The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (59 page)

“Father,” he said, taking a chance, “when you were here, did the pastor ever—how shall I put it?—put pamphlets by your plate?”

“At first.”

Good news for Simpson!

Father Beeman frowned at Simpson (who had been smiling at him). “But I never felt he was trying to straighten me out—and I came here under a cloud.”

“Oh?” But Simpson was only interested in hearing about the pamphlets. “‘At first,’ you say?”

“Not at the end. I left here under a cloud.”

“Oh?”

“Trouble was, he kept his door open at night—he still do that?”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, he did when I was here. I used to come up the stairs in the dark—so as not to disturb him—carrying my shoes. Never made it. ‘Is that you, Father?’ That’s what he’d say. Night after night. One night, I’m sorry to say, I let him have it—threw a shoe.”

“
Oh?
” Simpson was shocked, but tried not to show it.

“It didn’t hit him.”

“Oh.”

Father Beeman rattled his glass. “
So
,” he said, “I wouldn’t worry about the pamphlets if I were you. I can see how you might. But don’t. You’ve got what it takes, Simpson. Or what it did.
You
would’ve made it through the seminary in the old days—
un
like your classmates who were here tonight and wouldn’t have lasted a week. Hell, I wouldn’t be afraid to introduce
you
to
my
classmates.”

This was high praise to one who’d wished for years at the seminary, and for weeks at his first parish, not to be an object of special concern, neither of charity nor of suspicion, to his dear brothers in Christ, but simply to be one of them, and that praise, coming as it did from one who, whatever his faults, and we all have our faults, was certainly one of them, made Simpson blush.

“I’ve had
very
good reports on you, Simpson.”

Simpson said that several parishioners had mentioned Father Beeman to him (“
How?
”), oh, favorably (“
Who?
”), and supplied a couple of names, after which while John slept on, they sat on, finishing the bottle and discussing the Church, as many must have been doing at that hour in rectories.

“Well, Simpson. Say, what’s your first name anyway? Heard those clowns calling you Simp. Didn’t care for it.”

“Fitch,” said Simpson.

Father Beeman brought his glass, empty except for ice, down from his mouth with a clunk.

“It’s a family name,” said Simpson.

“Well, Simpson, I was sorry for you tonight—her acting up like that in front of everybody. Still, it happened to me when I was here, if that’s any consolation to you.”

Simpson sort of nodded.

“Don’t let her run you. That’s the main thing. Don’t let her get anything on you. That’s the main thing. But
if
she does don’t let her run you.”

Simpson sort of shook his head.

“Well, Simpson.” Father Beeman glanced at his watch, became interested in the back of his hand, tasted it, dried it on his sleeve, and got up, saying, “Nothing wrong with that cheese dip.” He woke John (who had to go to his other job and for whom he’d been watching the time), and then he handed Simpson a key, saying, “Carried it away.”

Good news for Simpson!

The evening, though dull at first with Potter doing all the talking, and bad at one point with Ms Burke acting up like that, had certainly ended well, Simpson was thinking, as they went down the hallway, when Father Beeman stopped and said:

“The thing is, Simpson, I never got my shoe back.”

Hearing this, and seeing where they’d stopped in the hallway, Simpson was shocked, but tried not to show it, and quickly made his position clear. “Afraid you’ll have to see the pastor, Father.”

Father Beeman said, “Should’ve said something at the time—the next day, or the day after. But you know how these things are, Simpson—the longer they go on, the worse they get. We weren’t talking at all—not that that was much of a change. You know how he is. Was going to say something the day I left, but thought, No, why embarrass him, why embarrass us both?”

“Afraid you’ll have to see the pastor, Father.”

Father Beeman said, “Look, Simpson, how’d you like to have one shoe, and know where its mate is, and not be able to lay your hands on it?”

“Afraid you’ll have to see the pastor, Father.”

“Look, Simpson. It’s
my
shoe. Come on, John. Help me hunt.”

John did.

Simpson walked up and down the hallway, and having had his first look into the room at the head of the stairs—an indoor dump—and hearing Father Beeman tell John the shoe wasn’t where it should be (“
Going by the flight pattern
”), he began to hope that it wouldn’t be found, which would be best for all concerned.

