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

  In Buell and Kuhl, he disposed of the amateurish posters (Peace, Joy, Love, and so on) in the churches, got the women to scrub the floors and pews, the men to wax and polish them, participating in these activities himself. He visited all the parishioners in their homes, spoke here and there, honoring all invitations, and, in general, did what he could (threw big parties in both places) to make the people forget their late pastor, except, of course, in their prayers. Owing to the special circumstances, he also said Mass daily in Kuhl, which meant driving twenty-eight miles over an unimproved road before breakfast, through ice and snow, for which, though, the Mercedes was equipped.

  When, after a month, he left Buell, the car had ice on its roof (unheated garage), frozen glunk under its fenders, salt on its tires, was looking older and grayer, but was still a great performer. The Bishop couldn’t say as much for himself. After a bad night at home, he checked into the hospital (flu). When he came out ten days later, he was still in demand—two calls the first day—but had to say no, he wasn’t himself yet, he was convalescing.

  During this period, one afternoon about three, he saw Father Barnett arrive at the Chancery and a few minutes later, in his black car, Monsignor Holstein and Mrs Nagel.

  I may be called upon, he thought, and put on his shoes, collar, and coat. Then he hovered about, waiting for the phone to ring, until he began to feel foolish doing this. So he sat down with Who’s Who in the Midwest.

  After a bit, though, the phone did ring.

  The Auxiliary. “Bishop, I didn’t know you’d visited Mrs Nagel.”

  Not a question, and so why say anything?

  “Bishop, if I’d known”—as he should have known; that was the implication beneath the apologetic tone—“I would’ve called you earlier.”

  Again, not a question.

  “I just now found out, Bishop.”

  Not a question.

  “Bishop, if you’re not too busy up there, could you come down?”

  “Be glad to,” said the Bishop, and hurried down.

  Entering the big inner office, once his own, he stopped at the first chair, expecting to be directed to another, one near the desk, but he wasn’t, and so sat down, as the others did then—Bishop Gau at the desk, to his right Monsignor Rapp, and facing them Mrs Nagel, Monsignor Holstein, Father Barnett.

  “Mrs Nagel, I appreciate it, the way you’ve answered my questions, especially now I know you were visited by the Bishop, here. I’m sorry I didn’t know that before,” said Bishop Gau (the Bishop, in petto, replying, O.K., O.K.). “And I’m sorry I had to ask you to tell your story again, but thought I should hear it live. I can understand, though, why you decided to cut a tape. Just as I can understand your husband’s feelings about visitors. I don’t like to say it, Mrs Nagel, but it’s possible, even for one in my position, to see too much of people. I’m sure the Bishop, here, will vouch for that.”

  The Bishop wasn’t sure he would, but nodded to be helpful, wondering what the hell was wrong—something was, from the sound of it.

  “Mrs Nagel, I want this understood. A thing like this can take years, even centuries, to check out, and then what? Win or lose, it’s still a matter of faith. Anyway, whatever I’ve said, or might say, is in no way a judgment—official, personal, or any other kind—on you or your experiences. Is that understood, Mrs Nagel?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Now, about your purpose in coming here today. While considering this, while you have my sympathy, Mrs Nagel, I must also consider what, in my opinion, is best for all concerned. And then, of course, I can only advise, not command. Now, what I advise, Mrs Nagel, is what your pastor, here, has already advised. Namely, silence. You’ve done very well so far.”

  “I know. But I don’t like it this way, and I never did,” Mrs Nagel said, giving the Bishop the impression that she had said this earlier, before he came in. “Why shouldn’t I tell people the message?”

  The Bishop thought he heard somebody (Monsignor Holstein?) moan.

  “People wouldn’t believe you, Mrs Nagel,” said Father Barnett, sounding, the Bishop thought, too calm.

  “Some people don’t believe me now.”

  “More wouldn’t,” said Father Barnett. “Many more.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I don’t mind now.”

