The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (46 page)

“If she’d only come,” said Velma.

“Yes,” said Father Fabre.

“Vel had to work last Sunday and didn’t get a chance to meet her,” said Mrs Mathers.

“That’s too bad,” said Father Fabre.

“Grace was my best friend,” Mrs Mathers said. “In the Society, I mean.”

Father Fabre frowned.
Was?

“I was dying to meet her,” said Velma, looking at Father Fabre.

“Very nice person,” he said.

“I just can’t understand it,” declared Mrs Mathers, without conviction. Then: “It’s no surprise to me! You soon find out who your friends are!”

Father Fabre applied his fingers to the fried chicken. “Well,” he said, “she doesn’t know what she’s missing.” Grace’s plate, however, seemed to reject the statement. “Did she know I was coming?”

“Oh, indeed, she did, Father! That’s what makes me so blamed mad!”

Velma went to answer the telephone. “Yoo-hoo! It’s for you-hoo!” she called.

“She means you,” Mrs Mathers said to Father Fabre, who wondered how she could have known.

He went to the bedroom, where Mrs Mathers, never knowing when she’d be called for special duty, had her telephone. When he said “Hello” there was a click and then nothing. “Funny,” he said, returning to the table. “Nobody there.”

“Vel,” Mrs Mathers asked, “was
that
Grace?”

“She didn’t say, Mildred. Wouldn’t she say who she was if she was Grace?”

“It was Grace,” said Mrs Mathers quietly. She looked unwell.

There was a rattle of silverware. “Eat your dinner, Mildred,” said Mr Pint, and she did.

After dinner, they retired to the living room. Soon, with Mrs Mathers and Mr Pint yawning on the sofa, Velma said, “I met some Catholic priests that were married, once.” She had taken the chair near Father Fabre’s. They were using the same ash tray.

“Were they Greek or Russian?”

She seemed to think he was joking. “They were with their wives, two of them—I mean they were two couples—but they said the ones that weren’t married could have dates with girls if they wanted to.”

He nodded. “It’s only been observed among us since the eleventh century—celibacy.” Velma looked doubtful. “It may be overrated,” he added, smiling.

“I never tried it,” Velma said.

“Yes, well . . . in some parts of the world, even now, there are married Catholic priests.”

“That’s what these were,” Velma said.

“Maybe they were
Old
Catholics,” he said.

“No, they weren’t, not at all.”

He looked across the room at the couple on the sofa. Mr Pint appeared to be asleep, but Mrs Mathers was trying to fight it with a
Good Housekeeping
. “That’s a sect,” he said, getting back to Velma. “They go by that name. Old Catholics.”

“I wouldn’t say they were that,” she said.

He was ready to drop it.

“I met them in Chicago,” she said.

“I understand Old Catholics are strong there,” he said. “Comparatively.”

There was a lull during which Velma loaded her cigarette case and Father Fabre surveyed the room—the bookcase with no books in it, only plants and bric-a-brac, and the overstuffed furniture rising like bread beneath the slipcovers, which rivaled nature in the tropics for color and variety of growing things, and the upright piano with the mandolin and two photographs on top: one would be the late Mr Mathers and somewhere in the other, a group picture of graduating nurses, would be the girl he had married, now stout, being now what she had always been becoming. Mrs Mathers was openly napping now. The room was filled with breathing, hers and Mr Pint’s in unison, and the sun fell upon them all and upon the trembling ferns.

“Mildred says you can’t have dates.”

Father Fabre looked Velma right in the eye. “That’s right.” He’d drifted long enough. He’d left the conversation up to her from the beginning, and where had it got him? “I take it you’re not a Catholic.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “but I see all your movies.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I liked
The Miracle of the Bells
the best. But they’re all swell.”

He felt himself drifting again.

“I enjoyed reading
The Cardinal
,” she said.

So had he. He wondered if a start could be made there.

Mrs Mathers, whom he’d thought asleep, said, “Why don’t you tell Father what you told me, Vel?”

“Mildred!” cried Velma.

Father Fabre blushed, thinking Velma must have remarked favorably on his appearance.

“About the church of your choice,” said Mrs Mathers.

“Oh, that. I told Mildred
The Miracle of the Bells
made me want to be a Catholic.”

Mr Pint came to and mumbled something.

