rmotherly-looking' woman and then stared at Father
Flynn as though astonished that the frail little priest had
managed to baptize her.
"And Theresa Moore,' continued Father Flvnn. "She married
or 77 fly 1
Margaret's brother all-out a year ago." The young priest
murmured the names as though memorizillg them.
"Margaret," continued Father Flynn, "goes by the name of
Maggie-Now."
"Maggie whoa " asked E ether Francis.
"The name was put on her because she was wild as a
girl." Maggie-Now blushed, ashamed, yet pleased at the
attention she was getting. "Oh, you never heard the like of
it," continued Father Flynn. "Always her mother calling
through the house and up and down the street:
" 'Maggie' now come and study your catechism!'
"'Maggie, now stop being such a tomboy!'
"Maggie, now this, and Maggie, now that. And one day
her mother said: 'Maggie, now you have grown up into a
good girl.'
"It was then her dying mother put her new-borll baby in
this good girl's arms," said Father Flynn.
Remembering, the always easy tears came to
Maggie-Now's eyes. All was quiet in the room for a while.
Father Francis was arranging all the information he'd
received.
The mother died, then he thought, and this girl . . .
=~07nan reared the baby and the Libby must have grown
up to marry the younger ~voma7z . . . both s~lrnn~77es
the same before the older woman married....
The sun was almost gone and night was coming on.
Back in the kitchen another in the series of Father Flynn's
aged housel~eepers was banging pots around as her
predecessors had done.
A feller passed on the street, whistling "Ma, He's
Making Eyes at Me." Unknowingly, Father Flynn's foot
tapped out a bit of the rhythm. Father Francis frowned
fiercely unti] the whistling faded
away.
"Father Francis has lately been ordained," said Father
Flynn. "He was sent here to help me. My parish is growing
all out of bounds and I am growing old." He sighed and
looked about the worn and mellow room as though he
loved it very much. "Father Francis will be your priest
after I'm gone."
"You're not thinking of dying yet, Father, are you>"
asked ,Nlaggie-Now politely.
"No. But I'm thinking of a vacation. If my Bishop will
grant it. I'd like to gTO to Quebec. The snow . . . You
see, I was quite a
[ ~ 99 1
skier many years ago when I was a boy."
Father Francis made a sound of surprise and admiration
as though the older priest had admitted that he'd scaled
the Matterhorn. Maggie-Now remembered the skis she'd
seen in the church basement long ago.
"Of course, that's all behind me now. It was fifty or
more years ago. And now, for a little while, I'd like to be
where it's cold and there are hills and where the snow is
hard and dry and powdery "I like the snow, you know.
And I'd like to watch the young people ski. Well . . ." he
rose, signifying that the visit w as over.
"Father Francis will be saying his first Mass here,
Sunday. Eleven o'clock. You will be there, both of you,
and see to it that all members of the family attend." It was
an order. "At four, Father Francis will perform his first
baptism, your child, Theresa."
He walked to the door with them and gave each his
blessing and a Sacred Heart scapula.
Outside, there was a wooden box nailed to the door. A
card above it read: Coal Fund. f or Parish House.
Maggie-Now groped around in her pocketbook for a dime.
"But Maggie-Now," said Tessie, "that's for last winter's
coal."
"I suppose they'll need coal for next winter though." She
dropped a dime in the box.
"llany years ago," said Father Francis, "when I had my
vocation, I never thought it would lead me all the way to
Brooklyn." Father Flynn smiled. "I'm glad I was sent to
this parish. There's work needed here, much work."
Had what does he Thirsk 7': e heed doing here all these
years, thought Father Flynn.
"I've never thought of it as 'work,'" said Father Flynn.
"My duty? Yes. My obligation? Yes. And sometimes my
pleasure."
"I meant work outside the Church," explained Father
Francis. "These are the facts: This is a slum area; the
standard of living is low. Cultural values . ."
"Sociology 2, they called that course when I was a
freshman," said Father Flynn with a smile.
"Rut seriously, Father . . ."
1 4
"Seriously, my son, I will not have my people patronized
or labeled 'Underprivileged' or referred to as the 'Little
People.' They are decent and hard-working, most of them,
and their sins are venial for the most part."
"But they are poor," insisted Father Francis, "and . . ."
"So in the end was your namesake of Assisi poor. Now,
my son," continued Father Flynn, "if the people,
themselves, have not realized by now how poor they are,
it's not up to you to tell them."
But, thought Father Flynn, I talked just like him when I
came here to my first parish. Poor Father Wingate! What he
",~ust have put up quith from me!
"Did I sound so pompous?" asked the young priest,
seriously concerned.
"No more than I did when I first took over here. Father
Wingate warned me not to try to change the world in an
hour. I recall that he said a young man wanting to change
the world is a reformer; a middle-aged man who would do
the same is a meddler. But when an old man tries it, he's
an eccentric and a fool."
"I had not thought to reform . . . but to make things a
little better... yes."
"Vanity,;' said Father Flynn.
"I ask forgiveness for my sin," said the young priest.
