The Big New Yorker Book of Cats

by The New Yorker Magazine

  Father Burner wisely stayed out of it. Father Desmond continued along the same lines, however, until Father Kling commented dryly, “It’s his hip, not his mind, that’s gone wrong, isn’t it?” and drained his highball.

  “He’s had quite a time of it, hasn’t he?” said Father Moore gently. “Poor Dutch.”

  “How about poor Ernest?” asked Father Desmond.

  “Uh, yes, of course,” said Father Moore.

  Father Desmond seemed to realize that he was doing no good and shut up. At least he might have waited, I thought, until they were feeling better. Father Kling had a little pile in front of him, and perhaps he’d remember where he got it. That was the only thing in Father Burner’s favor when Mrs. Wynn came into the dining room and announced the Archbishop and another priest.

  I followed Father Burner out of the dining room, but stopped at the door to the parlor, into which Mrs. Wynn had shown the guests. I preferred to enter unobserved.

  When Father Burner attempted to kiss the episcopal ring, the Archbishop put his hand behind him. He reserved the ring-kissing business for ceremonial occasions, as everyone knew, but it was customary to make a try for it.

  At Father Burner’s invitation, the Archbishop and his companion, a young priest whose eyes looked as though he’d been driving all day, sat down, and at that juncture Father Desmond and the two other poker players came in to declare themselves. While they, too, tried to get at the Archbishop’s ring, I slipped into the parlor unseen and then along the wall until I came to the library table. There, back out of view, at the intersection of the crossbars supporting the table, I took up my position.

  The Archbishop said that they’d been passing the church, on their way back from a confirmation tour along the northern marches of the diocese, when he thought of dropping in on Father Burner.

  “It’s good to see you all together,” he said, looking them over. He liked to have his priests associating with one another, I knew, and not seeking other company to excess—except, of course, when necessary at parish functions.

  The Archbishop asked about Father Malt (I daresay His Excellency, of those present, had seen him last), and Father Burner and Father Desmond, replying, sounded a little too broken up to suit my taste, or to sound much like themselves.

  When the conversation came around to Father Burner and the fine work he was doing, Father Desmond ran it into the ground. He fed the most leading questions to Father Burner, who expressed himself well, I thought, although referring too often to the Archbishop for a higher opinion on trivial matters. It galled me to see Father Desmond turning the occasion into a grease job all around. Father Burner, possibly recognizing this but not able to turn Father Desmond off, excused himself and went down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “Beg.” (illustration credit 6.15)

  Father Desmond, speaking in a near-whisper, as if he were telling a secret, said, “You know, Your Excellency, Father’s taken some nice shots of the Cathedral at night. If you’d care to see them …”

  “I believe I’ve seen them,” said the Archbishop. He was looking over Father Desmond’s shoulder, disapprovingly, at his own smiling picture on the wall—not one of Father Burner’s shots, however.

  “Yes,” said Father Desmond. “But he doesn’t have time for much any more.”

  The Archbishop nodded, and got up from his chair. “Excuse me, Father,” he said. He crossed the room to the bookcase.

  Mrs. Wynn entered the parlor with a tray of wineglasses, which she placed on the table.

  Father Burner followed her with a bottle. I was happy to see that he’d had good luck with the cork. Later on, when the Archbishop had left, they’d switch back to bourbon (except Father Desmond, who was on 7-Up). For some reason, sacramental wine, taken daily, spoiled them for other wines.

