The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics)

  “Not long,” said the pastor, as before.

  “Father,” said Simpson when he’d eaten his peaches, “while you’re away, if I have to go out at night—hospital or something—and the church is locked, I can knock or ring, I know, but I’d hate to disturb Ms Burke, if you know what I mean, Father?”

  The pastor nodded, as if he did know, but bowed his head in silent grace.

  So did Simpson then, and, when they rose from the table, did not forget the pamphlet by his plate. “So I should knock or ring, Father?”

  “Ring,” said the pastor.

  A little later that evening, after the pastor and John departed for the airport, John to drive the car back, Simpson stepped out to do some shopping. When he returned, the front door, which he’d left unlocked, was locked (Ms Burke), and so, rather than ring, he went through the church. He was carrying a brown paper bag and a six-pack of beer for which he’d spurned a bag because his generation, he understood from the media, was perhaps most admired for its lack of hypocrisy. He reached his room (unseen by Ms Burke, he believed), opened the potato chips, some of which he shook into a dish after first removing the paper clips and dusting it with his elbow, and then opened the cheese dip, this marked down but still not cheap, probably because it came in an attractive wooden bowl suitable for entertaining. Simpson was entertaining two of his classmates, Potter and Schmidt, that evening. He had brought up his rubber-tire ashtray earlier.

  When Schmidt arrived with a surprise guest, a Father Philippe, an older man who belonged to a small order recently expelled from one of the developing countries, Simpson hoped to hear something of the Foreign Missions (little discussed these days), but Father Philippe’s English was poor, and Potter made the usual remarks about Rice Christians and Spiritual Colonialism, and dominated the conversation.

  So Simpson heard more about the developments taking place in the Church, notably in Holland, which he’d heard so much about from Potter and other activists in the seminary, and then more about the developments taking place at Holy Sepulchre, Potter’s parish, “exciting” being Potter’s word for these developments, “depressing” being Simpson’s.

  “Look, Simp,” Potter said, “we have to do all we can to extend our outreach—to use a term widely used in the Protestant churches.” Women were now allowed to take up the collection at Holy Sepulchre, and strobe lights had been ordered for the sanctuary (“We have to think of the kids”), and Potter and his pastor, who was under Potter’s influence, were hoping to get Holy Sepulchre changed to Holy Resting Place as less off-putting to the churchless. Potter and his pastor were also hoping that it would soon be possible for people to fulfill their obligation to attend Sunday Mass not only, as now, on Saturday but also on Friday or Thursday, a better day, since so many people took off for the lake, or started drinking, right after work on Friday. Potter and his pastor were making an effort to keep the confessional doors—the doors to the priest’s compartment—open when the confessionals were not in use, to show the people, to bring home to them the idea, that God (“Jahweh” to Potter) was not within but on the altar.

  “Wow,” said Schmidt, who was under Potter’s influence.

  “No, no,” said Simpson. He assured Father Philippe that keeping the confessional doors open was not a local custom, nor was it a growing one, as Potter would have allowed a stranger to believe (all in the day’s work for the enthusiast), and for this Simpson was frowned on by his classmates.

  Potter produced a copy of the Holy Sepulchre parish bulletin, the entire contents being just one word spread over four pages, a letter to a page, LOVE.

  “Wow,” said Schmidt.

  “To think we’ve come to this,” said Simpson, shaking his head, but, thinking the “we” might be resented by his classmates, cradle Catholics, he said to Father Philippe, “I’m a convert, Father.”

  “Simp, you should do something about your triumphalism,” said Schmidt.

  “Simp and Lefty,” said Potter, and likened Simpson to Father Beeman: he had called the LOVE issue a waste of recycled paper but a step in the right direction (he wanted no bulletin at all), and he was almost certainly the one who kept shutting the confessional doors. “A real cross, that guy, and I’m afraid he knows your pastor’s away.”

  “So?” said Simpson.

  “He said he might drop by tonight.”

  “Oh?” said Simpson—he’d been worried enough before, about the beer running out.

  “He might not come,” said Schmidt, but he was a Teilhardian optimist.