“
How about that? He must’ve picked it up!
”

Father Beeman came forth with the shoe, looking pleased with himself, and under the impression that Simpson wished to shake his hand

Simpson gave him back the key.

“Look, Simpson, this is
your
key.”

Simpson casually put his hands behind him and held them there.

“Wouldn’t want to say where you got it?”

“In the circumstances, no.”

“O.K., Simpson.” And Father Beeman gave the key to John.

“Put the shoe back, Father,” Simpson said, “I’m in charge here now.”

“Look, Simpson,
this
is
my
shoe. Good shoe, too. Bostonian. Hell, it’ll never be missed in
there
. Even if he misses it, which he won’t, he’ll just think it’s lost. You won’t have to say I was here.”

Simpson, remembering the pounding, shook his head. “No,” he said.

The pastor and Simpson ate their hashed brown potatoes, scorched green beans, and ground meat of some kind, and Ms Burke set the table with things that should have been on it earlier, then appeared at intervals with a loaf of sandwich bread under her arm, put out some (the pastor and Simpson ate a lot of bread), and disappeared into the kitchen, talking to herself—a typical meal, nothing unusual about it, except the collection of airline condiments and comestibles at the pastor’s place. The pastor had come to the table straight from the airport, and Simpson, though he’d come to the table after the pastor that evening, doubted that there had been time for Ms Burke to report what had happened at the rectory while the pastor was away, not long, not quite forty-eight hours.

“What was your trip like, Father?”

“Turbulence.”

“Oh?” And Simpson thought of the turbulence at the rectory during the pastor’s brief absence. The worst thing, in a way, was that one of Simpson’s guests, probably Potter, had used the little pink towels in the bathroom. These Simpson, before retiring that night, had noticed in the bathtub, had smoothed out, folded, and hung up where they belonged, but in the morning, waking with what he could only assume was a hangover, he had found them gone. Alluding to them at breakfast—“Uh. One of my guests . . .”—he had received no response from Ms Burke; and then he had, a bitter one. “I know
who
was here, and I know
why
.” “
I
,” Simpson had replied, and had been going to say
I tried
, but the thought of his failure to protect the pastor’s interest had silenced him. Ms Burke hadn’t spoken to Simpson since then, and he hadn’t spoken to her. His idea was not to let her intimidate him, not to let her run him. What he had lost with Ms Burke in the way of respect, he had gained in camaraderie with John, who—overly solicitous about Simpson’s “head,” comparing it with his own, and with some heads he’d had in the past (in some of which Father Beeman had figured), and spending more time in the combination chair-coatrack-umbrella stand just outside the office, and less time in the spare confessional—had become a nuisance by the end of that day, a long day. Simpson had gone to bed early, and was planning to do so again. There could be something in what John said, that the second day after could be worse than the first. “Air turbulence, Father?”

The pastor nodded. He was eating his dessert.

So Simpson picked up his fork.

Ms Burke came into the dining room. “What!” she cried, breaking her great silence where Simpson was concerned. “Eatin’ peaches with a fork?”

“No spoon,” said Simpson, breaking his great silence where Ms Burke was concerned.

“No
spoon
?”

“No spoon.”

“Look on the floor!”

“Looked.” To be sure of his ground, Simpson looked again.

Ms Burke, who had been looking on the floor, gave up and went to the sideboard, again rebuking Simpson. “Eatin’ peaches with a fork! You see that, Father?”

“Use spoon,” said the pastor.

“Don’t have one,” said Simpson.

Ms Burke popped one down on the table, sort of sleight of hand. “
There!
”

“Thanks,” said Simpson.

“Pooh!” said Ms Burke.

“Uh,” said the pastor.

Simpson finished dessert, said silent grace, and left the table with the pastor. They drove down the hallway at their usual clip, and were making for the stairs, Simpson thought, when the man suddenly turned out of his lane, saying “Uh.” Simpson followed him into the office and, a moment later, thought
this
was how he’d imagined it on his first day at Trinity, the pastor at the desk, himself in the parishioner’s chair—and wished he’d emptied his rubber-tire ashtray.

“Talk,” the pastor said, still looking at the ashtray.

