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

by J.F. Powers

  Daddy and all of us had been watching the doctor when the priest motioned him over, and now Daddy got up from the table, kicking the chair over he got up so fast, and ran to the bed. Shaking all over, he sank to his knees, and I believe he must’ve been crying again, although I thought he never would again and his head was down and I couldn’t see for sure.

  I began to get an awful bulging pain in my stomach. The doctor left the bed and grabbed the white man by the arm and was taking him to the door when Daddy jumped up, like he knew where they were going, and said, “Wait a minute, mister!”

  The doctor and the white man stopped at the door. Daddy walked draggily over to them and stood in front of the white man, took a deep breath, and said in the stillest kind of whisper, “I wouldn’t touch you.” That was all. He moved slowly back to Mama’s bed and his big shoulders were sagged down like I never saw them before.

  Old Gramma said, “Jésus!” and stumbled down on her knees by Mama. Then the awful bulging pain in my stomach exploded, and I knew that Mama wasn’t just sleeping now, and I couldn’t breathe for a long while, and then when I finally could I was crying like the baby and brother George, and so was Carrie.

  LIONS, HARTS, LEAPING DOES

  “‘THIRTY-NINTH POPE. Anastasius, a Roman, appointed that while the Gospel was reading they should stand and not sit. He exempted from the ministry those that were lame, impotent, or diseased persons, and slept with his forefathers in peace, being a confessor.’”

  “Anno?”

  “‘Anno 404.’”

  They sat there in the late afternoon, the two old men grown gray in the brown robes of the Order. Angular winter daylight forsook the small room, almost a cell in the primitive sense, and passed through the window into the outside world. The distant horizon, which it sought to join, was still bright and strong against approaching night. The old Franciscans, one priest, one brother, were left among the shadows in the room.

  “Can you see to read one more, Titus?” the priest Didymus asked. “Number fourteen.” He did not cease staring out the window at day becoming night on the horizon. The thirty-ninth pope said Titus might not be a priest. Did Titus, reading, understand? He could never really tell about Titus, who said nothing now. There was only silence, then a dry whispering of pages turning. “Number fourteen,” Didymus said. “That’s Zephyrinus. I always like the old heretic on that one, Titus.”

  According to one bibliographer, Bishop Bale’s Pageant of Popes Contayninge the Lyves of all the Bishops of Rome, from the Beginninge of them to the Year of Grace 1555 was a denunciation of every pope from Peter to Paul IV. However inviting to readers that might sound, it was in sober fact a lie. The first popes, persecuted and mostly martyred, wholly escaped the author’s remarkable spleen and even enjoyed his crusty approbation. Father Didymus, his aged appetite for biography jaded by the orthodox lives, found the work fascinating. He usually referred to it as “Bishop Bale’s funny book” and to the Bishop as a heretic.

  Titus squinted at the yellowed page. He snapped a glance at the light hovering at the window. Then he closed his eyes and with great feeling recited:

  “‘O how joyous and how delectable is it to see religious men devout and fervent in the love of God, well-mannered—’”

  “Titus,” Didymus interrupted softly.

  “‘—and well taught in ghostly learning.’”

  “Titus, read.” Didymus placed the words in their context. The First Book of The Imitation and Chapter, if he was not mistaken, XXV. The trick was no longer in finding the source of Titus’s quotations; it was putting them in their exact context. It had become an unconfessed contest between them, and it gratified Didymus to think he had been able to place the fragment. Titus knew two books by heart, The Imitation and The Little Flowers of St Francis. Lately, unfortunately, he had begun to learn another. He was more and more quoting from Bishop Bale. Didymus reminded himself he must not let Titus read past the point where the martyred popes left off. What Bale had to say about Peter’s later successors sounded incongruous—“unmete” in the old heretic’s own phrase—coming from a Franciscan brother. Two fathers had already inquired of Didymus concerning Titus. One had noted the antique style of his words and had ventured to wonder if Brother Titus, Christ preserve us, might be slightly possessed. He cited the case of the illiterate Missouri farmer who cursed the Church in a forgotten Aramaic tongue.

