The Last Western (22 page)

Still,
thought the monsignor with that part of him that had once wanted to serve the lepers of Africa,
there is a ministry in the church for such people.

The monsignor, circling the cross, was thinking of the simple chores every priest must do, visiting the hospital, talking to the old people, comforting the bereaved.

He was also thinking of the letter he had received only yesterday from the Bishop of Santa Fe, asking for the loan of a priest or two to serve in certain border towns where priests were badly needed.

His eyes fell on the motto of the Silver Swallow Mortuary: A Refined Setting for a Time of Mutual Understanding and Support.

The handsome monsignor thought of the illiterate poor of the border towns. This young man, he reasoned, might never meet a sophisticated person with a theological problem. In fact, steps could be taken to make sure he did not.

So he’ll always he with his own kind anyway
, thought the monsignor, looking at Willie’s frayed shirt and paint-spattered work pants.

He circled the cross a third time and put his pencil down.

“Well,” he smiled brightly. “Well, Willie, we’re going to take a chance on you. Maybe the world has enough theologians. But one thing—if ever you do run into someone who needs to know the ans—”

“I’ll call you!” Willie said, laughing with relief and delight, for he had feared the outcome of this interview.

And the monsignor laughed too, though it was just a reflex, for he was already thinking of his appointment that night with Doctor Phelps.

The professors of the seminary did not like it when the word came down to pass Willie in all his courses, and the professor of Canon Law threatened to resign.

But soon the whole matter was forgotten because Monsignor McCool was appointed auxiliary bishop of the diocese of Houston, and no one wished to bother him with petty personal problems in the seminary.

*  *  *

And so on a hot Saturday morning in June, in the twenty-eighth year of his life, Willie was ordained a priest of God.

The next day in the church of Saint Martin de Porres, which had been badly burned in the riots ten years before and had never been fully repaired, Willie celebrated his first Mass.

Only a few people came to the Mass, residents of the neighborhood who had come to know Willie on the Christian Witness Days and a few newsmen looking for a story about the Athlete Who Had Discovered the Great Sport of Religion.

The newsmen were disappointed by the simple proceedings at the church.

Old Father Horgan preached a homily about how only the poor of the earth could possibly grasp the Christian message since they alone were free. All middle class people and all rich people had too many things to keep them happy and confused and asleep, and few of them knew what was going on.

But they were not as bad off as the explainers of the world, Father Horgan said, the people who had everything figured out. They were in a truly sad way and they, especially, did not know what was going on.

Father Horgan here mentioned churchmen, politicians, and the writers of the world.

These remarks did not set well with the newsmen, who were convinced Father Horgan was speaking of them. They concluded the priest was senile.

But Willie himself was the main disappointment. He had no star quality.

Someone had brought a baseball around to the sacristy before Mass and asked Willie to throw just one pitch for a picture.

But Willie would not so much as touch the ball.

At the Mass there was no drama the newsmen could see.

One of the reporters, a Catholic, thought that Willie looked a trifle odd.

Standing at the altar, gazing at the congregation with his slanty eyes and strange smile, he held out his arms wider than most other priests, and the Catholic reporter told the others about this peculiarity.

“What difference does it make?” the other reporters said.

The Catholic reporter could not explain it, but it was strange, he said.

When Willie held up the sacraments of the Lord and asked the people to look upon the signs and try to see in them the Lamb of God, his voice broke into a little cry, and the Catholic reporter said that was odd, too.

But not odd enough for the reporters to make a story out of it.

“He
is
a weird man,” the Catholic reporter said.

His companion said that was hardly news—ten years ago he had thrown away a million dollars.

The bored newsmen left before Mass ended. So they missed Mr. Grayson’s little speech.

Mr. Grayson, to the great surprise and delight of Willie, had flown in from New York for the Mass, arriving just at the moment Willie came down the aisle in the entrance procession.

Willie and Mr. Grayson embraced each other joyously, and Willie greeted him by name when he asked for prayer. He greeted all the people he knew by name.

Mr. Grayson, though not a Catholic, stood and sat and knelt with the others and even took Communion with them.

