“I never was meant to be a Cadillac dealer or any other kind of dealer, Father,” said Julian.
“That sounded to me as though—you’re not a frustrated literary man, by any chance, are you? God forbid.”
“Oh, no,” said Julian. “I’m not anything. I guess I should have been a doctor.”
“Well—” the priest stopped himself, but his tone made Julian curious.
“What, Father?”
“You won’t think this sounds awful? No, of course you won’t. You’re a Protestant. Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve had my moments of wishing I’d taken some other life work. That doesn’t sound bad to you, because you weren’t brought up to believe in the true vocation. Well, I guess I better go inside. I keep forgetting I’m an old man.”
“How about a drink?” said Julian.
“I will if it isn’t too late. I’m fasting.” He looked at his big silver watch. “All right. I’ve time. I’ll have one with you.”
Surprisingly, no one had taken the bottle of Scotch off the table in Julian’s absence. The thieves, which was to say everyone, probably thought the owner of the bottle was in the toilet and was apt to surprise them in the act of stealing the liquor, a heinous offense.
“Oh, Scotch. Fine,” said the priest. “Do you like Irish whiskey?”
“I certainly do,” said Julian.
“I’ll send you a bottle of Bushmill’s. It isn’t the best Irish whiskey, but it’s good. And this stuff is real. Ed Charney sent me a case of it for a Christmas present, heaven only knows why. I’ll never do anything for that one. Well, your very good health and a happy New Year. Let’s see. Tomorrow’s St. Stephen’s Day. He was the first martyr. No, I guess we better stick to happy New Year.”
“Cheerio,” said Julian.
The old priest—Julian wondered exactly how old he was—drank his highball almost bottoms up. “Good whiskey,” he said.
“That came from Ed Charney, too,” said Julian.
“He has his uses,” said the priest. “Thank you, and good-bye. I’ll send you that Bushmills tomorrow or next day. ’Bye.” He left, a little stoop-shouldered but strong-looking and well-tailored. The talk had given Julian a lift, and the air had sobered him up. The tails hanging over his buttocks, the sleeves of his coat, the legs of his trousers were still cold, covered with cold, from his stand on the verandah, but he felt fine. He hurried out to dance with Caroline and others.
The orchestra was playing Three Little Words. He spotted Caroline, dancing with—it would be—Frank Gorman. Julian cut in, being no more polite about it than he had to.
“Have we met?” said Caroline.
“Ouimet. The name of a golfer. Francis Ouimet,” said Julian. “How did you ever remember the name?”
“Where have you been? I looked around for you after I came down from the johnny, but were you anywhere to be seen? Did you greet me at the foot of the stairs? Did you come dashing forth to claim the first dance? Did you? No. You did not. Then an hour passes. And so on.”
“I was having a very nice chat with Father Creedon.”
“Father Creedon? You were not. Not for long. He’s been sitting with Mrs. Gorman and her party most of the evening. You were getting drunk and you just happened to give him one drink so you could truthfully say you’d been with him. I know you, English.”
“You’re wrong as hell. He was with me for a long time. And I learned something.”
“What?”
“He thinks Harry Reilly is a horse’s ass,” said Julian.
She did not reply.
“What’s the matter with that? I think so too. I see eye to eye with Rome on that.”
“How did he happen to say that? What did you say that made him say that?”
“I didn’t say anything to make him say that. All I said was…I don’t remember how it started. Oh, yes. He asked me how I felt and I said fine, and then I said no, anything but fine. I was standing outside on the verandah, and he came out for a breath of air, and so we got to talking and I said I supposed he’d heard about my altercation with Harry and I told him I’d been around to apologize, and I said Harry had refused to see me, and then Creedon said he thought Harry was a horse’s ass.”
“That doesn’t sound much like him.”
“That’s what I thought, but he explained it beforehand. He said he wasn’t talking as a priest, but just as man to man. After all, darling, there’s no law that says he has to dearly love all the people who go to his church, is there?”
“No. Well, I’m just sorry you talked to him about it. Even if he doesn’t go right back and tell—”
“Oh, for God’s sake. You were never so wrong in your whole life. Father Creedon’s a swell guy.”
“Yes, but he’s a Catholic, and they stick together.”
“Oh, nuts. You’re trying to build this up into a world catastrophe.”
“Oh, yeah? And what are you doing? You’re trying to pass it off as though it were the least important thing in the world, just a little exchange of pleasantries. Well, you’re wrong, Julian.”
“Aw-haw. Now we’re getting to the Julian stage. I get it.”
“Will you listen? This thing isn’t going to blow over and be forgotten, and I wish you’d stop thinking it is. I’ve tried to tell you what you should have known yourself, that Harry Reilly is a bad enemy.”
“How do you know? How do you know so much about Harry Reilly’s characteristics or avenging moods or what-have-you? If you don’t mind my saying so, you give me a pain in the ass.”
“Okay,” said Caroline.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Believe me? I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He held her closer. “Have we still got a date for midnight?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Just because I said that?”
“Oh, I think you’re unfair. I think it’s a dirty trick, and you always do it. You make me very angry about something and then you refuse to go on with the discussion, but instead you blithely talk about love and going to bed. It’s a dirty trick, because if I refuse to talk about loving you, you become the injured party and so on. It’s a lousy trick and you do it all the time.”
The music stopped but almost immediately resumed with Can This Be Love? The orchestra was not doing so well with the back-time, and that disturbed Julian, whose ear for jazz was superb.
“See?” said Caroline.
“What?”
“I was right. You’re sulking.”
“For God’s sweet sake, I’m not sulking. Do you want to know what I was thinking?”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, this’ll make you mad, I have no doubt, but I was thinking what a lousy band this is. Does that make you sore?”
“In a way, yes,” said Caroline.
“I was thinking what a foolish economy it is to save money on an orchestra. After all, the most important thing at a dance is the music, isn’t it?”
“Must I talk about that?”
“Without the music there would be no dance. It’s like playing golf with cheap clubs, or playing tennis with a dollar racket, or bad food. It’s like anything cheap.” He drew his head back, away from her so he could observe the effect of his words. “Now you take a Cadillac—”
“Oh, cut it out, Ju. Please.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to. Because you ought to.”
“What’s the matter? My God, you’re a sourball tonight. You ask me not to drink, and I don’t drink. You—”