  “Read, Titus.”

  Titus squinted at the page once more and read in his fine dead voice.

  “‘Fourteenth pope, Zephyrinus. Zephyrinus was a Roman born, a man as writers do testify, more addicted with all endeavor to the service of God than to the cure of any worldly affairs. Whereas before his time the wine in the celebrating the communion was ministered in a cup of wood, he first did alter that, and instead thereof brought in cups or chalices of glass. And yet he did not this upon any superstition, as thinking wood to be unlawful, or glass to be more holy for that use, but because the one is more comely and seemly, as by experience it appeareth than the other. And yet some wooden dolts do dream that the wooden cups were changed by him because that part of the wine, or as they thought, the royal blood of Christ, did soak into the wood, and so it can not be in glass. Surely sooner may wine soak into any wood than any wit into those winey heads that thus both deceive themselves and slander this Godly martyr.’”

  “Anno?”

  Titus squinted at the page again. “‘Anno 222,’” he read.

  They were quiet for a moment which ended with the clock in the tower booming once for the half hour. Didymus got up and stood so close to the window his breath became visible. Noticing it, he inhaled deeply and then, exhaling, he sent a gust of smoke churning against the freezing pane, clouding it. Some old unmelted snow in tree crotches lay dirty and white in the gathering dark.

  “It’s cold out today,” Didymus said.

  He stepped away from the window and over to Titus, whose face was relaxed in open-eyed sleep. He took Bishop Bale’s funny book unnoticed from Titus’s hands.

  “Thank you, Titus,” he said.

  Titus blinked his eyes slowly once, then several times quickly. His body gave a shudder, as if coming to life.

  “Yes, Father?” he was asking.

  “I said thanks for reading. You are a great friend to me.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I know you’d rather read other authors.” Didymus moved to the window, stood there gazing through the tops of trees, their limbs black and bleak against the sky. He rubbed his hands. “I’m going for a walk before vespers. Is it too cold for you, Titus?”

  “‘A good religious man that is fervent in his religion taketh all things well, and doth gladly all that he is commanded to do.’”

  Didymus, walking across the room, stopped and looked at Titus just in time to see him open his eyes. He was quoting again: The Imitation and still in Chapter XXV. Why had he said that? To himself Didymus repeated the words and decided Titus, his mind moving intelligently but so pathetically largo, was documenting the act of reading Bishop Bale when there were other books he preferred.

  “I’m going out for a walk,” Didymus said.

  Titus rose and pulled down the full sleeves of his brown robe in anticipation of the cold.

  “I think it is too cold for you, Titus,” Didymus said.

  Titus faced him undaunted, arms folded and hands muffled in his sleeves, eyes twinkling incredulously. He was ready to go. Didymus got the idea Titus knew himself to be the healthier of the two. Didymus was vaguely annoyed at this manifestation of the truth. Vanitas.

  “Won’t they need you in the kitchen now?” he inquired.

  Immediately he regretted having said that. And the way he had said it, with some malice, as though labor per se were important and the intention not so. Vanitas in a friar, and at his age too. Confronting Titus with a distinction his simple mind could never master and which, if it could, his great soul would never recognize. Titus only knew all that was necessary, that
a friar did what he was best at in the community. And no matter the nature of his toil, the variety of the means at hand, the end was the same for all friars. Or indeed for all men, if they cared to know. Titus worked in the kitchen and garden. Was Didymus wrong in teaching geometry out of personal preference and perhaps—if this was so he was—out of pride? Had the spiritual worth of his labor been vitiated because of that? He did not think so, no. No, he taught geometry because it was useful and eternally true, like his theology, and though of a lower order of truth it escaped the common fate of theology and the humanities, perverted through the ages in the mouths of dunderheads and fools. From that point of view, his work came to the same thing as Titus’s. The vineyard was everywhere; they were in it, and that was essential.

  Didymus, consciously humble, held open the door for Titus. Sandals scraping familiarly, they passed through dark corridors until they came to the stairway. Lights from floors above and below spangled through the carven apertures of the winding stair and fell in confusion upon the worn oaken steps.

