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

Father Burner was the rare one who hadn’t asked for help, who was going it alone, with just two monks, down from St John’s, to assist him over weekends. He would go on retreat in June for five days (he wasn’t much on card games, though), but he planned no regular vacation. He worked like a dog. He lost weight. He was tired. I was edified.

In May, I heard Father Desmond say, “Ernest, it’s time to widen your circle of friends,” and so Father Burner, rather unwillingly, tried to give a poker party at the rectory. Father Desmond, popular (as Father Burner wasn’t) with the older men, a surprising number of whom claimed to have sold him on sobriety, invited several pastors and, significantly, no curates. But only two of those invited showed up — Father Kling and Father Moore. They belonged to the active set, a kind of Jockey Club for pastors, which maintained a floating poker game, a duck-blind, and a summer lodge. They gambled, hunted, and fished in common.

On the evening of the party, when they came into the dining room, where the cards and chips were laid out, I could see that Father Desmond had led them to believe that Father Burner, of all people, was playing host to an almost official session. Father Kling, a forceful man, glanced at Father Moore, a mild one, and remarked that he’d understood others were coming. With good grace, however, he and Father Moore sat down to play.

Father Desmond, who seemed to regard his function as essentially one of public relations, started right in to plump for Father Burner. “It’s a shame somebody doesn’t tell the old man to retire,” he said, referring to Father Malt. “It’s not fair to Ernest, here, and it’s not fair to the parish. This place needs a young man, with young ideas.” I, for one, wasn’t surprised by the utter silence that followed these remarks. Father Kling and Father Moore, as even Father Desmond should’ve known, were not so young themselves, nor were they so hot on young ideas.

Father Burner wisely stayed out of it. Father Desmond continued along the same lines, however, until Father Kling commented dryly, “It’s his hip, not his mind, that’s gone wrong, isn’t it?” and drained his highball.

“He’s had quite a time of it, hasn’t he?” said Father Moore gently. “Poor Dutch.”

“How about poor Ernest?” asked Father Desmond.

“Uh, yes, of course,” said Father Moore.

Father Desmond seemed to realize that he was doing no good and shut up. At least he might have waited, I thought, until they were feeling better. Father Kling had a little pile in front of him, and perhaps he’d remember where he got it. That was the only thing in Father Burner’s favor when Mrs Wynn came into the dining room and announced the Archbishop and another priest.

I followed Father Burner out of the dining room, but stopped at the door to the parlor, into which Mrs Wynn had shown the guests. I preferred to enter unobserved.

When Father Burner attempted to kiss the episcopal ring, the Archbishop put his hand behind him. He reserved the ring-kissing business for ceremonial occasions, as everyone knew, but it was customary to make a try for it.

At Father Burner’s invitation, the Archbishop and his companion, a young priest whose eyes looked as though he’d been driving all day, sat down, and at that juncture Father Desmond and the two other poker players came in to declare themselves. While they, too, tried to get at the Archbishop’s ring, I slipped into the parlor unseen and then along the wall until I came to the library table. There, back out of view, at the intersection of the crossbars supporting the table, I took up my position.

The Archbishop said that they’d been passing the church, on their way back from a confirmation tour along the northern marches of the diocese, when he thought of dropping in on Father Burner.

“It’s good to see you all together,” he said, looking them over. He liked to have his priests associating with one another, I knew, and not seeking other company to excess — except, of course, when necessary at parish functions.

The Archbishop asked about Father Malt (I daresay His Excellency, of those present, had seen him last), and Father Burner and Father Desmond, replying, sounded a little too broken up to suit my taste, or to sound much like themselves.

When the conversation came around to Father Burner and the fine work he was doing, Father Desmond ran it into the ground. He fed the most leading questions to Father Burner, who expressed himself well, I thought, although referring too often to the Archbishop for a higher opinion on trivial matters. It galled me to see Father Desmond turning the occasion into a grease job all around. Father Burner, possibly recognizing this but not able to turn Father Desmond off, excused himself and went down the hallway to the kitchen.

Father Desmond, speaking in a near whisper, as if he were telling a secret, said, “You know, Your Excellency, Father’s taken some nice shots of the Cathedral at night. If you’d care to see them…”

“I believe I’ve seen them,” said the Archbishop. He was looking over Father Desmond’s shoulder, disapprovingly, at his own smiling picture on the wall — not one of Father Burner’s shots, however.

“Yes,” said Father Desmond. “But he doesn’t have time for much anymore.”

The Archbishop nodded, and got up from his chair. “Excuse me, Father,” he said. He crossed the room to the bookcase.

Mrs Wynn entered the parlor with a tray of wineglasses, which she placed on the table.

Father Burner followed her with a bottle. I was happy to see that he’d had good luck with the cork. Later on, when the Archbishop had left, they’d switch back to bourbon (except Father Desmond, who was on 7UP). For some reason, sacramental wine, taken daily, spoiled them for other wines.

“This is hardly the time, but it may be the place to ask you,” said Father Burner, handing the Archbishop his glass, “but with Father Malt off the scene, Your Excellency, I was wondering if I dare go ahead with a tuck-pointing job on the church. I’ve been considering it — only academically, that is, Your Excellency, because it’ll run into quite a lot of money.” The Archbishop was silent. Father Burner started up again, in a manner feeble for him. “In the pastor’s temporary absence, the disposition of these matters…”

“Couldn’t it wait a bit, Father?” asked the Archbishop. It was a tense moment, a difficult reply indeed, when one tried to analyze it, as I did. At its best, it could mean that Father Burner would soon be empowered to make decisions concerning the church; at its worst, it could mean that the Archbishop expected Father Malt to recover and take over again, or, what was most likely, that he was not considering the question at all, regarded it as out of order, ill-timed, and impertinent. I felt that the Archbishop understood the reason for it, however. Father Burner had been overwhelmed by the visit, and flattered that others, particularly Father Kling and Father Moore, should be present to witness it. Such a visit — not an official visitation — could be enough to make him. It had been a great night for Father Burner until he popped that question.

When, a few minutes later, the Archbishop got up to leave, I came out from under the library table, went over to Father Burner, and brushed up against his trouser leg, purring.

The Archbishop, hearing me, I think, before he saw me, gazed down and said, “Do you like animals, Father?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” said Father Burner, who was only a dog-lover at best, and where I was concerned, I know, his answer was a barefaced lie — until he made it. From that moment on — there was no doubt of it — he loved me.

“This one, I see, likes you,” said the Archbishop, smiling. “Some believe it to be an infallible sign, the best of character references.”