by J.F. Powers
“Keefe,” Keefe said.
Father Burner, caught in the old amber of his inadequacy, stepped over and shook Keefe’s hand once.
Quinlan stood by and let the drama play itself out.
Keefe, smiling a curious mixture more anxiety than amusement, said, “It’s a pleasure, Father.”
“Same here,” Father Burner said.
“Well, good day, sirs!” The Dean cracked open his breviary and began to read, lips twitching.
Father Burner waited for them in the hall. Before he could explain that he thought too much of the Dean not to humor him and that besides the old fool was out of his head, the Dean proclaimed after them, “The Chancery phoned, Father Burner. You will hear confessions there tonight. I suppose one of those Cathedral jokers lost his faculties.”
Yes, Father Burner knew, it was common procedure all right for the Archbishop to confer promotions by private interview, but every time a priest got called to the Cathedral it did not mean simply that. Many received sermons and it was most likely now someone was needed to hear confessions. And still Father Burner, feeling his pocket, was glad he had not remembered to mail the letter. He would not bother to speak to Quinlan and Keefe now.
III. Night
“And for your penance say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys and pray for my intention. And now make a good act of contrition. Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus dimissis peccatis tuis . . .” Father Burner swept out into the current of the prayer, stroking strongly in Latin, while the penitent, a miserable boy coming into puberty, paddled as fast as he could along the shore in English.
Finishing first, Father Burner waited for the boy to conclude. When, breathless, he did, Father Burner anointed the air and shot a whisper, “God bless you,” kicking the window shut with the heel of his hand, ejecting the boy, an ear of corn shucked clean, into the world again. There was nobody on the other side of the confessional, so Father Burner turned on the signal light. A big spider drowsy in his web, drugged with heat and sins, he sat waiting for the next one to be hurled into his presence by guilt ruddy ripe, as with the boy, or, as with the old ladies who come early and try to stay late, by the spiritual famine of their lives or simply the desire to tell secrets in the dark.
He held his wrist in such a way as to see the sweat gleaming in the hairs. He looked at his watch. He had been at it since seven and now it was after nine. If there were no more kneeling in his section of the Cathedral at 9:30 he could close up and have a cigarette. He was too weary to read his office, though he had the Little Hours, Vespers, and Compline still to go. It was the last minutes in the confessional that got him—the insensible end of the excursion that begins with so many sinewy sensations and good intentions to look sharp at the landscape. In the last minutes how many priests, would-be surgeons of the soul, ended as blacksmiths, hammering out absolution anyway?
A few of the Cathedral familiars still drifted around the floor. They were day and night in the shadows praying. Meeting one of them, Father Burner always wanted to get away. They were collectors of priests’ blessings in a day when most priests felt ashamed to raise their hands to God outside the ceremonies. Their respect for a priest was fanatic, that of the unworldly, the martyrs, for an emissary of heaven. They were so desperately disposed to death that the manner of dying was their greatest concern. But Father Burner had an idea there were more dull pretenders than saints among them. They inspired no unearthly feelings in him, as true sanctity was supposed to, and he felt it was all right not to like them. They spoke of God, the Blessed Virgin, of miracles, cures, and visitations, as of people and items in the news, which was annoying. The Cathedral, because of its location, described by brokers as exclusive, was not so much frequented by these wretches as it would have been if more convenient to the slums. But nevertheless a few came there, like the diarrheic pigeons, also a scandal to the neighborhood, and would not go away. Father Burner, from his glancing contact with them, had concluded that body odor is the real odor of sanctity.
Through the grating now Father Burner saw the young Vicar General stop a little distance up the aisle and speak to a couple of people who were possible prospects for Father Burner. “Anyone desiring to go to confession should do so at once. In a few minutes the priests will be gone from the confessionals.” He crossed to the other side of the Cathedral.
Father Burner did not like to compare his career with the Vicar General’s. The Archbishop had taken the Vicar General, a younger man than Father Burner by at least fifteen years, direct from the seminary. After a period of trial as Chancellor, he was raised to his present eminence—for reasons much pondered by the clergy and more difficult to discern than those obviously accounted for by intelligence, appearance, and, post factum, the loyalty consequent upon his selection over many older and possibly abler men. It was a medieval act of preference, a slap in the face to the monsignori, a rebuke to the principle of advancement by years applied elsewhere. The Vicar General had the quality of inscrutability in an ideal measure. He did not seem at all given to gossip or conspiracy or even to that owlish secrecy peculiar to secretaries and so exasperating to others. He had possibly no enemies and certainly no intimates. In time he would be a bishop unless, as was breathed wherever the Cloth gathered over food and drink, he really was “troubled with sanctity,” which might lead to anything else, the cloister or insanity.
The Vicar General appeared at the door of Father Burner’s compartment. “The Archbishop will see you, Father, before you leave tonight.” He went up the aisle, genuflected before the main altar, opened as a gate one of the host of brass angels surrounding the sanctuary, and entered the sacristies.
