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

“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?”