  The Bishop distinctly heard Monsignor Holstein moan.

  Bishop Gau said, “Mrs Nagel, I have to consider what, in my opinion, is best for all concerned, including you. And I advise silence. Not only about the message but about everything concerning your experiences. Silence, Mrs Nagel.”

  “But why?”

  “My dear Mrs Nagel,” said Monsignor Holstein, and then held his jaw, which he had been holding previously.

  Monsignor Rapp cleared his throat in such a way as to attract attention. “Mrs Nagel, you haven’t told anybody else the message—except your husband and us here?”

  Us here?

  “No, I haven’t. But I think I should. I really think I should.”

  What’s the message?

  Bishop Gau said, “All right. Then I advise you to go ahead, Mrs Nagel. Tell people of your experiences, and tell them the message, too.”

  “You’re not advising that!” Monsignor Holstein was very upset.

  “If silence is impossible, yes, I am,” said Bishop Gau.

  “Why not?” said Mrs Nagel. “It’s the truth, after all.”

  “No, silence!” cried Monsignor Holstein.

  “No, the truth,” said Bishop Gau. “It’s the next-best thing. She can’t go on like this. And we can’t.”

  What’s the message?

  “You,” said Monsignor Holstein, “you told me it was noncontroversial.”

  “I meant,” replied Father Barnett, “in the political sense.”

  What’s the message?

  “‘KEEP MINNESOTA GREEN’!” cried Monsignor Holstein, very upset. “What about the rest of the country? Or, for that matter, the world?”

  Bishop Gau, swiftly rising from the desk, called upon the Bishop with a look and a nod, and stood with bowed head.

  The Bishop, rising with an effort, responded with a prayer.

  Mrs Nagel did reveal the message to visitors, and consequently Mr Nagel was less troubled by them, but life went on as before for the clergy concerned. Monsignor Holstein was very upset in April to hear that one of his ex-curates and one of the nuns from his parish school, whose union he had opposed, were being divorced in California, and in August Father Barnett was down with his back again. This took the Bishop to Fahrenheit again—quite a homecoming! He had continued with his livery-horsing, wasn’t often seen at the Webb, and had put plenty of mileage on the Mercedes. He would have put on more if one day early in October, when the diocese was at its best and he was driving along U.S. 52, enjoying the scenery, he hadn’t been sideswiped by a truck. He was in the hospital for a while, doing fairly well for a man of his age, he understood, until he took a turn for the worse.

  PHARISEES

  And he spake this parable unto certain which trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and despised others:

  Two men went up into the temple to pray; the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican.

  The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican.

  I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess.

  And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.

  —Luke 18:9–13

  TAKING A HARD-BOILED egg from the bowl on the bar, the publican—if he could be called that, for the joint was in his wife’s name and he was now retired from his job as tax collector—squeezed it, trying to break the shell in his grip, and failed. So he held the egg down on the bar, rolled it back and forth, and in this manner broke the shell, which he removed. He sprinkled salt on the small end of th
e egg, and was eating this when a customer entered the joint.

  “I see you’re eating an egg,” said the customer, an elderly Pharisee in a dark suit of conservative cut.

  “I’m on this new diet,” said the publican.

  “What new diet is this, Walt?”

  “It’s this new cholesterol diet.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been hearing about it.”

  “In cholesterol, which I prefer to take in the form of eggs, I get all the things my body needs—animal fats, blood, nerve tissue, bile, to name but a few.”

  “Sounds good, Walt. Small brandy, please.”

  The publican was pouring a small brandy when a young thief entered the joint with a gun, saying, “This is a holdup.”

  While the holdup was in progress, another customer, an unfrocked Pharisee now engaged in community work, entered the joint, saying, “Hi, fellas. Hey, what’s happening?”

  “Watch it,” said the young thief.

  The ex-Pharisee then spoke to the young thief in a nice way, telling him that he could jeopardize his future in the community by such conduct, if, that is, he persisted in it.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said the young thief sheepishly.

