The curate, looking down at his feet, shook his head.
“O.K.,” Joe said. “Sandals around the house, with a cassock, or with trousers and a shirt (either white or black), but not with a suit. I see somebody in a suit wearing sandals — and I don’t only mean a priest — I mean anybody — I want to throw up. Black socks, Father.”
“Black?”
“Black. I hate these piddling little departures from the rule. I can understand a man leaving the priesthood, but wearing colored socks, including gray, no. No good.”
“Breaks the monotony.”
To show what he thought of that, Joe shut his eyes and hung his head, simulating death, then snapped out of it. “You wouldn’t say that, Father, if you knew anything about monotony. It’s not that easy. But that’s not the point. The point is, Why ruin a perfect color combination? Yes, perfect. Any man looks better in black and white. I don’t say good; I say better. That’s why evening dress is, or was, black and white. Actually, we’re lucky that way, as priests. Look at the Buddhists.”
The curate shook his head in, as seen on television, dismay.
Joe reread the message on the curate’s chest (THOU SHALT NOT KILL, BEND, FOLD, OR MUTILATE), and said, “I’ve never worn T-shirts, even plain ones, but I have nothing against them as underwear. That’s all they were ever meant to be, you know. Now, for Christ’s sake — I mean that literally, Father — go up and change and come down again.”
The curate came down in a cassock, but was still wearing the heavy gray socks with red toes and heels, which Joe said nothing about, however, hoping thus to give the young man pause, time to see where taking a stand against his pastor, if that was what he thought he was doing, had got him — out on a limb.
“Let’s go over to your house,” Joe said.
In the curate’s office, about which the curate had said nothing on his first visit, on Saturday, and still said nothing, Joe went over to a cabinet and threw open its doors. “We’re all right at the moment, Father, but it’ll be one of your jobs to order supplies.” Joe showed him the check writer. “Have to introduce you to the people at the bank”—assuming I ever find out your name—“and you can leave a specimen of your signature.” Joe moved away from the cabinet, leaving the doors open, saying, “Oh, close those doors, Father,” to involve him, and went over to the bank of files. He opened and closed a drawer, another, another, enjoying the smooth, gliding action, the bright colored tabs (new) on the folders. “Every family or household has a file. Parishioner comes in, you don’t have to start from scratch — you know the wife’s first name, how many kids, their names, and so on.” Joe opened another drawer and, unable to control himself, enjoying the action so much, closed it, having meant to leave it open for the curate to close. “Parish correspondence. Strictly chronological”—Joe decided not to mention the stuff that came from Toohey undated, or dated, say, “Thursday.” Joe went over to the bookcase, reached down to the bottom shelf, and slapped a big canvas-bound volume. “Parish register. Really something when I came here. Vital statistics on scraps of paper stuck inside, never entered.” Joe handed a loose-leaf binder to the curate, involving him. “Index to the parish register. My idea. You don’t have to hunt through the parish register every time somebody wants a baptismal certificate. Have to keep the index up to date, though, or it’s useless. Be one of your jobs.” The curate — involved? — put the index back in the bookcase. Joe, going over to the desk, caught himself before he sat down at it from force of habit, and went to one of the lemon chairs formerly in his office. “Sit down, Father. No, at the desk.” After the curate had done this, Joe said, “You don’t say much, Father.”
“About what?”
“Anything. The office area. Weren’t you surprised when you saw it?”
“No. I mean I’d heard about it.”
Joe sniffed, assuming the worst. “There’s been a lot of talk. Most of it pro, but some of it con. You know the clergy. Or maybe you don’t. They come out here and sneer at the office area, laugh at my bathroom — it’s orange and black tile, bright orange, an architect’s error.” Joe shook his head. “I’ve taken a lot, and not just from the clergy. ‘Father, when will you build God a nice house?’ One of the nuns — thank God they’re gone for the summer.” (What the nun had actually said was, “Father, when will you build God a nice house like yours?” to which he’d swiftly replied, “And like yours, Sister?”) “But most of the negative comment comes from the clergy — from guys who wish they’d built the rectory first and now are afraid they’ll never get it. It’s not easy to sell people on a rectory after you’ve sold them on a church, especially if they’re still paying for the church, especially if there’s already a rectory of sorts. Fortunately, there wasn’t one here, just the beginnings of one, a basement, where my predecessor lived, and I built the convent there. Fortunately, I say, because the rectory would’ve been like the church — on the small side, wartime construction, nothing like this. These guys”—coming back to his critics, and in case the curate was one—“like to forget I spent a year in a trailer and lived in a room in the school. And God’ll get a new house, God willing. Just waiting until the time is ripe, saving the best wine till last.” (This didn’t, as it had the Arch and his reverend consultors, move the curate visibly.) “What I don’t like about waiting, apart from the overcrowding at the late Masses on Sunday, is the way construction costs keep rising. And as I see it, money’s going to get tighter. Don’t suppose you know much about that — money.”
“No. Not much.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to hear we don’t talk about it here — in church. We just present the bill for services rendered, like doctors and lawyers.” Joe explained his fiscal system. “Actually, it’s just the old pew-rent system updated, with the option of time payments — something people today understand. I had the Sunday-envelope system, but they were killing me with their vacations. Summer and winter. In the history of the world there’s never been a time like this for travel — everybody and his brother. With my overhead, I had to do something.”
“Five hundred seems a lot.”
“In most cases, in a parish like this, it’s not three percent of the family income. The Mormons, I understand, get ten.”
“Still seems a lot.”
“It’s not for every parish. Ideally, it should only be tried in new parishes, so you don’t have the troublesome changeover period.” Joe hadn’t passed through that period yet.
“Still seems a lot.”
Hey, whose side you on? “The old nickel-and-dime days are over, Father, but if it’ll make you feel any better I’ll handle that part for the time being.”
“Thanks.”
Joe got up, went to the desk, on which a light snow of paper had fallen since the curate’s first visit, and dipping into it, selected an unimportant letter. “Answer this one right away, will you? I’ve made a note on the margin so you’ll know what to say. Keep it brief. Sign your name — Assistant Pastor. Better let me have a look at it before you seal it.” So the curate could get on with it, Joe headed back to his office.
“Does it have to be typed?”
Joe pulled up short. “How’s that?”
“Can’t type it.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Can’t type.”