The children studied Johnny’s anxious and harried face for long moments. They missed nothing, in their preternatural keenness, which was their heritage from terror. Then, as if a signal had passed between them unseen by the young minister, they stepped toward him. Kathy took one hand, Jean the other. They smiled up at him with an ancient wisdom, and—to his humble astonishment—compassion.
“We know,” they said. And they stood on tiptoe to give him their first kiss of trust and faith.
They were all gathered in the large bedroom where the boys and Johnny slept, Emilie half drowsing in Johnny’s arms, the three boys on the floor, Kathy properly in a chair beside Mrs. Burnsdale, and Dr. Stevens on the side of the big double bed. The night was hot and still, with thunder murmuring in the baked air, and a heated wind blew the curtains at the long open windows. A lamp behind Johnny illuminated the book he held.
“And they brought young children to Him, that He should touch them: and His disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, He was much displeased, and said unto them, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God. …’ And He took them up in His arms, put His hands upon them, and blessed them.”
He put down the book, and holding the sleeping child against him, he touched her forehead gently with his fingers in blessing. The boys on the floor watched acutely. Kathy’s face shone. “Yes,” she said. “He took us in His arms and blessed us. And He sent Papa to us.”
Emilie sat up sleepily on Johnny’s knee, staring about her with a baby’s wondering smile and pushing aside her long locks. Johnny set her on her feet; she clung to his hand. He surveyed them all proudly, the girls in their pretty white cotton nightgowns, the boys in blue pajamas. They all smelled of soap and clean childhood. “My kids,” he said.
They stood about him, waiting, Mrs. Burnsdale between the two girls. He bent his head, and they imitated him. Dr. Stevens glanced at them and saw their grave and serious faces. Johnny prayed, “Our Father.” He paused, and the children murmured, “Our Father.” Johnny continued, his voice pure and loud in the silence: “Our Father Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. …”
The young voices followed him, and Dr. Stevens thought that never had he heard the ancient prayer spoken so devoutly, with so much feeling. When Johnny had finished, the children still stood, folded hands pressed together, heads bent, for a long moment, as if the prayer they had learned was still echoing in grandeur in their souls, shining with eternal brilliance into dark and tortured crevices. Only a few days, thought the old man, but how much they had learned!
Dr. Stevens laid the envelope with the tickets on the desk in the library. “But a drawing room, for only four hours!” said Johnny. “Yes, it’s true that I had adjoining staterooms on the ship for all of us, and we had all our meals in them, but I think the kids are well enough now to go by coach.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Dr. Stevens. “Johnny, don’t look so depressed. But my advice to you is not to give the children doses of the citizenry too fast. You’ve done wonders—er, with the help of God. Let’s not push Him for miracles. You’ve considered the school situation, I suppose?”
“Yes. As soon as I can I am going to hire a retired teacher to teach them at home. That’s my biggest problem. All of them now know the alphabet; I began to teach them as soon as I got them, and Jean and Kathy and Pietro can already read a few simple English words. I don’t know about Max. I can never tell what he knows.”
Dr. Stevens lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Johnny, I don’t envy you your problems. Let’s hope you don’t run into any difficulty with PTA in Barryfield, if they have one. Or ladies who go in for communal activities, and push their noses into everything. Activities—abominable word. I had an old Scots teacher who taught me a prayer: ‘God preserve us from the ghosties and the ghoulies, and the long-legged beasties who go thump in the night.’ No doubt the ladies with activities are worthy souls, but they always remind me of the longlegged beasties. Darting here and there, on very aggressive stilts of civic virtue, minding everybody’s business, and trying to get everyone to conform to the norm. Don’t laugh, Johnny. They can make things very hard for you and the children.”
Johnny’s haggard eyes sparkled with blue mischief. “Do you ever tell your many lady admirers that, sir?”
“No, they’d ostracize me, or think me senile. By the way, where did this infernal business of women working side by side with men originate? What normal woman wants that?”
“It began in Russia,” said Johnny. “I heard a lot about it in Europe.” His face became dark and cold.
