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

Monsignor sniffed. He knew cars. “V-Eight, Father?”

“No,” Father Eudex confessed. “It’s a Model A.”

Monsignor chuckled as though this were indeed the damnedest thing he had ever heard.

“But in very good condition, Monsignor.”

“You said that.”

“Yes. And I could take it apart if anything went wrong. My uncle had one.”

“No doubt.” Monsignor uttered a laugh at Father Eudex’s rural origins. Then he delivered the final word, long delayed out of amusement. “It wouldn’t be prudent, Father. After all, this isn’t a country parish. You know the class of people we get here.”

Monsignor put on his Panama hat. Then, apparently mistaking the obstinacy in his curate’s face for plain ignorance, he shed a little more light. “People watch a priest, Father. Damnant quod non intelligunt . It would never do. You’ll have to watch your tendencies.”

Monsignor’s eyes tripped and fell hard on the morning paper lying on the swing where he had finished it.

“Another flattering piece about that crazy fellow… There’s a man who might have gone places if it weren’t for his mouth! A bishop doesn’t have to get mixed up in all that stuff!”

Monsignor, as Father Eudex knew, meant unions, strikes, race riots — all that stuff.

“A parishioner was saying to me only yesterday it’s getting so you can’t tell the Catholics from the Communists, with the priests as bad as any. Yes, and this fellow is the worst. He reminds me of that bishop a few years back — at least he called himself a bishop, a Protestant — that was advocating companionate marriages. It’s not that bad, maybe, but if you listened to some of them you’d think that Catholicity and capitalism were incompatible!”

“The Holy Father—”

“The Holy Father’s in Europe, Father. Mr Memmers lives in this parish. I’m his priest. What can I tell him?”

“Is it Mr Memmers of the First National, Monsignor?”

“It is, Father. And there’s damned little cheer I can give a man like Memmers. Catholics, priests, and laity alike — yes, and princes of the Church, all talking atheistic communism!”

This was the substance of their conversation, always, the deadly routine in which Father Eudex played straight man. Each time it happened he seemed to participate, and though he should have known better he justified his participation by hoping that it would not happen again, or in quite the same way. But it did, it always did, the same way, and Monsignor, for all his alarms, had nothing to say really and meant one thing only, the thing he never said — that he dearly wanted to be, and was not, a bishop.

Father Eudex could imagine just what kind of bishop Monsignor would be. His reign would be a wise one, excessively so. His mind was made up on everything, excessively so. He would know how to avoid the snares set in the path of the just man, avoid them, too, in good taste and good conscience. He would not be trapped as so many good shepherds before him had been trapped, poor souls — caught in fair-seeming dilemmas of justice that were best left alone, like the first apple. It grieved him, he said, to think of those great hearts broken in silence and solitude. It was the worst kind of exile, alas! But just give him the chance and he would know what to do, what to say, and, more important, what not to do, not to say — neither yea nor nay for him. He had not gone to Rome for nothing. For him the dark forest of decisions would not exist; for him, thanks to hours spent in prayer and meditation, the forest would vanish as dry grass before fire, his fire. He knew the mask of evil already — birth control, indecent movies, salacious books — and would call these things by their right names and dare to deal with them for what they were, these new occasions for the old sins of the cities of the plains.

But in the meantime — oh, to have a particle of the faith that God had in humanity! Dear, trusting God forever trying them beyond their feeble powers, ordering terrible tests, fatal trials by nonsense (the crazy bishop). And keeping Monsignor steadily warming up on the sidelines, ready to rush in, primed for the day that would perhaps never dawn.

At one time, so the talk went, there had been reason to think that Monsignor was headed for a bishopric. Now it was too late; Monsignor’s intercessors were all dead; the cupboard was bare; he knew it at heart, and it galled him to see another man, this crazy man, given the opportunity, and making such a mess of it.

Father Eudex searched for and found a little salt for Monsignor’s wound. “The word’s going around he’ll be the next archbishop,” he said.

“I won’t believe it,” Monsignor countered hoarsely. He glanced at the newspaper on the swing and renewed his horror. “If that fellow’s right, Father, I’m”—his voice cracked at the idea—“ wrong! ”

Father Eudex waited until Monsignor had started down the steps to the car before he said, “It could be.”

“I’ll be back for lunch, Father. I’m taking her for a little spin.”

Monsignor stopped in admiration a few feet from the car — her. He was as helpless before her beauty as a boy with a birthday bicycle. He could not leave her alone. He had her out every morning and afternoon and evening. He was indiscriminate about picking people up for a ride in her. He kept her on a special diet — only the best of gas and oil and grease, with daily rubdowns. He would run her only on the smoothest roads and at so many miles an hour. That was to have stopped at the first five hundred, but only now, nearing the thousand mark, was he able to bring himself to increase her speed, and it seemed to hurt him more than it did her.

Now he was walking around behind her to inspect the tires. Apparently O.K. He gave the left rear fender an amorous chuck and eased into the front seat. Then they drove off, the car and he, to see the world, to explore each other further on the honeymoon.

Father Eudex watched the car slide into the traffic, and waited, on edge. The corner cop, fulfilling Father Eudex’s fears, blew his whistle and waved his arms up in all four directions, bringing traffic to a standstill. Monsignor pulled expertly out of line and drove down Clover Boulevard in a one-car parade; all others stalled respectfully. The cop, as Monsignor passed, tipped his cap, showing a bald head. Monsignor, in the circumstances, could not acknowledge him, though he knew the man well — a parishioner. He was occupied with keeping his countenance kindly, grim, and exalted, that the cop’s faith remain whole, for it was evidently inconceivable to him that Monsignor should ever venture abroad unless to bear the Holy Viaticum, always racing with death.

Father Eudex, eyes baleful but following the progress of the big black car, saw a hand dart out of the driver’s window in a wave. Monsignor would combine a lot of business with pleasure that morning, creating what he called “good will for the Church”—all morning in the driver’s seat toasting passers-by with a wave that was better than a blessing. How he loved waving to people!

Father Eudex overcame his inclination to sit and stew about things by going down the steps to meet the mailman. He got the usual handful for the Monsignor — advertisements and amazing offers, the unfailing crop of chaff from dealers in church goods, organs, collection schemes, insurance, and sacramental wines. There were two envelopes addressed to Father Eudex, one a mimeographed plea from a missionary society which he might or might not acknowledge with a contribution, depending upon what he thought of the cause — if it was really lost enough to justify a levy on his poverty — and the other a check for a hundred dollars.

The check came in an eggshell envelope with no explanation except a tiny card, “Compliments of the Rival Tractor Company,” but even that was needless. All over town clergymen had known for days that the checks were on the way again. Some, rejoicing, could hardly wait. Father Eudex, however, was one of those who could.