  Father Beeman came, appeared at Simpson’s door with John, who was carrying a bag of ice cubes, and was himself carrying a brown paper bag that obviously concealed a bottle. “Surprise,” he said.

  “No, you’re expected, Father. In fact, I was just going out for beer.”

  “Beer?” said Father Beeman. “Missionary?” he said, when introduced to Father Philippe. “Why aren’t you in Holland?” He held up a hand for silence, cupped an ear to hear what Potter, who was ignoring him, was saying to Schmidt, commented “I got your old outreach,” and handed Simpson the bottle.

  Simpson had to go down to the kitchen for glasses (he had invited John to stay), and while down there heard the light in the back stairway snap on from above (Ms Burke), but he did not have to go out for beer. No, as Simpson saw it, those so inclined could simply switch to the bottle when the beer was gone.

  And that was what happened, the evening then turning into more of a party, without, however, coalescing—there were still two conversations.

  Simpson was in the one with Father Philippe, John, and Father Beeman, who controlled it, not by doing all the talking as Potter had done earlier, but by changing the subject frequently, giving others a chance to be heard briefly. Father Beeman also kept a tap on the other conversation, and occasionally issued a monitum (“It’s always been a hotbed of heresy, Holland”) or posed a question (“What’s so relevant about saying Mass in a barn in Belgium?”). Father Beeman also served as bartender to the entire room, a good thing, since Simpson wouldn’t have known how much to put in. Father Beeman and his bottle added a lot to the evening, and made it go as it hadn’t before. He appeared to be interested in Simpson.

  Yes, for when Potter moved down to the floor, into the lotus position, and, at his request, Simpson, who had been sitting on the bed, moved into the vacant chair, which put him with Schmidt in easy range of Potter’s voice, he found that he was still regarded as one of Father Beeman’s claque (by Father Beeman), and had to attend to two monologues that seemed to be on a collision course.

  Father Beeman said, “I don’t blame the young clergy for what’s happened to the Church, even the screwballs and phonies.”

  Potter said, “Just because the Protestants do it, is that what’s wrong with hymn-singing? Next to a married clergy, I’d say that’s what we need most.”

  Father Beeman said, “I blame the older men, pastors like the one where I am now—no hair on his head, just sideburns, and those industrial glasses that make any man look like an insect.”

  Potter, wearing such glasses, said, with some difficulty, gulping, “You’re the one . . . Lefty . . . shuts those doors.” And stood up, with some difficulty.

  Father Beeman, looking belligerent and (Simpson thought) guilty, said, “What doors?” And stood up.

  “Uh,” said Simpson, and was wondering what he, as host, should do, and was also recalling what a visiting speaker at the seminary had said, that the greater incidence of fist fights between members of the clergy since Vatican II was yet another sign of the times, and perhaps of the end, when . . .

  Father Philippe stood up, and, going over to the wall and standing with his back to everybody, began to disrobe . . . collar, coat, dickey . . . then turned, and displaying his T-shirt, the blue and gold seal of a university thereon, cried, “Voilà! Souvenir de Notre-Dame!”

  Ms Burke could be heard pounding on the wall!

  “She still do that?” roared Father Beeman, and went to th
e wall and pounded back.

  “Uh,” said Simpson.

  Ms Burke could be heard again.

  “Listen to her!” whispered Father Beeman, but did not pound back. “Don’t let her push you around, Simpson. See that man there?” (Yes, Simpson saw John.) “She runs that man. And the pastor. But she didn’t run me. So don’t let her run you, Simpson. Be like me.”

  Simpson sort of nodded.

  When Potter, who had left the room when the pounding began, returned, he looked pale and said, “I think it was that cheese dip, Simp.”

  “Nothing wrong with that cheese dip,” said Father Beeman.

  Simpson saw Potter, Schmidt, and Father Philippe down to the front door, and returned to his room, wondering why Father Beeman and John were staying, and, again, why they had come.