"It is right that you wish to work to make things better,
but don't do it by making the people dissatisfied with what
they have. Take them as they are and for what they are.
Find them good, but needing correction from time to
time."
"Needing correction from time to time," repeated Father
Francis as though memorizing a lesson. "Thank you,
Father."
The housekeeper came in and announced bitterly:
"Supper soon. In case you want to wash up." She went
back to the kitchen.
"I like a glass of wine before my supper," said Father
Flynn to the new priest. "Will you join me?"
"Thank ~you, but no. l don't believe that wine, except
as used in Holy Communion . . ."
"Ah, Francis, you make me feel like a satyr with my bit
of wine once a day."
1 401 J
'Oh, no! Who am I to . . . it so happens I have a little
satyr in note," confessed the earntst young man. "I like a
br />
good cigar, myself, once in a while," he said airily.
'How many do you smol:e?"
"Three a w eek. One every other day, Sundays excepted,
of course."
"What kind "
"Corona."
"Corona-Coron3 ? "
"No. The one-vord kind. They cost five cents each. But
I've been thinking of changing to Between the Acts. You
get more."
"We will spare you that sacrifice. Our good Lutheran
friend, ~ fine cigar maker, will ke:p you supplied with
good Havana cigars. And it will give him great happiness
to do so."
"I prefer not to accept gifts. The people of this parish
can t afford . . ."
"Yes, it is a poor parish," agreed Father Flynn. "All the
more reason we should accept with grace the small
comforts that come our way."
Father Flynn looked in turn at the humidor of tobacco,
his rack of pipes, the decanter of wine, and at the lilac
tree in bloom outside the window. All were gifts of
parishioners or of nonCatholics who happened to dike
him.
"Small comforts," continued Father Flynn, "do much to
lessen the strain of making ends meet. Small comforts give
a certain serenity to life and a serene man is a tolerant
man. A harried man is not a tolerant man."
He sipped his wine.
"I w ould not deny a poor man the privilege the rich
man has the privilege of being generous. I would not
deny the poor man the grace he feels when he is
graciously thanked for a gift graciously given. It makes
him feel like a king."
"I have my own way of looking at things, Father," said
the y oung priest eal-rlestly. "In time, i n-`ay see things as
you do. But it has to come to me in my own time and my
own way."
Father Flynn finished his wine. "You are a good boy,
Francis, he said. "And after supper would you let me try
one of your (:oronas? "
Father Francis had but two in his pocket. Eagerly, he gave
[ 4 ~ ]
one to Father Flynn. Tile old priest sniffed it and admired
its shape.
"Not bad! Not bad at all! It will be a welcome change
from pipe smoking. Thank you, my son. I hope you won't
run short?"
"Oh, no! No! "
Father Francis gloved all over at Father Flynn's thanks.
He felt like a king in a sort of humble way.
~ CHAPTER SlXI'Y ~
EVERYONE went to Father Francis' first High Mass,
except Tessie who had gone to an earlier Mass in order to
stay home and mind the children. Even Mrs. O'Crawley,
who was a member of another parish, came. After the
service they stood outside the church.
"He sang the Mass beautifully, just beautifully," said
Mrs. O'Crawley, holding up her hand to button her tight
kid glove.
"He has the voice for it," said Maggie-Now.
"Better than Father Flynn, anyhow. He's tone-deaf," said
Pat.
"Patrick! Is that nice?" said Mrs. O'Crawley possessively.
"Did I say it was nice to be tone-deaf?"
Pat was in one of his argumentive hair-splitting moods.
He was going to make somebody pay for making him go
to a long High Mass instead of one of the shorter ones.
"Will you stop at the house and have a cup of coffee
with us, Mrs. O'Crawley?" asked Maggie-Now.
"Thank you, Mrs. Bassett, but I must get home. I'm
making a veal shoulder with a pocket for dressing, for
dinner. And, Patrick, I'll expect you at one for dinner.
After, we can walk to the church together for the
christening."
After the baby had been christened, all went to
Maggie-Now's house for coffee and cake. Except Annie,
who went over to straighten up Tessie's apartment
because the little family w as going back to its own place
to live.
~ 1 ] 1
"It was beautiful, just beautiful!" said Mrs. O'Crawley as
she skinned off a tight kid glove. "The way Father Francis
said that about renouncing Satal and all his angels . . .
Just beautiful!"
"I can't thank you enough for the locket," said Tessie.
"It was nothing! Nothing!" said lIrs. O'Crawley. "Just a
little something."
"And for being godluotller,'' said L)enn>.
"It was an honor."
"Yeah. But don't let that -ice )'Oti the ide:Zr that you
OVM me O Crawley," said Pat.
To divert pat, Mag rie-IN'`,w S.liti: "And Albie made a
fine godfather."
"Beautiful!" agreed Mrs. O'(:rawiev.
"Thanks!" said Albie hoarsely. "I got to So now.
(lood-hv.'' Ple was off.
Pat left with Mrs. O (Hartley. Denny and Iessie packed
and got ready to leave.
"You've been awful nice to me, ~laggie-Novv," said
Tessie.
