The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (29 page)

Father Burner grinned. He could have been thinking, as I was, that Father Philbert protested too much. “Thought I saw you go by earlier,” he said. “What’s the matter—didn’t you want to come in when you saw the place?”

Father Philbert, who was learning to ignore Father Malt, laughed discreetly. “Couldn’t be sure this was it. That house on the
other
side of the church, now—”

Father Burner nodded. “Like that, huh? Belongs to a Mason.”

Father Philbert sighed and said, “It would.”

“Not at all,” said Father Burner. “I like ’em better than K.C.’s.” If he could get the audience for it, Father Burner enjoyed being broad-minded. Gazing off in the direction of the Mason’s big house, he said, “I’ve played golf with him.”

The young missionary looked at Father Burner in horror. Father Philbert merely smiled. Father Burner, toying with a large crumb, propelled it in my direction.

“Did a bell ring?” asked Father Malt.

“His P.A. system,” Father Burner explained. “Better tell him,” he said to the young missionary. “You’re closer. He can’t bring me in on those batteries he uses.”

“No bell,” said the young missionary, lapsing into basic English and gestures.

Father Malt nodded, as though he hadn’t really thought so.

“How do you like it?” said Father Burner.

Father Philbert hesitated, and then he said, “Here, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t ask you that,” said Father Burner, laughing. “Talkin’ about that Olds. Like it? Like the Hydramatic?”

“No kiddin’, Father. It’s not mine,” Father Philbert protested.

“All right, all right,” said Father Burner, who obviously did not believe him. “Just so you don’t bring up your vow of poverty.” He looked at Father Philbert’s uneaten bread pudding—“Had enough?”—and rose from the table, blessing himself. The other two followed when Father Malt, who was feeding me cheese, waved them away. Father Burner came around to us, bumping my chair—intentionally, I know. He stood behind Father Malt and yelled into his ear, “Any calls for me this aft?” He’d been out somewhere, as usual. I often thought he expected too much to happen in his absence.

“There was something . . .” said Father Malt, straining his memory, which was poor.

“
Yes?
”

“Now I remember—they had the wrong number.”

Father Burner, looking annoyed and downhearted, left the room.

“They said they’d call back,” said Father Malt, sensing Father Burner’s disappointment.

I left Father Malt at the table reading his Office under the orange light of the chandelier. I went to the living room, to my spot in the window from which I could observe Father Burner and the missionaries on the front porch, the young one in the swing with his breviary—the mosquitoes, I judged, were about to join him—and the other two just smoking and standing around, like pool players waiting for a table. I heard Father Philbert say, “Like to take a look at it, Father?”

“Say, that’s an idea,” said Father Burner.

I saw them go down the front walk to the gray Olds parked at the curb. With Father Burner at the wheel they drove away. In a minute they were back, the car moving uncertainly—this I noted with considerable pleasure until I realized that Father Burner was simply testing the brakes. Then they were gone, and after a bit, when they did not return, I supposed they were out killing poultry on the open road.

That evening, when the ushers dropped in at the rectory, there was not the same air about them as when they came for pinochle. Without fanfare, Mr Bauman, their leader, who had never worked any but the center aisle, presented Father Malt with a traveling bag. It was nice of him, I thought, when he said, “It’s from all of us,” for it could not have come from all equally. Mr Bauman, in hardware, and Mr Keller, the druggist, were the only ones well off, and must have forked out plenty for such a fine piece of luggage, even after the discount.

Father Malt thanked all six ushers with little nods in which there was no hint of favoritism. “Ha,” he kept saying. “You shouldn’a done it.”

The ushers bobbed and ducked, dodging his flattery, and kept up a mumble to the effect that Father Malt deserved everything they’d ever done for him and more. Mr Keller came forward to instruct Father Malt in the use of the various clasps and zippers. Inside the bag was another gift, a set of military brushes, which I could see they were afraid he would not discover for himself. But he unsnapped a brush, and, like the veteran crowd-pleaser he was, swiped once or twice at his head with it after spitting into the bristles. The ushers all laughed.

