J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

The office, where he now had a few of his books and his rubber-tire ashtray, and where he now hung his biretta and stole, he was gradually making his own.

The pastor had looked in once to say, “Smoke a pipe, do you?” and twice to say, “Need that light on, do you?” And one afternoon, when Simpson was doing his best to describe the quality of life after death to a curious parishioner, the pastor came all the way in (for a paper clip) and left the door open on his departure — a mistake, Simpson realized then, for him to be alone with a member of the opposite sex (whatever her age) with the door closed, and he didn’t let it happen again.

Simpson learned from his mistakes.

Instead of going up to the door of the room at the head of the stairs to announce the arrival of a salesman — had received no response at all the second time he did that — he now dealt with such callers himself in a courteous, businesslike manner, and never bought anything.

He was the same with parishioners if the matter was one on which the Church’s position was still clear and negative — some people seemed to think there were now two or more schools of thought about everything. Unlike some newly ordained men, and here perhaps he showed the pastor’s influence, he didn’t try to say too much. He just tried to do all he could for people, but not more than he could (which a visiting speaker at the seminary had called the great temptation to the priest today), and in pursuing that limited objective he had his first (and, he hoped, last) confrontation with the pastor, the man suddenly on the stairs, whispering down:

“ What’s this? What’s this? ”

“Bell.”

“ Bell? ”

“Bell. Man fixing it.”

“ What? ”

“Bell.”

“ Man fixing it? ”

“Is, yes.”

“ Called man? ”

“Did, yes.”

“ Get estimate? ”

“Sort of.”

“ How much? ”

“Not much.”

“ How much, Father? ”

“Not much, Father.”

There, the pastor retiring to the room at the head of the stairs, the matter had ended, with Simpson, who, after all, had called man, paying him (not much) and keeping the receipt in case he was ever asked for it.

Relations between Simpson and the pastor were the same as before the confrontation, and this was to the pastor’s credit, but as before there was room for improvement — a sort of gap, like the Grand Canyon, that had so far defeated all efforts to fill it. Simpson, on his first Sunday at Trinity, had praised the pastor’s sermon, saying he hadn’t heard the like since he didn’t know when (hadn’t wanted to say since coming into the Church), and the man had just nodded, just perceptibly — not a good sign, Simpson knew now. Taking a chance, Simpson had asked the pastor where he got his hair cut, and the man had said, “Anywhere.” Taking another chance, Simpson had complimented the pastor on his white teeth, and the man had said, “Don’t smoke.”

But Simpson was still hoping to fill the gap, still looking around for common ground, and, not finding any, he created some by visiting the zoo (one of the pastor’s few outside interests, according to John, the janitor) and came to the table that evening full of it.

“Father, I didn’t know they let those big turtles run around loose.”

“Tortoises, Father. Harmless.”

“Tortoises. But people shouldn’t write stuff on their shells.”

“Do it here, in the pews.”

That had been it for the zoo.

On his next afternoon off, Simpson visited the Museum of Natural History (one of the pastor’s few outside interests, according to John) and came to the table that evening full of it.

“Father, how about that big moose by the front door!”

“Elk, Father. Megaceros Hibernicus .”

“Elk. Those crazy antlers! Wouldn’t want to run into him!”

“Extinct.”

That had been it for the Museum of Natural History.

Maybe, if Simpson had had some doubts or difficulties of a spiritual nature, and these had been brought to the pastor’s attention, they would have filled the gap, but Simpson didn’t have any such doubts or difficulties, and there was little or no audible response from the pastor — a noise like “Umm,” or a nod — when Simpson tried to discuss the merits of the pamphlets he continued to find by his plate.

Oh, they were excellent pre-conciliar works, and maybe the pastor would have done as much for any young man fresh from the seminary in times like these… but the fact that Simpson was receiving such attention, and the fact that Simpson was still without a key to the front door — these facts when taken together — did sort of suggest that Simpson wasn’t trusted, and that troubled him.

Three times he’d raised the matter of a key, and three times he’d been told, “Uh. See about it.”

One evening — well into his fourth week at Trinity — he raised the matter again, indirectly, but urgently:

“Father, what if, like tonight, I’m out with my classmates and I come in late — after nine, I mean — and the church is locked ?”

“’M up till ’leven or so. Just knock. Uh. Ring.”

So Simpson, a few minutes before eleven that night, rang.

He was determined not to complain. He thought there was too much of that going on these days among the clergy, of all people. He would not, he thought, be happier in another parish, neither in the suburbs nor the slums, for he was not, though fresh from the seminary, one of those who expect to change the world by going out into it. For him the disadvantages in his situation were outweighed by the advantages. At Trinity he could feel that he was still in the church of his choice, with divine worship and the cure of souls still being conducted along traditional lines — no guitars, tom-toms, sensitivity sessions, speaking in tongues — and at Trinity he could also feel that he, though newly ordained and a convert, though keyless and considered a suitable case for pamphlets, was the man in charge.

Simpson had visitors one afternoon, Mother and Aunt Edith, and began by showing them the church, which, he could see, disappointed them.

“Yes, it’s quite nice,” said Mother.

“Why, yes,” said Aunt Edith.

“Actually,” said Simpson, “it’s quite ugly. But it serves its divine purpose, and that’s the main thing.” He felt tough, had sounded the rude Roman note (GIVE ME SOULS!), and had hit a nerve or two, he knew.

“Well, if you say so, dear,” said Mother.

“Hell, yes,” said Aunt Edith.

Simpson moved toward the sacristy — had taken the visitors into the sanctuary for a close-up view of the main altar — but stopped, hearing a noise from the body of the church, the emptiness of which he’d been regretting for the sake of the visitors (non-Catholics), and saw the middle door of the spare confessional, the door to the priest’s compartment, open, and John appear, then disappear into the vestibule.

“Just the janitor,” said Simpson.

“Thank God ,” said Aunt Edith.

“Why,” said Mother, “he was in there all the time. Did you know he was in there, dear?”

“Didn’t, no.”

“He goes in there to pray, dear?”

“No, he just goes in there — to sleep, I think. Maintenance could be better.”

“But should he do that, dear? In there ?”

“Oh, what the hell,” said Aunt Edith.

“He really shouldn’t, no, but we’re not rigid in the Church,” said Simpson. He took the visitors through the sacristy, his usual route into the rectory, and, since this was their wish, back to the kitchen, where they met Ms Burke, who could be heard talking to herself again after they left.