The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (32 page)

One Monday morning, when Dolly met Teresa at the front door, she held some little wads of paper in her outstretched hand.

“What’s all this?”

“Go ahead and draw one, Teresa. See what you have to practice this week.” Teresa drew one. Dolly, after shaking the wads like dice, opened her hand and selected one.

“What’s yours, Teresa?”

“ ‘Kindness to others.’ I can’t read the rest.”

“Is it ‘Alms for the leopards’?”

“I guess it is. What’s yours?”

Dolly sighed, “‘More prayers for the poor souls in purgatory.’”

In the ensuing weeks, Dolly’s assignments all had to do with prayer, for a variety of beneficiaries, and Teresa was stuck with “kindness to others” and “alms.” Dolly kept the extra wads on her person, and so Teresa had no opportunity to investigate the possibility of fraud. Dolly went on as though she had much the worst of it, and to hear her tell it, she didn’t have a free minute from her prayers.

When Teresa gave a short answer, Dolly would remind her that she was supposed to be practicing kindness that week. Sometimes Dolly would ask the silliest questions.

“Do you smoke, Teresa?”

“Once in a while is all.”

“Teresa! I know you don’t. You don’t look it.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I don’t call that kindness to others, Teresa.”

Teresa, for her part, did not blame the priest for not coming every week to hear Dolly’s confession, a principal complaint with her. Once, when he was there, Teresa had heard Dolly confess, “I missed my morning prayers two times, Father.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that all!”

The next time Dolly complained about the priest’s not coming often enough, Teresa said, “If you told him half the things you do, you wouldn’t want him to come so often. You never think to tell him all those mean things you say about the woman across the way. Don’t forget Our Lord was a Jew.”

“Teresa! Our Lord was a Galilean. And remember what you’re practicing this week.”

When Dolly pouted, and she might if the programs were good enough to hold her, Teresa was glad for the rest. Too soon, she knew, Dolly would roll into the next room and start up some fool thing.

“Teresa, have your brother come out sometime and see where you work.”

“Huh! I don’t have to work. Why would he want to come ’way out here? He’s got a nice place of his own.”

“Hasn’t he got a car, Teresa?”

“He doesn’t need a car.”

“How old do you think I am, Teresa?”

“How do I know how old you are?”

“Oh, go ahead, guess.”

“Why should I guess how old you are?”

“Oh, go ahead, Teresa.”

“Eighty.”

“Teresa!”

With that little baby face she had, though, she really looked younger than she was (younger than Teresa, in fact), and she knew it. But then she never did a lick of work in her life—but how could she, the poor thing!

Dolly had one very bad habit. They might be talking about the leopards when, suddenly, sitting perfectly still in her wheelchair, she’d catch Teresa’s eye. Then, giggling slightly, she would push up her wig, inch by inch, showing more and more scalp. When this started now, Teresa looked the other way and left the room. The first time it happened, however, she’d seen all of Dolly’s bone-white head. Teresa didn’t know what this meant—Dolly didn’t call it anything and Teresa wouldn’t ask—but it certainly wasn’t very nice. She thought of reporting it to Dolly’s sister, but did not, each time hoping it wouldn’t happen again.

But finally she did call Mrs Shepherd and say she didn’t know how much longer she could stay on the job. She really felt sorry for the poor thing, but she had to think of herself too. Mrs Shepherd asked Teresa to give it another chance—at least until something turned up in her line, which might be any day now—and Teresa said, “Well, all right . . .”

For a week they were engaged in preparations for the priest, who had finally accepted Dolly’s invitation to dinner—for Saturday, however—and Teresa knew he intended to eat and run, pleading confessions to be heard, and she certainly didn’t blame him. She had been asked to work Saturday and to stay overnight because, as Dolly put it, “it might be late before it’s all over.” She planned to serve ginger ale later on, after she read her poems to him. (Dolly gave Teresa a copy of every one she wrote, and on some days she wrote many. Teresa kept only one, because it was a little like
Trees
.

Teresa cleaned the whole house, and Dolly got out the sick-call kit and checked over the candles, crucifix, and cotton. Teresa asked what she was doing—getting ready to be sick while she had the priest in the house to pray over her? Dolly said she knew what she was doing. She said the priest might want to inspect the kit.

“Teresa, what dress are you going to wear tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Teresa, why don’t you wear your nice blue one with the white collar and cuffs?”

