J. Powers - Suitable Accommodations - An Autobiographical Story of Family Life - The Letters of J. F. Powers, 1942-1963

HARVEY EGAN

Albuquerque

Christmas 1952

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] I am now in Albuquerque. Spending the Christmas and days to follow with my folks. […] Betty and children on the Mississippi. We’ll be there, officially, when the Wahls — in another providential break — leave for Florida for three months. After that — who knows? It’s too early to care, when you have put yourself, as we have, beyond mortal cares. (It says here.) Betty had a piece in The New Yorker two weeks ago.1 I have a story coming, a long one, certain to bring me orchids and other things from one and all.2 It is My Answer. I hope you’ll like it but suspect you won’t, which is where we both came in. I have another at The New Yorker , of another sort, as indeed I ought to have, having come to the end of my moneys from Doubleday, having turned down a job at Marquette for next fall; one at Univ. of Washington, for a semester; a writers’ conference next July in Bloomington, Indiana. So hold that sexton’s job open. I understand Bp Bartholome3 is going to hire a chauffeur — or at least a man to drive him around — and I was wondering … […] I saw George, passing through Mpls, and had a good evening with him. He drove me to St Cloud, for my triumphal return — not so triumphal, by the way, though Don did throw a party at which people who hadn’t ventured out for camaraderie for some time (Emerson, for instance) were present. They tell me I’ve not changed. Little do they know. I’ve aged; my perspective on my own, my native land, is sharper. […] I’ll be returning and will let you know when. We’ll have room and bath for you on the Mississippi. I do even less drinking than I used to, and so am not the dangerous companion I used to be.

I am, sir, Yr Obed. Servant,

Jim

BETTY POWERS

Albuquerque

December 29, 1952

Dear Betty,

[…] Yesterday with my father and mother I went to see The Quiet Man ,4 and it was all right — very melancholy making, however, seeing the trains, the houses, the scenery. I think it was the trains and the CIE men that made me think most of Ireland; it was Technicolor, and the green of the train carriages — the white 1s and 3s for first and third class — was authentic. There were little authentic touches along the way: the retired English officer reading the London Illustrated during all the commotion of a riot; the C of I clergyman and his wife — Eileen Crowe of the Abbey. Too many of the actors were American, I’m afraid; they didn’t sound rightly Irish, but suppose they’d been difficult to understand if they had; even Barry Fitzgerald sounded American to me, except in those flourishes of language. Perhaps the best thing was when the American arrived on the train and everyone began to tell him how to get to where he was going; I remember that happening to me. Anyway, you should see it if you get a chance; the story itself is silly. […]

Well, I think that’s all for now. I think of you often, pray you periodically pull yourself together and try to look and walk like a lady — which you’re getting to be, you know.

Jim

BETTY POWERS

Albuquerque

Tuesday afternoon [January 1953]

Dear Betty,

The bad news— The New Yorker rejecting the story. I enclose Henry’s letter.5 It came yesterday. I’ve been low ever since. And rather expect I’ll be that way for some time, unless, by some miracle, Collier’s should take the story. The immediate future is now jeopardized, as I see it, for the novel, I mean — which is where I came in last October. I don’t know just how we stand, economically, though my overall feeling is one of despair, what with taxes, the cost of living we’ll soon be bearing, to say nothing of setting up housekeeping if we should find a place. I find myself vacillating between stories and the novel again, but I think it folly to think of the latter — until I get to thinking now I’d like to have another book published. And then I think the next book I publish will probably be short stories, and so on. You know how it goes. […]

I’ve not heard from The New Yorker since mailing off the working proof. I suppose I will, soon, and there’ll be a lot more work on the story. I don’t know what to think about the rejection. I’m just full of nothing; numb and void. I wonder where you’re living by now. You don’t say where I should direct this letter; in fact you didn’t even sign your name. I understand, though. […]

I’m very glad the girls are better. Would they want cowboy boots? No, I wouldn’t want them to have them; I would, if Hopalong Cassidy and all that hadn’t come along. I’ve seen television here a couple of times. It’s not worth it, I think. They have only one outlet here, a combination of NBC and CBS and other programs, but I doubt that that makes the difference everyone says: if we just had more outlets! I’m right up to here — meaning my gills — with advertising, supermarkets, etc. This was evidently a deep-fry Christmas among the young married set. Remember the pressure-cooker Christmas when we were first married? Those were the days. It’s time for Betty Crocker, and here she is — America’s first lady of food. Fr Egan’s friends (the Regans) live according to the stiff observance, wheat bread, etc. They tell me brown sugar is actually refined, then colored brown. The only good sugar is raw sugar, which you get at those vegetarian stores. One would do well to sell one’s soul to Betty Crocker, at an early age, for invincible ignorance. How’s the lemon bisque? My mother’s suit (as I indicate earlier here) did come, and in good condition, and you did very well with the pressing. You are a good girl, and I’m sorry I can’t do more for you, can’t settle you somewhere with maid, etc. But I can’t, I guess, and that’s your cross. All for now, except try to relax, and much love.

Jim

HARVEY EGAN

Albuquerque

Saturday, January 10, 1953

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] Very sorry to hear about Fr Nolan, but found his last words rewarding. I like that tone — see you in heaven. Now and then, from something like that, I get the idea that Catholics really do believe what they hold. It is an idea, that idea of death, that I’d like to see stressed more. As my friends and parents grow older, I think more along those lines; have to, I guess, not able to accept the tragedy it would be if it ended here as it does, this life. […]

Juarez, I’m told, has been cleaned up, not what it used to be when I was a boy; much private enterprise then, every girl her hut and fire; now all spick-and-span, five houses run by a syndicate.

Don Humphrey threw a party for us in St Cloud, with food and drink; not the customary coffee and cake; and I guess he hopes I’ll settle there. Will I? Truth to tell, I don’t know what I’m doing.

My mother has dug out a pair of Indian moccasins I made as a boy, and they lie here at my feet — is there a clue in them, to the future? You know, I believe, that my desire at one time was to be an Indian, a member of the Blackfoot tribe. Then it was baseball, a member of the Brooklyn Robins (under Robbie, remember?). Then it was leader of a dance band; I had the baton and often directed, standing before the radio. Then. Then. Until now. Ireland again, yes, but I’m afraid you can’t go home again — which probably won’t keep me from trying, if I can ever work it out, the financial side, I mean. In Ireland, I am an American. Here, I’m nothing. And you, Father?

Pax,

Jim

The moccasins, I notice, point NNE.

BETTY POWERS

Albuquerque

Your birthday, January 16, 1953

Dear Betty,

[…] Downtown today with my mother. She got the girls some bracelets; I got them little cross necklaces the other day. I’m sorry to hear things are so bad there, your father not feeling well, etc. I hope the girls (and you) don’t make it worse. I’ve been thinking a lot about you; often, in detail. It’s a sad state of affairs when a man’s most carnal thoughts are all about his wife. See that you are worthy of them. Kiss the girls for me. Don’t upset your life too much — to come to Mpls; I’ll understand if you aren’t there.