The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (40 page)

“Oh, him,” said Mrs Wynn, who, it occurred to me, represented the sort of person who could live in the thick of history and never know the difference.

I walked out from under the kitchen table. Father Burner knelt and lifted me into his arms. He carried me into the dining room and pulled my old chair away from the wall and up to the table. We both sat down—to what I hoped would be only the first of many pleasant meals together.

I ate my bacon right royally and ruminated on the events of the evening before. I could not honestly say that I’d planned the splendid thing I’d done. It had more or less happened—unless, of course, I was both kinder and wiser than I believed myself to be. I was eating high on the hog again, I had my rightful place back, my reward for patience, and I was only sorry that Father Burner still had to wait for his. His buds had been pinched off at the start, but his roots had grown strong and deep. If he managed to flower, he’d be the classic type of late-blooming pastor. Until then he had me at his side, to him everything I’d been to Father Malt—friend and favorite, and, more, the very symbol and prefigurement of power. I actually liked him, I discovered. I liked him for what I’d done for him. But why had I done it? I didn’t really know why. I work at times in ways so inscrutable that even I cannot tell what good or evil I am up to.

Before we’d finished breakfast, Father Desmond phoned—to discuss the Archbishop’s visit, I gathered, for Father Burner said, “I’ve decided not to talk anymore about it, Ed.” I could almost hear Father Desmond squawking, “Whatta ya mean, Ernest?” “Maybe that’s part of the trouble,” Father Burner said. “We’re talkin’ it to death.” Evidently Father Desmond took offense at that, for Father Burner spoke quickly, out of context. “Why don’t you come for dinner sometime, Ed? When? Well, come tomorrow. Come early. Good.”

Father Burner hung up, bounced over to the table, chucked me fondly behind the ears, took a banana out of the fruit bowl, and went whistling off to his car—off to do the work of the parish, to return a defective length of hose, to visit the sick and pregnant, to drive to Minneapolis for more informal conferences with building experts, lay and clerical. He had several projects going ahead—academically, that is: the tuck pointing, a new decorating job inside the church, and outside, possibly, a floodlight on the dome, which I thought a paltry affair better left in the dark.

Before lunch that day, he returned with a half dozen mousetraps. He seemed to want me to follow him around the house, and therefore I attended him most faithfully, while he set the traps in what he regarded as likely places. I rather expected to be jollied about my indifference to mousing. There was none of that, however, and what might have been an embarrassing experience for me became instead an occasion of instruction. Using a pencil for a mouse, Father Burner showed me how the trap worked, which was quite unnecessary but a nice gesture, I thought.

That evening—with Father Burner still in the mood to exterminate—we appeared together for the first time in public, at the monthly meeting of the ushers. In the future, Father Burner announced, all notices of the sort now being posted on the bulletin board at the rear of the church would have to emanate from his office (which, strictly speaking, was his bedroom) and carry his signature. This was a cruel but unavoidable check to Mr Keller, who had become too prolific for his own good. He used the drugstore typewriter and special engraved cards bearing his name and title, and he took an authoritarian tone in matters of etiquette (“Keep your feet off the kneelers,” “Don’t stand in the back of the church,” “Ask the usher to find you a seat—that’s what he’s there for,” etc.), and in other matters (Lost and Found, old-clothes collections, ticket sales, and the like) he made it sound as though these were all services and causes thought up and sponsored by him personally. I felt that he was not far from posting bargains in real estate, another means of livelihood for him at the drugstore, when Father Burner stepped in. Mr Keller took it well—too well, I thought. He murmured a few meek words about trying to spare Father Burner the trouble, as he’d spared Father Malt the trouble. (He now visited Father Malt regularly at the infirmary.) Before we left, he asked Father Burner to lead the ushers in the usual prayer for Father Malt’s swift recovery.

