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

“But on a run like this, Bishop, with these fine coaches, I daresay there aren’t many snobs who’ll go to the trouble of filling out the form.”

The Bishop looked away. Father Early had a nose like a parrot’s and something on it like psoriasis that held the Bishop’s attention — unfortunately, for Father Early seemed to think it was his talk. The Bishop had a priest or two in his diocese like Father Early.

“Oh, the railroads, I daresay, mean well.”

“Yes,” said the Bishop distantly. The voice at his right ear went on without him. He gazed out the window, up at the limestone scarred by its primeval intercourse with the Mississippi, now shrunk down into itself, and there he saw a cave, another cave, and another. Criminals had been discovered in them, he understood, and ammunition from the Civil War, and farther down the river, in the high bluffs, rattlesnakes were said to be numerous still.

“Bishop, I don’t think I’m one to strain at a gnat.” (The Bishop glanced at Father Early’s nose with interest.) “But I must say I fear privilege more than persecution. Of course the one follows the other, as the night the day.”

“Is it true, Father, that there are rattlesnakes along here?”

“Very likely,” said Father Early, hardly bothering to look out the window. “Bishop, I was dining in New York, in a crowded place, observed by all and sundry, when the management tried to present me with a bottle of wine. Well!”

The Bishop, spying a whole row of caves, thought of the ancient Nile. Here, though, the country was too fresh and frigid. Here the desert fathers would’ve married early and gone fishing. The aborigines, by their fruits, pretty much proved that. He tried again to interrupt Father Early. “There must be a cave for you up there, somewhere, Father.”

Father Early responded with a laugh that sounded exactly like ha-ha, no more or less. “I’ll tell you a secret, Bishop. When I was in seminary, they called me Crazy Early. I understand they still do. Perhaps you knew.”

“No,” said the Bishop. Father Early flattered himself. The Bishop had never heard of him until that day.

“I thought perhaps Monsignor Reed had told you.”

“I seldom see him.” He saw Reed only by accident, at somebody’s funeral or jubilee celebration or, it seemed, in railroad stations, which had happened again in Minneapolis that morning. It was Reed who had introduced Father Early to him then. Had Reed known what he was doing? It was six hours to Chicago, hours of this…

“I suppose you know Macaulay’s England , Bishop.”

“No.” There was something to be gained by a frank admission of ignorance when it was assumed anyway.

“Read the section dealing with the status of the common clergy in the eighteenth century. I’m talking about the Anglican clergy. Hardly the equal of servants, knaves, figures of fun! The fault of the Reformation, you say? Yes, of course”—the Bishop had in no way signified assent—“but I say it could happen anywhere, everywhere, any time! Take what’s going on in parts of Europe today. When you consider the status of the Church there in the past, and the overwhelmingly catholic population even now. I wonder, though, if it doesn’t take something to bring us to our senses from time to time— now what do you say, Bishop?”

If the conductor hadn’t been upon them, the Bishop would’ve said there was probably less danger of the clergy getting above themselves than there was of their being accepted for less than they were; or at least for less than they were supposed to be; or was that what Father Early was saying?

The conductor took up their tickets, placed two receipts overhead, one white and one blue. Before he moved on, he advised the Bishop to bring his receipt with him, the blue one, when he moved into the parlor car.

The Bishop nodded serenely.

Beside him, Father Early was full of silence, and opening his breviary.

The Bishop, who had expected to be told apologetically that it was a matter of no importance if he’d used his clergy pass, had an uncomfortable feeling that Father Early was praying for him.

At Winona, the train stopped for a minute. The Bishop from his window saw Father Early on the platform below talking to an elderly woman. In parting, they pecked at each other, and she handed him a box. Returning to his seat, he said he’d had a nice visit with his sister. He went to the head of the coach with the box, and came slowly back down the aisle, offering the contents to the pilgrims. “Divinity? Divinity?” The Bishop, when his turn came, took a piece, and consumed it. Then he felt committed to stay with Father Early until Chicago.

It was some time before Father Early returned to his seat — from making the acquaintance of Monsignor Reed’s parishioners. “What we did was split the responsibility. Miss Cul-hane’s in charge of Monsignor’s people. Of course, the ultimate responsibility is mine.” Peering up the aisle at two middle-aged women drawing water from the cooler, Father Early said, “The one coming this way now,” and gazed out the window.

Miss Culhane, a paper cup in each hand, smiled at the Bishop. He smiled back.

When Miss Culhane had passed, Father Early said, “She’s been abroad once, and that’s more than most of ’em can say. She’s a secretary in private life, and it’s hard to find a man with much sense of detail. But I don’t know… From what I’ve heard already I’d say the good people don’t like the idea. I’m afraid they think she stands between them and me.”

The other woman, also carrying paper cups, came down the aisle, and again Father Early gazed out the window. So did the Bishop. When the woman had gone by, Father Early commented dryly, “Her friend, whose name escapes me. Between the two of ’em, Bishop… Oh, it’ll be better for all concerned when Monsignor joins us.”

The Bishop knew nothing about this. Reed had told him nothing. “ Monsignor? ”

“Claims he’s allergic to trains.”

“ Reed? ”

Again Father Early treated the question as rhetorical. “His plane doesn’t arrive until noon tomorrow. We sail at four. That doesn’t give us much time in New York.”

The Bishop was putting it all together. Evidently Reed was planning to have as much privacy as he could on the trip. Seeing his little flock running around loose in the station, though, he must have felt guilty — and then the Bishop had happened along. Would Reed do this to him? Reed had done this to him. Reed had once called the Bishop’s diocese the next thing to a titular see.

“I’m sorry he isn’t sailing with us,” said Father Early.

“Isn’t he?”

“He’s got business of some kind — stained glass, I believe — that’ll keep him in New York for a few days. He may have to go to Boston. So he’s flying over. I wonder, Bishop, if he isn’t allergic to boats too.” Father Early smiled at the Bishop as one good sailor to another.

The Bishop wasn’t able to smile back. He was thinking how much he preferred to travel alone. When he was being hustled into the coach by Reed and Father Early, he hadn’t considered the embarrassment there might be in the end; together on the train to Chicago and again on the one to New York and then crossing on the same liner, apart, getting an occasional glimpse of each other across the barriers. The perfidious Reed had united them, knowing full well that the Bishop was traveling first class and that Father Early and the group were going tourist. The Bishop hoped there would be time for him to see Reed in New York. According to Father Early, though, Reed didn’t want them to look for him until they saw him. The Bishop wouldn’t.

Miss Culhane, in the aisle again, returned with more water. When she passed, the Bishop and Father Early were both looking out the window. “You can’t blame ’em,” Father Early said. “I wish he’d picked a man for the job. No, they want more than a man, Bishop. They want a priest.”