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

“In the next, however, he went into action. He surpassed Victoria in both wrath and righteousness. His thesis, as much of it as I could understand, was that Victoria and the girls could not expect better conditions — for the duration. Victoria said it was the first she’d heard of our being a war plant. The super mentioned our ashtrays and picture frames, and said she ought to feel ashamed of herself, always complaining, when there were boys dying in foxholes — yes, boys who needed our products. Ashtrays in foxholes! I thought he was laying it on too thick at this point, even for him, and I did a foolish thing. We won’t go into that now, as it might obscure the larger meaning of the tragedy.

“Act Three was classic, revealing the history of human progress, or the effects of original sin (reason darkened), depending on your taste in terminology. The super introduced Victoria to the supernatural element, which in our department goes by the name of Pressure From Above. He invoked Pressure as the first cause of all conditions, including working. In short, the less said about conditions, the better. Victoria wilted. But Pressure, besides being a just and jealous god, is merciful. The super forgave her trespasses, said he was working on a raise for her, and she went back to her job (under the same conditions), beating her sizable breast and crying mea culpa for having inveighed against them — conditions, that is — as things sacred to Pressure. Curtain.”

Renner rubbed his eyes and gazed past me. Mr Ross had risen from the chicken livers and mushrooms. Emil stacked the dishes for removal.

“I want to pay you for everything,” Mr Ross said, meaning, I presumed, the bread, butter, and beets. The cardplayers looked at each other wisely at this, as though the law had thus been fulfilled.

“In case you are wondering,” Renner continued, “Victoria represents suffering humanity suffering as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”

“Amen,” I said.

Renner’s voice cracked and he began again. “How did the Austrian Socialists, the best organized working-class group in history and pacifists to boot, reconcile themselves to the war in 1914?”

“No doubt they organized committees,” I said, “or took the ever-lovin’ long view.”

“Worse. Dressed in the Emperor’s uniforms and crammed in boxcars ordinarily reserved for cattle, they rode off shouting — imagine—‘Down with the Czar and Imperialism!’”

“A distinction to make a theologian blush,” I said. “But tell me, what was this foolish thing you did in the second act?”

“I stood up to the super and told him a few things, mostly concerning the rights and dignity of man.”

I considered the implications of this for a moment. “Then, as we say, you are no longer with the company?”

“Yes.”

“You were fired?”

“Yes. Insubordination.”

Emil was telling Mr Ross how much everything was. Mr Ross pulled out a couple of bills and pressed them blindly into Emil’s hand.

“And the rest is for the house,” Mr Ross said. The cardplayers sniffed at each other and shared their disgust. Emil thanked Mr Ross from the bottom of his heart, shook his hand, put it down, and took it up for a final shaking.

At the door Mr Ross turned smartly and waved a large farewell which seemed to include Renner and me and the poets playing pinochle. Then he vanished into the street.

“Good-bye, Mr Ross,” Emil said plaintively, as if to his memory. Emil went to the card table, sat down, and fooled with his sleeves. The Entrepreneur, dealing, jerked his head at the door, snarled something in German, and went on dealing. The fat one nodded and belched lightly. The Irishman closed his eyes in a long blink. Emil grinned at his cards.

“That was Mr Ross,” he said.

“So that was Mr Ross,” the Entrepreneur said, attempting Yiddish dialect.

Abruptly Renner stood up, jolting our table sharply, his face all swollen and red, and started across the floor. Before I could get up and interfere, he came to a wavering halt. Looking at him were four surprised faces and there seemed to be nothing about them familiar or hateful to Renner. Evidently he was bewildered to find no super: he had seen his head a moment before. He gave me an ashamed look which was not without resentment. Then he walked back to our table, stuck his pipe, which was lying there, in his pocket, threw down some money, and went out the door.

THEY HAD COME to the dessert in a dinner that was a shambles. “Well, John,” Father Nulty said, turning away from Mrs Stoner and to Father Firman, long gone silent at his own table. “You’ve got the bishop coming for confirmations next week.”

“Yes,” Mrs Stoner cut in, “and for dinner. And if he don’t eat anymore than he did last year—”

Father Firman, in a rare moment, faced it. “Mrs Stoner, the bishop is not well. You know that.”

“And after I fixed that fine dinner and all.” Mrs Stoner pouted in Father Nulty’s direction.

“I wouldn’t feel bad about it, Mrs Stoner,” Father Nulty said. “He never eats much anywhere.”

“It’s funny. And that new Mrs Allers said he ate just fine when he was there,” Mrs Stoner argued, and then spit out, “but she’s a damned liar!”

Father Nulty, unsettled but trying not to show it, said, “Who’s Mrs Allers?”

“She’s at Holy Cross,” Mrs Stoner said.

“She’s the housekeeper,” Father Firman added, thinking Mrs Stoner made it sound as though Mrs Allers were the pastor there.

“I swear I don’t know what to do about the dinner this year,” Mrs Stoner said.

Father Firman moaned. “Just do as you’ve always done, Mrs Stoner.”

“Huh! And have it all to throw out! Is that any way to do?”

“Is there any dessert?” Father Firman asked coldly.

Mrs Stoner leaped up from the table and bolted into the kitchen, mumbling. She came back with a birthday cake. She plunged it in the center of the table. She found a big wooden match in her apron pocket and thrust it at Father Firman.

“I don’t like this bishop,” she said. “I never did. And the way he went and cut poor Ellen Kennedy out of Father Doolin’s will!”

She went back into the kitchen.

“Didn’t they talk a lot of filth about Doolin and the housekeeper?” Father Nulty asked.

“I should think they did,” Father Firman said. “All because he took her to the movies on Sunday night. After he died and the bishop cut her out of the will, though I hear he gives her a pension privately, they talked about the bishop.”

“I don’t like this bishop at all,” Mrs Stoner said, appearing with a cake knife. “Bishop Doran — there was the man!”

“We know,” Father Firman said. “All man and all priest.”

“He did know real estate,” Father Nulty said.

Father Firman struck the match.

“Not on the chair!” Mrs Stoner cried, too late.

Father Firman set the candle burning — it was suspiciously large and yellow, like a blessed one, but he could not be sure. They watched the fluttering flame.

“I’m forgetting the lights!” Mrs Stoner said, and got up to turn them off. She went into the kitchen again.

The priests had a moment of silence in the candlelight.

“Happy birthday, John,” Father Nulty said softly. “Is it fifty-nine you are?”

“As if you didn’t know, Frank,” Father Firman said, “and you the same but one.”

Father Nulty smiled, the old gold of his incisors shining in the flickering light, his collar whiter in the dark, and raised his glass of water, which would have been wine or better in the bygone days, and toasted Father Firman.