Wheat That Springeth Green Read online

  Uncle Bobby, who said of Daddy and himself, “He’s coal, I’m ice,” and of Joe, “He’s a little of both,” had built up the ice end of Hackett’s by stopping home deliveries, by concentrating on hotels, institutions, and reefers (refrigerated boxcars), by moving into soft drinks (after consulting Joe) and now into near beer.

  If Joe decided to be a businessman and someday stepped into Daddy’s shoes, Uncle Bobby, only an employee now, would become a full partner in Hackett’s.

  Uncle Bobby and Joe were, as Daddy wasn’t with either one of them, pals. When they were out in Uncle Bobby’s Chrysler coupe, a tan one with a thin red stripe, wire wheels, and a rumble seat, they honked at chicks (what Uncle Bobby, from Kansas City, called them) in high-heel pumps and said, “Hotsy totsy!” and “Hot ziggity!” to each other. But Joe was backward with people unless he knew them, and Uncle Bobby wasn’t. At the barbershop in the First National Bank Building (where Joe now went), when Uncle Bobby said, “Whatcha say, Red!” to the old colored man who shined shoes, Joe said nothing, just smiled, as he did when Uncle Bobby said, “Hello, Beautiful!” to the manicurist who had a spit curl like Betty Boop and wore a uniform like a nurse, only pink, with high-heel pumps and no stockings. While she was doing him, Uncle Bobby would talk about how tired he was from his heavy dates and ask about his chances with her, winking at Joe and the barbers. (Joe wished he could wink like Uncle Bobby, so quick, like the tongue of a snake, but couldn’t, he’d found, practicing it at home in front of a mirror, each time having to wait for it.) At the bakery shop in the Arcade, Uncle Bobby ate cookies right out of the showcase, passed some to Joe, and made the chicks who worked there (who at first said, “No! No!”) laugh and squeal when he said he’d eat them if they weren’t very careful. Hugging and kissing them, he’d say, “C’mon, Speed”—sometimes he called Joe that, or Ace—”get y’self some of this!” Joe wanted to, but didn’t, just smiled. In the end, Joe paid for everything with Uncle Bobby’s money, keeping the change, and sometimes the chicks, panting, fluffing out their hair, and adjusting their uniforms, would say, “What a pair!”

  Uncle Bobby—a non-Catholic, he didn’t have to go to church —got a lot of fun out of life. And if Joe did decide to be a businessman and not a priest, he could marry somebody he knew, maybe Frances, even if she was two years older, who could become a convert (as Mama had when she married Daddy) but probably wouldn’t because she was so snippy and contrary (when Joe had tried “Hello, Beautiful!” on her, both times she’d said, “Shut up!”). Or he could be single like Uncle Bobby and have heavy dates. Either way, married or single, if he decided to be a businessman he could go on living in the house—and have heat piped into the little tower, which could be his den.

  If he did decide to be a businessman, he would also perform good works, like Joseph of Arimathea, the rich merchant who’d paid for Our Lord’s tomb.

  If he decided to be a priest, he couldn’t go on living in the house. That was one of the bad things about being a priest, having to move around and maybe live in a run-down neighborhood such as Hackett’s plant was in because it had to be close to the railroad tracks. If he decided to be a priest in a religious order, though, he could live out in the country, at a college, and have invigorating walks and talks with students along the railroad tracks (different out there in the country), and maybe have some exciting adventures, and also do good, as often happened in the Father Finn books (“‘My God!’ cried the atheist”) that Sister Agatha read to the class at the end of the day if the class had been good. But Sister, though she belonged to a religious order herself, had advised Joe not to join one. Maybe if he decided to be a secular priest, as Sister was praying he and other guys in the class would, he wouldn’t mind living in a run-down neighborhood if, like Our Lord, he loved the poor, as he would if he decided to be a priest. But that was another bad thing about being a priest—always having to try to be like Our Lord.

  In the class play at Easter, when Joe was carrying the two-by-four cross, the hostile crowd was more hostile than it had been in practice—some guys were jealous of Joe for being Our Lord and even, in the case of Catfish Toohey, whose father was one of Daddy’s drivers, for being Joe. By wagging the long end of the cross behind him, Joe managed to keep back the hostile crowd and, when falling for the third time, had managed to bring one of the arms of the cross down like a hammer on the foot of Catfish, who’d let out a yell and hopped around on the other foot, causing a few in the audience to laugh and Iggy Buker’s father to call out, “Do it again!” After that performance, Sister Agatha had asked Joe to explain his conduct. “Catfish hit me a lot harder than he was supposed to, Sister, so I just hit him back.” Sister had been disgusted with Joe. “‘So I just hit him back.’ Anybody can do that! And with the cross! Joe, what must Our Lord think of you? Ask yourself that.”

