“The Arch’s here, Joe, and Toohey’s in a hurry.”
Silence.
“Joe?”
Silence.
Bill tried the door — locked.
Joe, afraid he was getting in too deep, replied, feebly, “Not feeling well, Bill.”
“Not feeling well, Joe?”
“Awful.”
“Indigestion?”
“You might say.”
“Joe, you need a doctor?”
“No.”
“O.K., Joe. I’ll tell ’em what you said.”
Thinking how that would sound to the Arch and Toohey if they’d both audited his nocturnal message, or if the Arch hadn’t and Toohey had broken it down for him—“Don’t be surprised, Bishop, if he’s indisposed”—Joe rose up, took a swig of Lavoris for his breath’s sake, and would have rushed out the door if it hadn’t been locked, unlocked it, and rushed out.
When he came to the front door and heard the voices on the other side, he was tempted to go down to his office, to the lavatory there, but didn’t. He went out the front door and was warmly received by the Cheerleaders — Herb, however, not among them — and by the Arch, who called to Toohey (who stood apart, with Brad, in the shade of the rectory), “What’d I tell you, Monsignor?”
“Thought we’d do it here on the steps,” the Universe photographer said to Joe.
“That so?”
The NS photographer, coming out of the shade, said to Joe, “They say we can’t shoot it, Father.”
“That so?”
“Say they have your permission.”
“That so?”
“And we don’t.”
“O.K. You’ve got it.”
“Thanks, Father. You won’t regret it. We’re shootin’ color.”
If the Cheerleaders and the man from the Universe (who, though, didn’t seem to give a shit) had expected Joe’s decision to be reversed by higher authority, they were mistaken, since there is no higher authority on earth than a pastor in his parish, and the Arch, knowing this and smiling away, was obviously pleased with Joe for being so masterful, so pastorful, as Joe was, while aware that all he’d done, in the interest of fair play, was assure that the task at hand be performed by both executioners.
“Thought we’d do it here on the steps,” said the one.
“Where the hell else?” said the other.
So — with the Arch in the middle, and next to him Joe and Bill, and next to them two females, with four males behind, and kneeling down in front, alongside the drum, two more, one of whom struck the drum before each take (three takes), making for smiles and merriment all around, with one grim exception — the deed was done.[1]
Joe, first to break out of formation, was approached by Toohey, who said, “Hope you’re ready for him inside,” or, as Joe construed it, Look, Shorty, if it’s slipped your mind what else he’s here for, better round up some holy water and a candle.
“The curate took care of everything,” Joe said.
They stood together in uneasy silence, watching the Arch and the Cheerleaders, the Arch giving them one and all a lube job. “Get on with it,” Toohey muttered. And the Arch, as if in response, finished up, looked around to see where he was now, and came over to Joe with his hand out, which Joe shook, the Arch saying to him:
“Nice group, Father. Oh, there’s something in what you said last night, but a lot more in what you did this morning.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Wham!
The Arch smiled frostily.
Joe had been hoping for more of a response, believing as he did that the separation of Church and Dreck was a matter of life and death for the world, that the Church was the one force in the world with a chance to save it (but first, “Physician, heal thyself!”), and he was still hoping for more of a response when Toohey intervened, “We’re running late, Bishop,” and so they went inside and got on with the blessing.
[1] In the color photo that appeared in the NS, the Arch, Joe, and Bill were all smiling broadly, especially Joe, and the Cheerleaders, with all their pomps, were nowhere to be seen.
PART THREE
29. SEPTEMBER
JOE SAT IN the sanctuary of the cathedral with Egan’s set and others either eminent or, like himself, associated in some way with the deceased. Hardly any laity present, and few of the clergy went on to the cemetery. After the prayers at the grave, about to go to his car, Joe was detained by a layman of scholarly mien, well dressed in black but much too tall, who said, “I was instructed by the deceased to give this to you here, in the cemetery, Father. I’m his lawyer.”
Joe accepted the envelope, reading on it, in shivering blue-black script, Courtesy Mr Von Keillor, and asked, “What if I hadn’t been able to come to the cemetery?”
“I was instructed to get in touch with you.”
“And if I hadn’t been able to come to the funeral?”
“The same.”
So the deceased had considered that possibility too, as Joe had. He wanted to open the envelope then and there, out of curiosity, and so didn’t. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good day, Father.”
In the seclusion of his car, Joe opened the envelope and read:
Dear Joseph—
You were right.
I was wrong.
Pray for me.
Wm Stock
A few days later a letter came from Mr Von Keillor saying that the deceased had made a bequest in the amount of $10,000 to Joe. Wondering if the deceased had said why, Joe phoned the long lawyer, who, though, couldn’t or wouldn’t help him in that respect but suggested he get in touch with Father Butler. Joe had already thought of doing this, and now did, by phone.
“I understand you’re Father Stock’s executor.”
“That’s right.”
“So you know he left me ten grand.”
“Yes.”
“There were other beneficiaries?”
“Yes. The pastor remembered all his assistants still living.”
“Still in organized ball, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Including Father Day?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. He earned it. How about Beeman?”
“Who?”