  The answers to those questions were not immediately forthcoming, and Simpson soon forgot those questions, for he heard some very interesting things from Father Beeman and (until he fell asleep) John. That the insurance company the pastor addressed envelopes for was Catholic owned and oriented, which Simpson was glad to hear, though he still felt uneasy about such employment for a parish priest and could only accept, in principle, Father Beeman’s argument that the pastor was a priest-worker. That John had another job, as a night watchman in a warehouse (“Security,” he said), which in a rash moment he’d boasted of to Ms Burke, and now lived in fear that she’d inform the pastor, Father Beeman doubting this (“Suits her better this way”). That Ms Burke, who received a prewar salary like John, never cashed her checks, and this, quite apart from its salutary effect on the pastor, Simpson considered a meritorious practice, even after Father Beeman discounted it (“Hell, she owns a four-hundred-acre farm”). That Father Beeman believed the pastor’s fine sermons to be the product of reading rather than living, to be thought out, perhaps even written out, before delivery, which struck Simpson as a very Roman view of preaching. That the pastor had been active in the so-called streetcar apostolate, this terminated when buses replaced streetcars, buses not having any windowsills to speak of, or the kind of seats on which literature could safely be left—which started Simpson thinking . . .

  “Father,” he said, taking a chance, “when you were here, did the pastor ever—how shall I put it?—put pamphlets by your plate?”

  “At first.”

  Good news for Simpson!

  Father Beeman frowned at Simpson (who had been smiling at him). “But I never felt he was trying to straighten me out—and I came here under a cloud.”

  “Oh?” But Simpson was only interested in hearing about the pamphlets. “‘At first,’ you say?”

  “Not at the end. I left here under a cloud.”

  “Oh?”

  “Trouble was, he kept his door open at night—he still do that?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Well, he did when I was here. I used to come up the stairs in the dark—so as not to disturb him—carrying my shoes. Never made it. ‘Is that you, Father?’ That’s what he’d say. Night after night. One night, I’m sorry to say, I let him have it—threw a shoe.”

  “Oh?” Simpson was shocked, but tried not to show it.

  “It didn’t hit him.”

  “Oh.”

  Father Beeman rattled his glass. “So,” he said, “I wouldn’t worry about the pamphlets if I were you. I can see how you might. But don’t. You’ve got what it takes, Simpson. Or what it did. You would’ve made it through the seminary in the old days—unlike your classmates who were here tonight and wouldn’t have lasted a week. Hell, I wouldn’t be afraid to introduce you to my classmates.”

  This was high praise to one who’d wished for years at the seminary, and for weeks at his first parish, not to be an object of special concern, neither of charity nor of suspicion, to his dear brothers in Christ, but simply to be one of them, and that praise, coming as it did from one who, whatever his faults, and we all have our faults, was certainly one of them, made Simpson blush.

  “I’ve had very good reports on you, Simpson.”

  Simpson said that several parishioners had mentioned Father Beeman to him (“How?”), oh, favorably (“Who?”), and supplied a couple of names, after which while John slept on, they sat on, finishing the bottle and discussing the Church, as many must have been doing at that hour in rectories.

  “Well, Simpson. Say, what’s your first name anyway? Heard those clowns calling you Simp. Didn’t care for it.”

  “Fitch,” said Simpson.

  Father Beeman brought his glass, empty except for ice, down from his mouth with a clunk.

  “It’s a family name,” said Simpson.

  “Well, Simpson, I was sorry for you tonight—her acting up like that in front of everybody. Still, it happened to me when I was here, if that’s any consolation to you.”

  Simpson sort of nodded.

  “Don’t let her run you. That’s the main thing. Don’t let her get anything on you. That’s the main thing. But if she does don’t let her run you.”

  Simpson sort of shook his head.

  “Well, Simpson.” Father Beeman glanced at his watch, became interested in the back of his hand, tasted it, dried it on his sleeve, and got up, saying, “Nothing wrong with that cheese dip.” He woke John (who had to go to his other job and for whom he’d been watching the time), and then he handed Simpson a key, saying, “Carried it away.”

  Good news for Simpson!

