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

The housekeeper, appearing at the door, said there’d been a change of plans and some of the ushers were driving Father Malt to the train.

“Has he gone yet?” asked Father Burner.

“Not yet, Father.”

“Well, tell him good-bye for me.”

“Yes, Father.”

When she had gone, he said, “I’d tell him myself, but I don’t want to run into that bunch.”

Father Philbert smiled. “What’s he up to in Chicago?”

“They’ve got one of those pastors’ and builders’ conventions going on at the Stevens Hotel.”

“Is he building?”

“No, but he’s a pastor and he’ll get a lot of free samples. He won’t buy anything.”

“Not much has been done around here, huh?” said Father Philbert.

He had fed Father Burner the question he wanted. “He built that fish pond in the back yard — for his minnows. That’s the extent of the building program in his time. Of course he’s only been here a while.”

“How long?”

“Fourteen years,” said Father Burner. He would be the greatest builder of them all — if he ever got the chance. He lit a cigarette and smiled. “What he’s really going to Chicago for is to see a couple of ball games.”

Father Philbert did not smile. “Who’s playing there now?” he said.

A little irritated at this interest, Father Burner said, “I believe it’s the Red Sox — or is it the Reds? Hell, how do I know?”

“Couldn’t be the Reds,” said Father Philbert. “The boy and I were in Cincinnati last week and it was the start of a long home stand for them.”

“Very likely,” said Father Burner.

While the missionary, a Cardinal fan, analyzed the pennant race in the National League, Father Burner sulked. “What’s the best train out of Chicago for Washington?” he suddenly inquired.

Father Philbert told him what he could, but admitted that his information dated from some years back. “We don’t make the run to Washington anymore.”

“That’s right,” said Father Burner. “Washington’s in the American League.”

Father Philbert laughed, turning aside the point that he traveled with the Cardinals. “I thought you didn’t know about these things,” he said.

“About these things it’s impossible to stay ignorant,” said Father Burner. “Here, and the last place, and the place before that, and in the seminary — a ball, a bat, and God. I’ll be damned, Father, if I’ll do as the Romans do.”

“What price glory?” inquired Father Philbert, as if he smelt heresy.

“I know,” said Father Burner. “And it’ll probably cost me the red hat.” A brave comment, perhaps, from a man not yet a country pastor, and it showed me where his thoughts were again. He did not disguise his humble ambition by speaking lightly of an impossible one. “Scratch a prelate and you’ll find a second baseman,” he fumed.

Father Philbert tried to change the subject. “Somebody told me Father Malt’s the exorcist for the diocese.”

“Used to be.” Father Burner’s eyes flickered balefully.

“Overdid it, huh?” asked Father Philbert — as if he hadn’t heard!

“Some.” I expected Father Burner to say more. He could have told some pretty wild stories, the gist of them all that Father Malt, as an exorcist, was perhaps a little quick on the trigger. He had stuck pretty much to livestock, however, which was to his credit in the human view.

“Much scandal?”

“Some.”

“Nothing serious, though?”

“No.”

“Suppose it depends on what you call serious.”

Father Burner did not reply. He had become oddly morose. Perhaps he felt that he was being catered to out of pity, or that Father Philbert, in giving him so many opportunities to talk against Father Malt, was tempting him.

“Who plays the accordion?” inquired Father Philbert, hearing it downstairs.

“He does.”

“Go on!”

“Sure.”

“How can he hear what he’s playing?”

“What’s the difference — if he plays an accordion?”

Father Philbert laughed. He removed the cellophane from a cigar, and then he saw me. And at that moment I made no attempt to hide. “There’s that damn cat.”

“His assistant!” said Father Burner with surprising bitterness. “Coadjutor with right of succession.”

Father Philbert balled up the cellophane and tossed it at the wastebasket, missing.

“Get it,” he said to me fatuously.

I ignored him, walking slowly toward the door.

Father Burner made a quick movement with his feet, which were something to behold, but I knew he wouldn’t get up, and took my sweet time.

Father Philbert inquired, “Will she catch mice?”

She! Since coming to live at the rectory, I’ve been celibate, it’s true, but I daresay I’m as manly as the next one. And Father Burner, who might have done me the favor of putting him straight, said nothing.

“She looks pretty fat to be much of a mouser.”

I just stared at the poor man then, as much as to say that I’d think one so interested in catching mice would have heard of a little thing called the mousetrap. After one last dirty look, I left them to themselves — to punish each other with their company.

I strolled down the hall, trying to remember when I’d last had a mouse. Going past the room occupied by the young missionary, I smiled upon his door, which was shut, confident that he was inside hard at his prayers.

The next morning, shortly after breakfast, which I took, as usual, in the kitchen, I headed for the cool orchard, to which I often repaired on just such a day as this one promised to be. I had no appetite for the sparrows hopping from tree to tree above me, but there seemed no way to convince them of that. Each one, so great is his vanity, thinks himself eminently edible. Peace, peace, they cry, and there is no peace. Finally, tired of their noise, I got up from the matted grass and left, leveling my ears and flailing my tail, in a fake dudgeon that inspired the males to feats of stunt flying and terrorized the young females most delightfully.

I went then to another favorite spot of mine, that bosky strip of green between the church and the brick sidewalk. Here, however, the horseflies found me, and as if that were not enough, visions of stray dogs and children came between me and the kind of sleep I badly needed after an uncommonly restless night.

When afternoon came, I remembered that it was Saturday, and that I could have the rectory to myself. Father Burner and the missionaries would be busy with confessions. By this time the temperature had reached its peak, and though I felt sorry for the young missionary, I must admit the thought of the other two sweltering in the confessionals refreshed me. The rest of the afternoon I must have slept something approaching the sleep of the just.

I suppose it was the sound of dishes that roused me. I rushed into the dining room, not bothering to wash up, and took my customary place at the table. Only then did I consider the empty chair next to me — the utter void. This, I thought, is a foreshadowing of what I must someday face — this, and Father Burner munching away at the other end of the table. And there was the immediate problem: no one to serve me. The young missionary smiled at me, but how can you eat a smile? The other two, looking rather wilted — to their hot boxes I wished them swift return — talked in expiring tones of reserved sins and did not appear to notice me. Our first meal together without Father Malt did not pass without incident, however. It all came about when the young missionary extended a thin sliver of meat to me.

“Hey, don’t do that!” said Father Philbert. “You’ll never make a mouser out of her that way.”

Father Burner, too, regarded the young missionary with disapproval.