  “This is hardly the time, but it may be the place to ask you,” said Father Burner, handing the Archbishop his glass, “but with Father Malt off the scene, Your Excellency, I was wondering if I dare go ahead with a tuck-pointing job on the church. I’ve been considering it—only academically, that is, Your Excellency, because it’ll run into quite a lot of money.” The Archbishop was silent. Father Burner started up again, in a manner feeble for him. “In the pastor’s temporary absence, the disposition of these matters …”

  “Couldn’t it wait a bit, Father?” asked the Archbishop. It was a tense moment, a difficult reply indeed, when one tried to analyze it, as I did. At its best, it could mean that Father Burner would soon be empowered to make decisions concerning the church; at its worst, it could mean that the Archbishop expected Father Malt to recover and take over again, or, what was most likely, that he was not considering the question at all, regarded it as out of order, ill-timed, and impertinent. I felt that the Archbishop understood the reason for it, however. Father Burner had been overwhelmed by the visit, and flattered that others, particularly Father Kling and Father Moore, should be present to witness it. Such a visit—not an official visitation—could be enough to make him. It had been a great night for Father Burner until he popped that question.

  When, a few minutes later, the Archbishop got up to leave, I came out from under the library table, went over to Father Burner, and brushed up against his trouser leg, purring.

  The Archbishop, hearing me, I think, before he saw me, gazed down and said, “Do you like animals, Father?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” said Father Burner, who was only a dog-lover at best, and where I was concerned, I know, his answer was a barefaced lie—until he made it. From that moment on—there was no doubt of it—he loved me.

  “This one, I see, likes you,” said the Archbishop, smiling. “Some believe it to be an infallible sign, the best of character references.”

  Father Burner blushed and said, “I wish I could believe in that sign, Your Excellency.”

  I trotted over to the Archbishop, selected his black trouser leg from all the others, and brushed against it, nicely purring. Everyone laughed.

  “Credo!” cried Father Burner.

  I was not surprised when, on the following morning, Father Burner invited me to join him at table for breakfast. I had wanted my elevation to my former place to happen of itself, to be a voluntary act on Father Burner’s part, as mine had been on his account, and for that reason, and because I wanted Mrs. Wynn to get a good eyeful, I’d remained in the kitchen, awaiting, as it were, my nomination. After offering Mass, Father Burner came and sought me.

  “Where’s Fritz?” he asked.

  “Who?” said Mrs. Wynn.

  “Fritz,” Father Burner said. “My cat.”

  “Oh, him,” said Mrs. Wynn, who, it occurred to me, represented the sort of person who could live in the thick of history and never know the difference.

  I walked out from under the kitchen table. Father Burner knelt and lifted me into his arms. He carried me into the dining room and pulled my old chair away from the wall and up to the table. We both sat down—to what I hoped would be only the first of many pleasant meals together.

  I ate my bacon right royally and ruminated on the events of the evening before. I could not honestly say that I’d planned the splendid thing I’d done. It had more or less happened—unless, of course, I was both kinder and wiser than I believed myself to be. I was eating high on the hog again, I had my rightful place back, my reward for patience, and I was only sorry that Father Burner still had to wait for his. His buds had been pinched off at the start, but his roots had grown strong and deep. If he managed to flower, he’d be the classic type of late-blooming pastor. Until then he had me at his side, to him everything I’d been to Father Malt—friend and favorite, and, more, the very symbol and prefigurement of power. I actually liked him, I discovered. I liked him for what I’d done for him. But why had I done it? I didn’t really know why. I work at times in ways so inscrutable that even I cannot tell what good or evil I am up to.

  Before we’d finished breakfast, Father Desmond phoned—to discuss the Archbishop’s visit, I
gathered, for Father Burner said, “I’ve decided not to talk any more about it, Ed.” I could almost hear Father Desmond squawking, “Whatta ya mean, Ernest?” “Maybe that’s part of the trouble,” Father Burner said. “We’re talkin’ it to death.” Evidently Father Desmond took offense at that, for Father Burner spoke quickly, out of context: “Why don’t you come for dinner sometime, Ed? When? Well, come tomorrow. Come early. Good.”

  Father Burner hung up, bounced over to the table, chucked me fondly behind the ears, took a banana out of the fruit bowl, and went whistling off to his car—off to do the work of the parish, to return a defective length of hose, to visit the sick and pregnant, to drive to Minneapolis for more informal conferences with building experts, lay and clerical. He had several projects going ahead—academically, that is: the tuck pointing, a new decorating job inside the church, and outside, possibly, a floodlight on the dome, which I thought a paltry affair better left in the dark.