  At the outside door they were ambushed. An old friar stepped out of the shadows to intercept them. Standing with Didymus and Titus, however, made him appear younger. Or possibly it was the tenseness of him.

  “Good evening, Father,” he said to Didymus. “And Titus.”

  Didymus nodded in salutation and Titus said deliberately, as though he were the first one ever to put words in such conjunction:

  “Good evening, Father Rector.”

  The Rector watched Didymus expectantly. Didymus studied the man’s face. It told him nothing but curiosity—a luxury which could verge on vice in the cloister. Didymus frowned his incomprehension. He was about to speak. He decided against it, turning to Titus:

  “Come on, Titus, we’ve got a walk to take before vespers.”

  The Rector was left standing.

  They began to circle the monastery grounds. Away from the buildings it was brighter. With a sudden shudder, Didymus felt the freezing air bite into his body all over. Instinctively he drew up his cowl. That was a little better. Not much. It was too cold for him to relax, breathe deeply, and stride freely. It had not looked this cold from his window. He fell into Titus’s gait. The steps were longer, but there was an illusion of warmth about moving in unison. Bit by bit he found himself duplicating every aspect of Titus in motion. Heads down, eyes just ahead of the next step, undeviating, they seemed peripatetic figures in a Gothic frieze. The stones of the walk were trampled over with frozen footsteps. Titus’s feet were gray and bare in their open sandals. Pieces of ice, the thin edges of ruts, cracked off under foot, skittering sharply away. A crystal fragment lit between Titus’s toes and did not melt there. He did not seem to notice it. This made Didymus lift his eyes.

  A fine Franciscan! Didymus snorted, causing a flurry of vapors. He had the despicable caution of the comfortable who move mountains, if need be, to stay that way. Here he was, cowl up and heavy woolen socks on, and regretting the weather because it exceeded his anticipations. Painfully he stubbed his toe on purpose and at once accused himself of exhibitionism. Then he damned the expression for its modernity. He asked himself wherein lay the renunciation of the world, the flesh and the devil, the whole point of following after St Francis today. Poverty, Chastity, Obedience—the three vows. There was nothing of suffering in the poverty of the friar nowadays: he was penniless, but materially rich compared to—what was the phrase he used to hear?—“one third of the nation.” A beggar, a homeless mendicant by very definition, he knew nothing—except as it affected others “less fortunate”—of the miseries of begging in the streets. Verily, it was no heavy cross, this vow of Poverty, so construed and practiced, in the modern world. Begging had become unfashionable. Somewhere along the line the meaning had been lost; they had become too “fortunate.” Official agencies, to whom it was a nasty but necessary business, dispensed Charity without mercy or grace. He recalled with wry amusement Frederick Barbarossa’s appeal to fellow princes when opposed by the might of the medieval Church: “We have a clean conscience, and it tells us that God is with us. Ever have we striven to bring back priests and, in especial, those of the topmost rank, to the condition of the first Christian Church. In those days the clergy raised their eyes to the angels, shone through miracles, made whole the sick, raised the dead, made Kings and Princes subject to them, not with arms but with their holiness. But now they are smothered in delights. To withdraw from them the harmful riches which burden them to their own undoing is a labor of love in which all Princes should eagerly participate.”

  And Chastity, what of that? Well, that was all over for him—a battle he had fought and won many years ago. A sin whose temptations had prevailed undiminished through the centuries, but withal for him, an old man, a dead issue, a young man’s trial. Only Obedience remained, and that, too, was no longer difficult for him. There was something—much as he disliked the term—to be said for “conditioning.” He had to smile at himself: why should he bristle so at using the word? It was only contemporary slang for a theory the Church had always known. “Psychiatry,” so called, and all the ghastly superstition that attended its practice, the deification of its high priests in the secular schools, made him ill. But it would pass. Just look how alchemy had flourished, and where was it today?

  Clearly an abecedarian observance of the vows did not promise perfection. Stemmed in divine wisdom, they were branches meant to flower forth, but requiring of the friar the water and sunlight of sacrifice. The letter led nowhere. It was the spirit of the vows which opened the way and revealed to the soul, no matter the flux of circumstance, the means of salvation.

