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

He watched the news with Father Barnett. Then they had a drink, the able-bodied one going down to the kitchen for ice, and played cribbage — something the Bishop hadn’t done since seminary. Father Barnett talked about his back and his parish, more about the former than about the latter, and didn’t mention Mrs Nagel. After an hour, the Bishop retired to his room, out nineteen dollars and very tired, but lay awake in his new pajamas, listening to his new alarm clock, which had a loud tick.

The next morning, he saw that it had snowed on the Mercedes. After Mass, borrowing a broom from the housekeeper, he swept the car and part of the walk, working up an appetite. After breakfast, he looked in on Father Barnett, who asked about the attendance at Mass in his absence, as pastors will, and when given the count, which the Bishop knew from the housekeeper was three times the usual for a weekday, just nodded, as pastors will.

The Bishop made himself useful that morning — answered the phone, saw people (only two), and had a nice talk with the mailman, as well as with the man who delivered the fuel oil. In the afternoon, the Bishop called at the jail and admonished the no-good husband of a sad case he’d seen that morning (and written a check for), after which he called at the Chrysler garage, since there wasn’t a Mercedes dealer in Fahrenheit, and arranged for the car to stay there, since it had again started to snow. He ordered snow tires for his rear wheels. Then he walked over to the Rexall store, where he exchanged his alarm clock for a travel model with a quiet tick, bought a combination snow brush and ice scraper for the Mercedes, and joined the proprietor at the soda fountain in a cup of coffee. He was soon having another with the local Lutheran minister — a pleasant, if somewhat intellectual, young man — who drove him back to the rectory.

That evening, seeing lights flashing in the church basement, he went over to investigate, and there were the Scouts!

He returned to the rectory too late for the news, after a nice talk with the Scoutmaster and an Eagle (a vocation?), but not too late for a drink and cribbage. He heard more about Father Barnett’s back, and still nothing about Mrs Nagel, about whom he was now less inclined to ask. He did better at cribbage that night, losing eleven dollars, and went to bed less tired, though he’d had another busy day. For some time he lay awake, being pleased with his new clock, its quiet tick, and with himself, as he hadn’t been for thirty years. It was good to be working as a parish priest again.

Three days later, the Bishop said good-bye to the housekeeper (with whom he’d had a nice talk) and to Father Barnett, who, now recovered, saw him to the front door, where (and this after repeatedly telling himself that he was retired, that it was none of his business now, that he wouldn’t do this) the Bishop asked, “What about Mrs Nagel?”

Father Barnett replied, “She’s a good person, Bishop. Of her sincerity I have no doubt. But there’s this that leads me to believe— not to believe, Bishop. This so-called message. Since it was told to me in confession, I can’t tell you what it is. But I can tell you this — that it’s noncontroversial, nothing about praying for the conversion of Russia, China, or the U.S., and that I advised her to keep still about it (naturally, I didn’t tell her this) because it wouldn’t be believed, even by people who believe in the visions, and I was afraid she’d be hurt. Should’ve advised her to keep still about the visions — I know that now — but doubted at the time that I could make it stick. Should’ve tried. Should’ve imposed total silence, or none at all. I fell between two stools, Bishop, and I’m the one to blame. Not Mrs Nagel. She’s a good person. Sincere. About all I can say, Bishop. There are two parts of the human body we still know nothing about.”

After that, the Bishop left.

That evening, he dined at the Webb, said the eight o’clock at the ex-cathedral the next morning, and resumed his routine at home. But the following night he was in the rectory at Gebhardt, near Fahrenheit, in response to a call for help (flu), and was there for five days, including a Sunday. The day he returned home, a call came from Glanville, in the western part of the diocese, word of his availability having spread among the clergy, and he was there for twelve days (two Sundays). While there, he had a call from Grasshopper Lake (flu again), whence he proceeded directly, not returning home. He spent the days of Christmas in Grasshopper Lake, and was very happy there, nightly entertaining members of the choir in the rectory — a grand bunch, for whom he kept the beer coming and had the piano tuned. From there he went on to Pumphrey, was there ten days, and so it was the middle of January when he got back home.

“Look,” Bishop Gau said, “you don’t have to go on livery-horsing”—what the monks at the college, who helped out in parishes on weekends, called it — but then he spoke of the situation at Buell (with a mission at Kuhl), where the pastor, one of the few priests in the diocese not ordained by the Bishop, and one of the few noncontributors to his farewell gift, was AWOL. Bishop Gau said he thought that Father (soon to be Monsignor) Rapp, even though it was the height of the bowling season, should go to Buell temporarily, to still the waters. The Bishop, believing he’d be better in such a delicate situation — more experience and more, though he was retired, clout — said he’d go, gassed up, and went.

In Buell and Kuhl, he disposed of the amateurish posters (Peace, Joy, Love, and so on) in the churches, got the women to scrub the floors and pews, the men to wax and polish them, participating in these activities himself. He visited all the parishioners in their homes, spoke here and there, honoring all invitations, and, in general, did what he could (threw big parties in both places) to make the people forget their late pastor, except, of course, in their prayers. Owing to the special circumstances, he also said Mass daily in Kuhl, which meant driving twenty-eight miles over an unimproved road before breakfast, through ice and snow, for which, though, the Mercedes was equipped.

When, after a month, he left Buell, the car had ice on its roof (unheated garage), frozen glunk under its fenders, salt on its tires, was looking older and grayer, but was still a great performer. The Bishop couldn’t say as much for himself. After a bad night at home, he checked into the hospital (flu). When he came out ten days later, he was still in demand — two calls the first day — but had to say no, he wasn’t himself yet, he was convalescing.

During this period, one afternoon about three, he saw Father Barnett arrive at the Chancery and a few minutes later, in his black car, Monsignor Holstein and Mrs Nagel.

I may be called upon, he thought, and put on his shoes, collar, and coat. Then he hovered about, waiting for the phone to ring, until he began to feel foolish doing this. So he sat down with Who’s Who in the Midwest .

After a bit, though, the phone did ring.

The Auxiliary. “Bishop, I didn’t know you’d visited Mrs Nagel.”

Not a question, and so why say anything?

“Bishop, if I’d known”—as he should have known; that was the implication beneath the apologetic tone—“I would’ve called you earlier.”

Again, not a question.

“I just now found out, Bishop.”

Not a question.

“Bishop, if you’re not too busy up there, could you come down?”

“Be glad to,” said the Bishop, and hurried down.

Entering the big inner office, once his own, he stopped at the first chair, expecting to be directed to another, one near the desk, but he wasn’t, and so sat down, as the others did then — Bishop Gau at the desk, to his right Monsignor Rapp, and facing them Mrs Nagel, Monsignor Holstein, Father Barnett.