The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (41 page)

“But on a run like this, Bishop, with these fine coaches, I daresay there aren’t many snobs who’ll go to the trouble of filling out the form.”

The Bishop looked away. Father Early had a nose like a parrot’s and something on it like psoriasis that held the Bishop’s attention—unfortunately, for Father Early seemed to think it was his talk. The Bishop had a priest or two in his diocese like Father Early.

“Oh, the railroads, I daresay, mean well.”

“Yes,” said the Bishop distantly. The voice at his right ear went on without him. He gazed out the window, up at the limestone scarred by its primeval intercourse with the Mississippi, now shrunk down into itself, and there he saw a cave, another cave, and another. Criminals had been discovered in them, he understood, and ammunition from the Civil War, and farther down the river, in the high bluffs, rattlesnakes were said to be numerous still.

“Bishop, I don’t think I’m one to strain at a gnat.” (The Bishop glanced at Father Early’s nose with interest.) “But I must say I fear privilege more than persecution. Of course the one follows the other, as the night the day.”

“Is it true, Father, that there are rattlesnakes along here?”

“Very likely,” said Father Early, hardly bothering to look out the window. “Bishop, I was dining in New York, in a crowded place, observed by all and sundry, when the management tried to present me with a bottle of wine. Well!”

The Bishop, spying a whole row of caves, thought of the ancient Nile. Here, though, the country was too fresh and frigid. Here the desert fathers would’ve married early and gone fishing. The aborigines, by their fruits, pretty much proved that. He tried again to interrupt Father Early. “There must be a cave for you up there, somewhere, Father.”

Father Early responded with a laugh that sounded exactly like ha-ha, no more or less. “I’ll tell you a secret, Bishop. When I was in seminary, they called me Crazy Early. I understand they still do. Perhaps you knew.”

“No,” said the Bishop. Father Early flattered himself. The Bishop had never heard of him until that day.

“I thought perhaps Monsignor Reed had told you.”

“I seldom see him.” He saw Reed only by accident, at somebody’s funeral or jubilee celebration or, it seemed, in railroad stations, which had happened again in Minneapolis that morning. It was Reed who had introduced Father Early to him then. Had Reed known what he was doing? It was six hours to Chicago, hours of this . . .

“I suppose you know Macaulay’s
England
, Bishop.”

“No.” There was something to be gained by a frank admission of ignorance when it was assumed anyway.

“Read the section dealing with the status of the common clergy in the eighteenth century. I’m talking about the Anglican clergy. Hardly the equal of servants, knaves, figures of fun! The fault of the Reformation, you say? Yes, of course”—the Bishop had in no way signified assent—“but I say it could happen anywhere, everywhere, any time! Take what’s going on in parts of Europe today. When you consider the status of the Church there in the past, and the overwhelmingly catholic population even now. I wonder, though, if it doesn’t take something to bring us to our senses from time to time—
now
what do you say, Bishop?”

If the conductor hadn’t been upon them, the Bishop would’ve said there was probably less danger of the clergy getting above themselves than there was of their being accepted for less than they were; or at least for less than they were supposed to be; or was that what Father Early was saying?

The conductor took up their tickets, placed two receipts overhead, one white and one blue. Before he moved on, he advised the Bishop to bring his receipt with him, the blue one, when he moved into the parlor car.

The Bishop nodded serenely.

Beside him, Father Early was full of silence, and opening his breviary.

The Bishop, who had expected to be told apologetically that it was a matter of no importance if he’d used his clergy pass, had an uncomfortable feeling that Father Early was praying for him.

At Winona, the train stopped for a minute. The Bishop from his window saw Father Early on the platform below talking to an elderly woman. In parting, they pecked at each other, and she handed him a box. Returning to his seat, he said he’d had a nice visit with his sister. He went to the head of the coach with the box, and came slowly back down the aisle, offering the contents to the pilgrims. “Divinity? Divinity?” The Bishop, when his turn came, took a piece, and consumed it. Then he felt committed to stay with Father Early until Chicago.

It was some time before Father Early returned to his seat—from making the acquaintance of Monsignor Reed’s parishioners. “What we did was split the responsibility. Miss Cul-hane’s in charge of Monsignor’s people. Of course, the ultimate responsibility is mine.” Peering up the aisle at two middle-aged women drawing water from the cooler, Father Early said, “The one coming this way now,” and gazed out the window.

