by J.F. Powers
“I suppose.” They knew each other well enough now for John not to get off that old one about wanting to spend the day with his family.
“She’s really rarin’ in there,” John said. “I had to come out here.” He glanced down at the floor, at the cup of muddy water cooling there, and then fearfully in the direction of the kitchen. This did not impress Father Fabre, however, who believed that the janitor and the housekeeper lived in peace. “Not her responsibility,” John said.
Father Fabre, knowing he was being tempted, would not discuss the housekeeper with the janitor. Curates came and went, and even pastors, but the janitor, a subtle Slav, stayed on at Trinity.
“I told her it was none of her business.”
“What isn’t?”
“If you want to go there, that’s your business,” John said. “I had to come out here.” John reached down for his cup, without looking, because his hand knew right where it was. “I don’t blame you for being sore at her, Father.” (“I’m not,” Father Fabre murmured, but John, drinking, smiled into his cup.) “I told her it’s your business what you do. ‘He’s old enough,’ I said.”
“What’s she got against Mrs Mathers?” Father Fabre asked, wondering if Mrs Mathers was any match for the housekeeper. A natural leader vs. a mental case. It might be close if the Altar and Rosary Society took sides. But the chances were that Miss Burke would soon be fighting on another front. Impossible for her to wage as many wars as she declared.
“Hell, you know how these old maids are, Father,” John was saying. “Just needs a man. You can understand that.”
Father Fabre, calling it a draw with John, turned away and left.
The other guests at Mrs Mathers’ didn’t act like Catholics. Mr Pint, a small man in his sixties, was surprisingly unfriendly, and his daughter, though rather the opposite, went at Father Fabre the wrong way. It might have been the absence of excess respect in her manner that he found unsettling. But Mrs Mathers, a large motherly but childless widow with puffy elbows, had baked a cake, and was easy to take.
They were all on the back porch of her second floor flat, watching Mr Pint make ice cream.
“Let me taste it, Dad,” Velma said.
“I can’t be standin’ here all day with this cream gettin’ soft on me,” Mr Pint said.
Velma pouted. She had on a purple dress which reminded Father Fabre of the purple veils they’d had on the statues in church during Passiontide. Otherwise there was nothing lenten about Velma, he thought.
“If you taste it now,” he said, “it’ll just take that much longer to harden.”
Mr Pint, who might have agreed with that, said nothing. He dropped a handful of rock salt into the freezer, a wood-and-iron affair that must have been as old as he was, and sank again to his knees. He resumed cranking.
Father Fabre smiled at Mrs Mathers. Parishioners expected a priest to be nice and jolly, and that was how he meant to be at Mrs Mathers’. With Mr Pint setting the tone, it might not be easy. Father Fabre hadn’t expected to be the second most important person there. The cake, he believed, had not been baked for him.
“Your good suit,” said Mrs Mathers. She snatched a Better Homes and Gardens from a pile of such magazines and slid it under Mr Pint’s knees.
“Sir Walter Reilly,” said Velma, looking at Father Fabre to see if he followed her.
He nodded, doubting her intelligence, wondering if she was bright enough to be a nurse. Mrs Mathers was a registered nurse.
“Aw, come on,” Velma said. “Let me taste it, Dad.”
Mr Pint churned up a chunk of ice and batted it down with the heel of his hand. “By Dad!” he breathed, a little god invoking himself.
Mrs Mathers wisely retired to the kitchen. Velma, after a moment, ingloriously followed.
Father Fabre gazed over the porch railing. With all the apartment buildings backed up together, it was like a crowded harbor, but with no sign of life—a port of plague. Miss Burke, he remembered, had warned him not to go. John, however, had said go. Mr Pint’s shirt had broken out in patches of deeper blue, and his elastic suspenders, of soft canary hue, were stained a little. Pity moved Father Fabre to offer the helping hand, prudence stayed it, then pity rose again. “Let me take it awhile,” he said quietly.
But Mr Pint, out to deny his size and years, needed no help, or lost in his exertions, had not heard.
