A Tender Victory

by Taylor Caldwell

  He tightened a nut expertly, “Best fixtures in town. Old Al got the hardware fellows out of bed last night. ‘Never mind the expense,’ he says to them. They couldn’t believe it. Bet the news is all over the town by now. My wife’s chairwoman of the Ladies’ Aid. When I left to come here this morning she was on the telephone telling all the other ladies about it.”

  Mrs. Burnsdale looked at Johnny and nodded pleasantly. “You see?” she said. “Well, let’s go into the dining room. A furniture man called me and told me he’s delivering a real mahogany set, real modern, to us tomorrow. Dr. McManus. And a linoleum man—he’s coming tomorrow too, to put in new linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom and in the hall. By the way,” she added carelessly, “a new rug arrived this morning for the parlor. I had it all on my list, which I gave to the doctor last night.”

  Johnny began to laugh helplessly.

  After a very good, cold lunch, Johnny took the children into the garden. They walked on the stiff, coarse grass in the warm sunshine. “We’ll plant trees,” he said. “Fruit trees. Every child shall have a tree of his own—perhaps two. Apples, cherries, pears, peaches, plums. Then shade trees, And along the fence we’ll have flower gardens. Every child shall have his own garden. There’ll be birdbaths, and birdhouses in the trees.” He drew a deep breath.

  “Once there was a time,” he went on, “when men were good and pure, and lived in a Garden which God made for them. And God blessed the flowers and the trees and the birds, and everything that lived in the Garden, including men.”

  Standing about him, the children listened eagerly.

  “Nobody hated anything, in the Garden. There was only happiness there, and wonderful beauty, and singing and laughter. But it wasn’t enough for men. Love wasn’t enough. They wanted something else. So Evil came to them, and the Evil’s name was Lucifer, one of the mighty archangels, the angel most loved by God, the angel most beautiful of all the angels. You see, Lucifer didn’t like men; he didn’t want them to be like the angels. Lucifer was proud. He really loved God, and so it seemed to him that God was shaming Himself by making men.”

  He paused, to let this much of the story sink into the children’s fascinated minds. He put his hand on Kathy’s neat head, which shone like gold in the sunlight. Emilie’s big blue eyes were the color of sapphires. Pietro’s mouth was open, like a red cherry, and eagerness stood on his face like light, and Max listened too, in that dazed bemusement of his. Jean stood at Johnny’s right arm, a sergeant-at-arms beside his commanding officer.

  Jean said, and his voice was the voice of a somber man, “Lucifer was right.”

  Johnny went on, “So Lucifer came to men and told them, ‘If you eat of that fruit over there, which is forbidden to you, you will be like angels.’ And so they ate of the fruit.

  “Now it was God’s custom to walk in the Garden He had made, when the sun went down, so that He could enjoy the beauty of it, and sit under the trees, and smile at the flowers, and speak to men. But after men had eaten of the fruit of that tree they hid themselves, when they heard God coming through the forest, which was singing to itself under the new moon. So God called to men, and they were afraid to answer Him. And when He commanded them to answer Him, and to tell Him why they had eaten of that tree, they blamed each other, and hated each other for their own disobedience. I think that made God more angry than anything else, for He saw that once hatred comes to men the world is no longer safe for anybody, or anything, whether gardens or trees or innocent animals or other men.

  “So God, in His anger, drove men from the Garden, into a lifeless and dangerous world, where they were condemned to death, where they would have no peace, where they must work hard and hopelessly, where all things feared them and ran from them. All the innocent things ran from them, for man had eaten of hatred. Man was a terror now in the world, and the creator of wars and rain.”

  He sat down on the grass, and the children, their misted eyes fixed on him, sat also, in a circle close to him. Jean said, “And so, we had—had—” Johnny nodded, touched Jean’s shoulder, and sighed.

  “And God was angry with Lucifer, even more than He was angry with men, and He drove Lucifer out of heaven, and Lucifer fell and made a new place for himself, which he called hell, and he brought all the angels who hated men, too, down with him. I have told you about hell, children.”

  Pietro nodded vigorously, and bounced up and down. “Here is hell,” he said.