Dr. Stevens shrugged. “The American Communists have come a long way during the past ten or twelve years in our country, son. A long, long way. It was planned. They could contribute nothing but hatred and revolution to America, and envy, and distrust among thè people, and confusion, and eventual slavery.” His eyeglasses suddenly glittered with wrath. “And there are those in America, not Communists themselves, who want just that, for their own monstrous purposes.
“And that, son, brings me right back to Barryfield, and all the problems you are going to have, not only about these poor rescued children, and schools, and trying to build up an indifferent parish and a poor church, but with others. Barryfield is partly built on coal, though it has some factories. The mines aren’t too big, or too productive. A third of the men work in them, and the town population is only about one hundred and fifty thousand, at the most. The coal-mine owners and operators hardly survived the depression; from 1938 to 1941 they just about broke even. The war brought them a little prosperity, but only a little. Now, in 1946, they are again losing money. The Communists have been very active there. The men aren’t fools; the companies have laid the books on the table for their union delegates to see for themselves. The union doesn’t want the men to strike; the men don’t want to strike. But the Communists do. In number, the Communists are small in Barryfield, but they’re accursedly busy and noisy, and they’re experts in division and confusion and lies.
“Well, coal mining is a seasonal thing. The owners want to keep the mines open, though they aren’t making a cent, hardly meeting expenses and wages. They want the men to be employed. But if the strike goes through, and the men get increases in pay, the mines will have to shut down. And that’s what the Communists want.”
He waited for comment, but Johnny gave none. The old minister continued, “The union delegate for one of the mines is on your church board, son. A good man, from what I’ve learned these past few days. He’s pretty desperate. I talked with him on the telephone several times, though I’ve never met him. He needs your help, Johnny. So, you’ve got the Communists on your hands.
“And here’s another problem. Barryfield was originally English, German, and Irish. It’s an old city, and they had their troubles a half century ago with that explosive mixture of races. Wait a moment; I know you hate the word ‘race’ but I have to use it advisedly. Now Barryfield has a dozen or more ‘races’ and when time hangs heavy on the citizens’ hands they go in for racism. One or two against another two or three, and vice versa. Not violently; just sullenly, at times. It manifests itself covertly, but it’s there. All stimulated, lately, by the Communists.”
He gazed at Johnny eloquently.
“I tried to get you a better place, son. You know that. Your parish has had four ministers in less than eight years. I leave it to you to guess the reason. They were all fine men, with a mission, and they tried. It wasn’t any use. They either had the few well-to-do people against them or they had their own parishioners at their throats, or the union, or some alleged minority. So, knowing all this, I couldn’t bear it for you to go there. But I could find you no other place, on such short order. You’ll have to bear it until I get you something better.”
Johnny looked up, quite suddenly, and his weary face was alive. “No. I’ll stay, as long as the church wants me to stay. I’ll try to stay. Somehow, I feel—
and it came to me all at once, like a revelation—that it was meant for me to go there. I don’t know just how to say it, Dr. Stevens, but that’s how I feel.”
Dr. Stevens glanced aside, and said nothing.
“It’s an old-fashioned word, sir, but I think it is what they used to say was a call.”
Dr. Stevens sucked meditatively on his pipe. “I’m old, and I’m afraid I’ve had a little too much of this world, Johnny. Don’t listen to me. Perhaps you know better. Perhaps God is still interested in this violent ball of mud rolling in its own blood.”
Johnny reached over and put his hand on the old man’s knee, and he smiled. “Well,” he said, “He thought enough of it, and was interested enough in it, to come down here Himself, to die for it. We sometimes forget that.”