“Pretty snazzy,” said the newest usher—the only young blood among them. Mr Keller had made him a clerk at the store, had pushed through his appointment as alternate usher in the church, and was gradually weaning him away from his motor-cycle. With Mr Keller, the lad formed a block to Mr Bauman’s power, but he was perhaps worse than no ally at all. Most of the older men, though they pretended a willingness to help him meet the problems of an usher, were secretly pleased when he bungled at collection time and skipped a row or overlapped one.

Mr Keller produced a box of ten-cent cigars, which, as a
personal
gift from him, came as a bitter surprise to the others. He was not big enough, either, to attribute it to them too. He had anticipated their resentment, however, and now produced a bottle of milk of magnesia. No one could deny the comic effect, for Father Malt had been known to recommend the blue bottle from the confessional.

“Ha!” said Father Malt, and everybody laughed.

“In case you get upset on the trip,” said the druggist.

“You know it’s the best thing,” said Father Malt in all seriousness, and then even he remembered he’d said it too often before. He passed the cigars. The box went from hand to hand, but, except for the druggist’s clerk, nobody would have one.

Father Malt, seeing this, wisely renewed his thanks for the bag, insisting upon his indebtedness until it was actually in keeping with the idea the ushers had of their own generosity. Certainly none of them had ever owned a bag like that. Father Malt went to the housekeeper with it and asked her to transfer his clothes from the old bag, already packed, to the new one. When he returned, the ushers were still standing around feeling good about the bag and not so good about the cigars. They’d discuss that later. Father Malt urged them to sit down. He seemed to want them near him as long as possible. They
were
his friends, but I could not blame Father Burner for avoiding them. He was absent now, as he usually managed to be when the ushers called. If he ever succeeded Father Malt, who let them have the run of the place, they would be the first to suffer—after me! As Father Malt was the heart, they were the substance of a parish that remained rural while becoming increasingly suburban. They dressed up occasionally and dropped into St Paul and Minneapolis, “the Cities,” as visiting firemen into hell, though it would be difficult to imagine any other place as graceless and far-gone as our own hard little highway town—called Sherwood but about as sylvan as a tennis court.

They were regular fellows—not so priestly as their urban colleagues—loud, heavy of foot, wearers of long underwear in wintertime and iron-gray business suits the year round. Their idea of a good time (pilsener beer, cheap cigars smoked with the bands left on, and pinochle) coincided nicely with their understanding of “doing good” (a percentage of every pot went to the parish building fund). Their wives, also active, played cards in the church basement and sold vanilla extract and chances—mostly to each other, it appeared—with all the revenue over cost going to what was known as “the missions.” This evening I could be grateful that time was not going to permit the usual pinochle game. (In the midst of all their pounding—almost as hard on me as it was on the dining-room table—I often felt they should have played on a meat block.)

The ushers, settling down all over the living room, started to talk about Father Malt’s trip to Chicago. The housekeeper brought in a round of beer.

“How long you be gone, Father—three days?” one of them asked.

Father Malt said that he’d be gone about three days.

“Three days! This is Friday. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Sunday. Monday.” Everything stopped while the youngest usher counted on his fingers. “Back on Tuesday?”

Father Malt nodded.

“Who’s takin’ over on Sunday?”

Mr Keller answered for Father Malt. “He’s got some missionary fathers in.”

“Missionaries!”

The youngest usher then began to repeat himself on one of his two or three topics. “Hey, Father, don’t forget to drop in the U.S.O. if it’s still there. I was in Chi during the war,” he said, but nobody would listen to him.

Mr Bauman had cornered Father Malt and was trying to tell him where that place was—that place where he’d eaten his meals during the World’s Fair; one of the waitresses was from Minnesota. I’d had enough of this—the next thing would be a diagram on the back of an envelope—and I’d heard Father Burner come in earlier. I went upstairs to check on him. For a minute or two I stood outside his room listening. He had Father Philbert with him, and, just as I’d expected, he was talking against Father Malt, leading up to the famous question with which Father Malt, years ago, had received the Sherwood appointment from the Archbishop: “Have dey got dere a goot meat shop?”

