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

“Just this one piece,” said the young missionary. The meat was already in my mouth.

“Well, watch it in the future,” said Father Philbert. It was the word “future” that worried me. Did it mean that he had arranged to cut off my sustenance in the kitchen too? Did it mean that until Father Malt returned I had to choose between mousing and fasting?

I continued to think along these melancholy lines until the repast, which had never begun for me, ended for them. Then I whisked into the kitchen, where I received the usual bowl of milk. But whether the housekeeper, accustomed as she was to having me eat my main course at table, assumed there had been no change in my life, or was now acting under instructions from these villains, I don’t know. I was too sickened by their meanness to have any appetite. When the pastor’s away, the curates will play, I thought. On the whole I was feeling pretty glum.

It was our custom to have the main meal at noon on Sundays. I arrived early, before the others, hungrier than I’d been for as long as I could remember, and still I had little or no expectation of food at this table. I was there for one purpose — to assert myself — and possibly, where the young missionary was concerned, to incite sympathy for myself and contempt for my persecutors. By this time I knew that to be the name for them.

They entered the dining room, just the two of them.

“Where’s the kid?” asked Father Burner.

“He’s not feeling well,” said Father Philbert.

I was not surprised. They’d arranged between the two of them to have him say the six and eleven o’clock Masses, which meant, of course, that he’d fasted in the interval. I had not thought of him as the hardy type, either.

“I’ll have the housekeeper take him some beef broth,” said Father Burner. Damned white of you, I was thinking, when he suddenly whirled and swept me off my chair. Then he picked it up and placed it against the wall. Then he went to the lower end of the table, removed his plate and silverware, and brought them to Father Malt’s place. Talking and fuming to himself, he sat down in Father Malt’s chair. I did not appear very brave, I fear, cowering under mine.

Father Philbert, who had been watching with interest, now greeted the new order with a cheer. “Attaboy, Ernest!”

Father Burner began to justify himself. “More light here,” he said, and added, “Cats kill birds,” and for some reason he was puffing.

“If they’d just kill mice,” said Father Philbert, “they wouldn’t be so bad.” He had a one-track mind if I ever saw one.

“Wonder how many that black devil’s caught in his time?” said Father Burner, airing a common prejudice against cats of my shade (though I do have a white collar). He looked over at me. “Ssssss,” he said. But I held my ground.

“I’ll take a dog any day,” said the platitudinous Father Philbert.

“Me, too.”

After a bit, during which time they played hard with the roast, Father Philbert said, “How about taking her for a ride in the country?”

“Hell,” said Father Burner, “he’d just come back.”

“Not if we did it right, she wouldn’t.”

“Look,” said Father Burner. “Some friends of mine dropped a cat off the high bridge in St Paul. They saw him go under in mid-channel. I’m talking about the Mississippi, understand. Thought they’d never lay eyes on that animal again. That’s what they thought. He was back at the house before they were.” Father Burner paused — he could see that he was not convincing Father Philbert — and then he tried again. “That’s a fact, Father. They might’ve played a quick round of golf before they got back. Cat didn’t even look damp, they said. He’s still there. Case a lot like this. Except now they’re afraid of him .”

To Father Burner’s displeasure, Father Philbert refused to be awed or even puzzled. He simply inquired, “But did they use a bag? Weights?”

“Millstones,” snapped Father Burner. “Don’t quibble.”

Then they fell to discussing the burial customs of gangsters — poured concrete and the rest — and became so engrossed in the matter that they forgot all about me.

Over against the wall, I was quietly working up the courage to act against them. When I felt sufficiently lionhearted, I leaped up and occupied my chair. Expecting blows and vilification, I encountered only indifference. I saw then how far I’d come down in their estimation. Already the remembrance of things past — the disease of noble politicals in exile — was too strong in me, the hope of restoration unwarrantably faint.

At the end of the meal, returning to me, Father Philbert remarked, “I think I know a better way.” Rising, he snatched the crucifix off the wall, passed it to a bewildered Father Burner, and, saying “Nice Kitty,” grabbed me behind the ears. “Hold it up to her,” said Father Philbert. Father Burner held the crucifix up to me. “See that?” said Father Philbert to my face. I miaowed. “Take that!” said Father Philbert, cuffing me. He pushed my face into the crucifix again. “See that?” he said again, but I knew what to expect next, and when he cuffed me, I went for his hand with my mouth, pinking him nicely on the wrist. Evidently Father Burner had begun to understand and appreciate the proceedings. Although I was in a good position to observe everything, I could not say as much for myself. “Association,” said Father Burner with mysterious satisfaction, almost with zest. He poked the crucifix at me. “If he’s just smart enough to react properly,” he said. “Oh, she’s plenty smart,” said Father Philbert, sucking his wrist and giving himself, I hoped, hydrophobia. He scuffed off one of his sandals for a paddle. Father Burner, fingering the crucifix nervously, inquired, “Sure it’s all right to go on with this thing?” “It’s the intention that counts in these things,” said Father Philbert. “Our motive is clear enough.” And they went at me again.

After that first taste of the sandal in the dining room, I foolishly believed I would be safe as long as I stayed away from the table; there was something about my presence there, I thought, that brought out the beast in them — which is to say very nearly all that was in them. But they caught me in the upstairs hall the same evening, one brute thundering down upon me, the other sealing off my only avenue of escape. And this beating was worse than the first — preceded as it was by a short delay that I mistook for a reprieve until Father Burner, who had gone downstairs muttering something about “leaving no margin for error,” returned with the crucifix from the dining room, although we had them hanging all over the house. The young missionary, coming upon them while they were at me, turned away. “I wash my hands of it,” he said. I thought he might have done more.

Out of mind, bruised of body, sick at heart, for two days and nights I held on, I know not how or why — unless I lived in hope of vengeance. I wanted simple justice, a large order in itself, but I would never have settled for that alone. I wanted nothing less than my revenge.

I kept to the neighborhood, but avoided the rectory. I believed, of course, that their only strategy was to drive me away. I derived some little satisfaction from making my-self scarce, for it was thus I deceived them into thinking their plan to banish me successful. But this was my single comfort during this hard time, and it was as nothing against their crimes.

I spent the nights in the open fields. I reeled, dizzy with hunger, until I bagged an aged field mouse. It tasted bitter to me, this stale provender, and seemed, as I swallowed it, an ironic concession to the enemy. I vowed I’d starve before I ate another mouse. By way of retribution to myself, I stalked sparrows in the orchard — hating myself for it but persisting all the more when I thought of those bird-lovers, my persecutors, before whom I could stand and say in self-redemption, “You made me what I am now. You thrust the killer’s part upon me.” Fortunately, I did not flush a single sparrow. Since my motive was clear enough, however, I’d had the pleasure of sinning against them and their ideals, the pleasure without the feathers and mess.