“Bad news, Joe. Al Fresco’s in the hospital. Bleeding ulcer.”
Joe was sorrier than he would have thought to hear this, but said, “What he gets for eating beans out of the can.”
“Frucht’s afraid Al won’t be back.”
“Don’t need two men at Holy Cross. Slum parishes aren’t what they used to be. Somebody should tell the Arch.”
“He’s got the shakes.”
“Who?”
“Fruchtenberg. He’s in charge.”
Joe sniffed. “What’s the difference in a parish like that?” And got up to make a drink. He was back to thinking of his own trouble, of ways out, trying to see this as one of those situations from which the wise pastor ostensibly retires and handles through his assistant—“Father flew to Florida, Your Excellency, to be at the bedside of his parents [“One of his parents, Bill”] and deeply regrets he can’t be with us today”—and was still getting nowhere. Oh, the humiliation there’d be for him when he told Bill, who really should be told, the Cheerleaders were coming — assuming Bill didn’t already know this (from Lane?) and hadn’t meant anything ominous by it when, presumably speaking only of the Arch’s engagement to bless the rectory, he’d said what he had (“I guess I figured since it hadn’t happened, it wouldn’t… like the end of the world”). If Bill did know the Cheerleaders were coming (and if he did, why didn’t he say so?), the humiliation for Joe would be even greater when, if… no, don’t. Don’t tell Bill. Let it ride. Let it all happen in the morning… like the end of the world. No, Bill should be told even if he already knew, for Joe didn’t know that, and therefore when he came out of the bathroom with his drink he said:
“Bill, I called Toohey.”
Bill just looked at Joe.
“About ‘the other.’ Remember?”
Bill nodded, sort of.
“Bill, what it is… is.” Joe shook his head and was, though he’d been about to go through with it again, silent again, looking down into his glass.
“Joe, I know what it is — and I’m sorry.”
Joe looked up from his glass, blushing.
Bill, also blushing, tried to explain. He said that Herb had met the Arch at some affair in the city and had got him to say yes to the Cheerleaders, but that this had happened before Joe said no to them, at which point Herb had been in a bind. Then, when, later, the Arch promised Joe to come out and bless the rectory, Bill had been in a bind. But had been hoping—“You said there was a good chance, Joe”—that Toohey would somehow queer the deal. “If that had happened, Joe, there wouldn’t be any problem. I mean, Herb would understand — he’s not a bad guy, Joe. He thought you’d be pleased. I wasn’t so sure. But I didn’t think you’d mind — to this extent.”
“Whyn’t you tell me this before?”
“Herb asked me not to. He said if you found out he went to the Arch before he went to you, you’d think he’d gone over your head. You would’ve too.”
Joe, not saying so but agreeing, was silent, wondering whether he’d have had the guts to say no if he’d known the Arch had said yes, whether, in fact, since that was the situation now, he had the guts to say no now.
“Joe, as I see it, when the Arch said yes to Herb, the whatchamacallit was cast.”
“The die.”
“Right. Joe, what is this die?”
“It’s the singular for dice.”
“I see. So what’s the deal on tomorrow, Joe?”
“We’ll see.”
Bill finished his beer and rose to leave, which was all right with Joe that night — it wasn’t that he was sore at Bill, it was just that there was nothing to say. “See you in the morning, Joe.”
“Uh-huh.” In the morning. What a thing to say, even if Bill hadn’t, and he hadn’t, meant anything ominous by it.
“Joe, I don’t know if you’ve thought of it or not, but as I see it, you ought to try to see this as a, well, cross.”
Joe sniffed. “Some cross,” he said.
“G’night, Joe.”
“G’night, Bill.”
A couple of drinks later, around midnight, Joe did what he should have done earlier, hours earlier, called the Arch and heard him say:
“Hello. This is a recorded message. Please identify yourself and state your business briefly. If necessary, I’ll get back to you. Go ahead.”
“Father Hackett, SS Francis and Clare’s, Inglenook,” Joe said, making an effort to speak effortlessly. “This is about tomorrow morning, Your Excellency. I think you should know, if you don’t, that I said no, nothing doing, to the Cheerleaders, that congratulatory group. This is such a low-grade operation that I don’t think a priest, and even less a bishop — the Church, Your Excellency — should have anything to do with it. So, when I learned, as I did only this morning, that it’s on and that you’re in on it, well, to put it mildly, Your Excellency, it came as one hell of a shock to me. I realize it’s late, but not too late, I hope, to call off your visitation tomorrow, even if this means postponing the blessing. That’s all I have to say. Thank you. G’night.”
That “G’night” could sound silly in the morning, perhaps alcoholic, Joe thought, and was about to go into the bathroom with his empty glass when he didn’t, surprising himself but not much (the next time might be different). He wandered over to the windows and seeing the weather ball — red — wished he had the whole message back. Would that have been — to have said nothing — to despair? NOO, said the water tank. Was this — to have said something — to hope? NOO. Did anything mean anything? NOO. Was that the phone? NOO.
“St Francis.”
“You’re St Francis, I’m Lyndon B. Johnson.”
“Not tonight.”
In the morning, Joe got up with difficulty, with a head of lead, but wasn’t sorry (had feared he might be) that he’d called the Arch so late. For now there was a sporting chance — he rated it two to one — that the Chancery would call to say the Arch was indisposed, in which case, if the Cheerleaders had to be so informed, Bill (“Herb would understand”) could handle it. So, before going over to church for his Mass — naturally, when he could have used the sleep, he had the early one — Joe told Bill (still in bed) to be sure and find out, if word came from the Chancery of the Arch’s indisposition, whether the Cheerleaders had been so informed. “And don’t let Toohey hang up on you. Take a firm line with him. That’s what I do.”
After Mass, when Joe asked him, Bill said there hadn’t been any word from the Chancery. It was still early, too early, Joe told himself. He had orange juice for breakfast, while scourging himself with thoughts about cutting down on his drinking, then went and sat in his office. When the time was now or never, you’d think, to call off an eleven o’clock engagement — one involving, among other things, a big bass drum — there was still no word from the Chancery. The odds had gone up to five to one, and these were Joe’s odds — any other bookmaker would have doubled them. Then — it could be anybody, though — the phone rang.
“St Francis.”
“This is just to confirm he’ll be out there at eleven sharp,” Toohey said, and hung up.
For the next hour, with the door closed between the offices, Joe was in a state, walking around in circles, shooting out of orbit from time to time to do some dusting, until, to get away from Bill’s typing, music to Joe’s ears these days but that day deafening, he went upstairs to his halloween bathroom where, standing before the open medicine cabinet, having already had four aspirins, and an eyecup catching his eye, he changed his prescription, poured himself a small gin and knelt down (the frosted window was up a bit) to see if he’d heard what he thought he had in the street, yes, at the curb, disembarking from their cars, their drum from a station wagon, the Cheerleaders in full fig (male and female made he them, but for this?), and a heavily armed photographer, no, two, oh, no, Brad… all of them, a hellish host, advancing on the rectory, and then, sliding into the breach of the driveway, the archiepiscopal car of hearselike length and breadth and hue, the rocket trail of mud splashmarks on its flank giving it a sinister GHQ look to Joe, who, rising from his knees, joints buckling, staggered away from the window and poured himself another small gin and, hearing the doorbell, seated himself on the toilet, its lid down not for the purpose it then served, not for sitting on while sipping an aperitif, but on general principles, and heard, as he’d known he would, Bill come for him, announce through the bathroom door, calmly, the end of the world.