  “I don’t say I’m right. I don’t say you’re wrong,” said the ex-Pharisee. “I try not to make value judgments. All I ask is that you think again. In the meantime, what’ll you have, fella?”

  “Just a beer.”

  “Two beers, Walt.”

  After serving them, the publican picked up the egg, which was eroding on the bar.

  The Pharisee said, “Saw you this morning, Walt, unless my eyes deceived me.”

  “No, I was there. I was standing afar off.”

  “Walt, how is it I never see your wife there?”

  “She’s pretty busy.”

  “We’re all pretty busy, Walt, but we can still find a few hours a day for the things that matter most.”

  “Such as?” said the ex-Pharisee.

  “We were talking,” said the Pharisee. “Walt and I.”

  “About what?” said the ex-Pharisee.

  The publican leaned over the bar and, with a mouthful of egg, whispered, “Religion.”

  “Oh, that,” said the ex-Pharisee.

  A young woman, a dish, entered the joint rattling a can of coins. She approached the Pharisee with it.

  “What’s it for?” he asked.

  “People.”

  The Pharisee shook his head. “I give tithes of all that I possess,” he said.

  “Oh, sure,” said the dish, and rattled the can at the publican.

  “My wife takes care of all that. She’s off today.”

  “Oh, sure,” said the dish.

  “Hey, don’t forget us,” said the ex-Pharisee—who then folded a dollar and slipped it into the can.

  The dish rattled the can at the young thief.

  “We give at home,” he said.

  The ex-Pharisee slipped the young thief a five, which he, having seen how it was done, folded and slipped into the can, saying, “Now I see.”

  Watching the dish leave, the publican squeezed an egg, then rolled it on the bar, removed the shell, and salted the small end. “Want one?” he said to the Pharisee.

  “Not today, Walt. Small brandy, please.”

  “Hey, what’s happening?” said the ex-Pharisee. Going out into the entryway, where the dish was being attacked by rapists, he said, “Hi, fellas,” and after apologizing for the young ex-thief, who had attacked one of the rapists from behind, he spoke to them all in a nice way, telling them that they could jeopardize their future in the community by such conduct, if, that is, they persisted in it. Not surprisingly, they all agreed.

  The ex-Pharisee, the young ex-thief, the dish, and the six ex-rapists then repaired to the bar where they sat in a row, but could see each other in the mirror, all talking about poetry, music, drama, and better recreational facilities.

  “Tired?” said the ex-Pharisee.

  “A little,” said the dish.

  The young ex-thief said he’d be glad to go out with the can in her place, and offered to turn his gun over to her, the ex-Pharisee, or the ex-rapists, if that would make him more acceptable in her eyes, but that was not required of him, and he came back shortly with a full can.

  “Don’t thank me,” he told the grateful dish. “Thank him.”

  The ex-Pharisee said, “You did it your way, fella.”

  The publican squeezed another egg, rolled it on the bar, removed the shell, salted the small end, and pointed it at the Pharisee invitingly.

  “Not today, Walt. You see, I fast twice in the week, and this is one of my days.”

  “Big deal,” said the ex-Pharisee. “I don’t fast, and I don’t give tithes, and I don’t go to temple, and I thank God (if there is one) I’m not like the hypocrites that do!”

  “And so say all of us,” said one of the ex-rapists.

  TINKERS

  NOT COUNTING TEDDY bears and the like, they were seven—two teenage girls, two boys, seven and nine, a girl of five, Mama, and Daddy—and after eight days over land and sea, Daddy had a great desire to be out of the public eye. So when they landed in Cobh, though they’d intended to stay overnight there or in Cork, he phoned the hotel in Ballydoo, near Dublin, and was happy to hear that it would be all right to arrive that evening, a day earlier than planned. At Dublin, the train, to their surprise, became the boat train to Dun Laoghaire, and, since Ballydoo lay in that direction, they stayed on it—Daddy was happy to be saving a bit on taxi fares. At Dun Laoghaire, he was happy not to have to take ship again, and to find a taxi big enough (he’d been thinking they’d need two) to accommodate them and their luggage. Things, it seemed to him—after the hotel in St Paul, the heat in Chicago, the train trip to New York (who ever heard of washing your hair on a train?), the Empire State Building, Gimbel’s, Schrafft’s, Hammacher Schlemmer’s (for compasses), and six days at sea—were looking up.