  The evening, though dull at first with Potter doing all the talking, and bad at one point with Ms Burke acting up like that, had certainly ended well, Simpson was thinking, as they went down the hallway, when Father Beeman stopped and said:

  “The thing is, Simpson, I never got my shoe back.”

  Hearing this, and seeing where they’d stopped in the hallway, Simpson was shocked, but tried not to show it, and quickly made his position clear. “Afraid you’ll have to see the pastor, Father.”

  Father Beeman said, “Should’ve said something at the time—the next day, or the day after. But you know how these things are, Simpson—the longer they go on, the worse they get. We weren’t talking at all—not that that was much of a change. You know how he is. Was going to say something the day I left, but thought, No, why embarrass him, why embarrass us both?”

  “Afraid you’ll have to see the pastor, Father.”

  Father Beeman said, “Look, Simpson, how’d you like to have one shoe, and know where its mate is, and not be able to lay your hands on it?”

  “Afraid you’ll have to see the pastor, Father.”

  “Look, Simpson. It’s my shoe. Come on, John. Help me hunt.”

  John did.

  Simpson walked up and down the hallway, and having had his first look into the room at the head of the stairs—an indoor dump—and hearing Father Beeman tell John the shoe wasn’t where it should be (“Going by the flight pattern”), he began to hope that it wouldn’t be found, which would be best for all concerned.

  “How about that? He must’ve picked it up!”

  Father Beeman came forth with the shoe, looking pleased with himself, and under the impression that Simpson wished to shake his hand

  Simpson gave him back the key.

  “Look, Simpson, this is your key.”

  Simpson casually put his hands behind him and held them there.

  “Wouldn’t want to say where you got it?”

  “In the circumstances, no.”

  “O.K., Simpson.” And Father Beeman gave the key to John.

  “Put the shoe back, Father,” Simpson said, “I’m in charge here now.”

  “Look, Simpson, this is my shoe. Good shoe, too. Bostonian. Hell, it’ll never be missed in there. Even if he misses it, which he won’t, he’ll just think it’s lost. You won’t have to say I was here.”

  Simpson, remembering the pounding, shook his head. “No,” he said.

  The pastor and Simpson ate their hashed brown potatoes, scorched green beans, and ground meat of some kind, and Ms Burke set the table with things th
at should have been on it earlier, then appeared at intervals with a loaf of sandwich bread under her arm, put out some (the pastor and Simpson ate a lot of bread), and disappeared into the kitchen, talking to herself—a typical meal, nothing unusual about it, except the collection of airline condiments and comestibles at the pastor’s place. The pastor had come to the table straight from the airport, and Simpson, though he’d come to the table after the pastor that evening, doubted that there had been time for Ms Burke to report what had happened at the rectory while the pastor was away, not long, not quite forty-eight hours.

  “What was your trip like, Father?”

  “Turbulence.”

  “Oh?” And Simpson thought of the turbulence at the rectory during the pastor’s brief absence. The worst thing, in a way, was that one of Simpson’s guests, probably Potter, had used the little pink towels in the bathroom. These Simpson, before retiring that night, had noticed in the bathtub, had smoothed out, folded, and hung up where they belonged, but in the morning, waking with what he could only assume was a hangover, he had found them gone. Alluding to them at breakfast—“Uh. One of my guests . . .”—he had received no response from Ms Burke; and then he had, a bitter one. “I know who was here, and I know why.” “I,” Simpson had replied, and had been going to say I tried, but the thought of his failure to protect the pastor’s interest had silenced him. Ms Burke hadn’t spoken to Simpson since then, and he hadn’t spoken to her. His idea was not to let her intimidate him, not to let her run him. What he had lost with Ms Burke in the way of respect, he had gained in camaraderie with John, who—overly solicitous about Simpson’s “head,” comparing it with his own, and with some heads he’d had in the past (in some of which Father Beeman had figured), and spending more time in the combination chair-coatrack-umbrella stand just outside the office, and less time in the spare confessional—had become a nuisance by the end of that day, a long day. Simpson had gone to bed early, and was planning to do so again. There could be something in what John said, that the second day after could be worse than the first. “Air turbulence, Father?”