“No.”
“Didn’t get around to it,” Jim explained. “Talkin’ about my inventory.”
“Reporter from the local paper, Father.” Nan was obviously pleased to be the one to tell him the good news. “He’s doing a story about us maybe losing this place. He was real uptight about it.”
“Family man himself,” Jim explained.
Joe, wondering how he could tell them the bad news, decided not to, and used the sprig of mint in his drink to stir the ice cubes in it, then tried it — yes, the red table wine. “Where’re the kids, Nan?”
“At Badger, Father. Registered nurse in the playroom.”
Jim explained, “It’s not free. You have to show a sales slip.”
Nan said, “But I don’t like to park our kids there too long, Father.”
Joe nodded, gravely, in tribute to motherhood, and wanted to depart on that note, but couldn’t, not yet. “Look. If I were you people I wouldn’t count too much on a story in the local paper.”
“Oh, we don’t,” Nan said. “Not on that.”
“The wire services’ll pick it up,” Jim explained.
“And TV,” Nan said.
Joe sniffed. “This reporter tell you that?”
“No, but that’s how it works,” Jim explained.
“You see it all the time,” Nan said.
Joe sniffed. “Look. I thought you people wanted to leave.”
“We did, but now we don’t,” Jim explained.
“And why’s that — Nan?” (Joe preferred, but only slightly, talking to her.)
“Father, until this reporter interviewed us and the kids, and took pictures, I guess we just didn’t know how we really feel about this place.”
“And how’s that, Nan?”
“Father, it’s our home.”
“I see. That how you feel too, Jim?”
“Plus I have to think of my inventory.”
“I see.”
That night when Joe returned to the rectory (having been summoned to the city by the little hospital nun who watched over Father Day) Bill and Father Felix were drinking beer in the study with Greg, a muscular, long-haired type in a (to look on the bright side) plain white T-shirt, but in overalls and sneakers, these with fuzzy worn places around the toes and laces dangling, picking up germs.
“Asked Greg to wait,” Bill said, “but didn’t think you’d be so long.”
“Took longer than I thought.” Joe hadn’t said where he was going, only “Some calls to make,” which, though, had turned out to be the truth by the time he’d tracked his old confessor back to the hospital and found him snoring in his bed. “Sorry, Greg.”
“No harm done,” Father Felix said. “Gave us a chance to rap.”
Joe, thinking the word would soon be obsolete but not soon enough, seated himself in his BarcaLounger — it was warm. Bill? Father Felix? Bill.
“Greg was telling us about his draft problem,” Bill said to Joe.
“Care to tell me about it, Greg?”
“You already know. Barb told you.”
Barb, huh? “Your mother didn’t tell me much. I didn’t ask her to. Thought I’d wait and ask you.”
“Against war, is all. Lotta shit.”
“Now, now,” said Father Felix. “We’re all against war, if it comes to that, Greg.”
“If? You mean until.”
True, Joe thought.
“It hasn’t come to that yet,” Father Felix said. “This war is still undeclared, Greg.”
“For you, not for me.”
True, Joe thought.
Bill said, “Greg told us he was a language major before he dropped out of college, Joe.”
“So?”
“So we were wondering if he could maybe go on with his education in the service — maybe learn Russian.”
“Or even Chinese,” said Father Felix.
Joe, sorry but not surprised to see Greg close his eyes and shake his head in dismay as seen on TV, said, “Not his immediate problem, is it — going on with his education?”
“Maybe not,” Bill said, “but I understand only one in ten sees action.”
Greg opened his eyes. “I don’t intend to be one of the ten, or the nine. And I don’t intend to throw myself on the mercies of my local draft board as a c.o.”
“You’d be wise not to do that,” Father Felix said. “Greg, if it’s such a matter of conscience with you and worst comes to worst shoot at their legs. That’s what I’d do.”
“I can’t tell — is he kiddin’?” Greg said to Joe.
“Afraid not.” Joe got up to go to the bathroom, saying, “I’ve heard that one before, though not recently. In the seminary. It’s a crazy world.”
“That may be,” Father Felix said, his voice following Joe into the bathroom, “but there’s more than one way to be against war and—what’s more to the point — to work for peace.”
“Shoot over their heads?” said Greg.
Joe, listening to their conversation while he made himself a drink in the bathroom, appeared among them again, still listening.
“Greg, have you thought—enough, I mean — of your folks?” said Bill.
“And your brother in Nam?” said Father Felix.
“Don’t forget the fuckin’ neighbors,” said Greg.
Joe — he’d heard enough — spoke then.
WITH SOME AUTHORITY
Since he was (and the fathers, here, weren’t) Greg’s pastor, and since he had given some thought to the subject of war, more than most people and certainly more than most clergy [“Humph!” said Father Felix], including St Thomas Aquinas and the late Cardinal Spellman [“Dear me!” said Father Felix], he (Joe) spoke with some authority and wished, if possible, to be heard [“Humph!” said Father Felix].
HOPING FOR BEST
The fathers, here, wanted Greg to go on with his education and to enjoy the benefits he’d have coming to him, not least the respect and gratitude of the nation—“It says here”—and of the copulating neighbors [“Joe, this is a serious business,” said Father Felix, and Bill nodded]. The fathers, here, also wanted Greg to realize that if he followed another course he’d be giving himself, and those near and dear to him, a lot of grief. He’d be in jail, or on the run, marked for life. So Greg should be in no doubt that the fathers, here, meant well by him and hoped for the best.
INVIDIOUS COMPARISON
But then the fathers, there, in Italy and Germany, during the Second World War and before — Abyssinia and Spain — had also meant well by their people and hoped for the best.
“An invidious comparison!” cried Father Felix. “The Italian and German clergy were placed in a very unfortunate position in the Second World War.”
“As they were in the First World War,” Joe said, “enemies then, marching to different drummers, actually the same one, not hating each other, though, only hating each other’s ideas. Used to hear that one a lot during the last war — last but two, I mean.”
“I didn’t,” said Father Felix.
“Never heard it?” said Joe.
“Rarely,” said Father Felix. “In any case, Joe, judge not, lest ye…”
“Gotcha. Dresden, Hiroshima, Nagasaki.”
PASSING THE BUCK
For the faithful to have followed another course in Germany would have meant, as it did mean for a few, the ax — literally. Heroic virtue had been called for, and this for most people, paralyzed or galvanized by nationalism, the bad wine of the country, was unthinkable — literally. [“Don’t blame the clergy,” said Father Felix.] The German clergy, knowing what people are like in wartime and not being so different themselves — as we aren’t — had once again passed the buck, which was passed on to their dear brothers in Christ in, for a start, Czechoslovakia, then Poland, then France. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori! How sweet and meet it is to die for my country! And to take a few with me, with ecclesiastical approbation. That the faithful — faithful to what? — expect no more from themselves and the Church, this is the world’s worst and longest-running scandal. [“Don’t blame the Church,” said Father Felix.]