“
I
,” said Simpson.

“Women,” the pastor said—evidently had meant that he would, and not that Simpson should, talk—“still great force for good in the world, Father. Be worse place, much worse, without ’em. Our Blessed Mother was one.” (Simpson nodded, though the pastor wasn’t looking at him.) “Have to watch ourselves, Father. As men. More. As priests. Get careless. Get coarse. Live like bears. Use spoon, Father. Peaches. No spoon, ask for one. Father”—the pastor was looking at Simpson—“don’t use guest towels.”

“
I
,” said Simpson, and was going to say
didn’t
, but didn’t.

“In future,” the pastor said, mildly.

“
I
,” said Simpson. “Won’t.”

The pastor nodded. He rose from the desk.

And Simpson rose swiftly and gladly and guiltily from the parishioner’s chair.

The pastor handed Simpson a key. “It turned up.”

“Oh, thanks, Father.”

“Visit hospital, Father?”

“Did, yes. Twice. Everybody’s fine.”

They left the office then, and made for the stairs, the pastor’s step quickening—Simpson’s, too—at the sound of Ms Burke’s voice in the distance (rebuking John), but Simpson was grateful to Ms Burke for not telling the pastor more than she had, and wondered how he could reward her.

While brushing his teeth, Simpson noticed that the little pink towels were back.

MOON BUILDINGS—
Jack Green, a North American Aviation scientist, said moon explorers might be able to construct buildings with pumice dust, a hard, powdery substance that may exist around volcanic craters on the moon. In a report for a meeting in Washington, D.C., of the American Astronautical Society, Green said it might be possible to shape the dust into blocks. These could be held together by a “waterless cement,” obtained from sulphur, which is also believed to exist on the moon
.—Minneapolis Morning Tribune, January 17, 1962.

CAST

TOM BROWN, a young scientist.

HUB HICKMAN, his friend, a young astronaut.

SENATOR HODGKINS, chairman, Senate Committee on Oceans, Rivers, Lakes, Harbors, and Space.

SENATOR WOODROW, his friend, a member of the Committee.

SENATOR MELLER, a member of the Committee, of another party.

NANCY, Senator Hodgkins’s pretty daughter and secretary.

SOPHIE, Senator Woodrow’s pretty daughter and secretary. SERGEANT AT ARMS, PRESS, TELEVISION, and RADIO PEOPLE, LOBBYISTS, SPIES, STUDENTS OF GOVERNMENT, CHAPERONES and SCHOOLCHILDREN, and OTHERS.

ACT ONE

Time
: Now

Place
: A crowded hearing room, Washington, D.C.

HODGKINS (
continuing
): You a friend of Jack Green?

TOM: No, sir.

HODGKINS: But you know him, don’t you?

TOM: No, sir. I don’t.

HODGKINS: Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him.

TOM: I won’t say I haven’t heard of him, sir.

HODGKINS: I thought not.

MELLER (
coming to
): Not so fast, Senator. Who’s Jack Green?

WOODROW: A North American Aviation scientist.

HODGKINS: And these are
his
ideas that this fella’s putting forward. What’s your name again?

TOM: Brown, sir. Tom.

MELLER: You’re a young scientist?

TOM: Yes, I am, sir.

MELLER: Employed by?

TOM: Self-employed, sir.

MELLER: And your friend also?

TOM: Yes, sir. He’s a young astronaut.

HUB (
rising
): Glad to make your acquaintance, sir.

MELLER: Glad to make
your
acquaintance, young man. I’m always glad to meet a young astronaut. Now these ideas, Tom—are they yours or somebody else’s?

TOM: I wouldn’t claim them as my own, sir. I doubt that anybody would. It’s been known for a long time in this country—and in others, unfortunately—that moon explorers might be able to construct buildings with pumice dust.

HODGKINS (
rapping table
): Quiet! You people will please remember that you’re here as guests of the Committee.

MELLER: What is this pumice dust, anyway?

TOM: It’s a hard, powdery substance that may exist around volcanic craters on the moon.

MELLER: I’m not sure I understand.

TOM: It’s believed that it might be possible to shape the dust—or p.d., as it’s called—into blocks.

MELLER: Blocks?