Bradbury, Ray - SSC 11 (2 page)

 
          
 
"It was not enough," said Father
Vittorini. "He wished, I hear, to comment further on the problems of life
on other words, and its effect on Christian thinking."

 
          
 
Each of these words, precisely spoken, drove
the two other men farther back in their chairs.

 
          
 
"You hear?" said Father Brian.
"You haven't read yourself yet?"

 
          
 
“No, but I intend—“

 
          
 
"You intend everything and mean worse.
Sometimes, Father Vittorini, you do not talk, and I hate to say this, like a
priest of the Mother Church at all."

 
          
 
"I talk," replied Vittorini,
"like an Italian priest somehow caught and trying to preserve surface
tension treading an ecclesiastical bog where I am outnumbered by a great herd
of clerics named Shaughnessy and Nulty and Flannery that mill and stampede like
caribou or bison every time I so much as whisper 'papal bull.'"

 
          
 
"There is no doubt in my mind"—and
here Father Brian squinted off in the general direction of the Vatican, itself—
"that it was you, if you could've been there, might've put the Holy Father
up to this whole space-travel monkeyshines."

 
          
 
"I?"

 
          
 
"You! It's you, it is not, certainly not
us, that lugs in the magazines by the carload with the rocket ships on the
shiny covers and the filthy green monsters with six eyes and seventeen gadgets
chasing after half-draped females on some moon or other? You I hear late nights
doing the countdowns from ten, nine, eight on down to one, in tandem with the
beast TV, so we lie aching for the dread concussions to knock the fillings from
our teeth. Between. one Italian here and another at Castel Gondolfo, may God
forgive me, you've managed to depress the entire Irish clergy!"

 
          
 
"Peace," said Father Kelly at last,
"both of you."

 
          
 
"And peace it is, one way or another 111
have it," said Father Brian, taking the envelope from his pocket.

 
          
 
"Put that away," said Father Kelly,
sensing what must be in the envelope.

 
          
 
"Please give this to Pastor Sheldon for
me."

 
          
 
Father Brian rose heavily and peered about to
find the door and some way out of the room. He was suddenly gone.

 
          
 
"Now see what you've done!" said
Father Kelly.

 
          
 
Father Vittorini, truly shocked, had stopped
eating. “But, Father, all along I thought it was an amiable squabble, with him
putting on and me putting on, him playing it loud and me soft."

 
          
 
"Well, you've played it too long, and the
blasted fun turned serious!" said Kelly. "Ah, you don't know William
like I do. You've really torn him."

 
          
 
"I'll do my best to mend—"

 
          
 
"You’ll mend the seat of your pants! Get
out of the way, this is my job now." Father Kelly grabbed the envelope ofE
the table and held it up to the light, "The X ray of a poor man's soul.
Ah, God."

 
          
 
He hurried upstairs. "Father Brian?"
he called. He slowed. "Father?" He tapped at the door.
"William?”

 
          
 
In the breakfast room, alone once more. Father
Vittorini remembered the last few flakes in his mouth. They now had no taste.
It took him a long slow while to get them down.

 
          
 
It was only after lunch that Father Kelly
cornered Father Brian in the dreary little garden behind the rectory and handed
back the envelope.

 
          
 
“Willy, I want you to tear this up. I won't have
you quitting in the middle of the game. How long has all this gone on between
you two?"

 
          
 
Father Brian sighed and held but did not rip
the envelope. "It sort of crept upon us. It was me at first spelling the
Irish writers and him pronouncing the Italian operas.
Then me
describing the Book of Kells in
Dublin
and him touring me through the Renaissance.
Thank God for
small favors, he didn't discover the papal encyclical on the blasted space
traveling sooner, or I’d have transferred myself to a monkery where the fathers
keep silence as a vow. But even there, I fear, he'd follow and count down the
Canaveral blastoffs in sign language. What a Devil's advocate that man would
make!"

 
          
 
"Father!"

 
          
 
“I’ll do penance for that later. It's just
this dark otter, this seal, he frolics with Church dogma as if it was a
candy-striped bouncy ball. It's all very well to have seals cavorting, but I
say don't mix them with the true fanatics, such as you and me! Excuse the
pride, Father, but there does seem to be a variation on the true theme every
time you get them piccolo players in amongst us harpers, and don't you
agree?"

 
          
 
"What an enigma, Will. We of the Church
should be examples for others on how to get along."

 
          
 
"Has anyone told Father Vittorini that?
Let’s face it, the Italians are the Rotary of the Church. You couldn't have
trusted one of them to stay sober during the Last Supper."

 
          
 
"I wonder if we Irish could?" mused
Father Kelly,

 
          
 
"We'd wait until it was over, at
least!"

 
          
 
"Well, now, are we priests or barbers? Do
we stand here splitting hairs, or do we shave Vittorini close with his own
razor? William, have you no plan?"

