by J.F. Powers
He wanted to retire to his room and settle down with a good book, but thought it wouldn’t look or, perhaps, be right if he did. So he kept coming and going between his room, the office, and the church (with which he was familiarizing himself), and took a side trip down to the boiler room. In this fashion, moving about, looking for the action, he got through the morning.
In the afternoon—lunch, conversationally, wasn’t up to dinner the evening before—there were a number of developments:
Simpson dealt with several parishioners in the office, with all satisfactorily, he thought, though not to the satisfaction of one, who unfortunately couldn’t be helped (marriage case).
The pastor emerged from the room at the head of the stairs and left the rectory carrying a brown canvas suitcase such as students once used to mail laundry home.
Simpson visited the kitchen for the first time and learned from Ms Burke, who was having coffee with a middle-aged man to whom Simpson wasn’t introduced, that laundry was not sent out, was done right there, and that the pastor used the brown canvas suitcase “to carry his goddam envelopes”—“Oh,” said Simpson, and swiftly departed, under the impression that Ms Burke had been referring to collection envelopes, actually the contents thereof, and that the pastor had gone to the bank.
The pastor returned to the rectory with the brown canvas suitcase (but it was apparently no lighter) and entered the room at the head of the stairs.
Simpson discovered that the man he came upon (praying?) in the choir loft was the same man he’d seen earlier in the kitchen, and that this man was the janitor—who said he hadn’t introduced himself in the kitchen because he and Father Beeman, a real man whose guts Ms Burke, a holy terrier, hated, had been very close. “I didn’t want her to get any ideas about us, Father.”
Those were the developments that afternoon, some good, some not so good, and one puzzling to Simpson but probably none of his business (the brown canvas suitcase).
That evening, when Simpson came to the table, there was a bad development, a pamphlet—The Marks of the True Faith—by his plate.
“Uh. Might interest you.”
“Yes, well, yes. Thanks.”
The silence that set in then—to which Simpson contributed handsomely, rather than try to explain his words of the evening before, his “Father, I’ve been wondering about things,” to which words he attributed the pamphlet—lasted until they rose from the table.
“Uh.”
“Oh.”
Simpson had almost gone off without the pamphlet!
At the head of the stairs, the pastor, silent since alluding to the pamphlet, said, “G’night.”
“Father, I’ve been wondering”—he’d stepped out for tobacco that afternoon, and rather than knock had entered the rectory through the church—“shouldn’t I have a key to the front door?”
“Uh. See about it,” said the pastor, and entered the room at the head of the stairs in a crabwise manner, the door closing after him.
Simpson waited a few moments there, just in case the door opened and a hand came out with a key, which didn’t happen, and so, treading softly, he went down the hallway to his room, his thoughts turning from the key to the pamphlet, which, after brushing his teeth and filling his pipe, he read at one sitting and found excellent.
After a few days, with the pastor keeping to the room at the head of the stairs, Simpson accepted the odd fact that he was on his own at Trinity, stopped looking for the action, and sometimes settled down with a good book—was reading Enthusiasm: A Chapter in the History of Religion: With Special Reference to the XVII and XVIII Centuries, by Monsignor Knox (a convert), and shook his head at the hysteria in the Church then, as he did at the hysteria in the Church now, thinking, Plus ça change the more it’s the same, as he did after trying another position in the hard swivel chair.
The office, where he now had a few of his books and his rubber-tire ashtray, and where he now hung his biretta and stole, he was gradually making his own.
The pastor had looked in once to say, “Smoke a pipe, do you?” and twice to say, “Need that light on, do you?” And one afternoon, when Simpson was doing his best to describe the quality of life after death to a curious parishioner, the pastor came all the way in (for a paper clip) and left the door open on his departure—a mistake, Simpson realized then, for him to be alone with a member of the opposite sex (whatever her age) with the door closed, and he didn’t let it happen again.
Simpson learned from his mistakes.