  That might be the worst thing about being a priest, having to ask yourself that. Everybody had to, of course, but it wasn’t the same for other people, even for nuns. Priests were in a class by themselves. To them alone, not even to Our Blessed Mother, had Our Lord given the power to turn bread and wine into his body and blood, and to forgive sins. Such gifts couldn’t be fully understood by us here below, in our fallen state, Sister had told the class. “But just remember this, class, the next time there’s an electrical storm—thunder and lightning are as nothing, no more than the buzz of a fly, compared with the power of the priesthood.”

  That made up for all the bad things.

  One afternoon that summer there was an electrical storm when Joe and Frances were smoking his cigarettes in her garage, once a stable, the smell of the pony and the horses before it still there, and he told her about the power of the priesthood.

  “Religion,” she said, crossing her legs so he could see her garters but not very well in the dark. “It’s like Santa Claus, only it’s for old people afraid of dying.”

  “Frances, you don’t have to believe in it if you don’t. But if you do and you won’t—that’s the sin against the Holy Ghost, Sister said.”

  “Screw Sister,” Frances said.

  Try to get a lot of fun out of life, then, and also perform good works? But not have the high place in heaven (if there was one; Frances said there wasn’t) he’d have as a priest?

  These were questions Joe couldn’t answer that summer, and one evening when asked by the party people what he was going to be when he grew up, to be on the safe side, he said:

  “A businessman or a priest.”

  “Oh, be both dear, like Father Stock,” said Mama, the party people laughing—for the same reason, Joe knew, that Father Stock, who talked so much about money in his sermons and whose first name was William, was called, but not to his face, Dollar Bill.

  At the eight o’clock Mass that Sunday, Joe, the first server out of the sacristy, had to remember to ring the bell there on the sanctuary wall, which he did, but he must have pulled the chain too hard, or not let go of it soon enough, for the pierced brass globe that contained the bell and was the size of a basketball, came off the wall and crashed to the floor, spinning, the bell inside making a dying ha-ha noise. Joe stopped, wanting to put the thing back on the wall, or at least out of sight of the congregation, but Father Stock, behind Iggy, the other server, whispered, “No, no, boy, go ahead.”

  So Joe went ahead, to the foot of the altar, and with the thing there on the floor for everybody to see and blame him for pulling down, he was embarrassed all during Mass, even more when he didn’t have his back to the congregation, during the sermon (Father Stock urged the congregation not only to attend the parish social themselves but to bring along their good non-Catholic friends and neighbors) and during Holy Communion (those waiting to receive got a closer look at the thing and also at Joe when he, attending Father Day, the new but not-so-young assistant from Ireland, held the plate under their chins).

  In the sacristy after Mass, Father Day—he had a monkey face—smiled at Joe, but Father Stock, after sending Iggy to look for the janitor,
frowned at Joe. “Put out the candles, boy. They cost a fortune.” Joe made sure the candles didn’t smoke and returned to the sacristy with the snuffer. Father Day smiled at him again.

  “Hockitt’s the name?” Father Day had a frosty voice.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Hockitt’s Cull Iss Hut Stoof? That wan?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Ah, so. Will we see yez at the beano, lad?”

  “Father?”

  “At the social, Jack.”

  Jack? “Yes, Father. I’m in the race.”

  “Ah, the race. That I’ll have to see. Will yez win?”

  Joe was sure he would, and would make up for pulling down the bell, but like Tom Playfair in the Father Finn books, said, modestly, “I’ll do my best, Father.”

  “More power to yez, Jack.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  On the way home from church, Joe thought about his talk with Father Day (was glad Father Stock, with whom he’d never had one, had heard it), and at breakfast told Mama and Daddy about it (not about the Jack part, though, or anything about the bell), and repeated the funny part. “‘Hockitt’s Cull Iss Hut Stoof? That wan?’”

  “Drinks,” Daddy said, and got up from the table.