At the final blessing Willie scooped up what appeared to be a splendid wedge of the solar system with his long thin arms and sent a shower of love across his friends.

Mr. Grayson held out his arms to catch whatever it was Willie was pitching and immediately began to speak in tongues.

Father Horgan and Willie listened respectfully to Mr. Grayson’s six-minute outpouring of language, which no one could understand.

When it was over, Willie went down to where Mr. Grayson was standing, perspiring greatly.

He put his arm around his old coach and said, “My dear old friend, that is right and good to talk that way, but we have to talk as men do, too, don’t we? Because we have all got to be people someway?”

“In the spirit,” Mr. Grayson said, “people reach up out of their skins.”

Then all went to the parish hall which had forty-six broken windows out of a total of forty-six windows and where once the Sisters of Saint Francis told the children that there were three, no more and no less, persons in one God. There, in a one-time classroom, drinking coffee from paper cups and eating day-old doughnuts a poor man named Zacho had brought instead of a bottle of Boston Old Port Wine, the poor of Saint Martin parish celebrated Willie’s priesthood.

A telegram came over from the rectory. It had been sent from Brazil.

GOOD LUCK. WISH WE COULD BE THERE. JOINED THE GREEN CANARIES AS A RESERVE CAPTAIN LAST MONTH BUT STILL PLAYING BALL TOO. POWER TO YOU AND ALL THE PEOPLE. LOVE. CLIO.

Willie asked everybody at the party what the Green Canaries were, but no one knew.

The reception lasted an hour or so, and at the end only Mr. Grayson remained.

Willie and Mr. Grayson sat down under a statue of Saint Anthony, who had once preached the word of God to the fish of the sea because the people who lived in his hometown weren’t interested.

“I visited friends of yours in Atlanta,” said Mr. Grayson. “In prison. I never knew you were with Father Benjamin and the others.”

“You saw Father Benjamin!”

“He asked me to bring his love.”

“Truman—the large man who cannot talk?”

“Truman, too.”

“What wonderful news, Mr. Grayson! They are well, Father Benjamin and the others?”

“Very well. I chatted with Joto also—Joto Toshima, the artist.”

“I have not met Brother Joto,” said Willie slowly, remembering the strange white picture of nine years ago.

“Joto is the dear friend of my friend Herman Felder.”

“Herman Felder! Why—I thought he was dead.”

“You are confusing him with his father, Gunner, who went to the Lord some years ago.”

“And they are truly all right, after all these years?”

“Doing the work of the Spirit and praying for the bettering of the world. They speak of you so lovingly. They know, as I know, you will do the work of the Spirit like nobody.”

“Oh, Mr. Grayson. To have this news of the brothers—it cheers me up so much. And to see you again. Won’t you stay with me in Houston until I get my assignment?”

“I have to go back to the club, son. The players are sinning daily. The whole world is sinning. I got to do something for the Spirit, like you.”

“Your time will come, Mr. Grayson,” said Willie. “And even now there is something you can do.”

“Only tell me. I want to work for the Spirit.”

“It is about Mr. Regent,” said Willie.

Mr. Grayson gave him a long frightened look.

“Why do you speak of that man?”

“I have something to tell him,” Willie said, “something that has to do with the past and must be set in order.”

Mr. Grayson said, “You should have nothing to say to that man.”

“But I do, Mr. Grayson. You see, we had an awful row when I left. He called me terrible names and I lost control of myself. I want him to know all that is past and that I ask his forgiveness and that I forgive him.”

“My poor boy,” said Mr. Grayson, “he would simply laugh at that idea—forgiving.”

“Perhaps. But I must not laugh at it. How can I ask a man to forgive an enemy if I cannot do the same myself?”

“That man hates the Spirit,” Mr. Grayson said. “I would have left him long ago were it not for this.” He drew from his jacket the battered
Vest Pocket Ezee Bible
that Willie remembered from the old days. “This shields me from him and helps me guide the players through temptations. Without this I would be lost against that great hatred!”

“Hatred—can you or I really know who hates the Spirit?”

“You don’t know who he is,” Mr. Grayson said sadly. “He is truly one of the great foes.”