  Johnny was startled. He gazed at Pietro, and he thought, I never considered that. Perhaps the earth is, indeed, the Seven Storey Mountain. If the kingdom of heaven is with us, in the world, so too, perhaps, is the kingdom of hell. He scratched his cheek, and regarded Pietro’s bright countenance thoughtfully. He took out his pipe and let Jean light it for him. Jean performed the small act with grace, flair, and importance.

  “Hell,” said Johnny, “is the place where all evil is, where men live who never loved God, never wanted to know Him, who hate their fellow men, and never repent of their sins. It is a terrible place.”

  “Here,” said Pietro proudly, and looked at the others for admiration of his perspicacity.

  Johnny puffed at his pipe. The smoke became a small silver cloud in the sunshine.

  “But men remembered the Garden from which God had driven them. So they made gardens for themselves, in the world. Mirrors of the Garden they never forgot in their souls. And that is why we must have a garden for ourselves, right here, so we can remember heaven and pray that God will let us return to that old Garden one day which still waits for us. You see, darlings, God is merciful to us. He lets us have flowers and grass and trees; He breathes His breath into them, and commands them to live for us.

  “For there is no end to the mercy of God, and no end to His love. Even though we choose hell for ourselves.”

  They walked about the yard, and Johnny showed them where their gardens would be, and the trees, and the children were full of wonder and excitement. They came to a corner of the fence, and there they found a flourishing vine of wild morning-glories, tiny and pink and fresh. The children stared at it with joy.

  “It is called the flower of the morning,” said Johnny. And he looked at the bright sky with peace.

  8

  Mrs. Burnsdale, grumbling crossly, pressed Johnny’s one and only clerical suit. “It’s a disgrace,” she muttered. “You never think of yourself, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Why should I?” he asked calmly.

  Mrs. Burnsdale tossed her gray head. “Well, that’s a silly question!” she said impatiently. “Anyway, here are your pants and your coat on the hanger. Let them air a little. Still damp.” She paused. “If you don’t think of yourself, who will?”

  “A lot of people are thinking of me,” he answered. “Such as you, for instance.”

  He went upstairs, whistling between his teeth, carefully carrying his suit. He peeped in at the bathroom and grinned. Well, there they were, and pink, too. Still whistling, he dressed for the “welcome dinner” tonight. He could hear the subdued murmurs of the children in the parlor downstairs, and the clatter of plates in the dining room. He was filled with peace. There was nothing else he needed in his life—if his congregation permitted him to remain. He looked through the round little window in his bedroom. The sun was setting, all fuschia and cold green, above the crowded roofs of the city. We Protestants should have evening bells too, he thought. What is more consoling, more tender, more full of the remembrance of God than bells at sunset? Then he heard the evening bells over the city, from the Catholic churches, sweet and reassuring, ancient with love, speaking of surety with their joyful tongues.

  The parish hall was the basement under the church, and it was even more drab than Johnny had feared. The wooden ceiling was low, and from it dangled a single glaring round white light, more fitting for a barbershop than a parish hall. Wainscoting, about four feet high, in cracked narrow lengths, ran around the walls, painted a nauseating dark brown, and above it was the plastered wall, painted a disag
reeable buff. The floor, completely bare, creaked underfoot, but it was clean and polished. There were no signs that the hall was ever used for anything else but meetings. Apparently no one had ever thought of making it attractive for children, of setting up equipment for basketball or crafts. There was no evidence that it was ever converted into a place for youthful dancing and joy.

  A long trestle table stood under the racking light, and it had been set with Mrs. McGee’s best tablecloth, stiffly white and shining, and napkins the size of baby sheets. Some other lady had contributed the gleaming plated silver, another the bright red and blue “peasant” dishes, another the two sets of candlesticks. Another woman had brought a huge bowl of zinnias and other late summer flowers, all bronze and crimson and yellow, a cheerful and living splash on all that whiteness. The chairs were the folding variety, and uncomfortable. There were no stoves here, and the Ladies’ Aid had brought the food in covered pans—the inevitable but delicious baked beans, thick slices of beef and ham and tongue, cold potato salad, buttered bread, huge brown pies, and coffee in thermos jugs.

