity ward, but he was tired of his routine and glad again to bow himself out and be on his way.
He drove by the ammunition depots again, all but the last one.
The dump was deserted, and so he drove in and disposed of the brown paper bag, his empties.
When he saw “car” parked not on walk but in street, at the curb, he wasn’t surprised — the story of my priestly life and pastorate, he thought — and drove on.
9. IN JEOPARDY
THAT EVENING JOE was in the study having another beer and watching TV, the Twins, when Brad phoned.
“Suppose you caught my column, Padre.”
Joe hadn’t, but thought it safe to say, “Brad, why not give the weather ball a rest?” Joe hated it when Brad, off freeloading with what he called the working press at fun-sun resorts and military installations in hitherto unspoilt parts of the world, remembered the weather ball (so he wrote in his column) and got all… misty; or woke “betimes” in a strange but very comfortable bed (here a nice plug for hotel or base) and found the weather ball was only a… dream; or, circling at 10,000 feet, looked down and saw the weather ball like a lamp in the window and knew he was… home. “After all, Brad, it’s not the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty.”
“Who said it was?”
“Rather see Hansel and Gretel, or whoever they are, come out of their little house and say cuckoo.”
“You kiddin’?”
“No.”
“May I quote you?”
“No.”
The Twins pulled in the infield, hoping to cut off the tying run at the plate. “Pretty busy here, Brad.”
“Doing a survey of local churches — about HR 369.” (A bill before Congress containing goodies for Cones, Casing — its NG3 missile was said to be far ahead of others in the field, perhaps too far ahead, with three nostrils in its nose cone.) “Will you be having public prayers for the success of the bill, Padre?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. These things are best left to the lobbyists, Brad.”
“May I quote you on that, Padre?”
“No.”
“I understand you’ve been approached by your parishioners.”
“Happens every day, Brad. Lost pets and so on.”
“I wouldn’t say this is the same thing, Padre.”
“No.” Unfortunately.
“I don’t have to tell you, do I, that jobs’re at stake?”
“No, and I’m sorry about that, more than I can say.” To you, you bastard.
“May I quote you on that?”
“No.”
“This is all off the record then?”
“Yes.”
“Ciao.”
The Twins were in a tight spot — bases loaded, nobody out, a three-two count. Foul ball. Another. The phone rang.
“St Francis.”
“If you’re St Francis, I’m Lyndon B. Johnson.”
“Who’s calling?”
“That’s all right. Been reading the Good Book.”
“Not a Catholic then?”
“That’s all right. Don’t like how you’re running things over there. Hate your methodology.”
“Who’s calling?”
“That’s all right.”
Joe had hung up. Another foul ball. Then a wild pitch! The phone rang again.
“Yes?”
“St Francis?”
“Hold on. I’ll call him.” Joe put down the phone. He picked it up when the inning was over — three unearned runs! “Still there? Hold on. He’s coming.” The Twins came to bat and went down in order, two swinging. To think these clowns had won the pennant only three years ago, Joe thought, and picked up the phone. “Hello? Hello?” Gone. Good. Joe was going for a beer when the phone rang again.
“Yes?”
“St Francis?”
“Hold on, will you? We’re trying to trace your call. Hello? Hello?” Gone.
Leaving the Twins to their fate, Joe wandered over to the windows with his empty glass — maybe he’d switch to gin, but he was in no hurry — and staring out at the night saw, in the distance, the weather ball, royal blue (“Forecast says no change is due”), and farther away, on a hill, flood lit and sea green, the water tank, the new global type, around it blinking, spelling and respelling itself in neon white letters, INGLENOOK, which, though, Joe had to take on faith since only three letters were visible from the study windows or from any terrestrial point—that was planning for you. NOO, NOO, the water tank said to him (he was wishing the problem of public prayers for HR 369 would go away), and then the weather ball turned red as fire (“Temperature’s going higher”) and the phone rang again.