Dr. Stevens took off his glasses, for they had become moist. He rubbed them with his handkerchief. “All right, Johnny. I forget, but you never do. There’s another thing you should know about your parish. The dominant man there is very rich, and old, and, from what I’ve heard, very detestable. Why does he go to that church? His father was its first minister; his father built it, almost literally. His uncle, however, was very fortunate. He went to New York, and after about fifty years he had gotten himself a seat on the stock exchange. I don’t know the details. When this uncle died, unmarried, and with no other relatives, he left all his money—and it was several millions after very large contributions to charities—to this man, who is President of the church Board. He has had a very hard life himself, as a minister’s son. He was determined to become a physician, and so he financed his own education by working in the mines during the summer months. At one time he was forced to leave his university for three years, to get the necessary money by working in the mines. He hardly knew of the existence of his ‘sinful’ uncle, as his father called him. He was already fifty years old, and practicing in Barryfield, when his uncle, thirty years his senior, died and left him all that money. His name is Alfred McManus, Dr. Alfred McManus, and he is in his late sixties now. He gave his promise that he would meet exactly what the parishioners could, or would, raise, for the support of the church. But no more; not a cent more.”
Johnny considered this. Then he said, “I think I agree with him. If people want a church they should be willing to work for it, and support it.”
Dr. Stevens was pleased. "I’m glad you said that, Johnny, because I see you’ll have little difficulty about that with Dr. McManus. All the other ministers did, poor fellows. They thought he should be the support of the whole business. Dr. McManus, from what I’ve heard, is a rugged individualist. I gather that he loved his father a great deal. And he continues to practice medicine. He’s got the only affluent practice in the city, and his fees are tremendous. Mr. Emil Schoeffel, the treasurer of the Board, hates him. It was from Mr. Schoeffel that I got the news that Dr. McManus is a rough, dirty, savage, and blasphemous old man, with ‘no pity in his heart.’ The quote is from Mr. Schoeffel, who has a small shoe factory, not very prosperous.”
“You are sure they know all about me, and the children?”
“Yes.” Dr. Stevens coughed. “Dr. McManus didn’t want you, Johnny. Said you were probably a ‘damned Communist.’ To quote again: ‘Enough foreigners in this town as it is.’ I told him on the telephone that if he didn’t take you he’d go hang for another minister, for a long time. His answer convinced me that he is not in the least a Christian gentleman, but just a hostile, embittered old man who doggedly helps maintain that church because of his father.”
“Still,” Johnny mused, “he wanted to be a physician.”
“Probably ambitious; thought he could make a lot of money.”
“If money was all he wanted, then he would have retired when he inherited that fortune. Some doctors have something in them which the saints have too.”
This was too much for Dr. Stevens. He laughed heartily. “Well, son, I leave that saint in your hands. From what I hear he is probably already consigned to a place where saints don’t generally go.”
6
In another five minutes the train would reach Barryfield. John Fletcher looked about for all the luggage in the drawing room; there it was piled, in new, bright, if cheap, heaps, all filled with the children’s fresh clothing. (His own suitcase was old and cracking, and he had his army duffel bag. It had never occurred to him to treat himself to better luggage, during the process of buying the articles for the children.) He was pleased with the impressiveness of all those cases, big and small. He ran a comb through his short black hair, and glanced at the children fondly. What a miracle a couple of weeks in America had accomplished! There was Kathy, firmly combing little Emilie’s long tangled curls after a very brisk and uncompromising washing of the small child’s face at the miraculous steel basin. There was Jean, yanking Pietro and Max into presentable shape, straightening ties, vexedly brushing lint off new blue suits. Both Jean and Kathy kept muttering admonishing words under their breath to the others. Johnny looked at Mrs. Burnsdale, sitting majestically near the window, permitting Jean and Kathy to take responsibility for the younger children. As small towns flashed by, and smaller stations, Mrs. Burnsdale favored them with haughty glances through the wide plate-glass windows. This amused Johnny.
He said, “I’m afraid, kids, and Mrs. Burnsdale, that Barryfield isn’t going to be much better than what we’ve been passing. It may even be worse.”
Mrs. Burnsdale replied, with even more hauteur, “Humph. Towns can be changed, if folks have gumption and selfrespect. Soap’s cheap, and so’s paint. I never did have any patience with shiftless people. But something’s gone wrong with this country, Mr. Fletcher. Everybody wants everything anybody else has, without working for it. Handouts? Sometimes I think what George Washington’d have said about such people.”
