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

Father Burner blushed and said, “I wish I could believe in that sign, Your Excellency.”

I trotted over to the Archbishop, selected his black trouser leg from all the others, and brushed against it, nicely purring. Everyone laughed.

“ Credo! ” cried Father Burner.

I was not surprised when, on the following morning, Father Burner invited me to join him at table for breakfast. I had wanted my elevation to my former place to happen of itself, to be a voluntary act on Father Burner’s part, as mine had been on his account, and for that reason, and because I wanted Mrs Wynn to get a good eyeful, I’d remained in the kitchen, awaiting, as it were, my nomination. After offering Mass, Father Burner came and sought me.

“Where’s Fritz?” he asked.

“Who?” said Mrs Wynn.

“Fritz,” Father Burner said. “My cat.”

“Oh, him,” said Mrs Wynn, who, it occurred to me, represented the sort of person who could live in the thick of history and never know the difference.

I walked out from under the kitchen table. Father Burner knelt and lifted me into his arms. He carried me into the dining room and pulled my old chair away from the wall and up to the table. We both sat down — to what I hoped would be only the first of many pleasant meals together.

I ate my bacon right royally and ruminated on the events of the evening before. I could not honestly say that I’d planned the splendid thing I’d done. It had more or less happened — unless, of course, I was both kinder and wiser than I believed myself to be. I was eating high on the hog again, I had my rightful place back, my reward for patience, and I was only sorry that Father Burner still had to wait for his. His buds had been pinched off at the start, but his roots had grown strong and deep. If he managed to flower, he’d be the classic type of late-blooming pastor. Until then he had me at his side, to him everything I’d been to Father Malt — friend and favorite, and, more, the very symbol and prefigurement of power. I actually liked him, I discovered. I liked him for what I’d done for him. But why had I done it? I didn’t really know why. I work at times in ways so inscrutable that even I cannot tell what good or evil I am up to.

Before we’d finished breakfast, Father Desmond phoned — to discuss the Archbishop’s visit, I gathered, for Father Burner said, “I’ve decided not to talk anymore about it, Ed.” I could almost hear Father Desmond squawking, “Whatta ya mean, Ernest?” “Maybe that’s part of the trouble,” Father Burner said. “We’re talkin’ it to death.” Evidently Father Desmond took offense at that, for Father Burner spoke quickly, out of context. “Why don’t you come for dinner sometime, Ed? When? Well, come tomorrow. Come early. Good.”

Father Burner hung up, bounced over to the table, chucked me fondly behind the ears, took a banana out of the fruit bowl, and went whistling off to his car — off to do the work of the parish, to return a defective length of hose, to visit the sick and pregnant, to drive to Minneapolis for more informal conferences with building experts, lay and clerical. He had several projects going ahead — academically, that is: the tuck pointing, a new decorating job inside the church, and outside, possibly, a floodlight on the dome, which I thought a paltry affair better left in the dark.

Before lunch that day, he returned with a half dozen mousetraps. He seemed to want me to follow him around the house, and therefore I attended him most faithfully, while he set the traps in what he regarded as likely places. I rather expected to be jollied about my indifference to mousing. There was none of that, however, and what might have been an embarrassing experience for me became instead an occasion of instruction. Using a pencil for a mouse, Father Burner showed me how the trap worked, which was quite unnecessary but a nice gesture, I thought.

That evening — with Father Burner still in the mood to exterminate — we appeared together for the first time in public, at the monthly meeting of the ushers. In the future, Father Burner announced, all notices of the sort now being posted on the bulletin board at the rear of the church would have to emanate from his office (which, strictly speaking, was his bedroom) and carry his signature. This was a cruel but unavoidable check to Mr Keller, who had become too prolific for his own good. He used the drugstore typewriter and special engraved cards bearing his name and title, and he took an authoritarian tone in matters of etiquette (“Keep your feet off the kneelers,” “Don’t stand in the back of the church,” “Ask the usher to find you a seat — that’s what he’s there for,” etc.), and in other matters (Lost and Found, old-clothes collections, ticket sales, and the like) he made it sound as though these were all services and causes thought up and sponsored by him personally. I felt that he was not far from posting bargains in real estate, another means of livelihood for him at the drugstore, when Father Burner stepped in. Mr Keller took it well — too well, I thought. He murmured a few meek words about trying to spare Father Burner the trouble, as he’d spared Father Malt the trouble. (He now visited Father Malt regularly at the infirmary.) Before we left, he asked Father Burner to lead the ushers in the usual prayer for Father Malt’s swift recovery.

It was early afternoon the next day when Father Burner remembered the mousetraps. I accompanied him on his rounds, but there was nothing I liked about the business before us. First we went to the pantry and kitchen, where Mrs Wynn constantly dropped and mislaid quantities of food. Any mouse caught in a trap there, I thought, deserved to die for his gluttony. None had. In the cellar, however, Father Burner had snared two young ones, both from a large family whose members I saw from time to time. My record with them had been good, and they, in turn, had played fair with me and had committed no obvious depredations to make me look bad. When their loss was noted, the others, I feared, would blame me — not for the crime itself but for letting it happen within my precinct.

Father Burner removed the little bodies from the traps, and then, with the best of intentions and with a smile, which only made it worse, he did a terrible thing. He extended a hand to me, a hand curled in kindness, inviting me to banquet on the remains. I turned away in a swoon, physically sick and sick at heart. I made my way upstairs, wanting to be alone. I considered bitterly others I’d known and trusted in the past. Always, except with Father Malt, when I’d persuaded myself to take a chance on one of them, there’d be something like this. I tried to forget, or to sleep it off, which proved impossible. I knew what I had to do before I could begin to forget, and so I did it. I forgave Father Burner. It was another lesson in charity, one that cost me more than my going to bat for him with the Archbishop, but I’m afraid it was entirely lost on him.

Father Desmond came for dinner that afternoon at four, which I thought rather early even for “early.” When he arrived, I was in the front hall having a go at the briefcase. He went right past me. I could see that he had something on his mind.

“I just couldn’t stay away,” he said, taking a chair across from Father Burner in the parlor. “I’ve got what I think is good news, Ernest.”

Father Burner glanced up from Church Property Administration and shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, “if it’s about you-know-what.”

“I’ll just tell you what I know to be true,” Father Desmond said, “and let it go at that.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” said Father Burner. I could see, however, that he’d listen if he was primed again.