“You can’t fool me, Dolly. I know you. You want me to look like the maid.”

Dolly smiled and said, “Well?”

More than just put out, really hurt, Teresa retired to the other side of the house, taking the vacuum cleaner with her. Dolly was afraid of the vacuum cleaner, and the rest of the morning Teresa kept it going strong. Often, if she craved a little peace and quiet, she would switch it on in another room and just let it run while she read a magazine. And sometimes when Dolly came snooping, Teresa got up and started after her with the vacuum cleaner, sending her wheeling and squealing back to her radio.

That day, while Dolly was in the bathtub, Teresa phoned Mrs Shepherd. She’d had enough, she said, and was quitting at the end of the day. It was Friday, and Dolly’s sister would be home over Saturday and Sunday, and maybe by Monday they’d have somebody else. Anyway, she was through. No, she wasn’t mad. She was just through. She couldn’t be mad at the poor thing, though that one could be very mean. Mrs Shepherd, who must have sensed it was no use, said she understood, said she was grateful to Teresa, and would just have to buckle down and find somebody else. She thought something in light sewing would turn up very soon. In fact, she had a lead.

Teresa returned to Dolly thinking—and what if they can’t find anybody to look after the poor thing?—and feeling sorry for her, until she said, “Next fall, Teresa, with winter coming on and everything, people will be looking for work. You’re lucky to be here, Teresa.”

“Huh! I don’t have to work. I own property in Florida.” Teresa’s property, which she’d never seen, had cost fourteen hundred dollars in 1928, and she’d always told Dolly what they’d told her, that it would be worth a lot more someday. Recently it had been appraised at “Twenty-five dollars or maybe fifty.”

When Dolly’s sister came home, Teresa gave her the bad news. She was sorry, she said, going at once for her coat and things. Maybe they’d be able to get somebody by Monday. Dolly cried. Dolly’s sister, paying up only when Teresa had her coat on, offered her an extra dollar as a bonus, but Teresa said, “No, thanks,” and hoped they understood. A dollar!

That evening Teresa celebrated by eating in a new cafeteria, and after dinner she saw a double feature. The next day, Saturday, she slept late. Toward sundown she thought of Dolly: now she’s dusting the furniture from her wheel chair, now she’s got the wig in her hands, tying the flower into it, now she’s waiting by the door for the priest to come, now they’re sitting down to it, now they’re eating the cake Teresa had baked, and now, much too soon for the poor thing, before she could read her poems, the priest had gone, and the unopened bottle of ginger ale chilled on in the refrigerator.

By Sunday afternoon Teresa was getting tired of her little apartment and beginning to consider a quick visit to her relatives downstate. But that evening Mrs Shepherd called.

“Teresa?”

“Yes.”

“Remember that lead I spoke to you about?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid it fell through.”

“Oh.” Teresa was afraid of what was coming.

“Teresa, will you help me out—try it just one more week, maybe just a day or two, just until I get someone?”

“Oh, no . . .”

“You won’t reconsider?”

“Oh, no . . .”

“Teresa, I already told them you’d come tomorrow. I mean I was sure you’d help me out of this spot. I mean I just knew you’d do it for me.”

“But, Mrs Shepherd . . .”

“As a friend, Teresa?”

Teresa was holding her breath for fear she’d weaken.

“Good night, Teresa, and thanks anyway.”

A few minutes later Mrs Shepherd called again.

“I told them you weren’t coming, Teresa,” said Mrs Shepherd as though she expected to be thanked for it. “Teresa, that Dolly—did you ever notice anything about her?”

“What about her? She’s been an invalid all her life.”

“I mean—did she seem all right—otherwise?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say she’s crazy—if that’s what you mean.”

“Then I don’t understand it. She said you stole some money from her and that’s why you quit. She says that’s why you won’t come back . . .”

Teresa lay awake until shortly before the alarm went off in the morning. At the usual time, she got on the streetcar and rode out into the suburbs. Coming up the walk, she saw Dolly’s face at the level of the window sill, waiting. As always, the door chain, protection against burglars and rapists, was on, but after a moment, Dolly admitted her. “You poor thing!” Dolly cried.