Instead of going up to the door of the room at the head of the stairs to announce the arrival of a salesman—had received no response at all the second time he did that—he now dealt with such callers himself in a courteous, businesslike manner, and never bought anything.
He was the same with parishioners if the matter was one on which the Church’s position was still clear and negative—some people seemed to think there were now two or more schools of thought about everything. Unlike some newly ordained men, and here perhaps he showed the pastor’s influence, he didn’t try to say too much. He just tried to do all he could for people, but not more than he could (which a visiting speaker at the seminary had called the great temptation to the priest today), and in pursuing that limited objective he had his first (and, he hoped, last) confrontation with the pastor, the man suddenly on the stairs, whispering down:
“What’s this? What’s this?”
“Bell.”
“Bell?”
“Bell. Man fixing it.”
“What?”
“Bell.”
“Man fixing it?”
“Is, yes.”
“Called man?”
“Did, yes.”
“Get estimate?”
“Sort of.”
“How much?”
“Not much.”
“How much, Father?”
“Not much, Father.”
There, the pastor retiring to the room at the head of the stairs, the matter had ended, with Simpson, who, after all, had called man, paying him (not much) and keeping the receipt in case he was ever asked for it.
Relations between Simpson and the pastor were the same as before the confrontation, and this was to the pastor’s credit, but as before there was room for improvement—a sort of gap, like the Grand Canyon, that had so far defeated all efforts to fill it. Simpson, on his first Sunday at Trinity, had praised the pastor’s sermon, saying he hadn’t heard the like since he didn’t know when (hadn’t wanted to say since coming into the Church), and the man had just nodded, just perceptibly—not a good sign, Simpson knew now. Taking a chance, Simpson had asked the pastor where he got his hair cut, and the man had said, “Anywhere.” Taking another chance, Simpson had complimented the pastor on his white teeth, and the man had said, “Don’t smoke.”
But Simpson was still hoping to fill the gap, still looking around for common ground, and, not finding any, he created some by visiting the zoo (one of the pastor’s few outside interests, according to John, the janitor) and came to the table that evening full of it.
“Father, I didn’t know they let those big turtles run around loose.”
“Tortoises, Father. Harmless.”
“Tortoises. But people shouldn’t write stuff on their shells.”
“Do it here, in the pews.”
That had been it for the zoo.
On his next afternoon off, Simpson visited the Museum of Natural History (one of the pastor’s few outside interests, according to John) and came to the table that evening full of it.
“Father, how about that big moose by the front door!”
“Elk, Father. Megaceros Hibernicus.”
“Elk. Those crazy antlers! Wouldn’t want to run into him!”
“Extinct.”
That had been it for the Museum of Natural History.
Maybe, if Simpson had had some doubts or difficulties of a spiritual nature, and these had been brought to the pastor’s attention, they would have filled the gap, but Simpson di
dn’t have any such doubts or difficulties, and there was little or no audible response from the pastor—a noise like “Umm,” or a nod—when Simpson tried to discuss the merits of the pamphlets he continued to find by his plate.
Oh, they were excellent pre-conciliar works, and maybe the pastor would have done as much for any young man fresh from the seminary in times like these . . . but the fact that Simpson was receiving such attention, and the fact that Simpson was still without a key to the front door—these facts when taken together—did sort of suggest that Simpson wasn’t trusted, and that troubled him.
Three times he’d raised the matter of a key, and three times he’d been told, “Uh. See about it.”
One evening—well into his fourth week at Trinity—he raised the matter again, indirectly, but urgently:
“Father, what if, like tonight, I’m out with my classmates and I come in late—after nine, I mean—and the church is locked?”
“’M up till ’leven or so. Just knock. Uh. Ring.”
So Simpson, a few minutes before eleven that night, rang.