 
          
 
"Perhaps to call in a Baptist to
mediate."

 
          
 
"Be off with your Baptist! Have you
researched the encyclical?"

 
          
 
“The encyclical?"

 
          
 
"Have you let grass grow since breakfast
between your toes? You have! Let's read that space-travel edict! Memorize it,
get it pat, then counterattack the rocket man in his own territory! This way,
to the library. What is it the youngsters cry these days? Five, four, three,
two, one, blast off?"

 
          
 
"Or the rough equivalent."

 
          
 
“Well, say the rough equivalent, then, man.
And follow me!"

 
          
 
They met Pastor Sheldon, going into the
library as he was coming out

 
          
 
“It's no use,” said the pastor, smiling, as he
examined the fever in their faces. "You won't find it in there."

 
          
 
“Won't find what in there?" Father Brian
saw the pastor looking at the letter which was still glued to his fingers, and
hid it away, fast "Won't find what, sir?"

 
          
 
"A rocket ship is a trifle too large for
our small quarters," said the pastor in a poor try at the enigmatic.

 
          
 
"Has the Italian bent your ear,
then?" cried Father Kelly in dismay.

 
          
 
"No, but echoes have a way of ricocheting
about the place. I came to do some checking myself."

 
          
 
"Then," gasped Brian with relief,
“you're on our side?”

 
          
 
Pastor Sheldon's eyes became somewhat sad.
"Is there a side to this, Fathers?"

 
          
 
They all moved into the little library room,
where Father Brian and Father Kelly sat uncomfortably on the edges of the hard
chairs. Pastor Sheldon remained standing, watchful of their discomfort

 
          
 
"Now. Why are you afraid of Father
Vittorini?"

 
          
 
"Afraid?" Father Brian seemed
surprised at the word and cried softly, "It's more like angry."

 
          
 
"One leads to the other," admitted
Kelly. He continued, "You see, Pastor, it's mostly a small town in Tuscany
shunting stones at Meynooth, which is, as you know, a few miles out from
Dublin."

 
          
 
"I'm Irish,” said the pastor, patiently.

 
          
 
"So you are. Pastor, and all the more
reason we can't figure your great calm in this disaster," said Father
Brian.

 
          
 
"I'm California Irish," said the
pastor.

 
          
 
He let this sink in. When it had gone to the
bottom. Father Brian groaned miserably. "Ah. We forgot.”

 
          
 
And he looked at the pastor and saw there the
recent dark, the tan complexion of one who walked with his face like a
sunflower to the sky, even here in Chicago, taking what little light and heat
he could to sustain his color and being. Here stood a man with the figure,
still, of a badminton and tennis player under his tunic, and with the firm lean
hands of the handball expert
In
the pulpit by the look
of his arms moving in the air, you could see him swimming under warm
California
skies.

 
          
 
Father Kelly let forth one sound of laughter.

 
          
 
"Oh, the gentle ironies, the simple
fates. Father Brian, here is our Baptist!"

 
          
 
"Baptist?" asked Pastor Sheldon.

 
          
 
"No offense, Pastor, but we were off to
find a mediator, and here you are, an Irishman from California, who has known
the wintry blows of Illinois so short a time, you've still the look of rolled
lawns and January sunburn. We, we were born and raised on lumps in Cork and
Kilcock, Pastor. Twenty years in Hollywood would not thaw us out. And now,
well, they do say, don't they, that California is much . . ." here he
paused, "like Italy?"

 
          
 
"I see where you're driving,” mumbled
Father Brian.

 
          
 
Pastor Sheldon nodded, his face both warm and
gently sad. "My blood is like your own. But the climate I was shaped in is
like Rome's. So you see, Father Brian, when I asked are there any sides, I
spoke from my heart."

 
          
 
"Irish yet not Irish," mourned
Father Brian. "Almost but not quite Italian. Oh, the worid's played tricks
with our flesh.”

 
          
 
"Only if we let it, William,
Patrick."

 
          
 
Both men started a bit at the sound of their
Christian names.

 
          
 
"You still haven't answered: Why are you
afraid?"

 
          
 
Father Brian watched his hands fumble like two
bewildered wrestlers for a moment. "Why, it's because just when we get
things settled on Earth, just when it looks like victory's in sight, the Church
on a good footing, along comes Father Vittorini—"

 
          
 
"Forgive me. Father," said the
pastor. "Along comes reality. Along comes space, time, entropy, progress,
along come a million things, always. Father Vittorini didn't invent space
travel."

 
          
 
"No, but he makes a good thing of it.
With him ‘every-thing begins in mysticism and ends in politics.' Well, no
matter. I'll stash my shillelagh if he'll put away his rockets.”

 
          
 
"No, let's leave them out in the
open," replied the pastor. "Best not to hide violence or special
forms of travel. Best to work with them. Why don't we climb in that rocket.
Father, and learn from it?"