Before he would let hope have its way with him, Father Burner sought to recast the expression on the Vicar General’s face. He could recall nothing significant. Very probably there had been nothing to see. Then, with a rush, he permitted himself to think this was his lucky day. Already he was formulating the way he would let the news out, providing he decided not to keep it a secret for a time. He might do that. It would be delicious to go about his business until the very last minute, to savor the old aggravations and feel none of the sting, to receive the old quips and smiles with good grace and know them to be toothless. The news, once out, would fly through the diocese. Hear about Burner at Saint Pat’s, Tom? Finally landed himself a parish. Yeah, I just had it from McKenna. So I guess the A.B. wasn’t so sore at the Round One after all. Well, he’s just ornery enough to make a go of it.
Father Burner, earlier in the evening, had smoked a cigarette with one of the young priests attached to the Cathedral (a classmate of Quinlan’s but not half the prig), stalling, hoping someone would come and say the Archbishop wanted to see him. When nothing happened except the usual small talk and introductions to a couple of missionaries stopping over, he had given up hope easily. He had seen the basis for his expectations as folly once more. It did not bother him after the fact was certain. He was amenable to any kind of finality. He had a light heart for a Ger—an American of German descent. And his hopes rose higher each time and with less cause. He was a ball that bounced up only. He had kept faith. And now—his just reward.
A little surprised he had not thought of her first, he admitted his mother into the new order of things. He wanted to open the letter from her, still in his coat, and late as it was send her a wire, which would do her more good than a night’s sleep. He thought of himself back in her kitchen, home from the sem for the holidays, a bruiser in a tight black suit, his feet heavy on the oven door. She was fussing at the stove and he was promising her a porcelain one as big as a house after he got his parish. But he let her know, kidding on the square, that he would be running things at the rectory. It would not be the old story of the priest taking orders from his housekeeper, even if she was his mother (seminarians, from winter evenings of shooting the bull, knew only too well the pitfalls of parish life), or as with Ed Desmond a few years ago when his father was still living with him, the old man losing his marbles one by o
ne, butting in when people came for advice and instructions, finally coming to believe he was the one to say Mass in his son’s absence—no need to get a strange priest in—and sneaking into the box to hear confessions the day before they took him away.
He would be gentle with his mother, however, even if she talked too much, as he recalled she did the last time he saw her. She was well-preserved and strong for her age and ought to be able to keep the house up. Once involved in the social life of the parish she could be a valuable agent in coping with any lay opposition, which was too often the case when a new priest took over.
He resolved to show no nervousness before the Archbishop. A trifle surprised, yes—the Archbishop must have his due—but not overly affected by good fortune. If questioned, he would display a lot of easy confidence not unaccompanied by a touch of humility, a phrase or two like “God willing” or “with the help of Almighty God and your prayers, Your Excellency.” He would also not forget to look the part—reliable, casual, cool, an iceberg, only the tip of his true worth showing.
At precisely 9:30 Father Burner picked up his breviary and backed out of the stall. But then there was the scuff of a foot and the tap of one of the confessional doors closing and then, to tell him the last penitent was a woman, the scent of apple blossoms. He turned off the light, saying “Damn!” to himself, and sat down again inside. He threw back the partition and led off, “Yes?” He placed his hand alongside his head and listened, looking down into the deeper darkness of his cassock sleeve.
“I . . .”
“Yes?” At the heart of the apple blossoms another scent bloomed: gin and vermouth.
“Bless me, Father, I . . . have sinned.”
Father Burner knew this kind. They would always wait until the last moment. How they managed to get themselves into church at all, and then into the confessional, was a mystery. Sometimes liquor thawed them out. This one was evidently young, nubile. He had a feeling it was going to be adultery. He guessed it was up to him to get her under way.
“How long since your last confession?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Have you been away from the Church?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“To a Catholic?”
“No.”
“Protestant?”
“No.”
“Jew?”
“No.”
“Atheist?”
“No—nothing.”
“Were you married by a priest?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four years.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Practice birth control?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“Don’t you know it’s a crime against nature and the Church forbids it?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you know that France fell because of birth control?”
“No.”
“Well, it did. Was it your husband’s fault?”
“You mean—the birth control?”
“Yes.”
“Not wholly.”
“And you’ve been away from the Church ever since your marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Now you see why the Church is against mixed marriages. All right, go on. What else?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Is that what you came to confess?”
“No. Yes. I’m sorry, I’m afraid that’s all.”
“Do you have a problem?”
“I think that’s all, Father.”
“Remember, it is your obligation, and not mine, to examine your conscience. The task of instructing persons with regard to these delicate matters—I refer to the connubial relationship—is not an easy one. Nevertheless, since there is a grave obligation imposed by God, it cannot be shirked. If you have a problem—”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Remember, God never commands what is impossible and so if you make use of the sacraments regularly you have every reason to be confident that you will be able to overcome this evil successfully, with His help. I hope this is all clear to you.”
