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

The Archbishop opened the door for Father Burner, saying, “And, Father, you will please not open the envelope until after your Mass tomorrow.”

Father Burner went swiftly down the stairs. Before he got into his car he looked up at the Cathedral. He could scarcely see the cross glowing on the dome. It seemed as far away as the stars. The cross needed a brighter light or the dome ought to be painted gold and lit up like the state capitol, so people would see it. He drove a couple of blocks down the street, pulled up to the curb, opened the envelope, which had not been sealed, and read: “You will report on August 8 to the Reverend Michael Furlong, to begin your duties on that day as his assistant. I trust that in your new appointment you will find not peace but a sword.”

FATHER UDOVIC PLACED the envelope before the Bishop and stepped back. He gave the Bishop more than enough time to read what was written on the envelope, time to digest The Pope and, down in the corner, the Personal , and then he stepped forward. “It was in the collection yesterday,” he said. “At Cathedral.”

“Peter’s Pence, Father?”

Father Udovic nodded. He’d checked that. It had been in with the special Peter’s Pence envelopes, and not with the regular Sunday ones.

“Well, then…” The Bishop’s right hand opened over the envelope, then stopped, and came to roost again, uneasily, on the edge of the desk.

Father Udovic shifted a foot, popped a knuckle in his big toe. The envelope was a bad thing all right. They’d never received anything like it. The Bishop was doing what Father Udovic had done when confronted by the envelope, thinking twice, which was what Monsignor Renton at Cathedral had done, and his curates before him, and his housekeeper who counted the collection. In the end, each had seen the envelope as a hot potato and passed it on. But the Bishop couldn’t do that. He didn’t know what might be inside. Even Father Udovic, who had held it up to a strong light, didn’t know. That was the hell of it.

The Bishop continued to stare at the envelope. He still hadn’t touched it.

“It beats me,” said Father Udovic, moving backwards. He sank down on the leather sofa.

“Was there something else, Father?”

Father Udovic got up quickly and went out of the office — wondering how the Bishop would handle the problem, disappointed that he evidently meant to handle it by himself. In a way, Father Udovic felt responsible. It had been his idea to popularize the age-old collection—“to personalize Peter’s Pence”—by moving the day for it ahead a month so that the Bishop, who was going to Rome, would be able to present the proceeds to the Holy Father personally. There had been opposition from the very first. Monsignor Renton, the rector at Cathedral, and one of those at table when Father Udovic proposed his plan, was ill-disposed to it (as he was to Father Udovic himself) and had almost killed it with his comment, “Smart promotion, Bruno.” (Monsignor Renton’s superior attitude was understandable. He’d had Father Udovic’s job, that of chancellor of the diocese, years ago, under an earlier bishop.) But Father Udovic had won out. The Bishop had written a letter incorporating Father Udovic’s idea. The plan had been poorly received in some rectories, which was to be expected since it disturbed the routine schedule of special collections. Father Udovic, however, had been confident that the people, properly appealed to, could do better than in the past with Peter’s Pence. And the first returns, which had reached him that afternoon, were reassuring — whatever the envelope might be.

It was still on the Bishop’s desk the next day, off to one side, and it was there on the day after. On the following day, Thursday, it was in the “In” section of his file basket. On Friday it was still there, buried. Obviously the Bishop was stumped.

On Saturday morning, however, it was back on the desk. Father Udovic, called in for consultation, had a feeling, a really satisfying feeling, that the Bishop might have need of him. If so, he would be ready. He had a plan. He sat down on the sofa.

“It’s about this,” the Bishop said, glancing down at the envelope before him. “I wonder if you can locate the sender.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Father Udovic. He paused to consider whether it would be better just to go and do his best, or to present his plan of operation to the Bishop for approval. But the Bishop, not turning to him at all, was outlining what he wanted done. And it was Father Udovic’s own plan! The Cathedral priests at their Sunday Masses should request the sender of the envelope to report to the sacristy afterwards. The sender should be assured that the contents would be turned over to the Holy Father, if possible.

“Providing, of course,” said Father Udovic, standing and trying to get into the act, “it’s not something…”

“Providing it’s possible to do so.”

Father Udovic tried not to look sad. The Bishop might express himself better, but he was saying nothing that hadn’t occurred to Father Udovic first, days before. It was pretty discouraging.

He retreated to the outer office and went to work on a memo of their conversation. Drafting letters and announcements was the hardest part of his job for him. He tended to go astray without a memo, to take up with the tempting clichés that came to him in the act of composition and sometimes perverted the Bishop’s true meaning. Later that morning he called Monsignor Renton and read him the product of many revisions, the two sentences.

“Okay,” said Monsignor Renton. “I’ll stick it in the bulletin. Thanks a lot.”

As soon as Father Udovic hung up, he doubted that that was what the Bishop wished. He consulted the memo. The Bishop was very anxious that “not too much be made of this matter.” Naturally, Monsignor Renton wanted the item for his parish bulletin. He was hard up. At one time he had produced the best bulletin in the diocese, but now he was written out, quoting more and more from the magazines and even from the papal encyclicals. Father Udovic called Monsignor Renton back and asked that the announcement be kept out of print. It would be enough to read it once over lightly from the pulpit, using Father Udovic’s version because it said enough without saying too much and was, he implied, authorized by the Bishop. Whoever the announcement concerned would comprehend it. If published, the announcement would be subject to study and private interpretation. “Announcements from the pulpit are soon forgotten,” Father Udovic said. “I mean — by the people they don’t concern.”

“You were right the first time, Bruno,” said Monsignor Renton. He sounded sore.

The next day — Sunday — Father Udovic stayed home, expecting a call from Monsignor Renton, or possibly even a visit. There was nothing. That evening he called the Cathedral rectory and got one of the curates. Monsignor Renton wasn’t expected in until very late. The curate had made the announcement at his two Masses, but no one had come to him about it. “Yes, Father, as you say, it’s quite possible someone came to Monsignor about it. Probably he didn’t consider it important enough to call you about.”

“ Not important! ”

“Not important enough to call you about, Father. On Sunday .”

“I see,” said Father Udovic mildly. It was good to know that the curate, after almost a year of listening to Monsignor Renton, was still respectful. Some of the men out in parishes said Father Udovic’s job was a snap and maintained that he’d landed it only because he employed the touch system of typing. Before hanging up, Father Udovic stressed the importance of resolving the question of the envelope, but somehow (words played tricks on him) he sounded as though he were accusing the curate of indifference. What a change! The curate didn’t take criticism very well, as became all too clear from his sullen silence, and he wasn’t very loyal. When Father Udovic suggested that Monsignor Renton might have neglected to make the announcement at his Masses, the curate readily agreed. “Could’ve slipped his mind all right. I guess you know what that’s like.”