Father Fabre went inside, where he found the women, by contrast, laughing and gay. Velma left off tossing the salad, and Mrs Mathers’ stirring spoon hung expectantly in mid-air. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help out there,” he said.
“That’s just Dad’s way,” Mrs Mathers said. “Come in here a minute, Father, if you want to see something nice.”
Mrs Mathers led him into a little room off the kitchen. She wanted him to see her new day bed. He felt the springs as she had and praised the bed in her terms. He meant it when he said he wished he had one, and sat down on it. Mrs Mathers left the room, and returned a moment later whispering that she believed in flushing the toilet before she made coffee. That was the quickest way to bring fresh water into the house. Father Fabre, rising from the day bed, regretted that he wouldn’t be able to pass this household hint on to Miss Burke.
Then, leaving the room, they met Mr Pint, all salt and sweat, coming in from the back porch. He came among them as one from years at sea, scornful of soft living, suspicious of the womenfolk and young stay-at-home males.
The women followed Mr Pint, and Father Fabre followed the women, into the dining room.
“You’re a sight,” said Velma.
“Your good blue shirt,” said Mrs Mathers. She went down the hall after Mr Pint.
“We’re going to eat in a minute,” Velma said to Father Fabre. “You want to wash or anything?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I never wash.”
He had tried to be funny, but Velma seemed ready to be-lieve him.
Mrs Mathers, looking upset, entered the dining room.
“Should I take off her plate?” Velma asked.
“Leave it on in case she does come,” Mrs Mathers said.
“Father, you know Grace.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Grace Halloran. She’s in the Society.”
“Of course.” Of course he knew Grace, a maiden lady. He saw her almost daily, a shadow moving around the sanctuary, dusting the altar rail and filling vases with flowers—paid for by herself, the pastor said. Her brother was a big builder of highways. She wasn’t the kind to use her means and position, however, to fraternize with the clergy. “Maybe she’s just late,” he said, rather hoping she wouldn’t make it. The present company was difficult enough to assimilate.
Mr Pint appeared among them again, now wearing a white shirt. Had he brought an extra? Or had Mrs Mathers given him one which had belonged to her late husband? Father Fabre decided it would be unwise to ask.
They sat down to eat. It was like dining in a convent, with Velma in the role of the nun assigned to him, plying him with food. “Pickles?” He took one and passed the dish to Mr Pint.
“He can’t eat ’em,” Velma said.
“That’s too bad,” said Father Fabre.
Mrs Mathers, brooding, said, “I can’t understand Grace, though heaven knows she can be difficult sometimes.”
“If she’d only come,” said Velma.
“Yes,” said Father Fabre.
“Vel had to work last Sunday and didn’t get a chance to meet her,” said Mrs Mathers.
“That’s too bad,” said Father Fabre.
“Grace was my best friend,” Mrs Mathers said. “In the Society, I mean.”
Father Fabre frowned. Was?
“I was dying to meet her,” said Velma, looking at Father Fabre.
“Very nice person,” he said.
“I just can’t understand it,” declared Mrs Mathers, without conviction. Then: “It’s no surprise to me! You soon find out who your friends are!”
Father F
abre applied his fingers to the fried chicken. “Well,” he said, “she doesn’t know what she’s missing.” Grace’s plate, however, seemed to reject the statement. “Did she know I was coming?”
“Oh, indeed, she did, Father! That’s what makes me so blamed mad!”
Velma went to answer the telephone. “Yoo-hoo! It’s for you-hoo!” she called.
“She means you,” Mrs Mathers said to Father Fabre, who wondered how she could have known.
He went to the bedroom, where Mrs Mathers, never knowing when she’d be called for special duty, had her telephone. When he said “Hello” there was a click and then nothing. “Funny,” he said, returning to the table. “Nobody there.”
“Vel,” Mrs Mathers asked, “was that Grace?”
“She didn’t say, Mildred. Wouldn’t she say who she was if she was Grace?”
“It was Grace,” said Mrs Mathers quietly. She looked unwell.
There was a rattle of silverware. “Eat your dinner, Mildred,” said Mr Pint, and she did.