  “John.” Mama followed Daddy out of the room, calling back to Joe, “Daddy’s not feeling well. We won’t be going to church today. Eat your prunes, dear.”

  After breakfast, after looking everywhere else, Joe went upstairs and, standing at the closed door of Mama and Daddy’s bedroom, asked—reluctantly, because sometimes if you didn’t ask, you found things—“Where’s the paper?”

  “Oh,” Mama said, inside. “Oh. Has it come yet?”

  “Course.” It had been on the front porch when Joe left for Mass.

  “Oh, here it is!” Mama handed out the funnies and the sport section.

  Joe went down to the living room and was on the floor reading when Mama came in and sat down with a section of the paper, which, though, she wasn’t reading whenever he looked at her. He thought she wanted the funnies (she read them; Daddy didn’t), and so he hurried.

  “Dear. If I have to call the doctor for Daddy, we may need something from the drugstore. So we want you to stay around the house this afternoon.”

  “I can’t. I’m in the race.” What Mama had said, the craziness of it, hit him again. “Call the doctor now. I’ll go now.”

  Mama stood up looking sad, and Joe thought it was going to be one of those times when she said there was no use talking to him and left the room, but it wasn’t—she gave him the section of the paper she hadn’t been reading.

  And there, on the front page, was a picture of one of Daddy’s trucks—HACKETT’S COAL IS HOT STUFF. And under the picture, in big print, it said “HOT STUFF!” And under the picture, in small print, it said the truck had been seized with a load of Canadian whiskey.

  “The truck was stolen, dear.”

  Not Uncle Bobby then.

  “Or borrowed.”

  Uncle Bobby.

  “Daddy’s just sick about it, dear, and so am I.”

  So was Joe. It was worse than Tom Kane’s mother swearing at Sister Agatha in front of the class, worse than Iggy Buker’s father coming to the Easter play drunk, worse than—no, not worse than wetting your pants, what was always happening to Delbert Freeman (but wasn’t mentioned to him because he was such a good fighter).

  “We want you to stay around the house, dear.”

  “Because”—Joe was looking down at the funnies, not at Mama—“you might need something at the drugstore?” Chicken!

  “That’s right, dear.”

  Not stopping at the stands for refreshments or to try his luck, though he had plenty of money, and changing directions whenever he saw guys from the class, though he was, or had been, fairly popular, Joe kept moving through the crowd. He wanted it to be seen that he was there, that he hadn’t stayed away, but without attracting undue attention to himself until he won the race. That might make up for pulling down the bell and might even—but he was afraid it wouldn’t—make up for the picture in the paper.

  “Jack!”

  “Afternoon, Father.”

  But Father Day, though Joe had kept moving, caught him by the arm and held on to it while listening to an old poor woman (part of his job, another bad thing about being a priest) and saying “Ah, yiss” and “Och, no” to her until he could get away.

  “C’mon, lad. I’ll trate yez.”

  Joe was embarrassed when Father Day said to the two women at the ice cream stand, “Ah, ladies, if you please, for Jack, here, my young friend, a crame ice.” Crame ice!

  Father Stock was making change at that stand, and Joe thought maybe Father Day wouldn’t have to pay for the cone, since they were both priests, but he did. Joe remembered to thank him and was going off by himself (not impolite of him because Father Day was now listening to a young woman with a baby) when caught by the arm again. After that, Joe stood by whenever Father Day stopped to listen to people—some of them knew Joe and were probably surprised to hear him called Jack. Joe was embarrassed by that, but pleased with “my young friend” and with “He’s vairrree fleeht of fooht.”

  It was keen being with Father Day, going from stand to stand, spending money (Joe changed his five-dollar bill), with people following the two of them around because wherever they went there was excitement. At one of the wheels Father Day (“I’m the monn that broke the bank at Montee Carrrlo!”) won a half pound of sliced bacon and gave it to the old poor woman (who was one of the people following them around and who hurried off to put it in her icebox). At the stand where they threw lopsided baseballs at wooden milk bottles, Joe won a Kewpie doll and gave it to Frances, who was with a couple of Catholic friends. At that stand, though, Joe was embarrassed to see Father Day throw like a girl, underhand. And when they returned to the near beer stand and Father Day had another bottle (“A dozen of these min wouldn’t make a piint”), Joe was embarrassed again, because of the picture in the paper, and was glad when they moved on.

  “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.
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br />   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.