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

“Actually,” said Simpson, “she’s all right.”

He took the visitors into the office (“my headquarters”), where they admired the secondhand Catholic Encyclopedia (Unrevised Version) he’d purchased with gift money from the family, and two hard-to-find works by Cardinal Newman (a convert). At Mother’s request, he sat for a moment at the desk. “Now I’ll know how you look, dear.” Aunt Edith tried on his biretta. Then, thinking that later, when they were leaving, would be soon enough to knock at the door of the room at the head of the stairs, he took them to his room, where they inspected his closet, pulled out his dresser drawers, and had the pleasure of seeing and hearing him on the phone with a misinformed but docile parishioner. And then who should walk in (the door was open, though the pastor’s open-door policy might not apply in this case) but Ms Burke with a loaded tray!

Overwhelmed by this womanly display, ashamed of himself for having underestimated Ms Burke, and thinking it would be a nice gesture anyway, Simpson invited her to sit down, and when Aunt Edith insisted, she did. So Simpson hurried off for another cup, hoping for the best.

When he returned, they didn’t seem to notice — they were talking — and since he was the host, he poured, delivered the cream and sugar, the cardboard Fig Newtons, and was shocked to hear Aunt Edith say, sweetly, “ Homemade? ” but she got away with it.

“Pooh,” said Ms Burke. “I just keep ’em in a plastic bag with a clothespin on it.”

“And warm before serving?” said Mother.

“I did these .”

Simpson tried one of the Fig Newtons, and they were slightly better this way. “Umm,” he said. Otherwise he contributed nothing to the conversation, just listened along, nodding or shaking his head — detergents did strange things. But after a bit he began to stiffen and was soon rigid. Hearing that “your boy” was easy to cook for, not like Father Beeman (“That big Beer man!”), who had thrown his food on the floor, rolled in at all hours, and pounded on walls, and that “your boy” kept his room very clean for a man, and certainly for a priest (Ms Burke here sniffing in the direction of the room at the head of the stairs), “your boy” regretted that praise for him should be so much at the expense of others. And was afraid that admonishment from him would aggravate what might otherwise pass off as tittle-tattle. To think, he thought, that the pastor had once said to him, speaking of Ms Burke, who was carrying on with herself in the kitchen at the time: “Uh. Very loyal.”

Very loyal to tell the visitors — outsiders, non-Catholics — that the pastor was a pack rat, and wouldn’t let her into the room at the head of the stairs to clean? That the pastor was a skinflint, and kept the Christmas ham in the trunk of his car, bringing it out for meals? That the pastor would do anything for a buck, and addressed envelopes for an insurance company in his spare time?

“Tried to get me to do it, but I wouldn’t ,” said Ms Burke.

“Why should you?” said Aunt Edith. “You’ve got enough to do.”

Simpson stood up, and moved toward the door.

Mother asked, “You didn’t know about the envelopes, dear?”

“Didn’t, no.”

“ He thought they were laundry !” said Ms Burke, and smilingly explained how Simpson had made that mistake. “That’s how much he knew!”

Simpson — who had been suspicious of the brown canvas suitcase from the start and had since seen it too often in transit for it to be going to and from the bank — shut the door, and while this did not have the desired effect, there is some justice in the world and Aunt Edith, overstimulated, spilled her coffee.

Simpson smilingly scrubbed it into the carpet with his feet, making nothing of it, the good host.

Ms Burke, concerned about a few drops on Aunt Edith’s dress, scurried off to her room for her spot remover.

The visitors went down the hallway to the bathroom for plain cold water.

When Ms Burke returned from her room, which was adjacent to Simpson’s but accessible only by the stairway off the kitchen, she was panting and, not seeing the visitors, gasped: “Gone!”

“No, no,” said Simpson.

They regrouped in his room, and after some talk of stains (what it came down to was, no stain should be allowed to set , which Simpson planned to use as an argument for frequent confession), the entire company — Ms Burke saying, “Pooh, I’ll clean up in here later”—moved out, and went down the hallway three abreast, one behind, that one thinking, Some other time, as he passed the door of the room at the head of the stairs. But when he opened the front door to let the visitors out, there, about to use his key, was the pastor.

“Uh,” he said.

“Uh,” said Simpson, and made the introductions.

The visitors were happy to see the pastor, and so was Simpson — to see him there, to think he’d been out, probably at the hospital (one of his few outside interests), while Ms Burke was assassinating his character with the door open. The pastor was doing as well as could be expected, responding with little nods, and noises like “Umm,” to the compliments on his church, rectory, housekeeper, until — suddenly, if you didn’t know the man — he made for the stairs.

“Oh, good-bye !” cried Aunt Edith.

“Why, yes ,” said Mother.

The pastor, on the stairs, stopped and turned. “’M takin’ a trip next week.”

This was news to Simpson.

“Oh, where ?” said Aunt Edith.

“Winnipeg.”

“Oh, why ?” said Aunt Edith.

“Catholic Wildlife Conference.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Edith.

“While you’re away,” said Mother, “will… will Father , here, be in charge?”

The pastor, before turning and continuing up the stairs, nodded, just perceptibly.

Simpson was glad to see his authority confirmed, but wished the signal had been a little stronger, for the sake of the visitors, who then left.

Ms Burke said, “Think they’ll come again?”

“It’s possible,” said Simpson.

“When?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say when.”

“Soon?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say soon.”

“You ask ’em this time?”

“Why, yes, of course.”

“Ask ’em again.”

“Uh. See about it.”

The next evening, while brushing his teeth, Simpson noticed that there had been a blessed event among the towels in the bathroom, twins, two little pink ones.

“Father,” said Simpson, coming to dessert, and remembering how he’d phrased the question before (“Father, how long will you be gone?”) rephrased it, “will you be gone long?”

“Not long,” said the pastor, as before.

“Father,” said Simpson when he’d eaten his peaches, “while you’re away, if I have to go out at night — hospital or something — and the church is locked, I can knock or ring, I know, but I’d hate to disturb Ms Burke, if you know what I mean, Father?”

The pastor nodded, as if he did know, but bowed his head in silent grace.

So did Simpson then, and, when they rose from the table, did not forget the pamphlet by his plate. “So I should knock or ring, Father?”

“Ring,” said the pastor.

A little later that evening, after the pastor and John departed for the airport, John to drive the car back, Simpson stepped out to do some shopping. When he returned, the front door, which he’d left unlocked, was locked (Ms Burke), and so, rather than ring, he went through the church. He was carrying a brown paper bag and a six-pack of beer for which he’d spurned a bag because his generation, he understood from the media, was perhaps most admired for its lack of hypocrisy. He reached his room (unseen by Ms Burke, he believed), opened the potato chips, some of which he shook into a dish after first removing the paper clips and dusting it with his elbow, and then opened the cheese dip, this marked down but still not cheap, probably because it came in an attractive wooden bowl suitable for entertaining. Simpson was entertaining two of his classmates, Potter and Schmidt, that evening. He had brought up his rubber-tire ashtray earlier.