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

“We go through Chicago all the time,” said the boss missionary, who seemed to be returning to a point he had reached when I entered. I knew Father Malt would be off that evening for a convention in Chicago. The missionaries, who would fill in for him and conduct forty hours’ devotion on the side, belonged to an order just getting started in the diocese and were anxious to make a good impression. For the present, at least, as a kind of special introductory offer, they could be had dirt-cheap. Thanks to them, pastors who’d never been able to get away had got a taste of Florida last winter.

“Sometimes we stay over in Chicago,” bubbled the young missionary. He was like a rookie ballplayer who hadn’t made many road trips.

“We’ve got a house there,” said the first, whose name in religion, as they say, was — so help me — Philbert. Later, Father Burner would get around it by calling him by his surname. Father Malt was the sort who wouldn’t see anything funny about “Philbert,” but it would be too much to expect him to remember such a name.

“What kind of a house?” asked Father Malt. He held up his hearing aid and waited for clarification.

Father Philbert replied in a shout, “The Order owns a house there!”

Father Malt fingered his hearing aid.

Father Burner sought to interpret for Father Philbert. “I think, Father, he wants to know what it’s made out of.”

“Red brick — it’s red brick,” bellowed Father Philbert.

“ My house is red brick,” said Father Malt.

“I noticed that,” said Father Philbert.

Father Malt shoved the hearing aid at him.

“I know it,” said Father Philbert, shouting again.

Father Malt nodded and fed me a morsel of fish. Even for a Friday, it wasn’t much of a meal. I would not have been sorry to see this housekeeper go.

“All right, all right,” said Father Burner to the figure lurking behind the door and waiting for him, always the last one, to finish. “She stands and looks in at you through the crack,” he beefed. “Makes you feel like a condemned man.” The housekeeper came into the room, and he addressed the young missionary (Burner was a great one for questioning the young): “Ever read any books by this fella Koestler, Father?”

“The Jesuit?” the young one asked.

“Hell, no, he’s some kind of a writer. I know the man you mean, though. Spells his name different. Wrote a book — apologetics.”

“That’s the one. Very—”

“Dull.”

“Well…”

“This other fella’s not bad. He’s a writer who’s ahead of his time — about fifteen minutes. Good on jails and concentration camps. You’d think he was born in one if you ever read his books.” Father Burner regarded the young missionary with absolute indifference. “But you didn’t.”

“No. Is he a Catholic?” inquired the young one.

“He’s an Austrian or something.”

“Oh.”

The housekeeper removed the plates and passed the dessert around. When she came to Father Burner, he asked her privately, “What is it?”

“Pudding,” she said, not whispering, as he would have liked.

“ Bread pudding?” Now he was threatening her.

“Yes, Father.”

Father Burner shuddered and announced to everybody, “No dessert for me.” When the housekeeper had retired into the kitchen, he said, “Sometimes I think he got her from a hospital and sometimes, Father, I think she came from one of your fine institutions”—this to the young missionary.

Father Philbert, however, was the one to see the joke, and he laughed.

“My God,” said Father Burner, growing bolder, “I’ll never forget the time I stayed at your house in Louisville. If I hadn’t been there for just a day — for the Derby, in fact — I’d have gone to Rome about it. I think I’ve had better meals here.”

At the other end of the table, Father Malt, who could not have heard a word, suddenly blinked and smiled; the missionaries looked at him for some comment, in vain.

“He doesn’t hear me,” said Father Burner. “Besides, I think he’s listening to the news.”

“I didn’t realize it was a radio too,” said the young missionary.

“Oh, hell, yes.”

“I think he’s pulling your leg,” said Father Philbert.

“Well, I thought so,” said the young missionary ruefully.

“It’s an idea,” said Father Burner. Then in earnest to Father Philbert, whom he’d really been working around to all the time — the young one was decidedly not his type—“You the one drivin’ that new Olds, Father?”

“It’s not mine, Father,” said Father Philbert with a meekness that would have been hard to take if he’d meant it. Father Burner understood him perfectly, however, and I thought they were two persons who would get to know each other a lot better.

“Nice job. They say it compares with the Cad in power. What do you call that color — oxford or clerical gray?”

“I really couldn’t say, Father. It’s my brother’s. He’s a layman in Minneapolis — St Stephen’s parish. He loaned it to me for this little trip.”

Father Burner grinned. He could have been thinking, as I was, that Father Philbert protested too much. “Thought I saw you go by earlier,” he said. “What’s the matter — didn’t you want to come in when you saw the place?”

Father Philbert, who was learning to ignore Father Malt, laughed discreetly. “Couldn’t be sure this was it. That house on the other side of the church, now—”

Father Burner nodded. “Like that, huh? Belongs to a Mason.”

Father Philbert sighed and said, “It would.”

“Not at all,” said Father Burner. “I like ’em better than K.C.’s.” If he could get the audience for it, Father Burner enjoyed being broad-minded. Gazing off in the direction of the Mason’s big house, he said, “I’ve played golf with him.”

The young missionary looked at Father Burner in horror. Father Philbert merely smiled. Father Burner, toying with a large crumb, propelled it in my direction.

“Did a bell ring?” asked Father Malt.

“His P.A. system,” Father Burner explained. “Better tell him,” he said to the young missionary. “You’re closer. He can’t bring me in on those batteries he uses.”

“No bell,” said the young missionary, lapsing into basic English and gestures.

Father Malt nodded, as though he hadn’t really thought so.

“How do you like it?” said Father Burner.

Father Philbert hesitated, and then he said, “Here, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t ask you that,” said Father Burner, laughing. “Talkin’ about that Olds. Like it? Like the Hydramatic?”

“No kiddin’, Father. It’s not mine,” Father Philbert protested.

“All right, all right,” said Father Burner, who obviously did not believe him. “Just so you don’t bring up your vow of poverty.” He looked at Father Philbert’s uneaten bread pudding—“Had enough?”—and rose from the table, blessing himself. The other two followed when Father Malt, who was feeding me cheese, waved them away. Father Burner came around to us, bumping my chair — intentionally, I know. He stood behind Father Malt and yelled into his ear, “Any calls for me this aft?” He’d been out somewhere, as usual. I often thought he expected too much to happen in his absence.

“There was something…” said Father Malt, straining his memory, which was poor.

“ Yes? ”

“Now I remember — they had the wrong number.”

Father Burner, looking annoyed and downhearted, left the room.

“They said they’d call back,” said Father Malt, sensing Father Burner’s disappointment.

I left Father Malt at the table reading his Office under the orange light of the chandelier. I went to the living room, to my spot in the window from which I could observe Father Burner and the missionaries on the front porch, the young one in the swing with his breviary — the mosquitoes, I judged, were about to join him — and the other two just smoking and standing around, like pool players waiting for a table. I heard Father Philbert say, “Like to take a look at it, Father?”