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

Joe hated to go to bed, and changed the subject slightly. “How’s the room? O.K.?”

“O.K.”

Joe had been expecting a bit more. Had he hurt the curate’s feelings? “It’s not important, what I was saying.”

The curate smiled. “My uncle’s the dealer in Whipple. He gave me a good deal on the car, but that was part of it — the color.”

“I see.” Joe tried not to appear as interested as he suddenly was. “What’s he call his place — Whipple Volkswagen? I know a lot of ’em do. That’s what they call it here — Inglenook Volkswagen.”

“He calls it by his own name.”

“I see. And this is your father’s brother?”

“My mother’s.”

“I see.”

“Think I’ll turn in now, Father.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should. Sunday’s always a tough day.”

The next morning, with Joe watching from the sacristy, and later from the rear of the church, the curate said his first Mass in the parish. He was slow, of course, but he wasn’t fancy, and he didn’t fall down. His sermon was standard, marred only by his gestures (once or twice he looked like a bad job of dubbing), and he read the announcements well. He neglected to introduce himself to the congregation, but that might be done the following week in the parish bulletin.

The day began to go wrong, though, when, after his second Mass, the curate mentioned an invitation he had to dine out with a classmate. “Well, all right,” Joe said, writing off the afternoon but not the evening.

He still hadn’t written off the evening, entirely, at eighteen after eleven. The door of the pastor’s study was open, and the pastor was clearly visible in his Barcalounger chair, having a nightcap, but the curate went straight to his room, and could soon be heard running a bath.

So Joe, despite the change from a week ago, had spent Sunday as usual — the afternoon with the papers, TV, a nap, and Father Otto (until it was time for his bus), and the evening alone. Most of it. At seven-thirty, he’d had a surprise visit from Earl, his wife, and two of their children.

The next morning, Joe laid an unimportant letter on the curate’s metal desk. “Answer this, will you? I’ve made some notes on the margin so you’ll know what to say. Keep it brief. Sign your name — Assistant Pastor. But let me have a look at it before you seal it.” And that, he thought, is that.

“Does it have to be typed ?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Can’t type it.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Can’t type .”

Joe just stood there in a distressed state. “Can’t type,” he said. “You mean at the sem you did everything in longhand? Term papers and everything?”

The curate, who seemed to think that too much was being made of his disability, nodded.

“Hard to believe,” Joe said. “Why, you must’ve been the only guy in your class not to use a typewriter.”

“There was one other guy.”

Joe was somewhat relieved — at least the gambler in him was — to know that he hadn’t been quite as unlucky as he’d supposed. “But you must’ve heard guys all around you using typewriters. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”

“I never owned a typewriter. Never saw the need.” The curate sounded proud, like somebody who brushes his teeth with table salt. “I write a good, clear hand.”

Joe snorted. “ I write a good, clear hand. But I don’t do my parish correspondence by hand. And I hope you won’t when you’re a pastor.”

“The hell with it, then.”

Joe, who had been walking around in a distressed state, stopped and looked at the curate, but the curate — pretty clever — wouldn’t look back. He was getting out a cigarette. Joe shook his head, and walked around shaking it. “Father, Father,” he said.

“Father, hell,” said the curate, emitting smoke. “You should’ve put in for a stenographer, not a priest.”

Joe stopped, stood still, and sniffed. “Great,” he said, nodding his head. “Sounds great, Father. But what does it mean ? Does it mean you expect me to do the lion’s share of the donkey work around here? While you’re out saving souls? Or sitting up in your room? Does it mean when you’re a pastor you’ll expect your curate to do what you never had to do? I hope not, Father. Because, you know, Father, when you’re a pastor it may be years before you have a curate. You may never have one, Father. You may end up in a one-horse parish. Lots of guys do. You won’t be able to afford a secretary, or public stenographers, and you won’t care to trust your correspondence to nuns, to parishioners. You’ll never be your own man. You’ll always be an embarrassment to yourself and others. Let’s face it, Father. Today, a man who can’t use a typewriter is as ill-equipped for parish life as a man who can’t drive a car. Go ahead. Laugh. Sneer. But it’s true. You don’t want to be like Toohey, do you? He can’t type, and he’s set this diocese back a hundred years. He writes ‘No can do’ on everything and returns it to the sender. For official business he uses scratch paper put out by the Universal Portland Cement Company.”

Depressed by the thought of Toohey and annoyed by the curate’s cool, if that was what it was, Joe retired to his office. He sat down at his new desk and made a list. Presently, he appeared in the doorway between the offices, wearing his hat. “And, Father,” he continued, “when you’re a pastor, what if you get a curate like yourself? Think it over. I have to go out now. Mind the store.”

Joe drove to the city and bought a typing course consisting of a manual and phonograph records, and he also bought the bed — it was still there — the double, with pineapples. He was told that if he ever wished to order a matching chest or dresser there would be no trouble at all, and that the bed, along with box spring and mattress, would be on the Thursday delivery to Inglenook.

“O.K., Father?”

“O.K., Earl.”

And that afternoon Joe, in his office, had a phone call from Mrs Fox, She just wondered if everything was O.K., she said — as if she didn’t know. She was still dying to see the room. “What’s it like !” Joe said he thought the room had turned out pretty well, thanked Mrs Fox for helping him, and also for calling, and hung up.

Immediately, the phone rang again. “St Francis,” Joe said.

“Bill there?”

“ Bill? ”

“For me ?” said the curate, who had been typing away, or, anyway, typing.

Joe tried to look right through the wall. (The door between the offices was open, but the angle was wrong.)”Take it over there,” he said, and switched the call.

There were no further developments that day.

None the next day.

And none the next.

No more phone calls for the curate, and no mail addressed to him, and nothing in the diocesan paper, and no word from Toohey. And Mrs P. with her “he” and “him” was no help, nor was the janitor with his “young Father,” and Father Otto wouldn’t be there until Saturday. But in one way or another, sooner or later, perhaps in time for the next parish bulletin, though the odds were now against that, Joe hoped to learn Bill’s last name.

SOME TIME LATER when Jean and I had both gotten married and our husbands had been brought into our very close relationship, we disclosed our early experiences one night. When our husbands first heard our story, they were not only shocked but disbelieving. However, they believed readily when Jean went over and sat on my husband’s lap while I beckoned her husband into the other room. Since then we have swapped regularly and have recently added two more couples. We are all very close friends so have no special rules. All four couples met recently in a big cabin in the mountains and it worked so successfully that we plan to try it for a full week next summer .*