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

“Oh, am I?” said the Bishop tartly, pausing to let the words sink into the greenery where Monsignor Holstein was, and then he addressed himself to Mrs Nagel. “This branch”—this branch that had disturbed her sleep and that she’d been about to cut off one morning when the apparition first appeared to her in that very tree, the figure of a woman all in blue, smiling but shaking her head—“has it stopped brushing against the house?”

“Oh, no. Not when the wind blows hard from the north.”

The Bishop had known as much from Monsignor Holstein, but was checking, testing. “Still brushes against the house?”

“Oh, yes, when the wind blows hard from the north. But I don’t mind it now .”

“No miracles yet,” Monsignor Holstein said, from his concealed position, “and none are claimed.”

There were footsteps overhead. The Bishop said, “What does your husband say, Mrs Nagel?”

“Oh, Mart never did mind it. His hearing’s not so good.”

There were footsteps on the stairs. The Bishop said, “I meant, what does he say about… all this?”

Mrs Nagel laughed — an honest laugh, the Bishop thought, nothing bitter about it. “Oh, Mart just thinks I’m seeing things.”

Monsignor Holstein said, “Those closest to the scene are often the last to believe.”

“Mart just doesn’t like all the visitors,” said Mrs Nagel. “Oh, he’s very good. But there’ve been so many visitors— busloads —and we just don’t have, you know, the facilities.”

The back door slammed.

“Mart has to go for the kids,” said Mrs Nagel.

The Bishop, with an effort, got to his feet, saying, “Shouldn’t we move our cars, Monsignor?”

“It’s all right,” said Mrs Nagel.

“Ground’s frozen,” said Monsignor Holstein.

The Bishop moved over to the side window and peeked through the foliage there. He saw the bus go by on the lawn, traveling fast.

“Mart’s late,” said Mrs Nagel.

The Bishop, who’d been wondering why Mr Nagel hadn’t come in to meet him, sat down, saying, “On these occasions”—so far there had been five occasions, all feast days of Our Lady, counting Christmas as one—“ she , whoever she is, never says who she is?”

“No.”

“And you’ve never asked?”

“No, I know .”

The Bishop was silent for a moment, weighing the claims of faith against the demands of prudence, which had been his job for thirty years but hadn’t got any easier. “And the message — it’s always the same?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“When did she tell you not to tell it to anybody else?”

“Oh, Father Barnett told me that.”

The Bishop had known that, but again was checking, testing. “So he’s the only one you’ve told it to?”

“And Mart. I told him before I told Father, but Father said that was all right. Just not to tell anybody else.”

“You accept that from Father, do you?”

“ Oh, yes .”

The Bishop had to smile. “Because he’s your pastor and confessor?”

“Of course.”

The Bishop had to smile again. “Even though he may not himself — believe?”

“Oh, yes.” And Mrs Nagel, as she had earlier at the idea that she could be seeing things, laughed.

And that was exactly how a woman chosen by Heaven would and should respond to skeptics in this world, the Bishop believed, but what impressed him even more, what really moved him, was the way this woman deferred to her doubting pastor — to proper ecclesiastical authority.

What a wonderful world this would be if everybody did the same!

“I have no more questions, Monsignor,” the Bishop said.

On the way home, alone in the Mercedes, the Bishop stopped at the rectory in Fahrenheit and rang the doorbell. “Is Father in?”

“In!” cried the housekeeper.

Father Barnett, in his late fifties, the kind of priest once taken for granted and now much prized, stable, was in his bedroom, in a wingback chair, with a pillow behind him. His first words to the Bishop were “Yesterday, Bishop, going for the alarm — I keep the clock there on the TV, out of reach, so I have to get up when it rings. Anyway, phffft . Slipped disk. What they call it, but they don’t know . I’ve talked to ’em in Minneapolis. I’ve talked to ’em in St Paul. We had a couple of back men here from Rochester, up here fishing, and I talked to ’em. Waste of time. Some of ’em will admit it, some of ’em won’t. Bishop, there are two parts of the human body we still know nothing about — the back and the head. Or next to nothing, I’d say, from talking to ’em. I’ve stopped talking to ’em, Bishop. Treat myself. A firm pillow, Bishop. Not soft. Pressure’s what you want. Give your back support. Give your tissues a chance to heal. That’s all you can do. And wait. I’ll be all right in a few days, Bishop. I always am. Lucky I was able to treat it at once. Not like the last time. Was under the bed, straightening the boards — I have boards under my bed, Bishop — and couldn’t make myself heard. Housekeeper out. Funny feeling, Bishop. Flat on your back, paralyzed, see your whole life pass before you, and so on. Sit down, Bishop. What brings you up here?”

“Mrs Nagel.”

Father Barnett nodded.

“Monsignor Holstein was there.”

Father Barnett nodded.

“Strange case.”

Father Barnett nodded.

“Well, we can talk about it later, Father.”

The Bishop (he hadn’t sat down) stepped over to the phone, dialed the Chancery and spoke to the girl in the office, said he’d be in Fahrenheit for a few days (“Father Barnett’s down with his back, nothing serious”), asked that the ex-cathedral and the Webb be notified, and hung up.

Father Barnett said, “This is mighty good of you, Bishop.”

The Bishop nodded.

Then he went downstairs, and after speaking to the housekeeper he drove to the business district and made a few purchases, among them an alarm clock. He was recognized by clerks in stores, and by other shoppers, farmers and their wives who knew from his pastoral letters over the years that they were his favorite people, and when he was standing out in the street with the door of the Mercedes open, about to embark, he was honked at by a woman in a passing car with one of those musical horns — all of which was personally gratifying. But, more important, it showed that the Church was well regarded locally, and, more important, since there was nothing special about the town (except, maybe, its nearness to Mrs Nagel, whom one farmer’s wife had mentioned), it showed that the diocese was still in good heart.

He pulled into the driveway when he returned to the rectory, and was sorry he had to leave the Mercedes out in the cold (only a one-car garage and Father Barnett’s car was in it). Rather than ring the bell again, he entered the rectory by the back door, and, rather than wait until the day he departed, he presented the housekeeper with a box of chocolates then, along with a carton of eggs he said “somebody” had given him, rather than mention Mrs Nagel. With a breviary from Father Barnett, he went over to the church, where, after familiarizing himself with the light switches in the sacristy, he sat in a pew and read his office until the Angelus sounded automatically overhead, then stood. Returning to the rectory, again using the back door, he dined alone — not as well as he might have at the Webb but well enough.

On a tip from the housekeeper, he dropped in on a gathering of women in the church basement that evening, and a good thing he did, for word had got around that he was in residence, and there was a much larger turnout than usual, so he was told. At his insistence, the program proceeded as planned — a talk by one of the women on Christmas in Bethlehem — but when it was over he was again asked to speak. So he did — on Christmas in Rome, not very well. Leaving Rome, he traced his career in the Church, from curate to pastor to bishop, from North Dakota to Minnesota, to the diocese — incidentally, he said, the best place in the world to be at Christmastime, or any other time. For this he was warmly applauded, and should not have gone on to say that if the history of the human race had been different the first Christmas might have been celebrated in more suitable surroundings, which had confused some of the women and offended the one who’d spoken earlier. Still, a very successful evening. Held in conversation (several women mentioned Mrs Nagel), he didn’t get back to the rectory until ten.