He was determined not to complain. He thought there was too much of that going on these days among the clergy, of all people. He would not, he thought, be happier in another parish, neither in the suburbs nor the slums, for he was not, though fresh from the seminary, one of those who expect to change the world by going out into it. For him the disadvantages in his situation were outweighed by the advantages. At Trinity he could feel that he was still in the church of his choice, with divine worship and the cure of souls still being conducted along traditional lines—no guitars, tom-toms, sensitivity sessions, speaking in tongues—and at Trinity he could also feel that he, though newly ordained and a convert, though keyless and considered a suitable case for pamphlets, was the man in charge.
Simpson had visitors one afternoon, Mother and Aunt Edith, and began by showing them the church, which, he could see, disappointed them.
“Yes, it’s quite nice,” said Mother.
“Why, yes,” said Aunt Edith.
“Actually,” said Simpson, “it’s quite ugly. But it serves its divine purpose, and that’s the main thing.” He felt tough, had sounded the rude Roman note (GIVE ME SOULS!), and had hit a nerve or two, he knew.
“Well, if you say so, dear,” said Mother.
“Hell, yes,” said Aunt Edith.
Simpson moved toward the sacristy—had taken the visitors into the sanctuary for a close-up view of the main altar—but stopped, hearing a noise from the body of the church, the emptiness of which he’d been regretting for the sake of the visitors (non-Catholics), and saw the middle door of the spare confessional, the door to the priest’s compartment, open, and John appear, then disappear into the vestibule.
“Just the janitor,” said Simpson.
“Thank God,” said Aunt Edith.
“Why,” said Mother, “he was in there all the time. Did you know he was in there, dear?”
“Didn’t, no.”
“He goes in there to pray, dear?”
“No, he just goes in there—to sleep, I think. Maintenance could be better.”
“But should he do that, dear? In there?”
“Oh, what the hell,” said Aunt Edith.
“He really shouldn’t, no, but we’re not rigid in the Church,” said Simpson. He took the visitors through the sacristy, his usual route into the rectory, and, since this was their wish, back to the kitchen, where they met Ms Burke, who could be heard talking to herself again after they left.
“Actually,” said Simpson, “she’s all right.”
He took the visitors into the office (“my headquarters”), where they admired the secondhand Catholic Encyclopedia (Unrevised Version) he’d purchased with gift money from the family, and two hard-to-find works by Cardinal Newman (a convert). At Mother’s request, he sat for a moment at the desk. “Now I’ll know how you look, dear.” Aunt Edith tried on his biretta. Then, thinking that later, when they were leaving, would be soon enough to knock at the door of the room at the head of the stairs, he took them to his room, where they inspected his closet, pulled out his dresser drawers, and had the pleasure of seeing and hearing him on the phone with a misinformed but docile parishioner. And then who should walk in (the door was open, though the pastor’s open-door policy might not apply in this case) but Ms Burke with a loaded tray!
Overwhelmed by this womanly display, ashamed of himself for having underestimated Ms Burke, and thinking it would be a nice gesture anyway, Simpson invited her to sit down, and when Aunt Edith insisted, she did. So Simpson hurried off for another cup, hoping for the best.
When he returned, they didn’t seem to notice—they were talking—and since he was the host, he poured, delivered the cream and sugar, the cardboard Fig Newtons, and was shocked to hear Aunt Edith say, sweetly, “Homemade?” but she got away with it.
“Pooh,” said Ms Burke. “I just keep ’em in a plastic bag with a clothespin on it.”
“And warm before serving?” said Mother.
“I did these.”
Simpson tried one of the Fig Newtons, and they were slightly better this way. “Umm,” he said. Otherwise he contributed nothing to the conversation, just listened along, nodding or shaking his head—detergents did strange things. But after a bit he began to stiffen and was soon rigid. Hearing that “your boy” was easy to cook for, not like Father Beeman (“That big Beerman!”), who had thrown his food on the floor, rolled in at all hours, and pounded on walls, and that “your boy” kept his room very clean for a man, and certainly for a priest (Ms Burke here sniffing in the direction of the room at the head of the stairs), “your boy” regretted that praise for him should be so much at the expense of others. And was afraid that admonishment from him would aggravate what might otherwise pass off as tittle-tattle. To think, he thought, that the pastor had once said to him, speaking of Ms Burke, who was carrying on with herself in the kitchen at the time: “Uh. Very loyal.”
