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

“Saint Jerome’s,” Keefe said. “Monsignor Fiedler’s.”

“One of those P.N. places, eh? Is the boss sorry he ever started it? I know some of them are.”

Keefe’s lips popped apart. “I don’t quite understand.”

Quinlan prompted: “P.N. — Perpetual Novena.”

“Oh, I never heard him say.”

“You wouldn’t, of course. But I know a lot of them that are.” Father Burner stuck a morsel on his fork and swirled it against the tide of syrup. “It’s a real problem all right. I was all out for a P.N. here during the depression. Thought it might help. The Dean was against it.”

“I can tell you this,” Keefe said. “Attendance was down from what it used to be until the casualties began to come in. Now it’s going up.”

“I was just going to say the war ought to take the place of the depression.” Father Burner fell silent. “Terrible thing, war. Hard to know what to do about it. I tried to sell the Dean the idea of a victory altar. You’ve seen them. Vigil lights—”

“At a dollar a throw,” Quinlan said.

“Vigil lights in the form of a V, names of the men in the service and all that. But even that, I guess— Well, like I said, I tried…”

“Yes, it is hard,” Keefe said.

“God, the Home, and the Flag,” Quinlan said. “The poets don’t make the wars.”

Father Burner ignored that. “Lately, though, I can’t say how I feel about P.N.’s. Admit I’m not so strong for them as I was once. Ought to be some way of terminating them, you know, but then they wouldn’t be perpetual, would they?”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Keefe said.

“Not so perpetual,” Quinlan said.

“Of course,” Father Burner continued, “the term itself, perpetual novena, is preposterous, a solecism. Possibly dispensation lies in that direction. I’m not theologian enough to say. Fortunately it’s not a problem we have to decide.” He laid his knife and fork across the plate. “Many are the consolations of the lowly curate. No decisions, no money worries.”

“We still have to count the sugar,” Quinlan said. “And put up the card tables.”

“Reminds me,” Father Burner said earnestly. “Father Desmond at Assumption was telling me they’ve got a new machine does all that.”

“Puts up card tables?” Quinlan inquired.

“Counts the collection, wraps the silver,” Father Burner explained, “so it’s all ready for the bank. Mean to mention it to the Dean, if I can catch him right.”

“I’m afraid, Father, he knows about it already.”

Father Burner regarded Quinlan skeptically. “Does? I suppose he’s against it.”

“I heard him tell the salesman that’s what he had his assistants for.”

“Assistant, Father, not assistants. You count the collection, not me. I was only thinking of you.”

“I was only quoting him, Father. Sic . Sorry.”

“Not at all. I haven’t forgotten the days I had to do it. It’s a job has to be done and nothing to be ashamed of. Wouldn’t you say, Father Keefe?”

“I dare say that’s true.”

Quinlan, with Father Burner still molesting him with his eyes, poured out a glass of water and drank it all. “I still think we could do with a lot less calculating. I notice the only time we get rid of the parish paper is when the new lists are published — the official standings. Of course it’s a lousy sheet anyway.”

Father Burner, as editor of the paper, replied: “Yes, yes, Father. We all know how easy it is to be wrathful or fastidious about these things — or whatever the hell it is you are. And we all know there are abuses. But contributing to the support of the Church is still one of her commandments.”

“Peace, Père,” Quinlan said.

“Figures don’t lie.”

“Somebody was telling me just last night that figures do lie. He looked a lot like you.”

Father Burner found his cigarettes and shuffled a couple half out of the pack. He eyed Quinlan and the cigarettes as though it were as simple to discipline the one as to smoke the others. “For some reason, Father, you’re damned fond of those particular figures.”

Keefe stirred. “Which particular figures, Fathers?”

“It’s the figures put out by the Cardinal of Toledo on how many made their Easter duty last year.” Father Burner offered Keefe a cigarette. “I discussed the whole thing with Father Quinlan last night. It’s his latest thesis. Have a cigarette?”

“No, thanks,” Keefe said.

“So you don’t smoke?” Father Burner looked from Keefe to Quinlan, blacklisting them together. He held the cigarette hesitantly at his lips. “It’s all right, isn’t it?” He laughed and touched off the match with his thumbnail.

“His Eminence,” Quinlan said, “reports only fifteen percent of the women and five percent of the men made their Easter duty last year.”

“So that’s only three times as many women as men,” Father Burner said with buried gaiety. “Certainly to be expected in any Latin country.”

“But fifteen percent, Father! And five percent! Just think of it!” Keefe glanced up at the ceiling and at the souvenir plates on the molding, as though to see inscribed along with scenes from the Columbian Exposition the day and hour the end of the world would begin. He finally stared deep into the goldfish tank in the window.

Father Burner plowed up the silence, talking with a mouthful of smoke. “All right, all right, I’ll say what I said in the first place. There’s something wrong with the figures. A country as overwhelmingly Catholic as Spain!” He sniffed, pursed his lips, and said, “Pooh!”

“Yes,” Keefe said, still balking. “But it is disturbing, Father Burner.”

“Sure it’s disturbing, Father Keefe. Lots of things are .”

A big, faded goldfish paused to stare through the glass at them and then with a single lob of its tail slipped into a dark green corner.

Quinlan said, “Father Burner belongs to the school that’s always seeing a great renascence of faith in the offing. The hour before dawn and all that. Tell it to Rotary on Tuesday, Father.”

Father Burner countered with a frosty pink smile. “What would I ever do without you, Father? If you’re trying to say I’m a dreadful optimist, you’re right and I don’t mind at all. I am — and proud of it!”

Ascending to his feet, he went to the right side of the buffet, took down the card index to parishioners, and returned with it to his place. He pushed his dishes aside and began to sort out the deadheads to be called on personally by him or Quinlan. The Dean; like all pastors, he reflected, left the dirty work to the assistants. “Why doesn’t he pull them,” he snapped, tearing up a card, “when they kick off! Can’t very well forward them to the next world. Say, how many Gradys live at 909 South Vine? Here’s Anna, Catherine, Clement, Gerald, Harvey, James A., James F. — which James is the one they call ‘Bum’?”

“James F.,” Quinlan said. “Can’t you tell from the take? The other James works.”

“John, Margaret, Matthew — that’s ten, no eleven. Here’s Dennis out of place. Patrick, Rita, and William — fourteen of them, no birth control there, and they all give. Except Bum. Nice account otherwise. Can’t we find Bum a job? What’s it with him, drink?”

Now he came to Maple Street. These cards were the remains of little Father Vicci’s work among the magdalens. Ann Mason, Estelle Rogers, May Miller, Billie Starr. The names had the generic ring. Great givers when they gave — Christmas, $25; Easter, $20; Propagation of the Faith, $10; Catholic University, $10—but not much since Father Vicci was exiled to the sticks. He put Maple Street aside for a thorough sifting.