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

When Schmidt arrived with a surprise guest, a Father Philippe, an older man who belonged to a small order recently expelled from one of the developing countries, Simpson hoped to hear something of the Foreign Missions (little discussed these days), but Father Philippe’s English was poor, and Potter made the usual remarks about Rice Christians and Spiritual Colonialism, and dominated the conversation.

So Simpson heard more about the developments taking place in the Church, notably in Holland, which he’d heard so much about from Potter and other activists in the seminary, and then more about the developments taking place at Holy Sepulchre, Potter’s parish, “exciting” being Potter’s word for these developments, “depressing” being Simpson’s.

“Look, Simp,” Potter said, “we have to do all we can to extend our outreach — to use a term widely used in the Protestant churches.” Women were now allowed to take up the collection at Holy Sepulchre, and strobe lights had been ordered for the sanctuary (“We have to think of the kids”), and Potter and his pastor, who was under Potter’s influence, were hoping to get Holy Sepulchre changed to Holy Resting Place as less off-putting to the churchless. Potter and his pastor were also hoping that it would soon be possible for people to fulfill their obligation to attend Sunday Mass not only, as now, on Saturday but also on Friday or Thursday , a better day, since so many people took off for the lake, or started drinking, right after work on Friday. Potter and his pastor were making an effort to keep the confessional doors — the doors to the priest’s compartment — open when the confessionals were not in use, to show the people, to bring home to them the idea, that God (“Jahweh” to Potter) was not within but on the altar.

“Wow,” said Schmidt, who was under Potter’s influence.

“No, no,” said Simpson. He assured Father Philippe that keeping the confessional doors open was not a local custom, nor was it a growing one, as Potter would have allowed a stranger to believe (all in the day’s work for the enthusiast), and for this Simpson was frowned on by his classmates.

Potter produced a copy of the Holy Sepulchre parish bulletin, the entire contents being just one word spread over four pages, a letter to a page, LOVE.

“Wow,” said Schmidt.

“To think we’ve come to this,” said Simpson, shaking his head, but, thinking the “we” might be resented by his classmates, cradle Catholics, he said to Father Philippe, “I’m a convert, Father.”

“Simp, you should do something about your triumphalism,” said Schmidt.

“Simp and Lefty,” said Potter, and likened Simpson to Father Beeman: he had called the LOVE issue a waste of recycled paper but a step in the right direction ( he wanted no bulletin at all), and he was almost certainly the one who kept shutting the confessional doors. “A real cross, that guy, and I’m afraid he knows your pastor’s away.”

“So?” said Simpson.

“He said he might drop by tonight.”

“Oh?” said Simpson — he’d been worried enough before, about the beer running out.

“He might not come,” said Schmidt, but he was a Teilhardian optimist.

Father Beeman came, appeared at Simpson’s door with John, who was carrying a bag of ice cubes, and was himself carrying a brown paper bag that obviously concealed a bottle. “Surprise,” he said.

“No, you’re expected, Father. In fact, I was just going out for beer.”

“Beer?” said Father Beeman. “Missionary?” he said, when introduced to Father Philippe. “Why aren’t you in Holland?” He held up a hand for silence, cupped an ear to hear what Potter, who was ignoring him, was saying to Schmidt, commented “I got your old outreach,” and handed Simpson the bottle.

Simpson had to go down to the kitchen for glasses (he had invited John to stay), and while down there heard the light in the back stairway snap on from above (Ms Burke), but he did not have to go out for beer. No, as Simpson saw it, those so inclined could simply switch to the bottle when the beer was gone.

And that was what happened, the evening then turning into more of a party, without, however, coalescing — there were still two conversations.