After dinner, they retired to the living room. Soon, with Mrs Mathers and Mr Pint yawning on the sofa, Velma said, “I met some Catholic priests that were married, once.” She had taken the chair near Father Fabre’s. They were using the same ash tray.
“Were they Greek or Russian?”
She seemed to think he was joking. “They were with their wives, two of them—I mean they were two couples—but they said the ones that weren’t married could have dates with girls if they wanted to.”
He nodded. “It’s only been observed among us since the eleventh century—celibacy.” Velma looked doubtful. “It may be overrated,” he added, smiling.
“I never tried it,” Velma said.
“Yes, well . . . in some parts of the world, even now, there are married Catholic priests.”
“That’s what these were,” Velma said.
“Maybe they were Old Catholics,” he said.
“No, they weren’t, not at all.”
He looked across the room at the couple on the sofa. Mr Pint appeared to be asleep, but Mrs Mathers was trying to fight it with a Good Housekeeping. “That’s a sect,” he said, getting back to Velma. “They go by that name. Old Catholics.”
“I wouldn’t say they were that,” she said.
He was ready to drop it.
“I met them in Chicago,” she said.
“I understand Old Catholics are strong there,” he said. “Comparatively.”
There was a lull during which Velma loaded her cigarette case and Father Fabre surveyed the room—the bookcase with no books in it, only plants and bric-a-brac, and the overstuffed furniture rising like bread beneath the slipcovers, which rivaled nature in the tropics for color and variety of growing things, and the upright piano with the mandolin and two photographs on top: one would be the late Mr Mathers and somewhere in the other, a group picture of graduating nurses, would be the girl he had married, now stout, being now what she had always been becoming. Mrs Mathers was openly napping now. The room was filled with breathing, hers and Mr Pint’s in unison, and the sun fell upon them all and upon the trembling ferns.
“Mildred says you can’t have dates.”
Father Fabre looked Velma right in the eye. “That’s right.” He’d drifted long enough. He’d left the conversation up to her from the beginning, and where had it got him? “I take it you’re not a Catholic.”
“Oh, no,” she said, “but I see all your movies.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I liked The Miracle of the Bells the best. But they’re all swell.”
He felt himself drifting again.
“I enjoyed reading The Cardinal,” she said.
So had he. He wondered if a start could be made there.
Mrs Mathers, whom he’d thought asleep, said, “Why don’t you tell Father what you told me, Vel?”
“Mildred!” cried Velma.
Father Fabre blushed, thinking Velma must have remarked favorably on his appearance.
“About the church of your choice,” said Mrs Mathers.
“Oh, that. I told Mildred The Miracle of the Bells made me want to be a Catholic.”
Mr Pint came to and mumbled something.
Father Fabre decided to face up to him. “Do you like to go to the movies, Mr Pint?”
“No, sir.” Mr Pint was not looking Father Fabre in the eye, but it was as though he didn’t think it necessary—yet.
“Why, Dad,” Mrs Mathers said, “you took me last Sunday night.”
“Not to those kind, I didn’t. Whyn’t you let me finish? By Dad, I ain’t so old I can’t remember what I did a week back.”
“Who said anybody was old?” Velma asked.
“Stop showin’ off,” Mr Pint said. “I heard who said it.”
Mrs Mathers clucked sadly, too wise to defend herself.
Mr Pint blinked at her. “You made me go,” he said.
Mrs Mathers saw her chance. “Ho, ho,” she laughed. “I’d just like to see anybody make you do anything!”
“You can say that again! Tell him about your office, Dad,” Velma said, but Mr Pint would not.
From the women, however, Father Fabre learned that Mr Pint had asked “them”—his employers, presumably—to build him an office of glass so that he could sit in it, out of the dirt and noise, and keep an eye on the men who worked under him.
“Why shouldn’t they do it,” said Mrs Mathers, “when he saves them all the money he does?”
Father Fabre, about to address Mr Pint directly, rephrased his question. “He has men under him? I mean—many?”
“Five,” said Mrs Mathers. “Before he came, they had six. He gets more out of five men than they did out of six.”
“Two he brought with him,” Velma said. “They’ve been with Dad for years.”