  Before lunch that day, he returned with a half dozen mousetraps. He seemed to want me to follow him around the house, and therefore I attended him most faithfully, while he set the traps in what he regarded as likely places. I rather expected to be jollied about my indifference to mousing. There was none of that, however, and what might have been an embarrassing experience for me became instead an occasion of instruction. Using a pencil for a mouse, Father Burner showed me how the trap worked, which was quite unnecessary but a nice gesture, I thought.

  That evening—with Father Burner still in the mood to exterminate—we appeared together for the first time in public, at the monthly meeting of the ushers. In the future, Father Burner announced, all notices of the sort now being posted on the bulletin board at the rear of the church would have to emanate from his office (which, strictly speaking, was his bedroom) and carry his signature. This was a cruel but unavoidable check to Mr. Keller, who had become too prolific for his own good. He used the drugstore typewriter and special engraved cards bearing his name and title, and he took an authoritarian tone in matters of etiquette (“Keep your feet off the kneelers,” “Don’t stand in the back of the church,” “Ask the usher to find you a seat—that’s what he’s there for,” etc.), and in other matters (Lost and Found, old-clothes collections, ticket sales, and the like) he made it sound as though these were all services and causes thought up and sponsored by him personally. I felt that he was not far from posting bargains in real estate, another means of livelihood for him at the drugstore, when Father Burner stepped in. Mr. Keller took it well—too well, I thought. He murmured a few meek words about trying to spare Father Burner the trouble, as he’d spared Father Malt the trouble. (He now visited Father Malt regularly at the infirmary.) Before we left, he asked Father Burner to lead the ushers in the usual prayer for Father Malt’s swift recovery.

  It was early afternoon the next day when Father Burner remembered the mousetraps. I accompanied him on his rounds, but there was nothing I liked about the business before us. First we went to the pantry and kitchen, where Mrs. Wynn constantly dropped and mislaid quantities of food. Any mouse caught in a trap there, I thought, deserved to die for his gluttony. None had. In the cellar, however, Father Burner had snared two young ones, both from a large family whose members I saw from time to time. My record with them had been good, and they, in turn, had played fair with me and had committed no obvious depredations to make me look bad. When their loss was noted, the others, I feared, would blame me—not for the crime itself but for letting it happen within my precinct.

  Father Burner removed the little bodies from the traps, and then, with the best of intentions and with a smile, which only made it worse, he did a terrible thing. He extended a hand to me, a hand curled in kindness, inviting me to banquet on the remains. I turned away in a swoon, physically sick and sick at heart. I made my way upstairs, wanting to be alone. I considered bitterly others I’d known and trusted in the past. Always, except with Father Malt, when I’d persuaded myself to take a chance on one of them, there’d be something like this. I tried to forget, or to sleep it off, which proved impossible. I knew what I had to do before I could begin to forget, and so I did it. I forgave Father Burner. It was another lesson in charity, one that cost me more than my going to bat for him with the Archbishop, but I’m afraid it was entirely lost on him.

  (illustration credit 6.16)

  Father Desmond came for dinner that afternoon at four, which I thought rather early even for “early.” When he arrived, I was in the front hall having a go at the briefcase. He went right past me. I could see that he had something on his mind.

  “I just couldn’t stay away,” he said, taking a chair across from Father Burner in the parlor. “I’ve got what I think is good news, Ernest.”

  Father Burner glanced up from Church Property Administration and shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, “if it’s about you-know-what.”

  “I’ll just tell you what I know to be true,” Father Desmond said, “and let it go at that.”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait,” said Father Burner. I could see, however, that he’d listen if he was primed again.

  Father Desmond bore down on him. “Sure, I know, you’ll get it in the mail—when you get it. That’s what you figure. I admire your restraint, Ernest, but let’s not be superstitious about it, either.”