“All clear.”
“Then if you are heartily sorry for your sins for your penance say the rosary daily for one week and remember it is the law of the Church that you attend Mass on Sundays and holy days and receive the sacraments at least once a year. It’s better to receive them often. Ask your pastor about birth control if it’s still not clear to you. Or read a Catholic book on the subject. And now make a good act of contrition . . .”
Father Burner climbed the three flights of narrow stairs. He waited a moment in silence, catching his breath. He knocked on the door and was suddenly afraid its density prevented him from being heard and that he might be found standing there like a fool or a spy. But to knock again, if heard the first time, would seem importunate.
“Come in, Father.”
At the other end of the long study the Archbishop sat behind an ebony desk. Father Burner waited before him as though expecting not to be asked to sit down. The only light in the room, a lamp on the desk, was so set that it kept the Archbishop’s face in the dark, fell with a gentle sparkle upon his pectoral cross, and was absorbed all around by the fabric of the piped cloth he wore. Father Burner’s eyes came to rest upon the Archbishop’s freckled hand—ringed, square, and healthy.
“Be seated, Father.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Oh, sit in this chair, Father.” There were two chairs. Father Burner changed to the soft one. He had a suspicion that in choosing the other one he had fallen into a silly trap, that it was a game the Archbishop played with his visitors: the innocent ones, seeing no issue, would take the soft chair, because handier; the guilty would go a step out of their way to take the hard one. “I called Saint Patrick’s this morning, Father, but you were . . . out.”
“I was visiting Father Desmond, Your Excellency.”
“Father Desmond . . .”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“I know. Friend of his, are you, Father?”
“No, Your Excellency. Well”—Father Burner waited for the cock to crow the third time—“yes, I know the man.” At once he regretted the scriptural complexion of the words and wondered if it were possible for the Archbishop not to be thinking of the earlier betrayal.
“It was good of you to visit Father Desmond, especially since you are not close to him. I hope he is better, Father.”
“He is, Your Excellency.”
The Archbishop got up and went across the room to a cabinet. “Will you have a little glass of wine, Father?”
“No. No, thanks, Your Excellency.” Immediately he realized it could be another trap and, if so, he was caught again.
“Then I’ll have a drop . . . solus.” The Archbishop poured a glass and brought it back to the desk. “A little wine for the stomach’s sake, Father.”
Father Burner, not sure what he was expected to say to that, nodded gravely and said, “Yes, Your Excellency.” He had seen that the Archbishop wore carpet slippers and that they had holes in both toes.
“But perhaps you’ve read Saint Bernard, Father, and recall where he says we priests remember well enough the apostolic counsel to use wine, but overlook the adjective ‘little.’”
“I must confess I haven’t read Saint Bernard lately, Your Excellency.” Father Burner believed this was somehow in his favor. “Since seminary, in fact.”
“Not all priests, Father, have need of him. A hard saint . . . for hardened sinners. What is your estimate of Saint Paul?”
Father Burner felt familiar ground under his feet at last. There were the Pauline and Petrine factions—a futile business, he thought—but he knew where the Archbishop stood and exclaimed, “One of the greatest—”
“Really! So many young men today consider him . . . a bore. It’s always the deep-breathing ones, I not
ice. They say he cuts it too fine.”
“I’ve never thought so, Your Excellency.”
“Indeed? Well, it’s a question I like to ask my priests. Perhaps you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t, Your Excellency.”
“So much the better then . . . but I see you appraising the melodeon, Father. Are you musical?”
“Not at all, Your Excellency. Violin lessons as a child.” Father Burner laughed quickly, as though it were nothing.
“But you didn’t go on with them?”
“No, Your Excellency.” He did not mean it to sound as sad as it came out.
“What a pity.”
“No great loss, Your Excellency.”
“You are too . . . modest, Father. But perhaps the violin was not your instrument.”
“I guess it wasn’t, Your Excellency.” Father Burner laughed out too loud.
“And you have the choir at Saint Patrick’s, Father?”
“Not this year, Your Excellency. Father Quinlan has it.”
“Now I recall . . .”
“Yes.” So far as he was concerned—and there were plenty of others who thought so, too—Quinlan had played hell with the choir, canning all the women, some of them members for fifteen and twenty years, a couple even longer and practically living for it, and none of them as bad as Quinlan said. The liturgical stuff that Quinlan tried to pull off was all right in monasteries, where they had the time to train for it, but in a parish it sounded stodgy to ears used to the radio and split up the activity along sexual lines, which was really old hat in the modern world. The Dean liked it though. He called it “honest” and eulogized the men from the pulpit—not a sign that he heard how they brayed and whinnied and just gave out or failed to start—and each time it happened ladies in the congregation were sick and upset for days afterward, for he inevitably ended by attacking women, pants, cocktails, communism, cigarettes, and running around half naked. The women looked at the men in the choir, all pretty in surplices, and said to themselves they knew plenty about some of them and what they had done to some women.