The interview, held in the Bishop’s office at the Chancery, got off on the wrong foot — with the Bishop patting a copy of the brochure that lay on his desk and saying, with a smile, “For some reason, I hadn’t pictured you as a gardener, Father Urban.”
“It came as something of a shock to me, too, Your Excellency, but you know how it is with these things.” Somebody at the Novitiate had gone over the brochure with a fine-toothed comb, removing some of Wilf’s copy (“Known for its shade and water,” for instance, which was to have appeared on the cover, was missing, and the title itself, which had begun as “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful!” become “Welcome to St Clement’s Hill,” become “You and St Clement’s Hill,” had ended up as “St Clement’s Hill”), but the photographs had survived, including, unfortunately, the one that had caught the Bishop’s eye. That one had already drawn a gleeful notice from Father Louis. “Strongly advise you read ‘The Man with the Hoe,’” he’d written, and this Father Urban had done late one night in the upper room — a recreation he hoped wouldn’t become popular at the Novitiate in connection with the photograph of him in the garden, though he could see how it might.
“Well, Father?” said the Bishop, after asking that Wilf be thanked for the brochure.
“This more or less begins as a progress report, Your Excellency, but it ends in a question. That’s why I’ve come to you,” said Father Urban, wondering, though, if Bishop Conor might not be repelled by flattery of the usual sort. He was a medium-sized man, about twelve pounds overweight, with iron gray hair clipped too short and high at the sides, revealing that he’d had a bad case of scalp acne at one time. He hadn’t distinguished himself as an athlete or scholar in the seminary, nor even as a scourge of indecency since rising to the hierarchy. He was another one of those good boys who had known, from about the third grade on, that his day would come, and indeed it had, though in a smaller way than he’d once hoped. Disappointment and acne had marked him. He was restless, and he wasn’t doing quite enough about the conceit that is the occupational hazard of his office. “Since I’ve been filling in at St Monica’s, we’ve been trying, Father Chumley and I, just to hold the line. We thought we’d have our hands full doing just that, until Father Smith returned — but that, unfortunately…”
“Unfortunately,” said the Bishop.
“Busy as we were, Father Chumley and I, we did manage to take the parish census. (Father Chumley worked like a dog, Your Excellency.) Now, along with taking the census, we ran a little survey to find out how people felt about the present church. As you know, we have a standing-room-only situation every Sunday at the late Masses. Well, we found that the great majority of parishioners would favor or strongly favor a new church. They understand what this would mean, too — to them and from them. Now, although we didn’t question them along any such lines, I think I can say that our parishioners, by and large, are ready and willing to accept the responsibility of building and paying for a new church. They have that responsibility, of course, but the point is that they want it. In fact,” said Father Urban, talking and smiling at the same time, a thing he’d noticed Protestants did better than Catholics — some of those ministers on TV got in their best licks while smiling—“there’s been agitation along that line that I haven’t known quite how to handle. So the question is, Your Excellency.”
The Bishop put up his hand in a mild sort of way, and Father Urban was rather glad that he did, for the atmosphere wasn’t right for the question. “I was asking somebody the other day how you liked parish work, Father.”
“Well,” said Father Urban, talking and smiling at the same time, “I hope whoever it was told you the truth. I must say I like it.” Was it possible that he wouldn’t have to ask the question?
“A little out of your line, isn’t it?”
“As you know, Your Excellency, we’re primarily a teaching and preaching order. Me, I’ve always been in the preaching end — for many years traveling out of Chicago, which I guess I still think of as home.” Didn’t the Bishop feel the same way? There was no indication that he did. “But the truth is we have parishes here and there throughout the country. One in Chicago. So parish work really isn’t out of our line — or even out of my line.”
The Bishop smiled. “Oh, I’ve heard good things about you, Father, since you’ve been at St Monica’s. I understand you’ve done more than hold the line.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that.” Father Urban didn’t doubt that the Bishop had heard of his work at St Monica’s. “I only meant I go where I’m sent — and do the best I can.”
There was a knock at the door. Father Udovic, the Chancellor, looked in on them. Father Udovic, who was short and blond, wore what were almost cowboy heels. He said something about a long-distance call and withdrew.
“Father Udovic’s from Chicago,” said the Bishop.
And aren’t you? Father Urban wished to say, but didn’t dare, since the Bishop’s idea seemed to be that Father Urban could be from Chicago with Father Udovic but not with him. That was the impression that Father Urban got anyway, and he didn’t like it.
The Bishop rose from his desk. “The reason I asked”—asked what? — “and I know it’s not for you to say, Father.” The Bishop was walking over to the wall where there was a large map of the diocese.
Father Urban got up and followed him.
“We have these parishes up here, three of them. Actually, they’re only missions — Indian missions.”
Father Urban looked at the spot where the Bishop’s finger had touched the map, at the blue water and hen tracks, these indicating bogs. This, then, was the answer to Father Urban’s unasked question, and doubtless the Bishop was congratulating himself on his handling of it.
“One man, with a good car, could take care of all three of ’em,” the Bishop said, going back to his desk but not sitting down — a needless precaution.
Father Urban had no desire to continue the interview. “Well, of course, it’s not for me to say,” he said, moving over to the table where he’d left his hat.
“I realize that, Father.”
“If you’d like me to mention it to Father Wilfrid, I will. Of course, he’d have to refer the matter to Chicago.”
“Do what you think best, Father. Now — to answer your question about this agitation for a new church at St Monica’s — the new man, whoever he is, will be the one to deal with that. And, by the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your talk the other night. Maybe next time.”
The Bishop had said no, but the word must have gone out, “Buy Clementine,” for suddenly, in the middle of Lent, retreatants descended upon the Hill like manna from heaven. Tools were put away and paint-can lids were tapped down hard. Wilf and Jack preached and preached, and Brother Harold performed greater miracles in the kitchen. Father Urban tightened his schedule at St Monica’s and drove over to the Hill oftener, since it was Wilf’s desire to give each group of retreatants at least one taste of the best wine the Clementines could serve. Wilf didn’t say that, of course, and Father Urban, who had long since stopped looking to his superiors for gratitude, would have been very much surprised if he had.