It was early afternoon the next day when Father Burner remembered the mousetraps. I accompanied him on his rounds, but there was nothing I liked about the business before us. First we went to the pantry and kitchen, where Mrs Wynn constantly dropped and mislaid quantities of food. Any mouse caught in a trap there, I thought, deserved to die for his gluttony. None had. In the cellar, however, Father Burner had snared two young ones, both from a large family whose members I saw from time to time. My record with them had been good, and they, in turn, had played fair with me and had committed no obvious depredations to make me look bad. When their loss was noted, the others, I feared, would blame me—not for the crime itself but for letting it happen within my precinct.

Father Burner removed the little bodies from the traps, and then, with the best of intentions and with a smile, which only made it worse, he did a terrible thing. He extended a hand to me, a hand curled in kindness, inviting me to banquet on the remains. I turned away in a swoon, physically sick and sick at heart. I made my way upstairs, wanting to be alone. I considered bitterly others I’d known and trusted in the past. Always, except with Father Malt, when I’d persuaded myself to take a chance on one of them, there’d be something like this. I tried to forget, or to sleep it off, which proved impossible. I knew what I had to do before I could begin to forget, and so I did it. I forgave Father Burner. It was another lesson in charity, one that cost me more than my going to bat for him with the Archbishop, but I’m afraid it was entirely lost on him.

Father Desmond came for dinner that afternoon at four, which I thought rather early even for “early.” When he arrived, I was in the front hall having a go at the briefcase. He went right past me. I could see that he had something on his mind.

“I just couldn’t stay away,” he said, taking a chair across from Father Burner in the parlor. “I’ve got what I
think
is good news, Ernest.”

Father Burner glanced up from
Church Property Administration
and shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, “if it’s about you-know-what.”

“I’ll just tell you what I
know
to be true,” Father Desmond said, “and let it go at that.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” said Father Burner. I could see, however, that he’d listen if he was primed again.

Father Desmond bore down on him. “Sure, I know, you’ll get it in the mail—when you get it. That’s what you figure. I admire your restraint, Ernest, but let’s not be superstitious about it, either.”

Father Burner, sprawling in his chair, rolled and unrolled
Church Property Administration
. Then, making a tube of it, he put it to his eye and peered through it, down his black leg, a great distance, and appeared finally to sight the silver glow on the toe of his big black shoe, which lay in the sunlight. “All right, Ed,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

“All right, then,” said Father Desmond. “Here it is. I have it on reliable authority—that is to say, my spies tell me—the Archbishop visited the infirmary today.” I interpreted “spies” to mean some little nun or other on whom Father Desmond bestowed sample holy cards.

Father Burner, taking a long-suffering tone in which there was just a touch of panic, said, “Ed, you know he does that all the time. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Father Desmond tried to come up with more. “He had
words
with Dutch.”

Father Burner flung himself out of his chair. He engaged in swordplay with the air, using
Church Property Administration
. “How do you mean ‘he had words’? You don’t mean to say they quarreled?”

Father Desmond could only reply, “I just mean they talked at
some
length.”

Father Burner gave a great snort and threw
Church Property Administration
across the room. It clattered against the bookcase, a broken sword. He wheeled and walked the floor, demanding, “Then why’d you say they had words? Why make something out of nothing? Why not tell it straight, Ed? Just once, huh?” He was standing over Father Desmond.

“You’re under a strain, Ernest,” said Father Desmond, getting up from his chair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it at all.”

Father Burner stared at him. “
Said?
Said
what
? That’s just it, Ed—you haven’t said anything.” He took another walk around the room, saying the word “nothing” over and over to himself.

Father Desmond cut in, “All right, Ernest, I’m sorry,” and sat down in his chair.

Then Father Burner, too, sat down, and both men were overcome by quiet and perhaps shame. Several minutes passed. I was sorry for Father Burner. He’d sacrificed his valuable silence to his curiosity and received nothing in return.

I addressed the briefcase, making my claws catch and pop in the soft, responsive leather. I wished that I were plucking instead at the top of Father Desmond’s soft head.

Father Desmond glanced over at me and then at Father Burner.

“Why do you let him do that?” he asked.

“He likes to.”

“Yeah?” said Father Desmond. “Does he ever bring you a mouse?”

With one paw poised, I listened for Father Burner’s answer.

“You don’t see any around, do you?” he said.