Father Fabre nodded. Mr Pint, with his entourage, was like a big-time football coach, but what was Mr Pint’s work?
Velma, who had switched on the radio, cried, “Lee!”
Father Fabre watched the women closely. Evidently “Lee” was the announcer and not some entertainer to follow on the program. His sponsor, a used car dealer, whose name and address he gave, dispensed with commercial announcements on Sunday, he said, and presented music suited to the day. They sat quietly listening to How Are Things in Glocca Morra? Then to The Rosary, one of Mrs Mathers’ favorite pieces, she said. Then to Cryin’ in the Chapel. Father Fabre wanted to go home.
Lee came on again with the business about no commercials and also threw in the correct time. (Mr Pint pulled out his watch.) Lee warned motorists to be careful on the highways.
“Don’t judge by this. You should hear him on weekdays,” Velma said. “Does he ever kid the sponsors!”
“He’s a good disc jockey or he wouldn’t be on the air,” Mrs Mathers said tartly. “But he’s no Arthur Godfrey.” It sounded to Father Fabre as though she’d been over this ground with Velma before. “Do you ever get Arthur, Father?”
“Can’t say that I do, Mrs Mathers.”
“He might give you some ideas for your sermons.”
“My radio isn’t working.”
“I’ll take Lee,” Velma said. She rose and went down the hall to the bathroom.
Mrs Mathers whispered, “Father, did I tell you she wanted to call in for them to play a song for you? Our Lady of Fatima or something. She wanted it to come over the air while you were here. A surprise.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t tell me about that.”
“I told her not to do it. I said maybe you wouldn’t want it.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” He was grateful to Mrs Mathers.
Showing a little interest, Mr Pint inquired uneasily, “What do you think of this disc jockey business?” He got up and turned off the radio.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it,” Father Fabre said, surprised to find himself engaged in conversation with Mr Pint.
“Sounds kind of fishy to me,” said Mr Pint, sitting down a
gain. He had opened up some, not much, but some. “You know it’s just playing phonograph records?”
“Yes,” said Father Fabre, and then wondered if he’d said the right thing. Mr Pint might have wanted to tell him about it. Fearing a lull, he plunged. “Certainly was good ice cream.”
“Glad you liked it.”
After the long winter, gentle spring, the sap running . . . “That’s a good idea of yours when you make ice cream—bringing an extra shirt, I mean.”
There was a bad silence, the worst of the afternoon, crippling every tongue. Even Velma, back with them, was quiet. Mr Pint was positively stony. Finally, as if seeing no other way, Mrs Mathers explained:
“Mr Pint lives here, Father.”
“He does?”
“Yes, Father.”
“I guess I didn’t know.”
“I guess I didn’t tell you.”
“No reason why you should’ve,” he said quickly. “You do have quite a bit of room here.” He seemed to be perspiring. “Certainly do get the sun.” He never would have thought it. Was there a chance that Mr Pint, who acted so strangely, was not her lover? He took a good look at Mr Pint. Was there a chance that he was? In either case, Mrs Mathers had planned well. Father Fabre, taking out his handkerchief, blew his nose politely and dabbed at his cold, damp neck. He was in very good health and perspired freely. The fat flowery arms of the overstuffed chair held him fast while the hidden mouth devoured him. The trembling ferns frankly desired him. He just never would have thought it.
“You should see my little room at the Y,” Velma said. “So dark.” She was looking at Father Fabre, but he could think of nothing to say.
Mrs Mathers sighed. “Vel, you could stay here, you know. She could, too.” Mrs Mathers appealed to Father Fabre. “The day bed is always ready.”
“Oh, well,” said Velma.
“So I had this extra bedroom,” Mrs Mathers said, as if coming to the end of a long explanation, “and I thought I might as well have the income from it—what’s your opinion, Father?”
“Swell,” he said. In the future he ought to listen to Miss Burke and stay away from John, with his rotten talk against her. A very sound person, Miss Burke, voices, visions, and all. He ought to develop a retiring nature, too, stick close to the pastor, maybe try to get a job in his war plant. “I hate to rush off,” he said, rising.