“They probably existed then, too,” said Johnny. “And they probably wanted everything for nothing. But they starved, or went to work. Human nature never changes very much, though we ministers try. How we try!”
She gave him a sympathetic glance. “I guess you’ve always tried. But it didn’t do much good, did it?”
“Now you’re getting cynical. Yes, I think it did, in a way. We don’t starve mentally sick people to death, or drop them in snake pits, or beat them insensible. We don’t let little orphans die for food on the streets. We don’t set out our old folks to die on the highways. We don’t kill idiots and imbeciles any longer.”
Mrs. Burnsdale leaned across to him and patted his knee maternally. “Just keep trying. Maybe one of these days we’ll get somewhere. Maybe in a couple of million years or so.” She added, “If Barryfield’s one of these towns, maybe we can get them to scrub it up, even if it’s a coal town, and they have factories. That’s going to be part of my job.”
“I’ve told you the house isn’t very good,” said Johnny. “And it’s small. I’ll have my hands full with the church and the kids.” He hesitated. “You see what I mean? The kids have caught some idea about the American dream. We’ve got to make Barryfield part of that dream—though I don’t know how—so the kids won’t be disappointed.”
Mrs. Burnsdale shook her head vigorously. “These kids, just like everybody else, have got to face facts some day or other, and the sooner the better. What are you starin’ at me like that for, Jean? And you too, Kathy?”
Jean colored, gave Max’s tie a last reproving yank. Then he looked at Mrs. Burnsdale seriously. “Only thing is, there’s the law.” He winced. “Just the law.” He turned to Kathy, who nodded strongly.
“Well, now,” said Mrs. Burnsdale, relieved and pleased. “You’re a very sensible boy, and Kathy’s a sensible girl.”
She reached out to assist Jean with his own coat, for he found dressing difficult because of his crippled arm and shoulder. But he stepped back. His pale eyes were stern. “Jean must learn things for himself, non? Mama Burnsdale and Papa think that?”
Mrs. Burnsdale’s eyes moistened. She blinked. “We sure do, honey. Always do for yo
urself whenever you can. It helps your character.”
The train was slowing down. They had been passing small, insignificant foothills for the past hour, green and shaggy hills without grandeur. But now, as the train turned, the mountains arched suddenly into view, powerful, royal in color, thrusting their strength against a golden evening sky. The shadows of them fell across green valleys like a benediction. Johnny called the children to him. He had no words now. They looked through the wide windows, solemnly. They saw the far nested villages under a gilded haze of mist and smoke; they saw the delicate toy arches of distant bridges; they saw the quicksilver rivers, touched here and there with scarlet. And always the mountains, always the shadows of the mountains.
Pietro, who had begun to get restless this last hour, and at times almost uncontrollable with excitement, was very still. His big black eyes reflected the golden light of the heavens, the shape of “the everlasting hills.” Johnny watched him. The child’s dark and mobile face had a thoughtful sternness on it, something Johnny had never seen before, a dreaming, backward-looking expression which brought no pain. Was some racial Italian memory stirring in him, of mountains and color and brilliance and beauty? Of thinking peasants gravely cultivating food, or gathering sheaves at sunset with the sound of the sweet Angelus in their ears, of smoking fires under spicy iron pots, and laughter and peace and song and gaiety and faith? Of wayside shrines in the shadows of olive hills, of pointed cypresses and pointed church towers with glowing crosses? Of red land, not red with blood, but with nourishment, of flung bridges over chasms, of the smell of jasmine and roses in the warm sunset, and the bells of cattle and the scampering of mischievous goats and the calls of sheep under trees heavy with fruit, and gray walls smothered under magenta bougainvillea and little houses with red roofs and the singing of fishermen on an enameled sea? Could any Italian, even this small lost child, forget the glory of his heritage?
A Tender Victory Page 9
