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

The young woman, watching the waiter go, said, “He can’t do that to me.”

Airily, Father Early was saying, “And this time tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Europe.”

The Bishop was afraid the conversation would lapse entirely — which might have been the best thing for it in the long run — but the young man was nodding.

“Will this be your first trip?” asked the young woman. She sounded as though she thought it would be.

“My fifth, God willing,” Father Early said. “I don’t mean that as a commentary on the boat we’re taking. Only as a little reminder to myself that we’re all of us hanging by a thread here, only a heart’s beat from eternity. Which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do our best while here. On the contrary. Some people think Catholics oppose progress here below. Look on your garbage can and what do you see? Galvanized. Galvan was a Catholic. Look on your light bulb. Watts. Watt was a Catholic. The Church never harmed Galileo.”

Father Early, as if to see how he was doing, turned to the Bishop. The Bishop, however, was dining with his reflection in the window. He had displayed a spark of interest when Father Early began to talk of the trip, believing there was to be a change of subject matter, but Father Early had tricked him.

“And how long in Rome?” asked the young woman.

“Only two days. Some members of the group intend to stay longer, but they won’t return with me. Two days doesn’t seem long enough, does it? Well, I can’t say that I care for Rome. I didn’t feel at home there, or anywhere on the Continent. We’ll have two good weeks in the British Isles.”

“Some people don’t travel to feel at home,” said the young woman.

To this Father Early replied, “Ireland first and then England. It may interest you to know that about half of the people in the group are carrying the complete works of Shakespeare. I’m hoping the rest of the group will manage to secure copies of the plays and read them before we visit Stratford.”

“It sounds like a large order,” said the young woman.

“Paperback editions are to be had everywhere,” Father Early said with enthusiasm. “By the way, what book would you want if you were shipwrecked on a desert island?”

Apparently the question had novelty for the young man. “That’s a hard one,” he said.

“Indeed it is. Chesterton, one of the great Catholic writers, said he’d like a manual of shipbuilding, but I don’t consider that a serious answer to the question. I’ll make it two books because, of course, you’d want the Bible. Some people think Catholics don’t read the Bible. But who preserved Scripture in the Dark Ages? Holy monks. Now what do you say? No. Ladies first.”

“I think I’d like that book on shipbuilding,” said the young woman.

Father Early smiled. “And you, sir?”

“Shakespeare, I guess.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Then the Bishop heard the young woman inquiring:

“Shakespeare wasn’t a Catholic, was he?”

The Bishop reached for his glass of water, and saw Father Early observing a moment of down-staring silence. When he spoke his voice was deficient. “As a matter of fact, we don’t know. Arguments both ways. But we just don’t know. Perhaps it’s better that way,” he said, and that was all he said. At last he was eating his dinner.

When the young couple rose to leave, the Bishop, who had been waiting for this moment, turned in time to see the young man almost carry out Father Early’s strict counsel against tipping. With one look, however, the young woman prevailed over him. The waiter came at once and removed the tip. With difficulty, the Bishop put down the urge to comment. He wanted to say that he believed people should do what they could do, little though it might be, and shouldn’t be asked to attempt what was obviously beyond them. The young woman, who probably thought Father Early was just tight, was better off than the young man.

After the waiter came and went again, Father Early sat back and said, “I’m always being surprised by the capacity ordinary people have for sacrifice.”

The Bishop swallowed what — again — would have been his comment. Evidently Father Early was forgetting about the young man.

“Thanks for looking after the Doyles. I would’ve asked you myself but I was in the baggage car. Someone wanted me to say hello to a dog that’s going to South Bend. No trouble, were they? What’d you see?”

The Bishop couldn’t bring himself to answer either question. “It’s hard to know what other people want to do,” he said. “They might’ve had a better guide.”

“I can tell you they enjoyed your company, Bishop.”

“Oh?” The Bishop, though touched, had a terrible vision of himself doing the capitals of the world with the Doyles.

Father Early handed the Bishop a cigar. “Joe Quirke keeps me well supplied with these,” he said, nodding to a beefy middle-aged man two tables away who looked pleased at having caught Father Early’s eye. “I believe you know him.”

“I met him,” the Bishop said, making a distinction. Mr Quirke had sat down next to him in the club car before dinner, taken up a magazine, put it down after a minute, and offered to buy the Bishop a drink. When the Bishop (who’d been about to order one) refused, Mr Quirke had apparently taken him for a teetotaler with a past. He said he’d had a little problem until Father Early got hold of him.

Father Early was discussing the youth eating with Mr Quirke. “Glenn’s been in a little trouble at home — and at school. Three schools, I believe. Good family. I have his father’s permission to leave him with the Christian Brothers in Ireland, if they’ll have him.”

When Glenn got up from the table, the Bishop decided he didn’t like the look of him. Glenn was short-haired, long-legged, a Doberman pinscher of a boy. He loped out of the diner, followed by Mr Quirke.

Two problems, thought the Bishop, getting ready to happen — and doubtless there were more of them in the group. Miss Culhane, in her fashion, could make trouble.

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you, Bishop.”

The Bishop stiffened. Now it was coming, he feared, the all-out attempt to recruit him.

Father Early was looking across the table, at the empty places there. “You realize they’d been drinking?”

The Bishop refused to comment. Now what?

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they met on this train.”

“Yes, well…”

“Bishop, in my opinion, the boy is or has been a practicing Catholic.”

In the Bishop’s opinion, it was none of Father Early’s business. He knew what Father Early was getting at, and he didn’t like it. Father Early was thinking of taking on more trouble.

“I believe the boy’s in danger,” Father Early said. “Real danger.”

The Bishop opened his mouth to tell Father Early off, but not much came out. “I wouldn’t call him a boy.” The Bishop felt that Father Early had expected something of the sort from him, nothing, and no support. Father Early had definitely gone into one of his silences. The Bishop, fussing with his cuffs, suddenly reached, but Father Early beat him to the checks.

Father Early complimented the waiter on the service and food, rewarding him with golden words.

The Bishop was going to leave a tip, to be on the safe side, but apparently the waiter was as good as his word. They left the diner in the blaze of his hospitality.

The Bishop had expected to be asked where in New York he’d be saying Mass in the morning, but when they arrived at their doors, Father Early smiled and put out his hand. It certainly looked like good-bye.

They shook hands.

And then, suddenly, Father Early was on his knees, his head bowed and waiting for the Bishop’s blessing.