Father Philbert laughed, and I could hear him sip from his glass and place it on the floor beside his chair. I entered the room, staying close to the baseboard, in the shadows, curious to know what they were drinking. I maneuvered myself into position to sniff Father Philbert’s glass. To my surprise, scotch. Here was proof that Father Burner considered Father Philbert a friend. At that moment I could not think what it was he expected to get out of a lowly missionary. My mistake, not realizing then how correct and prophetic I’d been earlier in thinking of them as two of a kind. It seldom happened that Father Burner got out the real scotch for company, or for himself
in
company. For most guests he had nothing—a safe policy, since a surprising number of temperance cranks passed through the rectory—and for unwelcome guests who would like a drink he kept a bottle of “scotch-type” whiskey, which was a smooth, smoky blend of furniture polish that came in a fancy bottle, was offensive even when watered, and cheap, though rather hard to get since the end of the war. He had a charming way of plucking the rare bottle from a bureau drawer, as if this were indeed an occasion for him; even so, he would not touch the stuff, presenting himself as a chap of simple tastes, of no taste at all for the things of this world, who would prefer, if anything, the rude wine made from our own grapes—if we’d had any grapes. Quite an act, and one he thoroughly enjoyed, holding his glass of pure water and asking, “How’s your drink, Father? Strong enough?”

The housekeeper, appearing at the door, said there’d been a change of plans and some of the ushers were driving Father Malt to the train.

“Has he gone yet?” asked Father Burner.

“Not yet, Father.”

“Well, tell him good-bye for me.”

“Yes, Father.”

When she had gone, he said, “I’d tell him myself, but I don’t want to run into that bunch.”

Father Philbert smiled. “What’s he up to in Chicago?”

“They’ve got one of those pastors’ and builders’ conventions going on at the Stevens Hotel.”

“Is he building?”

“No, but he’s a pastor and he’ll get a lot of free samples. He won’t buy anything.”

“Not much has been done around here, huh?” said Father Philbert.

He had fed Father Burner the question he wanted. “He built that fish pond in the back yard—for his minnows. That’s the extent of the building program in his time. Of course he’s only been here a while.”

“How long?”

“Fourteen years,” said Father Burner.
He
would be the greatest builder of them all—if he ever got the chance. He lit a cigarette and smiled. “What he’s really going to Chicago for is to see a couple of ball games.”

Father Philbert did not smile. “Who’s playing there now?” he said.

A little irritated at this interest, Father Burner said, “I believe it’s the Red Sox—or is it the Reds? Hell, how do I know?”

“Couldn’t be the Reds,” said Father Philbert. “The boy and I were in Cincinnati last week and it was the start of a long home stand for them.”

“Very likely,” said Father Burner.

While the missionary, a Cardinal fan, analyzed the pennant race in the National League, Father Burner sulked. “What’s the best train out of Chicago for Washington?” he suddenly inquired.

Father Philbert told him what he could, but admitted that his information dated from some years back. “We don’t make the run to Washington anymore.”

“That’s right,” said Father Burner. “Washington’s in the American League.”

Father Philbert laughed, turning aside the point that he traveled with the Cardinals. “I thought you didn’t know about these things,” he said.

“About these things it’s impossible to stay ignorant,” said Father Burner. “Here, and the last place, and the place before that, and in the seminary—a ball, a bat, and God. I’ll be damned, Father, if I’ll do as the Romans do.”

“What price glory?” inquired Father Philbert, as if he smelt heresy.

“I know,” said Father Burner. “And it’ll probably cost me the red hat.” A brave comment, perhaps, from a man not yet a country pastor, and it showed me where his thoughts were again. He did not disguise his humble ambition by speaking lightly of an impossible one. “Scratch a prelate and you’ll find a second baseman,” he fumed.

Father Philbert tried to change the subject. “Somebody told me Father Malt’s the exorcist for the diocese.”

“Used to be.” Father Burner’s eyes flickered balefully.

“Overdid it, huh?” asked Father Philbert—as if he hadn’t heard!

“Some.” I expected Father Burner to say more. He could have told some pretty wild stories, the gist of them all that Father Malt, as an exorcist, was perhaps a little quick on the trigger. He had stuck pretty much to livestock, however, which was to his credit in the human view.