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

“Why shouldn’t they do it,” said Mrs Mathers, “when he saves them all the money he does?”

Father Fabre, about to address Mr Pint directly, rephrased his question. “He has men under him? I mean — many?”

“Five,” said Mrs Mathers. “Before he came, they had six. He gets more out of five men than they did out of six.”

“Two he brought with him,” Velma said. “They’ve been with Dad for years.”

Father Fabre nodded. Mr Pint, with his entourage, was like a big-time football coach, but what was Mr Pint’s work?

Velma, who had switched on the radio, cried, “Lee!”

Father Fabre watched the women closely. Evidently “Lee” was the announcer and not some entertainer to follow on the program. His sponsor, a used car dealer, whose name and address he gave, dispensed with commercial announcements on Sunday, he said, and presented music suited to the day. They sat quietly listening to How Are Things in Glocca Morra? Then to The Rosary , one of Mrs Mathers’ favorite pieces, she said. Then to Cryin’ in the Chapel . Father Fabre wanted to go home.

Lee came on again with the business about no commercials and also threw in the correct time. (Mr Pint pulled out his watch.) Lee warned motorists to be careful on the highways.

“Don’t judge by this. You should hear him on weekdays,” Velma said. “Does he ever kid the sponsors!”

“He’s a good disc jockey or he wouldn’t be on the air,” Mrs Mathers said tartly. “But he’s no Arthur Godfrey.” It sounded to Father Fabre as though she’d been over this ground with Velma before. “Do you ever get Arthur, Father?”

“Can’t say that I do, Mrs Mathers.”

“He might give you some ideas for your sermons.”

“My radio isn’t working.”

“I’ll take Lee,” Velma said. She rose and went down the hall to the bathroom.

Mrs Mathers whispered, “Father, did I tell you she wanted to call in for them to play a song for you? Our Lady of Fatima or something. She wanted it to come over the air while you were here. A surprise.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I told her not to do it. I said maybe you wouldn’t want it.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He was grateful to Mrs Mathers.

Showing a little interest, Mr Pint inquired uneasily, “What do you think of this disc jockey business?” He got up and turned off the radio.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it,” Father Fabre said, surprised to find himself engaged in conversation with Mr Pint.

“Sounds kind of fishy to me,” said Mr Pint, sitting down again. He had opened up some, not much, but some. “You know it’s just playing phonograph records?”

“Yes,” said Father Fabre, and then wondered if he’d said the right thing. Mr Pint might have wanted to tell him about it. Fearing a lull, he plunged. “Certainly was good ice cream.”

“Glad you liked it.”

After the long winter, gentle spring, the sap running… “That’s a good idea of yours when you make ice cream — bringing an extra shirt, I mean.”

There was a bad silence, the worst of the afternoon, crippling every tongue. Even Velma, back with them, was quiet. Mr Pint was positively stony. Finally, as if seeing no other way, Mrs Mathers explained:

“Mr Pint lives here, Father.”

“He does?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I guess I didn’t know.”

“I guess I didn’t tell you.”

“No reason why you should’ve,” he said quickly. “You do have quite a bit of room here.” He seemed to be perspiring. “Certainly do get the sun.” He never would have thought it. Was there a chance that Mr Pint, who acted so strangely, was not her lover? He took a good look at Mr Pint. Was there a chance that he was? In either case, Mrs Mathers had planned well. Father Fabre, taking out his handkerchief, blew his nose politely and dabbed at his cold, damp neck. He was in very good health and perspired freely. The fat flowery arms of the overstuffed chair held him fast while the hidden mouth devoured him. The trembling ferns frankly desired him. He just never would have thought it.

“You should see my little room at the Y,” Velma said. “So dark.” She was looking at Father Fabre, but he could think of nothing to say.

Mrs Mathers sighed. “Vel, you could stay here, you know. She could, too.” Mrs Mathers appealed to Father Fabre. “The day bed is always ready.”

“Oh, well,” said Velma.

“So I had this extra bedroom,” Mrs Mathers said, as if coming to the end of a long explanation, “and I thought I might as well have the income from it — what’s your opinion, Father?”

“Swell,” he said. In the future he ought to listen to Miss Burke and stay away from John, with his rotten talk against her. A very sound person, Miss Burke, voices, visions, and all. He ought to develop a retiring nature, too, stick close to the pastor, maybe try to get a job in his war plant. “I hate to rush off,” he said, rising.

“Don’t tell me it’s time for devotions,” said Mrs Mathers.

They went down the street together. “You know, Father,” said Mrs Mathers, “I almost asked them to come along with us.”

“You did?” Mrs Mathers was hard to figure. He’d heard that hospital life made iconoclasts.

“What’d you think of Vel?”

“Who? Oh, fine.” He didn’t know what he thought of Vel. “What does she do?”

“She’s with the telephone company, Father. She thinks she’s in line for a supervisor’s, but I don’t know. The seniority system is the one big thing in her favor. Of course, it wouldn’t come right away.”

“I suppose not,” Father Fabre said. “She seems quite young for that.”

“Yes, and they’re pretty careful about those jobs.”

“What I understand.” He was in line for a pastor’s himself. They were pretty careful about those jobs too. “What does Mr Pint do?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No,” he said bleakly.

Mr Pint was an engineer. “But he never touches a wrench. He’s like an executive.”

“Where?”

“At the hospital, Father.”

“At City?”

“At Mercy, Father.”

Oh, God, he thought, the nuns were going to be in on it too. They walked the next block in silence.

“Who plays the mandolin?” he asked.

“He does.”

They walked another block in silence. “I don’t want to get TV,” she said plaintively. She brightened at the sight of a squirrel.

“Don’t care for TV?”

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t know how long I’ll keep my apartment.”

Was Mrs Mathers saying that she’d get out of town, or only that she’d move to another parish? If so, she was a little late. By feasting at their board, he had blessed the union, if any, in the eyes of the parish. What a deal! It was too late for him to condemn the enamored couple, one of whom was out of his jurisdiction anyway (in parting, he had shaken Mr Pint’s hand). It was a bad situation, bad in itself and bad because it involved him. Better, though, that they live in sin than marry in haste. That was something, however, that it would take theologians (contemplating the dangers of mixed marriage, the evil of divorce) to see. He knew what the parishioners would think of that.

And the pastor…

At the church, at the moment of parting, he said, “You’re going to be early for devotions.” That was all. To thank her, as he wanted to, for the good dinner would be, in a way, to thank her for compromising him with parish and pastor. It was quite enough that he say nothing to hurt her, and go.

“I’ve got some things to do around the side altars,” Mrs Mathers said.

He nodded, backing away.