  Except for overcrowding in the taxi, there was no difficulty until they reached their destination, almost. On the road, caught just in time by the taxi’s headlights, there was a noisy gathering of some kind, around a two-tone horse.

  “Tinkers,” the driver said with contempt, and proceeded slowly, half off the narrow pavement, while the tinkers and the horse, hoofs clonking, surged about in the dark.

  “Jem, don’t sell that harse!”

  “’M sellin’ the bugger!”

  “Daddy,” said the younger boy, who was sitting on Daddy’s lap with Kitty, his stuffed cat, on his lap. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. The man who owns the horse—his friend doesn’t want him to sell it. That’s all.”

  “Beebee’ll buy it,” said the older boy, who was sitting with Beebee, his teddy bear, on his lap, between Daddy and the driver, and gurgled at the thought of Beebee’s wealth.

  “Give it a rest,” Daddy said.

  Beebee, a millionaire (hotels, railroads, shipping, timber), had thrown his weight around on this trip—rather, had had it thrown around for him. When they checked into the hotel in New York, not a bad hotel, Daddy had been told, “Beebee usually stays at the Waldorf,” and when they found their cabins on the ship, “Beebee usually goes First Class,” and in the dining room on the first night, “Beebee usually drinks champagne”—and the wine steward, obviously a foreigner with ideas about American parents and children, had to be told no, that was not an order. Mama and Daddy were getting a little older, and had suffered a little more on this trip.

  It was not their first one to Ireland. They had gone there for a year when the teenagers were small, again when the boys were smaller, and—the last time—the youngest child had been born there. Each time, they had rented a house in Ballydoo, and were hoping to do so again. And this time they wouldn’t have to settle for what was immediately available, would be able to look around for a while, because they would be staying on as sole tenants of the hotel after it closed for the winter and the proprietors
, Major and Mrs Maroon, went to London. This arrangement, initiated by Irish friends, had been concluded by correspondence, and since the rent would be reasonable, and Mama and Daddy could not recall a small hotel facing the harbor, they were anxious to see it. When they did, they recalled it (them, rather, these Victorian terrace houses, externally two, now internally one), now the—though it, or they, looked eastward to the sea—Westward Ho Hotel.

  Without too much ado, Mrs Maroon, a fiftyish outdoors type, received and registered them as guests, which they’d be for two weeks before coming into their tenancy, and after they were shown their rooms and given tea in the lounge (in the presence of two other guests, women such as one sees in lounges in the British Isles, one reading a book, one knitting), Major Maroon, portly in a double-breasted blue serge jacket with one of its brass buttons, a top one, missing, so that the five remaining looked like the Big Dipper, appeared and proposed billiards—to the boys.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Daddy said, rising, and, with visions of cues plowing up green pastures of cloth, accompanied the boys and Major Maroon, who smelled of stout, to what he called the Smoking Room and Library, which smelled of dog.

  Billiards proved to be a form of skittles, the little table to be coin-operated. Major Maroon financed the first game, Daddy the second, after which he, having looked through the Library, a bookcase containing incunabula of the paperback revolution (Jeeves, Raffles) and Aer Lingus schedules for the previous summer but one (Take One), said it was past bedtime. “Ah, the lads’ll like it here,” said Major Maroon, and showed them where they’d find the cues.

  Later that night, when the children were, it was to be hoped, asleep in their rooms, and Mama and Daddy were having a duty-free drink in theirs (no bar at the Westward Ho), Daddy mentioned the little coin-operated table.