  Father Burner, sprawling in his chair, rolled and unrolled Church Property Administration. Then, making a tube of it, he put it to his eye and peered through it, down his black leg, a great distance, and appeared finally to sight the silver glow on the toe of his big black shoe, which lay in the sunlight. “All right, Ed,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

  (illustration credit 6.17)

  “All right, then,” said Father Desmond. “Here it is. I have it on reliable authority—that is to say, my spies tell me—the Archbishop visited the infirmary today.” I interpreted “spies” to mean some little nun or other on whom Father Desmond bestowed sample holy cards.

  Father Burner, taking a long-suffering tone in which there was just a touch of panic, said, “Ed, you know he does that all the time. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Father Desmond tried to come up with more. “He had words with Dutch.”

  Father Burner flung himself out of his chair. He engaged in swordplay with the air, using Church Property Administration. “How do you mean ‘he had words’? You don’t mean to say they quarrelled?”

  Father Desmond could only reply, “I just mean they talked at some length.”

  Father Burner gave a great snort and threw Church Property Administration across the room. It clattered against the bookcase, a broken sword. He wheeled and walked the floor, demanding, “Then why’d you say they had words? Why make something out of nothing? Why not tell it straight, Ed? Just once, huh?” He was standing over Father Desmond.

  “You’re under a strain, Ernest,” said Father Desmond, getting up from his chair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it at all.”

  Father Burner stared at him. “Said? Said what? That’s just it, Ed—you haven’t said anything.” He took another walk around the room, saying the word “nothing” over and over to himself.

  Father Desmond cut in, “All right, Ernest, I’m sorry,” and sat down in his chair.

  Then Father Burner, too, sat down, and both men were overcome by quiet and perhaps shame. Several minutes passed. I was sorry for Father Burner. He’d sacrificed his valuable silence to his curiosity and received nothing in return.

  I addressed the briefcase, making my claws catch and pop in the soft, responsive leather. I wished that I were plucking instead at the top of Father Desmond’s soft head.

  Father Desmond glanced over at me and then at Father Burner.

  “Why do you let him do that?” he asked.

  “He likes to.”

  “Yeah?” said Father Desmond. “Does he ever bring you a mouse?”

  With one paw poised, I listened for Father Burner’s answer.

  “Yo
u don’t see any around, do you?” he said.

  Well done, I thought, and renewed my attack on the briefcase. I had the feeling that Father Desmond still wanted to tell the world what he’d do to me if it were his briefcase, but, if so, he denied himself and got out a cigar.

  “What’d you think of the plans for that rectory in South Dakota?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” said Father Burner, looking around for his Church Property Administration.

  “There it is,” said Father Desmond, as if it were always misplacing itself. He went over by the bookcase, picked up the magazine, and delivered it to Father Burner.

  I curled up to nap. I could see that they were going to have one of their discussions.

  When I heard the back door open, I supposed it was Mrs. Wynn coming in to start dinner, but it was Mr. Keller. I saw him advancing gravely up the hallway, toward me, carrying a travelling bag that I recognized as one the ushers had given Father Malt. Instantly I concluded that Father Malt had passed away in the night, that the nuns had failed to inform Father Burner, and had instead told Mr. Keller, the faithful visitor, to whom they’d also entrusted the deceased’s few belongings.

  Mr. Keller set down the bag and, without looking into the parlor, started back the way he’d come, toward the back door. Father Burner and Father Desmond, at the sight of the bag, seemed unable to rise from their chairs, powerless to speak.

  After a moment, I saw Father Malt emerging from the kitchen, on crutches, followed by Mr. Keller. He worked his way up the hallway, talking to himself. “Somebody painted my kitchen,” I heard him say.

  I beheld him as one risen from the dead. He looked the same to me but different—an imperfect reproduction of himself as I recalled him, imperfect only because he appeared softer, whiter, and, of course, because of the crutches.