“So that’s it, huh?”
“More or less.”
Less, Joe was afraid.
“Think I’ll go to bed, Father, unless there’s something you want to say.”
“No.”
“Thanks for not chewing me out. Or is that coming later?”
“No, not if I can help it. Just don’t say anything—about any of this — to Father Felix.”
“I won’t.”
“G’night, Bill.”
“G’night, Joe.”
It was the first time, Joe realized, that Bill had dared, or maybe cared, to call him Joe.
21. THE CRUNCH
THE NEXT MORNING (Saturday) after the mail came, Joe closed the door between the offices and for some reason, maybe to get a hold on himself, dialed Time and Temperature. “Thanks,” he said to the recorded voice. Then he opened and read the letter from the Chancery, stopped at your parish is therefore assessed, but carried on to the end, then started over. To be fair, he couldn’t on the face of it assign the blame to Toohey, since the letter was on stationery and typewritten, or to the Arch, since it just didn’t sound like him (manifest need, manifold purpose), though it was, of course, signed by him. It was manifest that the blame was manifold: Mayer, Mayer and Maher, of Chicago, by appointment consultants in finance and development to the Archdiocese and given office space in the Chancery, offered their special individualized, confidential services to you and your parish, be it large or small, and their Mr McMaster should be contacted by interested pastors without delay.
Joe read the letter again, and that was all he did that morning, again and again.
“Backlog of work, owing to the retreat. Won’t be hearing this afternoon,” he told Bill and Father Felix at lunch. He spent most of the afternoon in thought. But about an hour before dinner, he started typing — just a rough draft.
“Catching up with my correspondence. Won’t be hearing this evening,” he told Bill and Father Felix at dinner.
Hours later, after Bill and Father Felix had gone to bed, Joe was still at his typewriter, firing away.
He was in a dazed state when he put the final product in a protective folder and carried it upstairs. He stopped in the kitchen for ice, and after making himself a drink, settled down in his BarcaLounger to give the final product its final reading, which took a while.
Well?
Well, allowing for the circumstance that it was his own work, discounting some for that, he found that he was still very favorably impressed — yes, it was quite a letter.
Why?
Well, it stated the facts, its language was well chosen, its tone was just right — courage in adversity and respect for authority. This was a letter that would not be read lightly and tossed aside. This was a letter that would certainly be pondered and possibly acted upon favorably.
Was this a letter that was, perhaps, a little long?
A little, perhaps, but then it had to be in order to cover the ground as it did, so well.
The odd thing was that when you finally came to the end of the letter you wished, well, you hadn’t. And wanted to read it again. That was Joe’s experience anyway. He read it again. And again. He made himself a drink and — guess what? — he wanted to read the letter again. And did. It was quite a letter all right.
Before he let himself read it again, he freshened his drink. It was then, soon after that, that he found himself first murmuring against the letter, then talking back to it, then mimicking it—“Thanking you in advance, Your Excellency, for any consideration you may see fit…”—literally incapable of reading it as it was meant to be read by the Arch, reading it, rather, as it might be read by, say, Toohey.
Oh, no!
Oh, yes.
Tearing the letter into small, flushable bits, and likewise the carbon copy, he bolted up from his BarcaLounger to dispose of them and to freshen his drink.
He’d had a narrow escape.
The next day (Sunday), after the last Mass, Joe told Bill to look after Father Felix until it was time for his bus and to drive him to it. “Here,” he said, and gave Bill a twenty. “See that you both have a very tasty meal. Don’t count on me. Still have work to do, owing to the retreat.”
“Anything I can do to help, Joe?”
“No.” Short of robbing a bank. “Thanks.”
So Joe went down to his office and, playing a long-shot hunch, spent a couple of hours trying to write a short letter— “… difficult if not impossible in the circumstances, Your Excellency, but rest assured I’ll”—and tore it up. Having made two trips to the kitchen he made a third for beer, this time picking up the paper (Bill and Father Felix had gone out), and returned to his office to read the one while drinking the other. His horoscope said: “Don’t let irritation shake you from a methodical approach to a financial problem or property deal you are involved in. Your love life is confused but very happy now. Take thought.” He lay down on the couch to take thought, or a nap, and was soon hotly engaged in conversation with Mayer, Mayer and Maher, their Mr McMaster.
JOE: Look. All I want to know from you is (a) are Mayer, Mayer and Maher taking their cut off the gross — projected or actual?; (b) what is that cut percentagewise?; and (c) is it deductible? Speak.
McM: Deductible from what, Father?
JOE: From my nut if I make it without calling in you frickers.
McM: Monsignor, Father called me a name.
TOOHEY: No, no, Mac. Frick, you see, wrote a textbook in use at the sem in our time. His name, for that reason, became a byword among us.
JOE: All right, Catfish. What’s the cut and is it deductible?
TOOHEY: Busy here. Hey, Ordinary! It’s frickin’ Joe Hackett. You better talk to him. It’s about you-know-what. Fry his ass.
ARCH: Don’t tell me you clowns sent that frickin’ form letter to Joe! He’s special! Thought you at least knew that! Hello, Joe. This is your Ordinary. About that letter, look, I’m sorry. It was never meant for you, Joe. A frickin’ clerical error. Forget it, Joe, if you can.
JOE: I’ll do my best, Your Excellency.
ARCH: Just call me Arch, Joe.
JOE: Arch.
ARCH: Or Albert.
JOE: I’d rather not.
ARCH: Joe, though it does have its disadvantages at a time like this, I’ve long been an admirer of your system — did you know that our dear brothers in Abraham, in this as in everything else, were first in the field? — and I only wish more of my men had a modicum of your guts and pizzazz. Hell, send in whatever you can — spiritual bouquets if you’re really strapped. Tear up that frickin’ letter. O.K., Joe?