  Johnny was formally introduced to the members of his congregation who would decide whether he was to be driven away with anger, or permitted to remain. Graying ladies, some severe, some wistful, some wispy, some fat, some short, some rosy, some pale, some with cheerful expressions, some with sour, suspicious eyes. All badly dressed, in broad summer prints, imitation-pearl beads, and prim shoes. Their gray hair had been “set” in iron curls and waves, or, rather, thought Johnny, the hair had been cast in a mold, to come out in metallic convolutions. None of the ladies was uncertain in manner, or tentative in approach. They were very sure of themselves, and they examined Johnny critically. Circumscribed, small-city women, they reminded him with discomfort of the Park Avenue ladies.

  Their men were more apt to regard him with tolerance and favor. They needed a minister. Dr. Stevens said this was the only minister he would send them. So, they would have this minister. It was a very simple syllogism to them, if not to their wives.

  The incredible story of Dr. McManus’s generosity today had served to dispel some of the ladies’ natural animosity against Johnny because of the “foreign” children. Mrs. McGee had said, in her telephone rounds, “Anyone who can get old Al to give a penny, without us giving another penny, is a wonder-worker. So let’s be kind to the young minister. I saw him, you know, and though he looks sort of boyish, he’s made some sort of a dent on Al—funny, in a way. He’s got the nicest blue eyes, too.” At least four of the ladies had marriageable daughters, and the fact that Johnny was not a married man raised their interest and hopes. They felt, however, that in some way he had betrayed them by acquiring that “mob of foreigners.” No sensible girl would want to marry him—unless, of course, he could be persuaded to get rid of the children.

  The hostility was almost dispelled when they met him. Dr. McManus, wearing another crumpled light-gray suit, somewhat less stained than his earlier one, performed the sarcastic introductions. “Crazy feller Doc Stevens sent us. Johnny, this here is Mrs. Lovitt. Mrs. Wolfe. Mrs. Sherwood. Mrs. Long. All Ladies’ Aid. Father John Kanty told me he has the same trouble with nuns, and the Sodality. No reasonable man can get along with women. This here is Mrs. Krantz—”

  The ladies gave Dr. McManus a brutal stare. His associations with “that priest with the funny foreign name, and that queer old Jewish rabbi,” were always a source of private affront to them. They firmly believed that his associations were carried on for the sole purpose of annoying the congregation of the Church of the Good Shepherd. They turned to Johnny, and they almost completely melted. Tall, thin, and magnetic in his shabby clerical black, he was young enough to arouse the maternal instinct in them. His strong face, so alive, so dark, so gentle, touched them. Here was no meek weakling, frightened of his congregation, anxious to please them and placate them. This was a man, and when they looked into his dark-blue eyes and saw the kind force and strength in them, and felt the warm strength of his handshake, at least half the ladies were won.

  The husbands decided that though Johnny “wasn’t our kind” he looked like a nice young fellow, and no sissy. Time the women were taken in hand, they thought approvingly. Here was no minister who would be bullied by the female members of the congregation. But too good-looking; all the girls would be after him, and everybody knew what trouble that meant. However, anyone who could “twist old Al around his finger” was a valuable addition to the church.

  Johnny said grace in his moving voice: “We thank Thee, Father, for Thy bountiful gifts, and pray that we shall be worthy of them. We ask that in all things Thou may accept us as Thy servants in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.” To himself he repeated his prayer to God that he be permitted to remain in this drab and smoky city. Everything depended upon this evening, he thought, as his fork wandered through the baked beans and the voices rose genially around him like a cloud of warmth. Johnny could feel the cautious half acceptance of him, and he began to eat with more appetite. He could also feel, with some inner tension, the long sardonic glances of Dr. McManus. The old man would not help him, he knew. It was up to him.

  “Nothing wrong with these beans. But why can’t we have some beer, eh?” complained Dr. McManus. “Father John Kanty likes a big glass of beer himself, and their lunches have beer, and their picnics. Beer would go very good with this grub.”

  Mrs. McGee said smartly, “No, doctor! You know very well that we’re WCTU. All the Ladies’ Aid, that is. Beer! Why do you want to ruin good food?”

