“I wouldn’t say that,” Father Urban said, though he was afraid Phil was right. “Which one would be the boss? Did he say?” Father Urban was thinking of the weeks ahead with the curate.
“You’ll have to ask him about that,” Phil said.
“Has a good mind,” said Monsignor Renton.
“He may have a good mind, but I’m not so sure he’s right about this,” Father Urban said, addressing himself to Phil. “When you consider what’s at stake”—not only the spiritual welfare of Phil’s people but Phil’s own soul was at stake—“I’d say a man has to be both. At least a man can try. Sometimes that’s the most a man can do.” Father Urban paused to give Phil a chance to think it over, and Phil really did appear to be doing this. Phil had drunk more than usual that night, hoping, he said, to rest better on the train, and this may have been a factor in Father Urban’s favor. “Phil, a man can be both.”
“Like Jekyll and Hyde,” said Monsignor Renton.
“Otherwise, we wouldn’t be placed in the position we are, placed under the necessity to be both.” For a moment there, before, Father Urban had been getting through to Phil, but now Phil was gone — he was down in his ditch. And who had put him there? His best friend, and worst enemy — who now, commenting as he had before on Orchard Park, whose windows, yards, and rooftops were all lit up for Christmas, said: “The fires of hell, and in the summertime, with those barbecue pits going, it smells like Afghanistan. Used to be a great place for ducks, didn’t it, Phil? Right on the flyway. Oh well.”
“Red, you might as well know it now,” Phil said. “I’m building.”
Monsignor Renton wheeled around. “Holy Paul!”
“Congratulations, Phil,” said Father Urban. “Wonderful.”
For the moment, Monsignor Renton was silent, again gazing out the window.
But he would have Phil to himself for the next month, and doubtless would do his damnedest to get him to change his mind. Phil had to be shored up against him, strengthened in his great decision, committed to it irrevocably, if possible. “Have you told the Bishop, Phil?” said Father Urban.
“Not exactly. I want to know where I am before I see him.”
“Good idea, Phil.”
“Maybe take the census first.”
“Very good idea, Phil. How would it be if we did that while you’re gone? Save time.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on you, Father. It can wait.”
“If you want my advice, Phil, don’t rush into this thing,” said Monsignor Renton, coming away from the window.
For the next few minutes, he did everything he could to disrupt the conversation and to draw attention to himself. He brought up entirely unrelated matters. He predicted strikes and shortages. He stood between them so they couldn’t see each other. He ran around in circles looking for his collar (when a car horn tooted below). He followed too closely on the stairs. He fell down on the sidewalk.
And through it all, Father Urban persevered, making the most of his last minutes with Phil. Jogging alongside the moving car, he yelled, “At least we can start on the census!” and peered inside to catch Phil’s reaction to this, but could not, for Monsignor Renton scooted forward on the back seat and called on the driver for more speed. Father Urban had to let go of the door handle then.
He saw Phil’s hand flutter up in the rear window of the big black car, and fall, and though he knew he would not be seen or heard by Phil, he waved and yelled, “’Bye!” Phil must have heard him, though, for the hand fluttered up again. Father Urban’s last impression was of a man being taken for a ride. To Father Urban, Phil’s hand had cried, “Help!”
8. SECOND ONLY TO STANDARD OIL
FATHER URBAN HAD given Mrs Burns a cookbook for Christmas inscribed, “To the last one in the world who needs it, Mrs Burns, from one who knows, yours in Christ, Father Urban.” Since then relations between them had become ecstatic on Mrs Burns’s side. Relations had been splendid before, though, for Father Urban had a way with housekeepers, and Mrs Burns obviously liked the idea of having a priest around the rectory. “Thank God!” she’d cry when Father Urban arrived for the weekend. “Another mouth to feed, Mrs Burns.” “Father, I don’t mind that.” What Mrs Burns, a white-haired, well-made widow, did mind was the telephone.
With Phil out of the picture, Father Urban was able to act. “How about it, Father?” he said to Father Chumley. One man would take all A.M. calls, the other man all P.M. calls, and thus life would be made easier for Mrs Burns, said Father Urban. What he did not say was that Father Chumley, if the plan were adopted, would have to cut down on his time in church and give the diocese more of a return on its investment. “O.K.,” said Father Chumley, accepting the new plan, and gracefully at that. Perhaps the curate didn’t need a fire-eating pastor to shove him around. Perhaps he only needed a push, a gentle push, from the right sort of older man.
However, on the first night the new plan was in effect, Father Urban, who had the P.M. hours, took a call at three in the morning. Making no attempt to rouse the curate, he went out and anointed a parishioner. He would’ve said nothing about it. Mrs Burns heard him go out, though, and spoke to Father Chumley in the morning.
“I guess I forgot to turn on my phone,” the curate confessed at breakfast.
Father Urban, who had moved into Phil’s quarters to be near a phone, said, “I guess I forgot to turn mine off.”
Father Chumley looked sad.
“Forget it,” said Father Urban. He hadn’t intended to suggest that this, perhaps, was the difference between them. “I was happy to go out. I really was. It made me feel like a priest — for a change.”
“Why, Father!” cried Mrs Burns. “What a thing to say!”
Father Chumley had smiled, though, at Father Urban’s little tribute to the infantry.
“It’s the truth, Mrs Burns.” Father Urban told them about the old Clementine priest, too long a seminary professor, who had witnessed a street accident and cried out, “For God’s sake — call a priest!”
Father Chumley smiled again, and Mrs Burns laughed.
“Anyway, I’m glad to be here — on the firing line.”
“And we’re glad you’re here,” said Father Chumley.
“Indeed we are,” cried Mrs Burns.
Overnight, it seemed, and without seeking it, Father Urban had gained the ascendancy in the house. There was a better feeling between the priests, although Father Urban felt that he was still regarded as something of a showboat by the curate. Mrs Burns, however, had no reservations about Father Urban. If he in any way fell short of the ideal (and of course he did), Mrs Burns didn’t know it. His word was law, but she still ran for the telephone.
“No! No! Mustn’t touch!”
Or Johnny, as Father Urban now called the curate, would be the one to head her off.
And then they’d all have a good laugh.
Suddenly St Monica’s was a busy, happy rectory.
Father Urban had been in and out of a thousand rectories, always taking an oar when necessary, always glad to help out (up to a point), but at St Monica’s it was different. His hand was on the tiller there. He located a map of the parish. He brought it up to date by incorporating Orchard Park. He began the census. The shaded area on the map, the area covered by him in the morning and Johnny in the afternoon, grew, and at night they got together in the upper room to talk over the day’s findings.