The next morning, Joe drove to the city with the traffic, and swiftly negotiated the items on his office list, including a desk, Model DK 100, and a typewriter with different type, called “editorial,” and said to be used by newscasters.
“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Father.”
The scene then changed to the fifth floor of a large department store, which Joe had visited the day before, and there life got difficult again. What had brought him back was a four-poster bed with pineapple finials. The clerk came on a little too strong.
“The double bed’s making a big comeback, Father.”
“That so?”
“What I’d have, if I had the choice.”
“Yes, well.” Joe liked the bed, especially the pineapples, but he couldn’t see the curate (Who?) in it. Get it for himself, then, and give the curate the pastor’s bed—it was single. And then what? The pastor’s bed, of unfriendly metal and painted like a car, hospital gray, would dictate nothing about the other things for the room. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to the curate, would it?
“Lot of bed for the money, Father.”
“Too much bed.”
The clerk then brought out some brochures and binders with colored tabs. So Joe sat down with him on a bamboo chaise longue, and, passing the literature back and forth between them, they went to work on Joe’s problem. They discovered that Joe could order the traditional type of bed in a single, in several models — cannonballs, spears, spools (Jenny Lind) — but not pineapples, which, it seemed, had been discontinued by the maker. “But I wonder about that, Father. Tell you what. With your permission, I’ll call North Carolina.”
Joe let him go ahead, after more discussion, mostly about air freight, but when the clerk returned to the chaise longue he was shaking his head. North Carolina had gone to lunch. North Carolina would call back, though, in an hour or so, after checking the warehouse. “You wouldn’t take cannonballs or spears, Father? Or Jenny Lind?”
“Not Jenny Lind.”
“You like cannonballs, Father?”
“Yes, but I prefer the other.”
“Pineapples.”
Since nothing could be done about the remaining items on his list until he found out about the bed — or beds, for he had decided to order two, singles, with matching chests, plus box springs and mattresses, eight pieces in all — Joe went home to await developments.
At six minutes to three, the phone rang. “St Francis,” Joe said.
“Earl, Father.”
“Earl?”
“At the store, Father.”
“Oh, hello, Earl.”
Earl said that North Carolina could supply, and would air-freight to customer’s own address. So beds and chests would arrive in a couple of days, Friday at the outside, and box springs and mattresses, these from stock, would be on the store’s Thursday delivery to Inglenook.
“O.K., Father?”
“O.K., Earl.”
Joe didn’t try to do any more that day.
The next morning, he took delivery of the office equipment (which Mrs P. — Mrs Pelissier — must have noticed), and so he got a late start on his shopping. He began where he’d left off the day before. Earl, spotting him among the lamps, came over to say hello. When he saw Joe’s list, he recommended the store’s interior-decorating department—”Mrs Fox, if she’s not out on a job.” With Joe’s permission, Earl went to a phone, and Mrs Fox soon appeared among the lamps. Slightly embarrassed, Joe told her what he thought — that the room ought to be planned around the bed, since it was a bedroom. Mrs Fox smacked her lips and shrieked (to Earl), “He doesn’t need me!”
As a matter of fact, Mrs Fox proved very helpful — steered Joe from department to department, protected him from clerks, took him into stockrooms and onto a freight elevator, and remembered curtains and bedspreads (Joe bought two), which weren’t on his list but were definitely needed. Finally, Mrs Fox had the easy chair and other things brought down to the parking lot and put into his car. These could have gone out on the Thursday delivery, but Joe wanted to see how the room would look even without the big stuff — the bed, the chest, the student’s table, and the revolving bookcase. Mrs Fox felt the same way. Twice in the store she’d expressed a desire to see the room, and he’d managed to change the subject, and then she did it again, in the parking lot — was dying to see the room, she shrieked, just as he was driving away. He just smiled. What else could he do? He couldn’t have Mrs Fox coming out there.
In some ways, things were moving too fast. He still hadn’t told Mrs P. that he was getting a curate — hadn’t because he was afraid if he did, she’d ask, as he had, “Who?” Who, indeed? He still didn’t know, and the fact that he didn’t would, if admitted, make him look foolish in Mrs P.’s eyes. It would also put the Church — administrationwise — in a poor light.
That evening, after Mrs P. had gone home, Joe unloaded the car, which he’d run into the garage because the easy chair was clearly visible, protruding from the trunk. It took him four trips to get all his purchases up to the room. Then, using a kitchen chair, listening to the ball game and drinking beer, he put up the curtain rods. (Steve, if asked to, would wonder why, and if told, would tell Mrs P., who would ask, “Who?”) When Joe had the curtains up, tiebacks and all, he took a much needed bath, changed, and made himself a gin-and-tonic. He carried it into the room, dark now — he had been waiting for this moment — and turned on the lamps he’d bought. O.K. And when the student’s table came, the student’s lamp, now on the little bedside table, would look even better. He had chosen one with a yellow shade, rather than green, so the room would look cheerful, and it certainly did. He tried the easy chair, the matching footstool, the gin-and-tonic. O.K. He sat there for some time, one foot going to sleep on the rose-and-blue hooked rug while he wondered why — why he hadn’t heard anything from the curate.
The next day, Thursday, Mrs P. had the afternoon off, and so she wasn’t present when the box springs, mattresses, student’s table and revolving bookcase came, at twenty after four — the hottest time of day. Joe had a lot of trouble with the mattresses — really a job for two strong men, one to pull on the mattress, one to hold on to the carton — and had to drink two bottles of beer to restore his body salts. He took a much needed bath, changed, and feeling too tired to go out, made himself some ham sandwiches and a gin-and-tonic. He used a whole lime — it was his salad — and ate in his study while watching the news; Viet Nam, and people starving in Asia and Mississippi. He went without dessert. Suddenly he jumped up and got busy around the place, did the dishes — dish — and locked the church. When darkness came, he was back where he’d been the night before — in the room, in the chair, with a glass, wondering why he hadn’t heard anything from the curate.
It was customary for the newly ordained men to take a few days off to visit and shake down their friends and relatives. Ordinations, though, had been held on Saturday. It was now Thursday, almost Friday, and still no word. What to do? He had called people at the seminary, hoping to learn the curate’s name and perhaps something of his character, just in the course of conversation. (“Understand you’re getting So-and-So, Joe.”) But it hadn’t happened — everybody he asked to speak to (the entire faculty, it seemed) had left for vacationland. He had then called the diocesan paper and, with pencil ready, asked for a complete rundown on new appointments, but the list hadn’t come over from the Chancery yet. (“They can be pretty slow over there, Father.” “Toohey, you mean?” “Monsignor’s pretty busy, Father, we don’t push him on a thing like this — it’s not what we call hard news.”)