“I did, Father. Yesterday.”
“Yes, well.” Standing by the little car, viewing the books and luggage inside, Joe wished that he could start over, that he hadn’t started off as he had. He had meant to welcome the curate. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t — look at the days and nights of needless anxiety, and look what time it was now — but still he wanted to make up for it. “Better drive your little car around to the back, Father, and unload,” he said. “The housekeeper’ll show you the room. Won’t ask you to hear confessions this afternoon.” And, having opened the door of the little car for the curate, he closed it for him, saying, through the window, “See you later, Father.”
When Joe straightened up, he saw that Big Mouth, a neighbor and a parishioner, and Patton, his old bulldog, had arrived to inspect the cartons, heard Father Felix being questioned by Big Mouth saw too that Mrs P. had decided to sweep the front walk and was working that way.
“I’ve bought a few things — besides the bed and chest here — for the curate’s room,” Joe told her, so she wouldn’t be too surprised when she saw them. Then he gave her the key to the room, saying, perhaps needlessly, that she’d find it locked, and that the box springs, mattresses, and bedspreads would be found within. The other bed — the one that should and would have been his but for the interest shown in it by Father Felix and Big Mouth — the other bed and chest, he told Mrs P., should go into the guest room. “Fold up the cot and put it somewhere. Get the curate to help you — he’s not hearing this afternoon.”
Turning then to the little group around the cartons, he saw that his instructions to Mrs P. had been overheard and understood. The little group — held together by the question “Would he take delivery?”—was breaking up. He thanked the driver and his helper for waiting, nodded to Big Mouth, said “Coming?” to Father Felix, since it was now time for confessions, and turned toward the church slowly shaking his head. He took the sins of curates and administrators and North Carolina upon him. He gave another his bed.
That evening, while the curate and Father Felix were over in the church hearing confessions, Joe was in his office telling a thirtyish couple, the Lanes, about the fiscal system at SS Francis and Clare’s, a system used in only two other parishes in the diocese and known among the clergy, variously, as the American plan, the California, the country club, the table d’hôte, the game sanctuary. “So I did away with Sunday envelopes and special collections except Christmas and Easter. No more yackety-yack about money from the pulpit. The Annual Offering covers everything. Tuition, pew rent, Missions, Peter’s Pence, Bishops’ Relief, Catholic University, and so on. Were you at Mass last Sunday? Here, I mean.”
“No, we weren’t,” said Mr. Lane, a beefy type in a gray silk suit. “Not here.”
“Well, we still have a flower collection — flowers for the altar — and if you toss in a quarter, that’s plenty. That way it’s still possible, technically, for parishioners to make an offering at the Offertory. And for visitors, children, and others to contribute.” (Unfortunately, there were others—parishioners — who were against Joe’s system.) “Some say the Annual Offering’s too high — it’s five hundred — but look what other goods and services run you today — a new car, country club membership, major, or even minor, surgery. St Francis,” Joe said, answering the phone, and hearing the question dreaded in every rectory on Saturday night (“What time are Masses tomorrow?”), coldly replied, “Consult the church bulletin.”
“Sorry — we’re new here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
The caller gave an address that put him in the parish — not always the case with Saturday night callers — and Joe’s manner changed.
“Welcome aboard. This is your pastor, Father Hackett.”
“Mike Gumball, Father.”
Joe wrote it down and looked at it. “How do you spell your last name, Mike?”
“G-U-M-B-L-E.”
“Got it. Any children, Mike? School-age tots?”
“No, Father. Just Nancy, and she’s preschool.”
“Good. Reason I say that, Mike — we’re full up in some of the grades.” (Joe had also said it for the benefit of the couple in his office.) “Mike, what we have to do now is get you and the family registered as members of the parish. You or your wife’ll have to come in for that. It can’t be done over the phone.”
“I’ll come in, Father.”
“Don’t put it off, Mike. You never know when somebody in the family might need a priest. It could be you. Right?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Father, I don’t know if I can get over there tonight.” (Mike sounded, though young, like a good old-fashioned parishioner to Joe.) “Would tomorrow be all right?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, Mike. How about Monday at eight? P.M., that is.”
“Fine, Father.”
“Now, Mike, if you have the suburban directory there, you’ll find the Mass times listed in the Yellow Pages.”
“O.K., Father. I’ll look ’em up.”
“I can give ’em to you, Mike.”
“No, no, Father.”
“That’s the spirit. G’night, Mike.” Joe hung up, and saw that Mr Lane had his checkbook out.
“You said five hundred, Father?”
“Our fiscal year begins in January, Mr Lane. You can pay for the rest of the year, or you can pay for a year, or monthly, as many people prefer. It’s entirely up to you.”
“How do I make it out, Father?”
Joe gave Mr Lane the little calendar off the desk. “Every family gets one of these at Christmastime. No charge”—this to Mrs Lane, to no visible effect. She was about seven months pregnant and hadn’t spoken to Joe yet. But he stayed with her. “Gives you,” he said, producing another calendar from the bottom drawer of his desk, “the usual days and months, Mass times, confessions, rules for fasting (what’s left of ’em), fire and police numbers, baseball, football, and hockey schedules — everything you need to know, ma’am.”
Mrs Lane regarded Joe solemnly — she was hard to figure.
“Thanks, Father.” Mr Lane handed the calendar to his wife. “She’s French, Father. I was in the Company’s international division when we met.”
“Comment allez-vous?” Joe said to Mrs Lane, to no visible effect.
Mr Lane handed the check to Joe (who saw it was for five hundred dollars). “Just consider that for this year, Father. I’m sure you can find good use for the balance. I’ll see you again in January.”
“Very good of you, Mr Lane.” But Joe didn’t want the man to think he’d bought a piece of him. “You realize the balance goes to the parish, not to me personally?”
“Is that how it works?”
“Unless you specify otherwise, yes. The priest has to assume that whatever’s given to him is given to him in his official capacity.”
“Pretty strict.”
“Yes, but a good thing, in a way. So I’ll just put the balance in the building fund”—Joe checked the chart on his desk—“$291.62. Thanks, Mr Lane.”
“Father, I’ve got a thing about building funds. If it’s not too late to specify, I’d like the balance to be used as you think best — to be yours.”
“Oh?” Joe showed more surprise and less concern than he felt. “Well, in that case, thanks again, Mr Lane.” But Joe, more than before, didn’t want the man to think he’d bought him. “Actually, it doesn’t make much difference. I’m plowing my salary, if you can call it that, back into the parish, not to mention what little money I have of my own. A matter of bookkeeping, actually.”