“Is it possible that through us the Spirit can break through his hatred, if it really is hatred?”

“I will deliver the message,” said Mr. Grayson, “though when I cannot say. I almost never see the man anymore. He is all over the world conducting his business.”

“You will see him one day and you will deliver the message,” said Willie. “Until you do, Mr. Grayson, I will not be completely free.”

“Free of what, my son?”

“The weight of all that has gone before,” said Willie.

Mr. Grayson sighed. “I’ll do what I can, son,” he said. “But now I must go .back to the club.”

Mr. Grayson wept a little. Then, looking very worried, he got into a cab and went back to the airport.

*  *  *

That night, having no place to stay, Willie went back to his old room in the seminary.

Across the street a civic organization had put up a new sign that flashed off and on: THE SWELLEST TOWN IN THE SWELLEST STATE IN THE SWELLEST COUNTRY IN THE SWELLEST WORLD.

Willie began thinking of Clio. He read the telegram again. Who were the Green Canaries?

He called
The Houston Clarion
looking for information.

The reporters did not know. They told him to ask the night editor.

“It’s just some Marxist outfit,” the editor said, “a small revolutionary army.”

“Do they practice violence?”

“What?” the editor asked.

“Is it an army that practices violence?”

“No, it practices ballet, for God’s sake.” The editor sounded angry and busy.

“Sir, where could I get some further information about this army?”

“No idea,” the editor said. Then he laughed. “Of course our publisher, Mr. George Doveland Goldenblade, might know a thing or two about them—seeing as how they just stole his plantation.”

“Why did they do that?”

“They—what do you mean
why
? I said they’re
revolutionaries
.”

“Is Mr. Goldenblade there?” Willie asked.

“For Christ’s sake, man, this is Sunday night,” the editor said. “Besides, he’s the publisher. He doesn’t talk on the phone.”

“Why not?” asked Willie.

“Why not? Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you call the White House and ask to talk to the President?”

“Could I call Mr. Goldenblade at his home?”

“This is a funny little joke isn’t it?” said the editor. “A little party game.”

“No sir,” said Willie. “I would very much like to talk with Mr. Goldenblade.”

“Are you a kid or something?”

“No sir, I’m twenty-eight years old.”

The editor made a little whistling noise on the phone. “Let me impart a little practical advice, mister. You don’t call Mr. George Doveland Goldenblade at his home. That’s a no-no.”

“Why?”

“He’s an important busy man,” said the editor. “Understand? You don’t call a man like that at his home.”

“I have to talk to him.”

“It
is
a put-on, isn’t it?”

“No sir, I have a friend in that army. He might be in danger.”

“Really? Why don’t you call
him
. Maybe he’ll have some information.”

“How could I do that?” asked Willie.

The editor hung up.

Willie looked up Mr. George Doveland Goldenblade’s number and dialed it.

A butler answered.

“This is an emergency,” said Willie.

“Mr. Goldenblade is entertaining at the moment.”

“It’s about the Green Canary Army of Brazil.”

Silence. Then, a voice raspy and raw with much recently swilled whiskey.

“This better be important; otherwise, I’ll sue.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Goldenblade,” said Willie, “but this is about the Green Canary Army of Brazil.”

Upon hearing this, Mr. G. D. Goldenblade took the Lord’s name in vain twenty-one different ways, then shouted: “Those creepy monist Marxist swine are going to get it for what they’re doing to me!”

“What is it they are doing, Mr. Goldenblade?”

“Oh nothing, nothing at all,” said Mr. Goldenblade, making his voice soft and purry. “Just a little bombing, a little looting, a little burning, a little pillaging. And then,” here Mr. Goldenblade’s voice got louder, “then stealing my 29,000-acre plantation—the Priscilla-Lucy-Ducky-Billy-Candy Ranch, which is named after my five lovely daughters and has been earning me a steady mill and a half per annum since the day I bought it for fifty cents on the acre twenty-four years ago tomorrow. Stealing it like the flag-hating traitors they are, bombing the Alamo and burning our nation’s capital and spitting on the graves of our mothers!”

“But surely they haven’t burned the capital!” cried Willie. “Or the Alamo!”