Miss Culhane, a paper cup in each hand, smiled at the Bishop. He smiled back.

When Miss Culhane had passed, Father Early said, “She’s been abroad once, and that’s more than most of ’em can say. She’s a secretary in private life, and it’s hard to find a man with much sense of detail. But I don’t know . . . From what I’ve heard already I’d say the good people don’t like the idea. I’m afraid they think she stands between them and me.”

The other woman, also carrying paper cups, came down the aisle, and again Father Early gazed out the window. So did the Bishop. When the woman had gone by, Father Early commented dryly, “Her friend, whose name escapes me. Between the two of ’em, Bishop . . . Oh, it’ll be better for all concerned when Monsignor joins us.”

The Bishop knew nothing about this. Reed had told him nothing. “
Monsignor?
”

“Claims he’s allergic to trains.”

“
Reed?
”

Again Father Early treated the question as rhetorical. “His plane doesn’t arrive until noon tomorrow. We sail at four. That doesn’t give us much time in New York.”

The Bishop was putting it all together. Evidently Reed was planning to have as much privacy as he could on the trip. Seeing his little flock running around loose in the station, though, he must have felt guilty—and then the Bishop had happened along. Would Reed do this to him? Reed had done this to him. Reed had once called the Bishop’s diocese the next thing to a titular see.

“I’m sorry he isn’t sailing with us,” said Father Early.

“Isn’t he?”

“He’s got business of some kind—stained glass, I believe—that’ll keep him in New York for a few days. He may have to go to Boston. So he’s flying over. I wonder, Bishop, if he isn’t allergic to boats too.” Father Early smiled at the Bishop as one good sailor to another.

The Bishop wasn’t able to smile back. He was thinking how much he preferred to travel alone. When he was being hustled into the coach by Reed and Father Early, he hadn’t considered the embarrassment there might be in the end; together on the train to Chicago and again on the one to New York and then crossing on the same liner, apart, getting an occasional glimpse of each other across the barriers. The perfidious Reed had united them, knowing full well that the Bishop was traveling first class and that Father Early and the group were going tourist. The Bishop hoped there would be time for him to see Reed in New York. According to Father Early, though, Reed didn’t want them to look for him until they saw him. The Bishop wouldn’t.

Miss Culhane, in the aisle again, returned with more water. When she passed, the Bishop and Father Early were both looking out the window. “You can’t blame ’em,” Father Early said. “I wish he’d picked a man for the job. No, they want more than a man, Bishop. They want a priest.”

“They’ve got you,” said the Bishop. “And Monsignor will soon be with you.”

“Not until we reach Rome.”

“
No?
” The Bishop was rocked by this new evidence of Reed’s ruthlessness. Father Early and the group were going to Ireland and England first, as the Bishop was, but they’d be spending more time in those countries, about two weeks.

“No,” said Father Early. “He won’t.”

The Bishop got out his breviary. He feared that Father Early would not be easily discouraged. The Bishop, if he could be persuaded to join the group, would more than make up for the loss of Reed. To share the command with such a man as Father Early, however, would be impossible. It would be to serve under him—as Reed may have realized. The Bishop would have to watch out. It would be dangerous for him to offer Father Early plausible excuses, to point out, for instance, that they’d be isolated from each other once they sailed from New York. Such an excuse, regretfully tendered now, could easily commit him to service on this train, and on the next one, and in New York—and the Bishop wasn’t at all sure that Father Early wouldn’t find a way for him to be with the group aboard ship. The Bishop turned a page.

When Father Early rose and led the pilgrims in the recitation of the rosary, the Bishop put aside his breviary, took out his beads and prayed along with them. After that, Father Early directed the pilgrims in the singing of “Onward, Christian Soldiers”—which was
not
a Protestant hymn, not originally, he said. Monsignor Reed’s parishioners didn’t know the words, but Father Early got around that difficulty by having everyone sing the notes of the scale, the ladies
la
, the men
do
. The Bishop cursed his luck and wouldn’t even pretend to sing. Father Early was in the aisle, beating time with his fist, exhorting some by name to contribute more to the din, clutching others (males) by the shoulders until they did. The Bishop grew afraid that even he might not be exempt, and again sought the protection of his breviary.