Well done, I thought, and renewed my attack on the briefcase. I had the feeling that Father Desmond still wanted to tell the world what he’d do to me if it were his briefcase, but, if so, he denied himself and got out a cigar.

“What’d you think of the plans for that rectory in South Dakota?” he asked.

“Not bad,” said Father Burner, looking around for his
Church Property Administration
.

“There it is,” said Father Desmond, as if it were always misplacing itself. He went over by the bookcase, picked up the magazine, and delivered it to Father Burner.

I curled up to nap. I could see that they were going to have one of their discussions.

When I heard the back door open, I supposed it was Mrs Wynn coming in to start dinner, but it was Mr Keller. I saw him advancing gravely up the hallway, toward me, carrying a traveling bag that I recognized as one the ushers had given Father Malt. Instantly I concluded that Father Malt had passed away in the night, that the nuns had failed to inform Father Burner, and had instead told Mr Keller, the faithful visitor, to whom they’d also entrusted the deceased’s few belongings.

Mr Keller set down the bag and, without looking into the parlor, started back the way he’d come, toward the back door. Father Burner and Father Desmond, at the sight of the bag, seemed unable to rise from their chairs, powerless to speak.

After a moment, I saw Father Malt emerging from the kitchen, on crutches, followed by Mr Keller. He worked his way up the hallway, talking to himself. “Somebody painted my kitchen,” I heard him say.

I beheld him as one risen from the dead. He looked the same to me but different—an imperfect reproduction of himself as I recalled him, imperfect only because he appeared softer, whiter, and, of course, because of the crutches.

Not seeing me by the hatrack, he clumped into the parlor, nodded familiarly to Father Burner and Father Desmond, and said, again to himself, “Somebody changed my chairs around.”

Father Desmond suddenly shot up from his chair, said, “I gotta go,” and went. Mr Keller seemed inclined to stick around. Father Burner, standing, waited for Father Malt to come away from the library table, where he’d spotted some old copies of
Church Property Administration
.

Father Malt thrust his hand under the pile of magazines, weighed it, and slowly, with difficulty, turned on his crutches, to face Father Burner.

They stared at each other, Father Malt and Father Burner, like two popes themselves not sure which one was real.

I decided to act. I made my way to the center of the room and stood between them. I sensed them both looking at me, then
to
me—for a sign. Canon law itself was not more clear, more firm, than the one I lived by. I turned my back on Father Burner, went over to Father Malt, and favored him with a solemn purr and dubbed his trouser leg lightly with my tail, reversing the usual course of prerogative between lord and favorite, switching the current of power. With a purr, I’d restored Father Malt’s old authority in the house. Of necessity—authority as well as truth being one and indivisible—I’d unmade Father Burner. I was sorry for him.

He turned and spoke harshly to Mr Keller. “Why don’t you go see if you left the back door open?”

When Father Burner was sure that Mr Keller had gone, he faced Father Malt. The irremovable pastor stood perspiring on his crutches. As long as he lived, he had to be pastor, I saw; his need was the greater. And Father Burner saw it, too. He went up to Father Malt, laid a strong, obedient hand on the old one that held tight to the right crutch, and was then the man he’d been becoming.

“Hello, boss,” he said. “Glad you’re back.”

It was his finest hour. In the past, he had lacked the will to accept his setbacks with grace and had derived no merit from them. It was difficult to believe that he’d profited so much from my efforts in his behalf—my good company and constant example. I was happy for him.

SOUTH OF ST PAUL the conductor appeared at the head of the coach, held up his ticket punch, and clicked it.

The Bishop felt for his ticket. It was there.

“I know it’s not a pass,” said Father Early. He had been talking across the aisle to one of the pilgrims he was leading to Rome, but now he was back on the subject of the so-called clergy pass. “But it is a privilege.”

The Bishop said nothing. He’d meant to imply by his silence before, when Father Early brought up the matter, that there was nothing wrong with an arrangement which permitted the clergy to travel in parlor cars at coach rates. The Bishop wished the arrangement were in effect in all parts of the country, and on all trains.