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

He resolved to show no nervousness before the Archbishop. A trifle surprised, yes — the Archbishop must have his due — but not overly affected by good fortune. If questioned, he would display a lot of easy confidence not unaccompanied by a touch of humility, a phrase or two like “God willing” or “with the help of Almighty God and your prayers, Your Excellency.” He would also not forget to look the part — reliable, casual, cool, an iceberg, only the tip of his true worth showing.

At precisely 9:30 Father Burner picked up his breviary and backed out of the stall. But then there was the scuff of a foot and the tap of one of the confessional doors closing and then, to tell him the last penitent was a woman, the scent of apple blossoms. He turned off the light, saying “Damn!” to himself, and sat down again inside. He threw back the partition and led off, “Yes?” He placed his hand alongside his head and listened, looking down into the deeper darkness of his cassock sleeve.

“I…”

“Yes?” At the heart of the apple blossoms another scent bloomed: gin and vermouth.

“Bless me, Father, I… have sinned.”

Father Burner knew this kind. They would always wait until the last moment. How they managed to get themselves into church at all, and then into the confessional, was a mystery. Sometimes liquor thawed them out. This one was evidently young, nubile. He had a feeling it was going to be adultery. He guessed it was up to him to get her under way.

“How long since your last confession?”

“I don’t know…”

“Have you been away from the Church?”

“Yes.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“To a Catholic?”

“No.”

“Protestant?”

“No.”

“Jew?”

“No.”

“Atheist?”

“No — nothing.”

“Were you married by a priest?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Four years.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“Practice birth control?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Don’t you know it’s a crime against nature and the Church forbids it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you know that France fell because of birth control?”

“No.”

“Well, it did. Was it your husband’s fault?”

“You mean — the birth control?”

“Yes.”

“Not wholly.”

“And you’ve been away from the Church ever since your marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Now you see why the Church is against mixed marriages. All right, go on. What else?”

“I don’t know…”

“Is that what you came to confess?”

“No. Yes. I’m sorry, I’m afraid that’s all.”

“Do you have a problem?”

“I think that’s all, Father.”

“Remember, it is your obligation, and not mine, to examine your conscience. The task of instructing persons with regard to these delicate matters — I refer to the connubial relationship — is not an easy one. Nevertheless, since there is a grave obligation imposed by God, it cannot be shirked. If you have a problem—”

“I don’t have a problem .”

“Remember, God never commands what is impossible and so if you make use of the sacraments regularly you have every reason to be confident that you will be able to overcome this evil successfully, with His help. I hope this is all clear to you.”

“All clear.”

“Then if you are heartily sorry for your sins for your penance say the rosary daily for one week and remember it is the law of the Church that you attend Mass on Sundays and holy days and receive the sacraments at least once a year. It’s better to receive them often. Ask your pastor about birth control if it’s still not clear to you. Or read a Catholic book on the subject. And now make a good act of contrition…”

Father Burner climbed the three flights of narrow stairs. He waited a moment in silence, catching his breath. He knocked on the door and was suddenly afraid its density prevented him from being heard and that he might be found standing there like a fool or a spy. But to knock again, if heard the first time, would seem importunate.

“Come in, Father.”

At the other end of the long study the Archbishop sat behind an ebony desk. Father Burner waited before him as though expecting not to be asked to sit down. The only light in the room, a lamp on the desk, was so set that it kept the Archbishop’s face in the dark, fell with a gentle sparkle upon his pectoral cross, and was absorbed all around by the fabric of the piped cloth he wore. Father Burner’s eyes came to rest upon the Archbishop’s freckled hand — ringed, square, and healthy.

“Be seated, Father.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Oh, sit in this chair, Father.” There were two chairs. Father Burner changed to the soft one. He had a suspicion that in choosing the other one he had fallen into a silly trap, that it was a game the Archbishop played with his visitors: the innocent ones, seeing no issue, would take the soft chair, because handier; the guilty would go a step out of their way to take the hard one. “I called Saint Patrick’s this morning, Father, but you were… out.”

“I was visiting Father Desmond, Your Excellency.”

“Father Desmond…”

“He’s in the hospital.”

“I know. Friend of his, are you, Father?”

“No, Your Excellency. Well”—Father Burner waited for the cock to crow the third time—“yes, I know the man.” At once he regretted the scriptural complexion of the words and wondered if it were possible for the Archbishop not to be thinking of the earlier betrayal.

“It was good of you to visit Father Desmond, especially since you are not close to him. I hope he is better, Father.”

“He is, Your Excellency.”

The Archbishop got up and went across the room to a cabinet. “Will you have a little glass of wine, Father?”

“No. No, thanks, Your Excellency.” Immediately he realized it could be another trap and, if so, he was caught again.

“Then I’ll have a drop… solus .” The Archbishop poured a glass and brought it back to the desk. “A little wine for the stomach’s sake, Father.”

Father Burner, not sure what he was expected to say to that, nodded gravely and said, “Yes, Your Excellency.” He had seen that the Archbishop wore carpet slippers and that they had holes in both toes.

“But perhaps you’ve read Saint Bernard, Father, and recall where he says we priests remember well enough the apostolic counsel to use wine, but overlook the adjective ‘little.’”

“I must confess I haven’t read Saint Bernard lately, Your Excellency.” Father Burner believed this was somehow in his favor. “Since seminary, in fact.”

“Not all priests, Father, have need of him. A hard saint… for hardened sinners. What is your estimate of Saint Paul?”

Father Burner felt familiar ground under his feet at last. There were the Pauline and Petrine factions — a futile business, he thought — but he knew where the Archbishop stood and exclaimed, “One of the greatest—”

“Really! So many young men today consider him… a bore. It’s always the deep-breathing ones, I notice. They say he cuts it too fine.”

“I’ve never thought so, Your Excellency.”

“Indeed? Well, it’s a question I like to ask my priests. Perhaps you knew that.”

“No, I didn’t, Your Excellency.”

“So much the better then… but I see you appraising the melodeon, Father. Are you musical?”

“Not at all, Your Excellency. Violin lessons as a child.” Father Burner laughed quickly, as though it were nothing.

“But you didn’t go on with them?”

“No, Your Excellency.” He did not mean it to sound as sad as it came out.