Father Fabre decided to face up to him. “Do you like to go to the movies, Mr Pint?”

“No, sir.” Mr Pint was not looking Father Fabre in the eye, but it was as though he didn’t think it necessary—yet.

“Why, Dad,” Mrs Mathers said, “you took me last Sunday night.”

“Not to those kind, I didn’t. Whyn’t you let me finish? By Dad, I ain’t so old I can’t remember what I did a week back.”

“Who said anybody was old?” Velma asked.

“Stop showin’ off,” Mr Pint said. “I heard who said it.”

Mrs Mathers clucked sadly, too wise to defend herself.

Mr Pint blinked at her. “You made me go,” he said.

Mrs Mathers saw her chance. “Ho, ho,” she laughed. “I’d just like to see anybody
make
you do anything!”

“You can say that again! Tell him about your office, Dad,” Velma said, but Mr Pint would not.

From the women, however, Father Fabre learned that Mr Pint had asked “them”—his employers, presumably—to build him an office of glass so that he could sit in it, out of the dirt and noise, and keep an eye on the men who worked under him.

“Why shouldn’t they do it,” said Mrs Mathers, “when he saves them all the money he does?”

Father Fabre, about to address Mr Pint directly, rephrased his question. “He has men under him? I mean—many?”

“Five,” said Mrs Mathers. “Before he came, they had six. He gets more out of five men than they did out of six.”

“Two he brought with him,” Velma said. “They’ve been with Dad for years.”

Father Fabre nodded. Mr Pint, with his entourage, was like a big-time football coach, but what was Mr Pint’s work?

Velma, who had switched on the radio, cried, “Lee!”

Father Fabre watched the women closely. Evidently “Lee” was the announcer and not some entertainer to follow on the program. His sponsor, a used car dealer, whose name and address he gave, dispensed with commercial announcements on Sunday, he said, and presented music suited to the day. They sat quietly listening to
How Are Things in Glocca Morra?
Then to
The Rosary
, one of Mrs Mathers’ favorite pieces, she said. Then to
Cryin’ in the Chapel
. Father Fabre wanted to go home.

Lee came on again with the business about no commercials and also threw in the correct time. (Mr Pint pulled out his watch.) Lee warned motorists to be careful on the highways.

“Don’t judge by this. You should hear him on weekdays,” Velma said. “Does he ever kid the sponsors!”

“He’s a good disc jockey or he wouldn’t be on the air,” Mrs Mathers said tartly. “But he’s no Arthur Godfrey.” It sounded to Father Fabre as though she’d been over this ground with Velma before. “Do you ever get Arthur, Father?”

“Can’t say that I do, Mrs Mathers.”

“He might give you some ideas for your sermons.”

“My radio isn’t working.”

“I’ll take Lee,” Velma said. She rose and went down the hall to the bathroom.

Mrs Mathers whispered, “Father, did I tell you she wanted to call in for them to play a song for you?
Our Lady of Fatima
or something. She wanted it to come over the air while you were here. A surprise.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I told her not to do it. I said maybe you wouldn’t want it.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He was grateful to Mrs Mathers.

Showing a little interest, Mr Pint inquired uneasily, “What do you think of this disc jockey business?” He got up and turned off the radio.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it,” Father Fabre said, surprised to find himself engaged in conversation with Mr Pint.

“Sounds kind of fishy to me,” said Mr Pint, sitting down again. He had opened up some, not much, but some. “You know it’s just playing phonograph records?”

“Yes,” said Father Fabre, and then wondered if he’d said the right thing. Mr Pint might have wanted to tell him about it. Fearing a lull, he plunged. “Certainly was good ice cream.”

“Glad you liked it.”

After the long winter, gentle spring, the sap running . . . “That’s a good idea of yours when you make ice cream—bringing an extra shirt, I mean.”

There was a bad silence, the worst of the afternoon, crippling every tongue. Even Velma, back with them, was quiet. Mr Pint was positively stony. Finally, as if seeing no other way, Mrs Mathers explained:

“Mr Pint lives here, Father.”

“He does?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I guess I didn’t know.”

“I guess I didn’t tell you.”

