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

On Tuesday, the third day, all caution, I took up my post in the lilac bush beside the garage. Not until Father Malt returned, I knew, would I be safe in daylight. He arrived along about dinnertime, and I must say the very sight of him aroused a sentiment in me akin to human affection. The youngest usher, who must have had the afternoon off to meet him at the station in St Paul, carried the new bag before him into the rectory. It was for me an act symbolic of the counterrevolution to come. I did not rush out from my hiding place, however. I had suffered too much to play the fool now. Instead I slipped into the kitchen by way of the flap in the screen door, which they had not thought to barricade. I waited under the stove for my moment, like an actor in the wings.

Presently I heard them tramping into the dining room and seating themselves, and Father Malt’s voice saying, “I had a long talk with the Archbishop.” (I could almost hear Father Burner praying, Did he say anything about me ?) And then, “Where’s Fritz?”

“He hasn’t been around lately,” said Father Burner cunningly. He would not tell the truth and he would not tell a lie.

“You know, there’s something mighty funny about that cat,” said Father Philbert. “We think she’s possessed.”

I was astonished, and would have liked a moment to think it over, but by now I was already entering the room.

“ Possessed! ” said Father Malt. “Aw, no!”

“Ah, yes,” said Father Burner, going for the meat right away. “And good riddance.”

And then I miaowed and they saw me.

“Quick!” said Father Philbert, who made a nice recovery after involuntarily reaching for me and his sandal at the same time. Father Burner ran to the wall for the crucifix, which had been, until now, a mysterious and possibly blasphemous feature of my beatings — the crucifix held up to me by the one not scourging at the moment, as if it were the will behind my punishment. They had schooled me well, for even now, at the sight of the crucifix, an undeniable fear was rising in me. Father Burner handed it to Father Malt.

“Now you’ll see,” said Father Philbert.

“We’ll leave it up to you,” said Father Burner.

I found now that I could not help myself. What followed was hidden from them — from human eyes. I gave myself over entirely to the fear they’d beaten into me, and in a moment, according to their plan, I was fleeing the crucifix as one truly possessed, out of the dining room and into the kitchen, and from there, blindly, along the house and through the shrubbery, ending in the street, where a powerful gray car ran over me — and where I gave up the old ghost for a new one.

Simultaneously, reborn, redeemed from my previous fear, identical with my former self, so far as they could see, and still in their midst, I padded up to Father Malt — he still sat gripping the crucifix — and jumped into his lap. I heard the young missionary arriving from an errand in Father Philbert’s brother’s car, late for dinner he thought, but just in time to see the stricken look I saw coming into the eyes of my persecutors. This look alone made up for everything I’d suffered at their hands. Purring now, I was rubbing up against the crucifix, myself effecting my utter revenge.

“What have we done?” cried Father Philbert. He was basically an emotional dolt and would have voted then for my canonization.

“I ran over a cat!” said the young missionary excitedly. “I’d swear it was this one. When I looked, there was nothing there!”

“Better go upstairs and rest,” growled Father Burner. He sat down — it was good to see him in his proper spot at the low end of the table — as if to wait a long time, or so it seemed to me. I found myself wondering if I could possibly bring about his transfer to another parish — one where they had a devil for a pastor and several assistants, where he would be able to start at the bottom again.

But first things first, I always say, and all in good season, for now Father Malt himself was drawing my chair up to the table, restoring me to my rightful place.

HER PENSION FROM the store wasn’t enough. She tried to conceal this from Mrs Shepherd, saying she preferred to be doing something, but knew she sounded like a person in need of a job, and she had, after all, come to an employment agency. Mrs Shepherd, however, found a word for it. “Oh, you mean you want to supplement your income.” And to that Teresa could agree.

The next day Mrs Shepherd called. She was in a spot, she said, or she wouldn’t ask Teresa to consider what she had to offer. It wasn’t the kind of position Teresa was down for, but perhaps she’d accept it on a temporary basis.

“You know, Mrs Shepherd, I don’t have to work.”

“My dear, I know you don’t. You just want to supplement your income.”

“Yes, and I like to be doing something.”

“My dear, I know how you feel.”

“And I’m down for light sewing.”

“Of course you are. I don’t know what ever made me think of you for this — except they want a nice refined person that’s a Catholic.”

Teresa, dreaming over the compliment, heard Mrs Shepherd say, “This party isn’t offering enough. In fact, I hate to tell you what it is. Say, I wonder if you’d just let me call them back and maybe I can get you more money. If I can’t, I don’t want you to even consider it. How’s that?”

“Well, all right,” Teresa said, “but I don’t have to work.”

When Mrs Shepherd called again, Teresa said it wasn’t very much money and not in her line at all and would not be persuaded — until Mrs Shepherd said something indirectly about their friendship.

The next morning Teresa got on the streetcar and rode out into the suburbs. Mrs Shepherd had referred to Teresa’s charge-to-be as a semi-invalid. The poor thing who met Teresa at the door in a wheelchair wore an artificial flower in her artificial hair, but had the face of a child, small, sweet, gay. Her name was Dorothy. She had always been Dolly to everybody, however, and it did seem to fit her.

Teresa could truthfully say to Mrs Shepherd, who called up that evening to ask how things were going, that the poor dear was no trouble at all, neat as a pin, nice as you please, and that they were already calling each other by their first names. Mrs Shepherd was glad to hear it, she said, but she hadn’t forgotten that Teresa was down for light sewing. Teresa only had to say the word if she wanted to make a change.

Teresa’s duties were those of a companion. She went home at night, and had Saturdays and Sundays off. Dolly’s sister, a teacher, got breakfast in the morning and was home in time to prepare dinner. For lunch, Teresa served green tea, cinnamon toast, and a leafy vegetable. Over Dolly’s protests, she did some housecleaning. At first Dolly tried to help. Then she tried to get Teresa to give it up and listen to the radio.

That was how Dolly spent the day, dialing from memory, charting her course at fifteen-minute intervals, from Fred Waring in the morning to Morton Downey at night. In between came the dramatic programs that Teresa, as a working person, had scarcely known about. Dolly was a great one for writing in to the stations. She’d been in correspondence with CBS all during all the criminal trials of Lord Henry Brinthrop (of Black Swan Hall) in “Our Gal Sunday.” She was one of those faithful listeners who plead with the networks to bring back deceased characters, but it wasn’t the lovable ones who concerned her. She said some of the bad ones got off too easily, “just dying.” One afternoon she chanced to dial to “Make Believe Ballroom,” a program of popular recordings, and got the idea that it should include some sacred music. (After a week of constant listening, they heard the announcer read Dolly’s letter and ask listeners for their views. Dolly, expecting trouble, wrote another letter, but that was the last they heard of her suggestion.)