He had an early lunch. When he returned to his seat, it was just past noon, and Father Early was waiting in the aisle for him.

“How about a bite to eat, Bishop?”

“I’ve eaten, Father.”

“You eat early, Bishop.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

Father Early did his little ha-ha laugh. “By the way, Bishop, are you planning anything for the time we’ll have in Chicago between trains?” Before the Bishop, who was weighing the significance of the question, could reply, Father Early told him that the group was planning a visit to the Art Institute. “The Art Treasures of Vienna are there now.”

“I believe I’ve seen them, Father.”

“In Vienna, Bishop?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they should be well worth seeing again.”

“Yes. But I don’t think I’ll be seeing them.” Not expecting the perfect silence that followed—this from Father Early was more punishing than his talk—the Bishop added, “Not today.” Then, after more of that silence, “I’ve nothing planned, Father.” Quickly, not liking the sound of that, “I do have a few things I might do.”

Father Early nodded curtly and went away.

The Bishop heard him inviting some of the group to have lunch with him.

During the rest of the afternoon, the indefatigable voice of Father Early came to the Bishop from all over the coach, but the man himself didn’t return to his seat. And when the train pulled into the station, Father Early wasn’t in the coach. The Bishop guessed he was with the conductor, to whom he had a lot to say, or with the other employees of the railroad, who never seem to be around at the end of a journey. Stepping out of the coach, the Bishop felt like a free man.

Miss Culhane, however, was waiting for him. She introduced him to an elderly couple, the Doyles, who were the only ones in the group not planning to visit the Art Institute. Father Early, she said, understood that the Bishop wasn’t planning to do anything in Chicago and would be grateful if the Bishop would keep an eye on the Doyles there. They hadn’t been there before.

The Bishop showed them Grant Park from a taxicab, and pointed out the Planetarium, the Aquarium, the Field Museum. “Thought it was the stockyards,” Mr Doyle commented on Soldier Field, giving Mrs Doyle a laugh. “I’m afraid there isn’t time to go there,” the Bishop said. He was puzzled by the Doyles. They didn’t seem to realize the sight-seeing was for them. He tried them on foot in department stores until he discovered from something Mrs Doyle said that they were bearing with him. Soon after that they were standing across the street from the Art Institute, with the Bishop asking if they didn’t want to cross over and join the group inside. Mr Doyle said he didn’t think they could make it over there alive—a reference to the heavy traffic, serious or not, the Bishop couldn’t tell, but offered to take them across. The Doyles could not be tempted. So the three of them wandered around some more, the Doyles usually a step or two behind the Bishop. At last, in the lobby of the Congress Hotel, Mrs Doyle expressed a desire to sit down. And there they sat, three in a row, in silence, until it was time to take a cab to the station. On the way over, Mr Doyle, watching the meter, said, “These things could sure cost you.”

In the station the Bishop gave the Doyles a gentle shove in the direction of the gate through which some members of the group were passing. A few minutes later, after a visit to the newsstand, he went through the gate unaccompanied. As soon as he entered his Pullman his ears informed him that he’d reckoned without Mr Hope, the travel agent in Minneapolis. Old pastors wise in the ways of the world and to the escapist urge to which so many of the men, sooner or later, succumbed, thinking it only a love of travel, approved of Mr Hope’s system. If Mr Hope had a priest going somewhere, he tried to make it a pair; dealt two, he worked for three of a kind; and so on—and nuns, of course, were wild, their presence eminently sobering. All day the Bishop had thought the odds safely against their having accommodations in the same Pullman car, but he found himself next door to Father Early.

They had dinner together. In the Bishop’s view, it was fortunate that the young couple seated across the table was resilient from drink. Father Early opened up on the subject of tipping.

“These men,” he said, his glance taking in several waiters, and his mouth almost in the ear of the one who was serving them, a cross-looking colored man, “are in a wonderful position to assert their dignity as human beings—which dignity, being from God, may not be sold with impunity. And for a mere pittance at that! Or, what’s worse, bought!”