Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

The minister was a big red-faced man, forthright and vigorous. Violence actually got only a fleeting and rather cursory condemnation. The Supreme Court was admonished to mend its ways and to refrain from turning loose on a Christian society a horde of pornographers, rioters, dope addicts and other sinners because of the present atheistic conception of what the minister scornfully called civil rights, and that was about it.

But when it came to sex, the minister hit his stride. The church resounded to his denunciation of naked and leering girls on magazine stands, of sex education for children, of an unhealthy interest in birth control, of dating and premarital lasciviousness, of Swedish and French moving pictures, of mixed bathing in revealing swimsuits, of petting in parked cars, of all novels that had been written since 1910, of coeducational schools, of the new math, which the minister explained, was a subtle means of undermining the moral code. Unchaperoned picnics were mentioned, miniskirts got a full two minutes, and even the wearing of wigs, designed to lure the all-too-susceptible American male into lewd and unsocial behavior, came in for its share of condemnation. The way the minister was going on, it would not have surprised some members of the congregation if he finished up with an edict against cross-pollination.

Hugo sat at the rear of the church, feeling chastened. It was a good feeling. That was what he had come to church for, and he almost said “Amen” aloud after one or two of the more spiritedly presented items on the minister’s list.

Then, gradually, he became aware of a curious cooing voice in his left ear. “Ah, you, fourth seat to the left in the third row,” he heard, “you with that little pink cleft just peeping out, why don’t you come around late one weekday afternoon for a little spiritual consolation, ha-ha.” Aghast, Hugo realized it was the minister’s voice he was hearing.

Aloud, the minister was moving on to a rather unconvincing endorsement of the advantages of celibacy. “And you, the plump one in the fifth row, with the tight brassiere, Mrs. What’s-your-name, looking down at your hymnbook as though you were planning to go into a nunnery,” Hugo heard, mixed with loud advice on holy thoughts and vigorous, innocent exercise, “I can guess what you’re up to when your husband goes out of town. I wouldn’t mind if you had my private telephone number in your little black book, ha-ha.”

Hugo sat rigid in his pew. This was going just a little bit too far.

The minister had swung into chastity. He wanted to end on a note of uplift. His head was tilted back, heavenward, but through slitted eyes, he scanned his Sunday-best parishioners. The minister had a vested interest in chastity and his voice took on a special solemn intonation as he described how particularly pleasing this virtue was in the eyes of God and His angels. “And little Miss Crewes, with your white gloves and white socks,” Hugo heard, “ripening away like a tasty little Georgia persimmon, trembling on the luscious brink of womanhood, nobody has to tell me what you do behind the stands on the way home from school. The rectory is only two blocks from school, baby, and it’s on your way home. Just one timid knock on the door will suffice, ha-ha. There’s always tea and little cakes for little girls like you at the rectory, ha-ha.”

If Hugo hadn’t been afraid of making a scene, he would have got up and run out of the church. Instead, he rapped himself sharply across the left ear. The consequent ringing kept him from hearing anything else. Several people turned around at the sound of the blow and stared disapprovingly at Hugo, but he didn’t care. By the time the ringing stopped, the sermon was over and the minister was announcing the number of the hymn.

It was Rock of Ages . Hugo wasn’t sure of the words, but he hummed, so as not to draw any more attention to himself.

The organ swelled, the sopranos, altos, tenors and bassos joined in, musical and faithful.

“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me ,

Let me hide myself in Thee .

Let the water and the blood ,

From Thy side, a healing flood ,

Be of sin the double cure …”

Hugo was swept along on the tide of sound. He didn’t have much of an ear for music and the only things he played on the phonograph at home were some old 78-rpm Wayne King records that his mother had collected when she was a girl and had given him as a wedding present. But now the diapason of the organ, the pure flutelike tones of the women and young girls addressing God, the deep cello support of the men, combined to give him a feeling of lightness, of floating on spring airs, of being lost in endless fragrant gardens. Virgins caressed his forehead with petaled fingers, waters sang in mountain streams, strong men embraced him in everlasting brotherhood. By the time the congregation reached “Thou must save, and Thou alone,” Hugo was out of his pew and writhing in ecstasy on the floor.

It was lucky he was in the last row, and on the aisle.

The hymn was never finished. It started to falter at “While I draw this fleeting breath,” as people turned around to see what was happening and came to a final stop on “When I rise to worlds unknown.” By that time, everybody in the church was standing up and looking at Hugo, trembling, sprawled on his back, in the middle of the aisle.

The last notes of the organ came to a halt discordantly, at a signal from the minister. Hugo lay still for an instant, conscious of 300 pairs of eyes on him. Then he leaped up and fled.

He rang the bell a long time, but it was only when he roared, “I know you’re in there. Open up or I’ll break it down,” and began to buck at the door with his shoulder that it opened.

“What’s going on here?” Miss Cattavi asked, blocking his way. “There are no visiting hours on Sunday.”

“There will be this Sunday,” Hugo said hoarsely. He pushed roughly past Miss Cattavi. She was all muscle. It was the first time he had ever been rude to a lady.

“He’s in Romania,” Miss Cattavi said, trying to hold on to him.

“I’ll show him Romania,” Hugo cried, throwing open doors and dragging Miss Cattavi after him like a junior high school guard.

Dr. Sebastian was behind the fourth door, in a room like a library, practicing dry-fly casting. He was wearing hip-length rubber boots.

“Oh, Mr. Pleiss,” Dr. Sebastian said merrily, “you came back.”

“I sure did come back,” Hugo said. He had difficulty talking.

“You want your other ear done, I wager,” said Dr. Sebastian, reeling in delicately.

Hugo grabbed Dr. Sebastian by the lapels and lifted him off the floor so that they were eye to eye. Dr. Sebastian weighed only 140 pounds, although he was quite fat. “I don’t want the other ear done,” Hugo said loudly.

“Should I call the police?” Miss Cattavi had her hand on the phone.

Hugo dropped Dr. Sebastian, who went down on one knee but made a creditable recovery. Hugo ripped the phone out of the wall. He had always been very careful of other people’s property. It was something his father had taught him as a boy.

“Don’t tell me,” Dr. Sebastian said solicitously, “that the ear has filled up again. It’s unusual, but not unheard of. Don’t worry about it. The treatment is simple. A little twirl of an instrument and—”

Hugo grabbed the doctor’s throat with one hand and kept Miss. Cattavi off with the other. “Now, listen to this,” Hugo said, “listen to what you did to me.”

“Cawlsnhnd on my goddamn windpipe,” the doctor said.

Hugo let him go.

“Now, my dear young man,” Dr. Sebastian said, “if you’ll only tell me what little thing is bothering you.…”