Very loyal to tell the visitors—outsiders, non-Catholics—that the pastor was a pack rat, and wouldn’t let her into the room at the head of the stairs to clean? That the pastor was a skinflint, and kept the Christmas ham in the trunk of his car, bringing it out for meals? That the pastor would do anything for a buck, and addressed envelopes for an insurance company in his spare time?
“Tried to get me to do it, but I wouldn’t,” said Ms Burke.
“Why should you?” said Aunt Edith. “You’ve got enough to do.”
Simpson stood up, and moved toward the door.
Mother asked, “You didn’t know about the envelopes, dear?”
“Didn’t, no.”
“He thought they were laundry!” said Ms Burke, and smilingly explained how Simpson had made that mistake. “That’s how much he knew!”
Simpson—who had been suspicious of the brown canvas suitcase from the start and had since seen it too often in transit for it to be going to and from the bank—shut the door, and while this did not have the desired effect, there is some justice in the world and Aunt Edith, overstimulated, spilled her coffee.
Simpson smilingly scrubbed it into the carpet with his feet, making nothing of it, the good host.
Ms Burke, concerned about a few drops on Aunt Edith’s dress, scurried off to her room for her spot remover.
The visitors went down the hallway to the bathroom for plain cold water.
When Ms Burke returned from her room, which was adjacent to Simpson’s but accessible only by the stairway off the kitchen, she was panting and, not seeing the visitors, gasped: “Gone!”
“No, no,” said Simpson.
They regrouped in his room, and after some talk of stains (what it came down to was, no stain should be allowed to set, which Simpson planned to use as an argument for frequent confession), the entire company—Ms Burke saying, “Pooh, I’ll clean up in here later”—moved out, and went down the hallway three abreast, one behind, that one thinking, Some other time, as he passed the door of the room at the head
of the stairs. But when he opened the front door to let the visitors out, there, about to use his key, was the pastor.
“Uh,” he said.
“Uh,” said Simpson, and made the introductions.
The visitors were happy to see the pastor, and so was Simpson—to see him there, to think he’d been out, probably at the hospital (one of his few outside interests), while Ms Burke was assassinating his character with the door open. The pastor was doing as well as could be expected, responding with little nods, and noises like “Umm,” to the compliments on his church, rectory, housekeeper, until—suddenly, if you didn’t know the man—he made for the stairs.
“Oh, good-bye!” cried Aunt Edith.
“Why, yes,” said Mother.
The pastor, on the stairs, stopped and turned. “’M takin’ a trip next week.”
This was news to Simpson.
“Oh, where?” said Aunt Edith.
“Winnipeg.”
“Oh, why?” said Aunt Edith.
“Catholic Wildlife Conference.”
“Oh,” said Aunt Edith.
“While you’re away,” said Mother, “will . . . will Father, here, be in charge?”
The pastor, before turning and continuing up the stairs, nodded, just perceptibly.
Simpson was glad to see his authority confirmed, but wished the signal had been a little stronger, for the sake of the visitors, who then left.
Ms Burke said, “Think they’ll come again?”
“It’s possible,” said Simpson.
“When?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say when.”
“Soon?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say soon.”
“You ask ’em this time?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Ask ’em again.”
“Uh. See about it.”
The next evening, while brushing his teeth, Simpson noticed that there had been a blessed event among the towels in the bathroom, twins, two little pink ones.
“Father,” said Simpson, coming to dessert, and remembering how he’d phrased the question before (“Father, how long will you be gone?”) rephrased it, “will you be gone long?”
