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

“They’ve got you,” said the Bishop. “And Monsignor will soon be with you.”

“Not until we reach Rome.”

“ No? ” The Bishop was rocked by this new evidence of Reed’s ruthlessness. Father Early and the group were going to Ireland and England first, as the Bishop was, but they’d be spending more time in those countries, about two weeks.

“No,” said Father Early. “He won’t.”

The Bishop got out his breviary. He feared that Father Early would not be easily discouraged. The Bishop, if he could be persuaded to join the group, would more than make up for the loss of Reed. To share the command with such a man as Father Early, however, would be impossible. It would be to serve under him — as Reed may have realized. The Bishop would have to watch out. It would be dangerous for him to offer Father Early plausible excuses, to point out, for instance, that they’d be isolated from each other once they sailed from New York. Such an excuse, regretfully tendered now, could easily commit him to service on this train, and on the next one, and in New York — and the Bishop wasn’t at all sure that Father Early wouldn’t find a way for him to be with the group aboard ship. The Bishop turned a page.

When Father Early rose and led the pilgrims in the recitation of the rosary, the Bishop put aside his breviary, took out his beads and prayed along with them. After that, Father Early directed the pilgrims in the singing of “Onward, Christian Soldiers”—which was not a Protestant hymn, not originally, he said. Monsignor Reed’s parishioners didn’t know the words, but Father Early got around that difficulty by having everyone sing the notes of the scale, the ladies la , the men do . The Bishop cursed his luck and wouldn’t even pretend to sing. Father Early was in the aisle, beating time with his fist, exhorting some by name to contribute more to the din, clutching others (males) by the shoulders until they did. The Bishop grew afraid that even he might not be exempt, and again sought the protection of his breviary.

He had an early lunch. When he returned to his seat, it was just past noon, and Father Early was waiting in the aisle for him.

“How about a bite to eat, Bishop?”

“I’ve eaten, Father.”

“You eat early, Bishop.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

Father Early did his little ha-ha laugh. “By the way, Bishop, are you planning anything for the time we’ll have in Chicago between trains?” Before the Bishop, who was weighing the significance of the question, could reply, Father Early told him that the group was planning a visit to the Art Institute. “The Art Treasures of Vienna are there now.”

“I believe I’ve seen them, Father.”

“In Vienna, Bishop?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they should be well worth seeing again.”

“Yes. But I don’t think I’ll be seeing them.” Not expecting the perfect silence that followed — this from Father Early was more punishing than his talk — the Bishop added, “Not today.” Then, after more of that silence, “I’ve nothing planned, Father.” Quickly, not liking the sound of that, “I do have a few things I might do.”

Father Early nodded curtly and went away.

The Bishop heard him inviting some of the group to have lunch with him.

During the rest of the afternoon, the indefatigable voice of Father Early came to the Bishop from all over the coach, but the man himself didn’t return to his seat. And when the train pulled into the station, Father Early wasn’t in the coach. The Bishop guessed he was with the conductor, to whom he had a lot to say, or with the other employees of the railroad, who never seem to be around at the end of a journey. Stepping out of the coach, the Bishop felt like a free man.

Miss Culhane, however, was waiting for him. She introduced him to an elderly couple, the Doyles, who were the only ones in the group not planning to visit the Art Institute. Father Early, she said, understood that the Bishop wasn’t planning to do anything in Chicago and would be grateful if the Bishop would keep an eye on the Doyles there. They hadn’t been there before.

The Bishop showed them Grant Park from a taxicab, and pointed out the Planetarium, the Aquarium, the Field Museum. “Thought it was the stockyards,” Mr Doyle commented on Soldier Field, giving Mrs Doyle a laugh. “I’m afraid there isn’t time to go there,” the Bishop said. He was puzzled by the Doyles. They didn’t seem to realize the sight-seeing was for them. He tried them on foot in department stores until he discovered from something Mrs Doyle said that they were bearing with him. Soon after that they were standing across the street from the Art Institute, with the Bishop asking if they didn’t want to cross over and join the group inside. Mr Doyle said he didn’t think they could make it over there alive — a reference to the heavy traffic, serious or not, the Bishop couldn’t tell, but offered to take them across. The Doyles could not be tempted. So the three of them wandered around some more, the Doyles usually a step or two behind the Bishop. At last, in the lobby of the Congress Hotel, Mrs Doyle expressed a desire to sit down. And there they sat, three in a row, in silence, until it was time to take a cab to the station. On the way over, Mr Doyle, watching the meter, said, “These things could sure cost you.”

In the station the Bishop gave the Doyles a gentle shove in the direction of the gate through which some members of the group were passing. A few minutes later, after a visit to the newsstand, he went through the gate unaccompanied. As soon as he entered his Pullman his ears informed him that he’d reckoned without Mr Hope, the travel agent in Minneapolis. Old pastors wise in the ways of the world and to the escapist urge to which so many of the men, sooner or later, succumbed, thinking it only a love of travel, approved of Mr Hope’s system. If Mr Hope had a priest going somewhere, he tried to make it a pair; dealt two, he worked for three of a kind; and so on — and nuns, of course, were wild, their presence eminently sobering. All day the Bishop had thought the odds safely against their having accommodations in the same Pullman car, but he found himself next door to Father Early.

They had dinner together. In the Bishop’s view, it was fortunate that the young couple seated across the table was resilient from drink. Father Early opened up on the subject of tipping.

“These men,” he said, his glance taking in several waiters, and his mouth almost in the ear of the one who was serving them, a cross-looking colored man, “are in a wonderful position to assert their dignity as human beings — which dignity, being from God, may not be sold with impunity. And for a mere pittance at that! Or, what’s worse, bought!”

The Bishop, laying down his soup spoon, sat gazing out the window, for which he was again grateful. It was getting dark. The world seen from a train always looked sadder then. Indiana. Ohio next, but he wouldn’t see it. Pennsylvania, perhaps, in the early morning, if he didn’t sleep well.

“I see what you mean,” he heard the young woman saying, “but I just charge it up to expenses.”

“Ah, ha,” said Father Early. “Then you don’t see what I mean.”

“Oh, don’t I? Well, it’s not important. And please —don’t explain.”

The Bishop, coloring, heard nothing from Father Early and thanked God for that. They had been coming to this, or something like it, inevitably they had. And again the Bishop suffered the thought that the couple was associating him with Father Early.

When he had served dessert across the table, the waiter addressed himself to Father Early. “As far as I’m concerned, sir, you’re right,” he said, and moved off.