Before Teresa could say a word, Dolly put the blame on herself. Having the priest over, she said, had upset her so. The money had not been stolen. She had just forgotten all about paying out for the bottle of ginger ale. “And it’s still there, Teresa, untouched. Oh, let’s have a glass! Let’s do! In honor of your coming back!” Dolly twirled herself down the hall, calling back, “You’ll have to get it down, Teresa. After all, you’re the one put it ’way up there by the ice cubes.” Then in a gay reproving voice, “Teresa, this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t done
that
!”

MR MCMASTER, a hernia case convalescing in one of the four-bed wards, was fat and fifty or so, with a candy-pink face, sparse orange hair, and popeyes. (“Eyes don’t permit me to read much,” he had told Myles Flynn, the night orderly, more than once.) On his last evening in the hospital, as he lay in his bed smoking, his hands clasped over a box of Havanas that rested on the soft dais of his stomach, he called Myles to his bedside. He wanted to thank him, he said, and, incidentally, he had no use for “that other son of a bitch”—meaning the other orderly, an engineering student, who had prepped him for surgery. “A hell of a fine engineer he’ll make. You, though, you’re different—more like a doctor than an orderly—and I was surprised to hear from one of the Sisters today that you’re not going into the medical field.” Mr McMaster said he supposed there must be other reasons for working in a hospital, but he didn’t sound as though he knew any.

Myles said he’d been four years in a seminary, studying for the priesthood—until “something happened.” There he stopped.

Mr McMaster grinned. “To make a long story short,” he said.

Myles shook his head. He’d told Mr McMaster all there was for him to tell—all he knew. He’d simply been asked to leave, he said, and since that day, three months before, he’d just been trying to make himself useful to society, here in the hospital. Mr McMaster suddenly got serious. He wondered, in a whisper, whether Myles was “a cradle Catholic,” as if that had something to do with his expulsion, and Myles said, “Yes. Almost have to be with a name like mine.” “Not a-tall,” said Mr McMaster. “That’s the hell of it. The other day I met a Jew by the name of Buckingham. Some Buckingham!”

Scenting liquor on the patient’s breath, Myles supposed that Mr McMaster, like so many salesmen or executives on their last evening, wanted to get a good night’s rest, to be ready for the morrow, when he would ride away in a taxicab to the daily battle of Chicago.

Again Mr McMaster asked if Myles was a cradle Catholic, and when Myles again told him he was, Mr McMaster said, “Call me Mac,” and had Myles move the screen over to his bed. When they were hidden from the others in the ward, Mac whispered, “We don’t know who they may be, whatever they say.” Then he asked Myles if he’d ever heard of the Clementine Fathers. Myles had. “I’m with them,” Mac said. “In a good-will capacity.” He described the nature of his work, which was meeting the public, lay and clerical (the emphasis was on the latter), and “building good will” for the Clementine order and finding more readers for the
Clementine
, the family-type magazine published by the Fathers.

Myles listened patiently because he considered it part of his job to do so, but the most he could say for the magazine was that it was probably good—of its kind. Yes, he’d heard the Fathers’ radio program. The program, “Father Clem Answers Your Question,” was aimed at non-Catholics but it had many faithful listeners among the nuns at the hospital. And the pamphlets put out by the Fathers, many of them written by Father Clem—Myles knew them well. In the hospital waiting rooms, they were read, wrung, and gnawed upon by their captive audience. “Is Father Clem a real person?” Myles asked. “Yes, and no,” Mac said, which struck Myles as descriptive of the characters created by Father Clem, an author who tackled life’s problems through numberless Joans, Jeans, Bobs, and Bills, clear-thinking college kids who, coached from the wings by jolly nuns and priests, invariably got the best of the arguments they had with the poor devils they were always meeting—atheists, euthanasianists, and the like. “Drive a car?” Mac asked. Myles said yes.

Mac then said he wanted it understood he wasn’t making Myles any promises, but he thought there might be a job opening up with the Fathers soon, a job such as his own. “Think it over,” Mac said, and Myles did—needing only a moment. He thought of his correspondence with the hierarchy, of the nice replies, all offering him nothing. For his purposes, the job with the Fathers, unsuited as he was to it, could be ideal. Traveling around from diocese to diocese, meeting pastors and even bishops face to face in the regular course of the work, he might make the vital connection that would lead him, somehow, to the priesthood. Without a bishop he’d never get into another seminary—a bishop was more necessary than a vocation—but Myles had more than meeting the right bishop to worry about. He had lost his clerical status, and was now 1-A in the draft. The call-up might come any day.