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

His mind was full of the day and he was afraid he was in for one of those nights he’d had on trains before. He kept looking at his watch in the dark, listening for sounds of activity next door, and finally he admitted to himself that he was waiting for Father Early to come in. So he gave Father Early until midnight — and then he got dressed and went out to look for him.

Up ahead he saw Glenn step into the corridor from an end room and go around the corner. The Bishop prepared to say hello. But when he was about to pass, the atmosphere filled up with cigarette smoke. The Bishop hurried through it, unrecognized, he hoped, considering the lateness of the hour and the significance of another visit to the club car, as it might appear to Glenn, who could have observed him there earlier in the evening.

The club car was empty except for a man with a magazine in the middle of the car, the waiter serving him a drink, and the young man and Father Early at the tail end of the train, seated on a sofa facing upon the tracks. The Bishop advanced with difficulty to the rear. The train was traveling too fast.

Father Early glanced around. He moved over on the sofa to make room for the Bishop, and had the young man move. The Bishop sat down beside the young man, who was now in the middle.

“One I went to — we’re talking about fairs, Bishop — had an educated donkey, as the fellow called it. This donkey could tell one color from another — knew them all by name. The fellow had these paddles, you’ve seen them, painted different colors. Red, green, blue, brown, black, orange, yellow, white — oh, all colors…”

The Bishop, from the tone of this, sensed that nothing had been resolved and that Father Early’s objective was to keep the young man up all night with him. It was a siege.

“The fellow would say, ‘Now, Trixie’—I remember the little donkey’s name. You might’ve seen her at some time.”

The young man shook his head.

“‘Now, Trixie,’ the fellow would say, ‘bring me the yellow paddle,’ and that’s what she’d do. She’d go to the rack, where all the paddles were hanging, pick out the yellow one, and carry it to the fellow. Did it with her teeth, of course. Then the fellow would say, ‘Trixie, bring me the green paddle.’”

“And she brought the green one,” said the young man patiently.

“That’s right. The fellow would say, ‘Now, Trixie, bring me the paddles that are the colors of the flag.’” Father Early addressed the Bishop: “Red, white, and blue.”

“Yes,” said the Bishop. What an intricate instrument for good a simple man could be! Perhaps Father Early was only a fool, a ward of heaven, not subject to the usual penalties for meddling. No, it was zeal, and people, however far gone, still expected it from a man of God. But, even so, Father Early ought to be more careful, humbler before the mystery of iniquity. And still…

“My, that was a nice little animal, that Trixie.” Father Early paused, giving his attention to the signal lights blinking down the tracks, and continued. “Red, green, all colors. Most fairs have little to recommend them. Some fairs, however, are worthwhile.” Father Early stood up. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and went to the lavatory.

The Bishop was about to say something — to keep the ball rolling — when the young man got up and left, without a word.

The Bishop sat where he was until he heard the lavatory door open and shut. Then he got up to meet Father Early. Father Early looked beyond the Bishop, toward the place where the young man had been, and then at the Bishop. He didn’t appear to blame the Bishop at all. Nothing was said.

They walked in the direction from which Father Early had just come. The Bishop thought they were calling it a day, but Father Early was onto something else, trying the waiter on baseball.

“Good night, Father.”

“Oh?” said Father Early, as if he’d expected the Bishop to stick around for it.

“Good night, Father.” The Bishop had a feeling that baseball wouldn’t last, that the sermon on tipping was due again.

“Good night, Bishop.”

The Bishop moved off comically, as the train made up for lost time. Entering his Pullman car, he saw the young man, who must have been kept waiting, disappear into the room Glenn had come out of earlier.

The Bishop slept well that night, after all, but not before he thought of Father Early still out there, on his feet and trying, which was what counted in the sight of God, not success. Thinkest thou that I cannot ask my Father, and he will give me presently more than twelve legions of angels?

“Would you like me to run through these names with you, Bishop, or do you want to familiarize yourself with the people as we go along?”

“I’d prefer that, I think. And I wish you’d keep the list, Miss Culhane.”

“I don’t think Father Early would want you to be without it, Bishop.”

“No? Very well, I’ll keep it then.”

ON THE DAY the Daviccis moved into their house, Ethel was visited by a Welcome Wagon hostess bearing small gifts from local merchants, but after that by nobody for three weeks, only Ralph’s relatives and door-to-door salesmen. And then Mrs Hancock came smiling. They sat on the matching green chairs which glinted with threads of what appeared to be gold. In the picture window, the overstimulated plants grew wild in pots.

Mrs Hancock had guessed right about Ethel and Ralph, that they were newlyweds. “Am I right in thinking you’re of Swedish descent, Mrs Davicky? You, I mean?”

Ethel smiled, as if taking a compliment, and said nothing.

“I only ask because so many people in the neighborhood are. I’m not, myself,” said Mrs Hancock. She was unnaturally pink, with tinted blue hair. Her own sharp-looking teeth were transparent at the tips. “But you’re so fair.”

“My maiden name was Taylor,” Ethel said. It was, and it wasn’t — it was the name she’d got at the orphanage. Wanting a cigarette, she pushed the silver box on the coffee table toward Mrs Hancock.

Mrs Hancock used one of her purple claws to pry up the first cigarette from the top layer. “A good old American name like mine.”

She was making too much of it, Ethel thought, and wondered about Mrs Hancock’s maiden name.

“Is your husband in business, Mrs Davicky?”

“Yes, he is.” Ethel put the lighter — a simple column of silver, the mate to the box — to Mrs Hancock’s cigarette and then to her own.

“Not here in Blue Island?”

“No.” From here on, it could be difficult. Ralph was afraid that people in the neighborhood would disapprove of his business. “In Minneapolis.” The Mohawk Inn, where Ethel had worked as a waitress, was first-class — thick steaks, dark lights, an electric organ — but Ralph’s other places, for which his brothers were listed as the owners, were cut-rate bars on or near Washington Avenue. “He’s a distributor,” Ethel said, heading her off. “Non-alcoholic beverages mostly.” It was true. Ralph had taken over his family’s wholesale wine business, never much in Minneapolis, and got it to pay by converting to soft drinks.

Mrs Hancock was noticing the two paintings which, because of their size and the lowness of the ceiling, hung two feet from the floor, but she didn’t comment on them. “Lovely, lovely,” she said, referring to the driftwood lamp in the picture window. A faraway noise came from her stomach. She raised her voice. “But you’ve been lonely, haven’t you? I could see it when I came in. It’s this neighborhood.”

“It’s very nice,” said Ethel quickly. Maybe Mrs Hancock was at war with the neighbors, looking for an ally.

“I suppose you know Mrs Nilgren,” said Mrs Hancock, nodding to the left.