“Crame ice, lad?”
“I better not, Father — on account of the race.”
“Ah, the race! Ah, Sisters!” Father Day tipped his black hat to Sister Agatha and Sister Margaret. “My young friend Jack, here, he’s in the race and vairrree flooht of fleeht.”
Father Day laughed at his slip of tongue, and so did Joe, but Sister Agatha and Sister Margaret didn’t — they moved up to the ice cream stand.
“Two cones, please,” said Sister Agatha.
Father Stock called out to Father Day, “Mind stepping over to the rectory, Father? Saucers and spoons for the Sisters.”
“Oh, bother,” said Sister Agatha. “Two cones, please.”
“Or Eskeemo Pies,” said Sister Margaret.
“No, no,” said Father Stock, shaking his square head.
“Not a-tall, not a-tall,” said Father Day, and hurried off to the rectory.
Sister Agatha, looking put out, came over to Joe and whispered, “Father Day knows your father’s name is John — he thinks that’s your name too—that’s why he calls you Jack.”
Joe, embarrassed, whispered, “Sister, I know.”
Sister Agatha whispered, “Then you should’ve corrected Father — it should’ve been done right away — it wouldn’t have been impolite. Remember that in future.”
“Yes, Sister,” Joe whispered.
Sister Margaret whispered to herself, “Oh, what people must think!”
Father Stock called out, “You, boy!”
“Yes, Father.”
“Run and tell Father Day I said to give you the saucers and spoons.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And tell him I said not to hurry back.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Run, boy.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Go!”
“Yes, Father.” And before Father Stock could delay him again (not to speak when spoken to was impolite), Joe went, ran.
He met Father Day coming out of the rectory with the saucers and spoons wrapped in a napkin, and told him what Father Stock had said.
“Said that, did he? Not to come back?”
“Not to hurry back, Father.”
“He’s the buss,” Father Day whispered to himself, his monkey face looking different, older, and giving Joe the saucers and spoons, turned toward the rectory.
“Father, you’re not coming back?”
“I am not.”
“But you’ll miss the race, Father.”
“I’ll be watchin’ from me window above. God speed yez, Jack.”
“Yes, Father.”
Joe ran back to the stand, holding the saucers and spoons so they wouldn’t rattle. Father Stock unwrapped them, stuck the napkin in his hip pocket, motioned Sister Agatha and Sister Margaret up to the stand, and said to one of the women behind the counter, “Double dips for the Sisters. No charge.”
Joe moved away from the stand, away from an old smelly man who looked like a tramp and said to the woman who’d handed him a cone, “No charge.” A joke?
“Pay Father,” the woman said.
The old man licked the cone.
“Father,” the woman said.
Father Stock said, “Five cents, mister.”
The old man licked the cone. “Try and git it.”
Joe was astonished to see Father Stock lie across the counter and, like a swimmer doing the breaststroke, swat the cone to the ground, the ice cream, only one dip, coming out of the cone and settling in the grass.
“No way to do,” the old man said, squatting down — Joe saw he wasn’t wearing socks — and was trying to scoop up the ice cream with the cone, but couldn’t, and was going to use his fingers when Father Stock helped him to his feet and pointed him toward the rectory. The old man still had the cone and was chewing on it with his gums.
“I’m turning this bird in,” Father Stock said to the women behind the counter, and to Joe, “Make change while I’m gone, boy.”
So Joe, warned by the women to watch out for Canadian coins (“Somebody tried to give Father one!”—“The very idea!”) and shown the cashbox, made change while the women filled orders and discussed the saucers on the counter (Sister Agatha and Sister Margaret had disappeared), one woman for putting the ice cream back in the freezer, the other one for letting it stay right there, where Father could see it when he returned. There wasn’t so much business. One woman could’ve handled it, and the other one, though she’d have to wash her hands if she went back to filling orders when Father Stock returned, could’ve made change. Joe wanted to say this to the women, but was afraid it wouldn’t do any good, and so said nothing. Then, when he couldn’t wait any longer — he’d been watching the crowd gathering over by the church — he blurted out, “I have to go now.” “Oh, dear!”—“Can’t you wait?” Knowing what that meant — he couldn’t leave now — and too embarrassed to say anything, he turned away from the women so they couldn’t see his face. He wanted to cry, but didn’t, just snuffled. “Oh, dear!”—“Did you go?” He was even more embarrassed, staring down at the cashbox. “Did somebody give you one?”—“A dime or a quarter?” He shook his head, not embarrassed, just annoyed. “Did somebody say something?”—“Oh, you poor kid!” He realized then that they knew who he was and had seen the picture in the paper.
“Here, what’s this?” said Father Stock, returning and seeing the ice cream melting in the saucers on the counter, but wouldn’t listen to the women, said “Shhh!” to them, for Sister Agatha was also returning to the stand. “Sister,” Father Stock said to her, “you and Sister didn’t eat your ice cream. Where’s Sister?”
“Over in church,” said Sister Agatha. “Praying. For you, Father. Oh, how you treated that poor old soul!”
“Now, now, Sister. Gave him a good talking-to and let him go. Gave him a dollar.”
Joe was astonished to hear this and thought Sister Agatha would be, but if she was she didn’t show it.
“And that’s not all, Father. You made Joe, here, miss the race with your — your moneychanging.”
“Sister, that was not my intention — and that’s what counts, fortunately for all of us here below. Come with me, boy. Make change while I’m gone, Sister, and eat your ice cream. Eat Sister’s too.”
Joe followed Father Stock through the crowd, over to where, alongside the church, the race had been run, where Sister Martina was assembling the contestants for the next event, and where Joe gave up the idea that Father Stock, who could do it, would order the race rerun.
“Sister, this boy, through no fault of his, missed the foot race. Please see that he gets one of those sacks.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but they’re all taken. Unless”—Sister Martina raised her voice—“someone would be willing to give up his or hers?”
A girl who wasn’t in hers yet, a sixth-grader who wore tortoiseshell glasses, said, “I would, Sister.”
“Good for you, Dolores,” said Sister Martina (who taught the sixth grade).
Father Stock smiled at the girl, at Joe, said (to Sister Martina), “I have to get back to my stand,” and left.