“No reason why you should’ve,” he said quickly. “You do have quite a bit of room here.” He seemed to be perspiring. “Certainly do get the sun.” He never would have thought it. Was there a chance that Mr Pint, who acted so strangely, was not her lover? He took a good look at Mr Pint. Was there a chance that he was? In either case, Mrs Mathers had planned well. Father Fabre, taking out his handkerchief, blew his nose politely and dabbed at his cold, damp neck. He was in very good health and perspired freely. The fat flowery arms of the overstuffed chair held him fast while the hidden mouth devoured him. The trembling ferns frankly desired him. He just never would have thought it.

“You should see my little room at the Y,” Velma said. “So dark.” She was looking at Father Fabre, but he could think of nothing to say.

Mrs Mathers sighed. “Vel, you
could
stay here, you know. She could, too.” Mrs Mathers appealed to Father Fabre. “The day bed is always ready.”

“Oh, well,” said Velma.

“So I had this extra bedroom,” Mrs Mathers said, as if coming to the end of a long explanation, “and I thought I might as well have the income from it—what’s your opinion, Father?”

“Swell,” he said. In the future he ought to listen to Miss Burke and stay away from John, with his rotten talk against her. A very sound person, Miss Burke, voices, visions, and all. He ought to develop a retiring nature, too, stick close to the pastor, maybe try to get a job in his war plant. “I hate to rush off,” he said, rising.

“Don’t tell me it’s time for devotions,” said Mrs Mathers.

They went down the street together. “You know, Father,” said Mrs Mathers, “I almost asked them to come along with us.”

“You did?” Mrs Mathers was hard to figure. He’d heard that hospital life made iconoclasts.

“What’d you think of Vel?”

“Who? Oh, fine.” He didn’t know what he thought of Vel. “What does she do?”

“She’s with the telephone company, Father. She thinks she’s in line for a supervisor’s, but I don’t know. The seniority system is the one big thing in her favor. Of course, it wouldn’t come right away.”

“I suppose not,” Father Fabre said. “She seems quite young for that.”

“Yes, and they’re pretty careful about those jobs.”

“What I understand.” He was in line for a pastor’s himself. They were pretty careful about those jobs too. “What does Mr Pint do?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No,” he said bleakly.

Mr Pint was an engineer. “But he never touches a wrench. He’s like an executive.”

“Where?”

“At the hospital, Father.”

“At City?”

“At Mercy, Father.”

Oh, God, he thought, the nuns were going to be in on it too. They walked the next block in silence.

“Who plays the mandolin?” he asked.

“He does.”

They walked another block in silence. “I don’t want to get TV,” she said plaintively. She brightened at the sight of a squirrel.

“Don’t care for TV?”

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t know how long I’ll keep my apartment.”

Was Mrs Mathers saying that she’d get out of town, or only that she’d move to another parish? If so, she was a little late. By feasting at their board, he had blessed the union, if any, in the eyes of the parish. What a deal! It was too late for him to condemn the enamored couple, one of whom was out of his jurisdiction anyway (in parting, he had shaken Mr Pint’s hand). It was a bad situation, bad in itself and bad because it involved him. Better, though, that they live in sin than marry in haste. That was something, however, that it would take theologians (contemplating the dangers of mixed marriage, the evil of divorce) to see. He knew what the parishioners would think of that.

And the pastor . . .

At the church, at the moment of parting, he said, “You’re going to be early for devotions.” That was all. To thank her, as he wanted to, for the good dinner would be, in a way, to thank her for compromising him with parish and pastor. It was quite enough that he say nothing to hurt her, and go.

“I’ve got some things to do around the side altars,” Mrs Mathers said.

He nodded, backing away.

“You suppose Grace’ll be inside?” she called after him, just as if all were now well between her and her best friend in the Society.

He had his back to her and kept going, plowed on, nodding though, vigorously nodding like one of the famous yes-horses of Odense. For a moment he entertained the idea that Mrs Mathers was a mental case, which would explain everything, but it wouldn’t do. Mrs Mathers remained a mystery to him.

In the rectory, he started up the front stairs for his room. Then he went back down, led by sounds to the converts’ parlor. There he found a congregation of middle-aged women dressed mostly in navy blues and blacks, unmistakably Altar and Rosary, almost a full consistory, and swarming.

“Could I be of any service to you ladies?”

The swarming let up. “Miss Burke said we should wait in here,” someone said.