Simpson was in the one with Father Philippe, John, and Father Beeman, who controlled it, not by doing all the talking as Potter had done earlier, but by changing the subject frequently, giving others a chance to be heard briefly. Father Beeman also kept a tap on the other conversation, and occasionally issued a monitum (“It’s always been a hotbed of heresy, Holland”) or posed a question (“What’s so relevant about saying Mass in a barn in Belgium?”). Father Beeman also served as bartender to the entire room, a good thing, since Simpson wouldn’t have known how much to put in. Father Beeman and his bottle added a lot to the evening, and made it go as it hadn’t before. He appeared to be interested in Simpson.

Yes, for when Potter moved down to the floor, into the lotus position, and, at his request, Simpson, who had been sitting on the bed, moved into the vacant chair, which put him with Schmidt in easy range of Potter’s voice, he found that he was still regarded as one of Father Beeman’s claque (by Father Beeman), and had to attend to two monologues that seemed to be on a collision course.

Father Beeman said, “I don’t blame the young clergy for what’s happened to the Church, even the screwballs and phonies.”

Potter said, “Just because the Protestants do it, is that what’s wrong with hymn-singing? Next to a married clergy, I’d say that’s what we need most.”

Father Beeman said, “I blame the older men, pastors like the one where I am now — no hair on his head, just sideburns, and those industrial glasses that make any man look like an insect.”

Potter, wearing such glasses, said, with some difficulty, gulping, “You’re the one… Lefty… shuts those doors.” And stood up, with some difficulty.

Father Beeman, looking belligerent and (Simpson thought) guilty, said, “ What doors?” And stood up.

“Uh,” said Simpson, and was wondering what he, as host, should do, and was also recalling what a visiting speaker at the seminary had said, that the greater incidence of fist fights between members of the clergy since Vatican II was yet another sign of the times, and perhaps of the end, when…

Father Philippe stood up, and, going over to the wall and standing with his back to everybody, began to disrobe… collar, coat, dickey… then turned, and displaying his T-shirt, the blue and gold seal of a university thereon, cried, “ Voilà! Souvenir de Notre-Dame! ”

Ms Burke could be heard pounding on the wall!

“She still do that?” roared Father Beeman, and went to the wall and pounded back.

“Uh,” said Simpson.

Ms Burke could be heard again.

“ Listen to her!” whispered Father Beeman, but did not pound back. “Don’t let her push you around, Simpson. See that man there?” (Yes, Simpson saw John.) “She runs that man. And the pastor. But she didn’t run me . So don’t let her run you , Simpson. Be like me.”

Simpson sort of nodded.

When Potter, who had left the room when the pounding began, returned, he looked pale and said, “I think it was that cheese dip, Simp.”

“Nothing wrong with that cheese dip,” said Father Beeman.

Simpson saw Potter, Schmidt, and Father Philippe down to the front door, and returned to his room, wondering why Father Beeman and John were staying, and, again, why they had come.

The answers to those questions were not immediately forthcoming, and Simpson soon forgot those questions, for he heard some very interesting things from Father Beeman and (until he fell asleep) John. That the insurance company the pastor addressed envelopes for was Catholic owned and oriented, which Simpson was glad to hear, though he still felt uneasy about such employment for a parish priest and could only accept, in principle, Father Beeman’s argument that the pastor was a priest-worker. That John had another job, as a night watchman in a warehouse (“Security,” he said), which in a rash moment he’d boasted of to Ms Burke, and now lived in fear that she’d inform the pastor, Father Beeman doubting this (“Suits her better this way”). That Ms Burke, who received a prewar salary like John, never cashed her checks, and this, quite apart from its salutary effect on the pastor, Simpson considered a meritorious practice, even after Father Beeman discounted it (“Hell, she owns a four-hundred-acre farm”). That Father Beeman believed the pastor’s fine sermons to be the product of reading rather than living, to be thought out, perhaps even written out, before delivery, which struck Simpson as a very Roman view of preaching. That the pastor had been active in the so-called streetcar apostolate, this terminated when buses replaced streetcars, buses not having any windowsills to speak of, or the kind of seats on which literature could safely be left — which started Simpson thinking…