  “Marjie,” said Dr. McManus, “haven’t you heard of the marriage in Cana? D’you think for a minute the Lord turned the water into grape juice? Lord or not, He’d have been thrown out of a respectable wedding for that, and no nonsense.”

  This sounded very blasphemous to the ladies, and they gave Dr. McManus another one of their combined brutal glares. He chortled. The husbands smiled uneasily. Johnny looked about the table, and suppressed his own smile.

  “What do you think, Mr. Fletcher?” asked Mrs. Krantz, the plumber’s wife.

  He hesitated. Then he said, “I don’t think there is anything in the Bible which explains that God suspended the natural laws of fermentation that day.”

  The men grinned. Dr. McManus squeaked delightedly, and slapped a heavy thigh. The ladies looked stern and accusing. “However,” Johnny went on, with a very innocent expression, “there is nothing in the Bible which said He did not. I like grape juice, myself, and many others do.”

  The ladies smiled triumphantly at their husbands. Dr. McManus squealed again. “A diplomat!” he said. “A damned, striped-pants diplomat!” He leaned across the table, biasfashion, toward Johnny, and shook his powerful index finger in his face. “I don’t like diplomats. Almost all the trouble in this world’s caused by ’em. Slipping around on greased heels, smirking, bowing, saying yes to everybody and meaning no in their oleaginous hearts, and carrying a knife up their sleeves. Pussyfoot around like this, too much, my boy, and I’ll personally carry your bags to the station, and kick you up on the coach.”

  The ladies were angered at this, and broke into a flurry of exclamations. Dr. McManus preserved an inscrutable expression of sullenness at this attack on him. But Johnny smiled to himself. The men, fearing the doctor more than did their wives, became uncertain and silent. They began to ask themselves questions. A smooth sort of young man. His answer to Mrs. Krantz was a kind of double-dealing, thought Mr. Schoeffel. Didn’t seem that way yesterday, Mr. Schoeffel commented to himself. Was he a radical? Maybe. Probably bled all over the place for labor. Never gave a thought, probably, to people who made it possible for labor to have jobs at all, and couldn’t afford to work a forty-hour week, like factory and shop hands. Then, he had been in Europe, probably mixed up with all those Communists over there; got the kids from some outlandish place, too.

  Mr. Dan McGee, a small and delicate man of slightly over fifty, with a high crown of pure silver curls surmounting a round pink face pierced w
ith very black eyes, asked himself: Smooth? Yes. Probably trained that way. Smooth folks, with college educations, and his way of answering, were usually men who knew nothing about labor and its problems, and despised working people. Never took sides, or fought for the right and social justice. Reactionaries, that’s what they were. The president of the local mine union reflected on the reactionaries with considerable gloom. Then he thought of Mr. Summerfield, the wealthy newspaper owner, and he became confused. He glanced furtively at Johnny’s hands, and was surprised. Strong, competent, worker’s hands, full of power and decision.

  The foremen and mine superintendents were as equally divided about Johnny. Would he stir up the men? Would he denounce all strikes, indiscriminately? Was he socially conscious? Was he one of those pinkos? A Communist, maybe? A fascist, maybe? Perhaps he’d cuddle up to that damned Summerfield, with his noisy newspapers. Perhaps he was the kind that liked society. Look at his hands; probably once one of those stubborn workers himself. Two of the superintendents, wise in the hands of men, came to the true conclusion that here was a man who was no stranger to manual work, and like Mr. McGee, they were confused.

  The ladies, the shrewd doctor saw, squinting at them from under his furious brows, were almost completely unanimous about Johnny. They liked him; they were beginning to care about him; his old and shabby clothes did not escape their maternal eyes. Tenderness began to gleam on their tired faces. But just wait, girls, thought the doctor savagely.

  Mr. Krantz, the squat and solid plumber, felt the masculine questioning around him. He sucked on his fat lips. He was in business for himself, owning a small plumbing-contracting shop. But he had not always been in business. He swallowed an enormous mouthful of ham, drank an enormous gulp of coffee, wiped his lips, and said, “Parson, what do you think of this here minority problem you hear about these days?”