"You spoiled her, Mat gie-Nov," said Denny. "She won't
be fit to live with."
"I wish I could stay here," said Tessie wistfully. "It's
lonely in that apartment Denuis away all day. Only home
an hour for lunch."
"Come over anytime,' said Maggie-Nov. "And bring
Marv I.or-rainy. "
"Lor-raine!" corrected Tessie, a little sharply.
"She's tired," said Dc nny, apologising for his wife.
"I1ere! " said Tessie, immediately sorry. "You can hold
the baby a minute, Maggie-Now."
After they had left, .laggie-Now changed the sheets on
her bed and put her little possessions back on the dressing
table. (She had put them away while Denny and Tessie
used her room.) She bathed her two foster babies, gave
them their supper and put them to bed. She had a
sandwich and a cup of coffee for her supper. To use
cooking for only one, she thought. She ate standing up
and from the top of the A ashtub. She couldn't bear to sit
alone at the big table where so many had sat the last week
or so.
She went through the rooms looking for something to
do. Everything was in apple-pie order. It was too early to
start the
[ 4 4 ]
oatmeal. The cuckoo clack struck once, and Timmy the
bird answered with a tired chirp. It was only six-thirty. She
covered the birdcage and went in to sit by the front
window. It was going to be a long, lonely evening for her.
Maybe, she thought hopefully, one of the children nzight
wake up and need something. She sat and waited . . .
waited to be needed.
She walked into Winer's store. It was a very hot day in
July; too hot to take the children shopping with her. She
had talked her father into keeping an eye on them while
she shopped. She asked Winer could she have a nice piece
of chuck for pot roast. As he served her, she asl.ed where
Denny was.
"Dinny goes home by his house now for dinner with the
wife and the baby."
"That's right. I forgot," s
aid Maggie-Now. "Business any
better, Mr. Winer?" she asked.
"Worser," he said. "The neighborhood so bad is getting.
No one buys good meat no more. The colored people
come in and all want hog chowls. And how many chowls
gives it one hog? Then they want neck bones and how
many necks is one hog got? And they ask for this thing,
side meat. And the rest of the hog stands there.
"And all these new people what moves in; what speaks
Spick."
"Speaks Spick?"
"You know: Aba-dabba-dabba? They ask for meat in
Spick and I would not say to you how they say it. You
would think I was cursing at you.
"When does your man come home, Missus Now?" he
asked suddenly.
"Sometime after Thanksgiving."
"Is long time yet."
"Yes," she agreed with a sigh.
"When the winter is done," he said, "then I build my
never store in Hempstead. Now is time. The men what
work don't ask so much money now and all things for
building is cheaper." He hesitated, then went on, "I talked
to Dinny he should be boss of the new store. I tell him
I build a little house for him and the family he should
pay me off like rent."
"That's so nice of you, Mr. Winer."
[ IS ]
' Oinny likes it. But the wife . . ." I le shrugged. "She
don't Leant to go far away from tile mama. But I wait and
see. Dinnv's a good boy. He will do via hat is good for
all."
"I know he will."
"He is like son to me. And maybe u hen I die . . . We
see." he said mysteriously.
In September when ~ he nurse came from the home
for her monthly inspection, she asked Maggie-Now
wouldn't she like to take another baby? She had a nice
empty room, observed the nurse, and there vitas no I
eason why she couldn't have a third foster child if she
vanished.
Ilaggie-Now was delighted. She said she hoped he'd be
a very young baby so that she c ould have him a very long
time.
A few weeks later, the nurse brought her a
three-month-old baby. His name was Matthew; Matty for
short. He had a large birthmark on his little cheek. The
nurse said it didn't matter so much with a boy. But it
would be bad on a girl. But, added the nurse, as soon as
he was old enough, the home would see about having it
removed.
A C'HAP
WRY ONE said that the November of that year was the
coldest they remembered. On one of the coldest days,
when there was an icy wind blowing and the very hair in
one's nostrils froze, Father Francis set out to make some
parish calls. Toward evening, an icy rain began to fall.
Father Francis came home with wet shoes and four dollars
and thirty cents in contributions for the parishhouse coal
fund. The young priest took off his wet muffler and his
wet coat and his wet shoes. He put on his slippers and
went down and put some coal on the furnace fire and
shook down the ashes.
"If we go to bed immediately after supper and prayers,"
suggested Father Francis, "we can save on coal."
"No," said Father Flynn. "We may be needed this night.
The
~ 406 ~
cold spell has held on too long and there are old people
who may be dying and we must be available."
"I had better get my shoes dried then." He stuffed
wadded papers into his shoes. He had but the one pair.
"Has the doctor been by?"
It was the kindly custom of one of the neighborhood
doctors to inform the priest, the rabbi and the Methodist
minister, by phone or personal call, when one of their
parishioners was seriously ill.
"No, he hasn't. But, mark my words, Patrick Dennis
Moore will send for me before the night is out. For the
past ten years now, when the cold and snow of winter sets
in, he has the idea he's going to die and he wants the
Church. Well, one of the times may be the time."
And sure enough! While they were eating their supper,