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

Father Desmond bore down on him. “Sure, I know, you’ll get it in the mail — when you get it. That’s what you figure. I admire your restraint, Ernest, but let’s not be superstitious about it, either.”

Father Burner, sprawling in his chair, rolled and unrolled Church Property Administration . Then, making a tube of it, he put it to his eye and peered through it, down his black leg, a great distance, and appeared finally to sight the silver glow on the toe of his big black shoe, which lay in the sunlight. “All right, Ed,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

“All right, then,” said Father Desmond. “Here it is. I have it on reliable authority — that is to say, my spies tell me — the Archbishop visited the infirmary today.” I interpreted “spies” to mean some little nun or other on whom Father Desmond bestowed sample holy cards.

Father Burner, taking a long-suffering tone in which there was just a touch of panic, said, “Ed, you know he does that all the time. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Father Desmond tried to come up with more. “He had words with Dutch.”

Father Burner flung himself out of his chair. He engaged in swordplay with the air, using Church Property Administration . “How do you mean ‘he had words’? You don’t mean to say they quarreled?”

Father Desmond could only reply, “I just mean they talked at some length.”

Father Burner gave a great snort and threw Church Property Administration across the room. It clattered against the bookcase, a broken sword. He wheeled and walked the floor, demanding, “Then why’d you say they had words? Why make something out of nothing? Why not tell it straight, Ed? Just once, huh?” He was standing over Father Desmond.

“You’re under a strain, Ernest,” said Father Desmond, getting up from his chair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it at all.”

Father Burner stared at him. “ Said? Said what ? That’s just it, Ed — you haven’t said anything.” He took another walk around the room, saying the word “nothing” over and over to himself.

Father Desmond cut in, “All right, Ernest, I’m sorry,” and sat down in his chair.

Then Father Burner, too, sat down, and both men were overcome by quiet and perhaps shame. Several minutes passed. I was sorry for Father Burner. He’d sacrificed his valuable silence to his curiosity and received nothing in return.

I addressed the briefcase, making my claws catch and pop in the soft, responsive leather. I wished that I were plucking instead at the top of Father Desmond’s soft head.

Father Desmond glanced over at me and then at Father Burner.

“Why do you let him do that?” he asked.

“He likes to.”

“Yeah?” said Father Desmond. “Does he ever bring you a mouse?”

With one paw poised, I listened for Father Burner’s answer.

“You don’t see any around, do you?” he said.

Well done, I thought, and renewed my attack on the briefcase. I had the feeling that Father Desmond still wanted to tell the world what he’d do to me if it were his briefcase, but, if so, he denied himself and got out a cigar.

“What’d you think of the plans for that rectory in South Dakota?” he asked.

“Not bad,” said Father Burner, looking around for his Church Property Administration .

“There it is,” said Father Desmond, as if it were always misplacing itself. He went over by the bookcase, picked up the magazine, and delivered it to Father Burner.

I curled up to nap. I could see that they were going to have one of their discussions.

When I heard the back door open, I supposed it was Mrs Wynn coming in to start dinner, but it was Mr Keller. I saw him advancing gravely up the hallway, toward me, carrying a traveling bag that I recognized as one the ushers had given Father Malt. Instantly I concluded that Father Malt had passed away in the night, that the nuns had failed to inform Father Burner, and had instead told Mr Keller, the faithful visitor, to whom they’d also entrusted the deceased’s few belongings.

Mr Keller set down the bag and, without looking into the parlor, started back the way he’d come, toward the back door. Father Burner and Father Desmond, at the sight of the bag, seemed unable to rise from their chairs, powerless to speak.

After a moment, I saw Father Malt emerging from the kitchen, on crutches, followed by Mr Keller. He worked his way up the hallway, talking to himself. “Somebody painted my kitchen,” I heard him say.

I beheld him as one risen from the dead. He looked the same to me but different — an imperfect reproduction of himself as I recalled him, imperfect only because he appeared softer, whiter, and, of course, because of the crutches.

Not seeing me by the hatrack, he clumped into the parlor, nodded familiarly to Father Burner and Father Desmond, and said, again to himself, “Somebody changed my chairs around.”

Father Desmond suddenly shot up from his chair, said, “I gotta go,” and went. Mr Keller seemed inclined to stick around. Father Burner, standing, waited for Father Malt to come away from the library table, where he’d spotted some old copies of Church Property Administration .

Father Malt thrust his hand under the pile of magazines, weighed it, and slowly, with difficulty, turned on his crutches, to face Father Burner.

They stared at each other, Father Malt and Father Burner, like two popes themselves not sure which one was real.

I decided to act. I made my way to the center of the room and stood between them. I sensed them both looking at me, then to me — for a sign. Canon law itself was not more clear, more firm, than the one I lived by. I turned my back on Father Burner, went over to Father Malt, and favored him with a solemn purr and dubbed his trouser leg lightly with my tail, reversing the usual course of prerogative between lord and favorite, switching the current of power. With a purr, I’d restored Father Malt’s old authority in the house. Of necessity — authority as well as truth being one and indivisible — I’d unmade Father Burner. I was sorry for him.

He turned and spoke harshly to Mr Keller. “Why don’t you go see if you left the back door open?”

When Father Burner was sure that Mr Keller had gone, he faced Father Malt. The irremovable pastor stood perspiring on his crutches. As long as he lived, he had to be pastor, I saw; his need was the greater. And Father Burner saw it, too. He went up to Father Malt, laid a strong, obedient hand on the old one that held tight to the right crutch, and was then the man he’d been becoming.

“Hello, boss,” he said. “Glad you’re back.”

It was his finest hour. In the past, he had lacked the will to accept his setbacks with grace and had derived no merit from them. It was difficult to believe that he’d profited so much from my efforts in his behalf — my good company and constant example. I was happy for him.

SOUTH OF ST PAUL the conductor appeared at the head of the coach, held up his ticket punch, and clicked it.

The Bishop felt for his ticket. It was there.

“I know it’s not a pass,” said Father Early. He had been talking across the aisle to one of the pilgrims he was leading to Rome, but now he was back on the subject of the so-called clergy pass. “But it is a privilege.”

The Bishop said nothing. He’d meant to imply by his silence before, when Father Early brought up the matter, that there was nothing wrong with an arrangement which permitted the clergy to travel in parlor cars at coach rates. The Bishop wished the arrangement were in effect in all parts of the country, and on all trains.