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

While Father Otto took it from there, Joe moved out of range, out into the sun. Crossing the parking lot, he paused before a little pile of cigarette butts in the gravel, thought of inspecting the ashtrays of the nearest cars, thought again, and moved on toward his new rectory, thinking, As this church is the house of God, my good people, so this parking lot is — forget it. “You’re good people,” he called to a young couple. “Good and late.” No response. People who’d once been able to take and even enjoy a little friendly needling from their pastor, like the customers in a night club where an insulting waiter is part of the show, were restless and crabby nowadays. They wanted their “rights,” expected a priest to act like a minister, to say things like “So nice to see you” and “So glad you could make it,” and still they emptied their ashtrays in his parking lot. Entering the rectory by the back door, he washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then slipped into his illustrated apron, wearing it inside out over his cassock so the funny stuff was hidden, and set about making Father Otto’s breakfast.

When Bill, on his way over to church to help Father Otto with Communion, passed through the kitchen, Joe looked up from the breadboard, from sawing an orange, and said, “This isn’t for me”—just as he had a few weeks back, anxious then to explain his continuing presence in the kitchen to Bill. (It had been Bill’s first Sunday at the rectory.) “This isn’t for me” had since become something of a family joke, the thing to say when making another nightcap, when not declining dessert, which showed what a good guy Joe was, for he had a slight eating problem, unfortunately, and also a slight drinking problem.

As Bill went out the back door, Joe intoned, “ The story is told …” Father Otto’s sermons had become something of a family joke, too. There should be others in time.

Fifteen minutes later, Father Otto passed through the kitchen, and breakfast — or brunch, as he sometimes called it with a chuckle — was served in the dining room. Joe and Bill ate in the kitchen on Sunday, the housekeeper’s day off, but Joe felt that Father Otto deserved better, as a man of the old school and as hard-to-get weekend help. After serving him, Joe sank down at the other end of the table with a cup of coffee. What he really wanted was a cold beer. “How’s everything at the monastery, Father?”

“About the same,” said Father Otto, and helped himself to the strawberry preserves. He praised the brand, Smucker’s. He said he preferred strawberry to red raspberry, and red to black raspberry, as a rule, and didn’t care for the monastery stuff, as the nuns skimped on the natural ingredients. “And make too much plum.”

“That so?” said Joe. He’d heard it all before. As a rule, he didn’t sit with Father Otto at breakfast.

“My, but those were fine berries,” said Father Otto, referring, as he had before, to some strawberries no longer grown at the monastery. “Small, yes, but with a most delicate flavor. And then Brother, he went and dug ’em out.”

“Brother Gardener?” said Joe, as if in some doubt.

Father Otto, carried away by anger, could only reply by nodding.

“More toast, Father?”

“All right.” Father Otto helped himself to more preserves. He kept getting ahead of himself — always more preserves than toast.

Joe produced another slice from the kitchen, and also the coffeepot. “Warm that up for you?”

“All right.” But first Father Otto drained his cup. “You make good coffee here.”

Joe poured, sat down again, considering what he had to say. (On his last trip to the kitchen, he had removed his apron as a hint to Father Otto that the dining room was closing.) “Father, I was thinking”—and Joe had been thinking, for the past month, ever since Bill moved in—“you could go back on the one-thirty bus.”

Father Otto, who ordinarily returned to the monastery on the six-thirty bus, gazed away, masticating, sheeplike. He seemed to be saying that there ought to be a reason for such a drastic and sudden change in his routine.

“Know you want to get back as soon as possible,” Joe said. Monks, he’d often been told (by monks), are never very happy away from their monastery. Between them and their real estate, there is a body-and-soul relationship, a strange bond. Monks are the homeowners, the solid citizens, of the ecclesiastical establishment. Other varieties of religious, and even secular priests like Joe — although he’d built a school, a convent, and now a rectory — are hoboes by comparison. That was certainly the impression you got if you spent any time with monks. So, really, what Joe was suggesting — that Father Otto return to his monastery a few hours earlier than usual — wasn’t so bad, was it? “Of course, it’s up to you, Father.”

Father Otto folded his napkin, though it was headed for the laundry, and then he rolled it. He seemed to be looking for his napkin ring, and then he seemed to remember it was at the monastery. “All right,” he said.

Bill barged in, saying, “That was Potter on the phone. Looks like there’ll be one more, Father.”

Seeing that he had no choice, Joe informed Father Otto that a couple of Bill’s friends — classmates — were coming to dinner, and that Mrs Pelissier, the housekeeper, would report at three. “She’s been having car trouble,” he added, hoping, he guessed, to change the subject, but it was no good.

“Who else is coming?” Father Otto said to Bill.

“Name’s Conklin. Classmate. Ex-classmate.”

Joe didn’t like the sound of it. “Dropout?”

Bill observed a moment of silence. “None of us knew why Conk left. I don’t think Conk did — at the time.”

“That’s often the case, Bill. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Father Otto, looking at Joe.

“Who said it was?” Joe inquired, and then continued with Bill. “So now he’s married. Right?”

“No. Not exactly.”

Joe waited for clarification.

“I guess he thinks about it,” Bill said.

Father Otto nodded. “We all do.”

“That so?” said Joe.

Father Otto nodded. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That so?” said Joe.

“Is it all right, then?” Bill said.

Joe looked at Bill intently. “Is what all right?”

“For Conk to come? He’s a pretty lonely guy.”

Father Otto was nodding away, apparently giving his permission.

“It’s your party,” Joe said, and rose from the table in an energetic manner, as a hint to Father Otto. “I’d ask you to stay for it, Father. Or Bill would — it’s his party. But we plan to sit down — or stand up, it’s buffet — around five. You’d have to eat and run.” And somebody — Joe — would have to drive Father Otto to the bus.

“But stay if you like,” Bill said.

“All right,” said Father Otto.

Joe and Father Otto were watching the Twins game and drinking beer in the pastor’s study when Bill brought in his friends and introduced them. The heavy one wearing a collar, which showed that he, or his pastor, was still holding the line, was Hennessy. The exhibitionist in the faded Brahms T-shirt was Potter. And the other one, the one with the mustache, a nasty affair, was Conklin.

“What’s the score?” Bill asked, as if he cared.

“Four to one,” Joe said.

“Twins?”

“No.”

Potter and Conklin moved off to case the bookshelves, and Father Otto joined them, but Hennessy stood by, attending to the conversation.

“What inning?” Bill asked.

“Seventh.”

“Who’s pitching?”

Joe took a step toward the television set.

“Leave it on,” Bill said. “We’re going to my room for a drink.”