  He had picked his way through the welter of familiar factors again—again to the same bitter conclusion. He had come to the key and core of his trouble anew. When he received the letter from Seraphin asking him to come to St Louis, saying his years prohibited unnecessary travel and endowed his request with a certain prerogative—No, he had written back, it’s simply impossible, not saying why. God help him, as a natu-ral man, he had the desire, perhaps the inordinate desire, to see his brother again. He should not have to prove that. One of them must die soon. But as a friar, he remembered: “Unless a man be clearly delivered from the love of all creatures, he may not fully tend to his Creator.” Therein, he thought, the keeping of the vows having become an easy habit for him, was his opportunity—he thought! It was plain and there was sacrifice and it would be hard. So he had not gone.

  Now it was plain that he had been all wrong. Seraphin was an old man with little left to warm him in the world. Didymus asked himself—recoiling at the answer before the question was out—if his had been the only sacrifice. Rather, had he not been too intent on denying himself at the time to notice that he was denying Seraphin also? Harshly Didymus told himself he had used his brother for a hair shirt. This must be the truth, he thought; it hurts so.

  The flesh just above his knees felt frozen. They were drawing near the entrance again. His face, too, felt the same way, like a slab of pasteboard, stiffest at the tip of his nose. When he wrinkled his brow and puffed out his cheeks to blow hot air up to his nose, his skin seemed to crackle like old parchment. His eyes watered from the wind. He pressed a hand, warm from his sleeve, to his exposed neck. Frozen, like his face. It would be chapped tomorrow.

  Titus, white hair awry in the wind, looked just the same.

  They entered the monastery door. The Rector stopped them. It was almost as before, except that Didymus was occupied with feeling his face and patting it back to life.

  “Ah, Didymus! It must be cold indeed!” The Rector smiled at Titus and returned his gaze to Didymus. He made it appear that they were allied in being amused at Didymus’s face. Didymus touched his nose tenderly. Assured it would stand the operation, he blew it lustily. He stuffed the handkerchief up his sleeve. The Rector, misinterpreting all this ceremony, obviously was afraid of being ignored.

  “The telegram, Didymus. I’m sorry; I thought it might have been important.”


  “I received no telegram.”

  They faced each other, waiting, experiencing a hanging moment of uneasiness.

  Then, having employed the deductive method, they both looked at Titus. Although he had not been listening, rather had been studying the naked toes in his sandals, he sensed their eyes questioning him.

  “Yes, Father Rector?” he answered.

  “The telegram for Father Didymus, Titus?” the Rector demanded. “Where is it?” Titus started momentarily out of willingness to be of service, but ended, his mind refusing to click, impassive before them. The Rector shook his head in faint exasperation and reached his hand down into the folds of Titus’s cowl. He brought forth two envelopes. One, the telegram, he gave to Didymus. The other, a letter, he handed back to Titus.

  “I gave you this letter this morning, Titus. It’s for Father Anthony.” Intently Titus stared unremembering at he letter. “I wish you would see that Father Anthony gets it right away, Titus. I think it’s a bill.”

  Titus held the envelope tightly to his breast and said, “Father Anthony.”

  Then his eyes were attracted by the sound of Didymus tearing open the telegram. While Didymus read the telegram, Titus’s expression showed he at last understood his failure to deliver it. He was perturbed, mounting inner distress moving his lips silently.

  Didymus looked up from the telegram. He saw the grief in Titus’s face and said, astonished, “How did you know, Titus?”

  Titus’s eyes were both fixed and lowered in sorrow. It seemed to Didymus that Titus knew the meaning of the telegram. Didymus was suddenly weak, as before a miracle. His eyes went to the Rector to see how he was taking it. Then it occurred to him the Rector could not know what had happened.

  As though nothing much had, the Rector laid an absolving hand lightly upon Titus’s shoulder.

  “Didymus, he can’t forgive himself for not delivering the telegram now that he remembers it. That’s all.”