by J.F. Powers
“Well, watch it in the future,” said Father Philbert. It was the word “future” that worried me. Did it mean that he had arranged to cut off my sustenance in the kitchen too? Did it mean that until Father Malt returned I had to choose between mousing and fasting?
I continued to think along these melancholy lines until the repast, which had never begun for me, ended for them. Then I whisked into the kitchen, where I received the usual bowl of milk. But whether the housekeeper, accustomed as she was to having me eat my main course at table, assumed there had been no change in my life, or was now acting under instructions from these villains, I don’t know. I was too sickened by their meanness to have any appetite. When the pastor’s away, the curates will play, I thought. On the whole I was feeling pretty glum.
It was our custom to have the main meal at noon on Sundays. I arrived early, before the others, hungrier than I’d been for as long as I could remember, and still I had little or no expectation of food at this table. I was there for one purpose—to assert myself—and possibly, where the young missionary was concerned, to incite sympathy for myself and contempt for my persecutors. By this time I knew that to be the name for them.
They entered the dining room, just the two of them.
“Where’s the kid?” asked Father Burner.
“He’s not feeling well,” said Father Philbert.
I was not surprised. They’d arranged between the two of them to have him say the six and eleven o’clock Masses, which meant, of course, that he’d fasted in the interval. I had not thought of him as the hardy type, either.
“I’ll have the housekeeper take him some beef broth,” said Father Burner. Damned white of you, I was thinking, when he suddenly whirled and swept me off my chair. Then he picked it up and placed it against the wall. Then he went to the lower end of the table, removed his plate and silverware, and brought them to Father Malt’s place. Talking and fuming to himself, he sat down in Father Malt’s chair. I did not appear very brave, I fear, cowering under mine.
Father Philbert, who had been watching with interest, now greeted the new order with a cheer. “Attaboy, Ernest!”
Father Burner began to justify himself. “More light here,” he said, and added, “Cats kill birds,” and for some reason he was puffing.
“If they’d just kill mice,” said Father Philbert, “they wouldn’t be so bad.” He had a one-track mind if I ever saw one.
“Wonder how many that black devil’s caught in his time?” said Father Burner, airing a common prejudice against cats of my shade (though I do have a white collar). He looked over at me. “Ssssss,” he said. But I held my ground.
“I’ll take a dog any day,” said the platitudinous Father Philbert.
“Me, too.”
After a bit, during which time they played hard with the roast, Father Philbert said, “How about taking her for a ride in the country?”
“Hell,” said Father Burner, “he’d just come back.”
“Not if we did it right, she wouldn’t.”
“Look,” said Father Burner. “Some friends of mine dropped a cat off the high bridge in St Paul. They saw him go under in mid-channel. I’m talking about the Mississippi, understand. Thought they’d never lay eyes on that animal again. That’s what they thought. He was back at the house before they were.” Father Burner paused—he could see that he was not convincing Father Philbert—and then he tried again. “That’s a fact, Father. They might’ve played a quick round of golf before they got back. Cat didn’t even look damp, they said. He’s still there. Case a lot like this. Except now they’re afraid of him.”
To Father Burner’s displeasure, Father Philbert refused to be awed or even puzzled. He simply inquired, “But did they use a bag? Weights?”
“Millstones,” snapped Father Burner. “Don’t quibble.”
Then they fell to discussing the burial customs of gangsters—poured concrete and the rest—and became so engrossed in the matter that they forgot all about me.
Over against the wall, I was quietly working up the courage to act against them. When I felt sufficiently lionhearted, I leaped up and occupied my chair. Expecting blows and vilification, I encountered only indifference. I saw then how far I’d come down in their estimation. Already the remembrance of things past—the disease of noble politicals in exile—was too strong in me, the hope of restoration unwarrantably faint.
At the end of the meal, returning to me, Father Philbert remarked, “I think I know a better way.” Rising, he snatched the crucifix off the wall, passed it to a bewildered Father Burner, and, saying “Nice Kitty,” grabbed me behind the ears. “Hold it up to her,” said Father Philbert. Father Burner held the crucifix up to me. “See that?” said Father Philbert to my face. I miaowed. “Take that!” said Father Philbert, cuffing me. He pushed my face into the crucifix again. “See that?” he said again, but I knew what to expect next, and when he cuffed me, I went for his hand with my mouth, pinking him nicely on the wrist. Evidently Father Burner had begun to understand and appreciate the proceedings. Although I was in a good position to observe everything, I could not say as much for myself. “Association,” said Father Burner with mysterious satisfaction, almost with zest. He poked the crucifix at me. “If he’s just smart enough to react properly,” he said. “Oh, she’s plenty smart,” said Father Philbert, sucking his wrist and giving himself, I hoped, hydrophobia. He scuffed off one of his sandals for a paddle. Father Burner, fingering the crucifix nervously, inquired, “Sure it’s all right to go on with this thing?” “It’s the intention that counts in these things,” said Father Philbert. “Our motive is clear enough.” And they went at me again.
After that first taste of the sandal in the dining room, I foolishly believed I would be safe as long as I stayed away from the table; there was something about my presence there, I thought, that brought out the beast in them—which is to say very nearly all that was in them. But they caught me in the upstairs hall the same evening, one brute thundering down upon me, the other sealing off my only avenue of escape. And this beating was worse than the first—preceded as it was by a short delay that I mistook for a reprieve until Father Burner, who had gone downstairs muttering something about “leaving no margin for error,” returned with the crucifix from the dining room, although we had them hanging all over the house. The young missionary, coming upon them while they were at me, turned away. “I wash my hands of it,” he said. I thought he might have done more.
Out of mind, bruised of body, sick at heart, for two days and nights I held on, I know not how or why—unless I lived in hope of vengeance. I wanted simple justice, a large order in itself, but I would never have settled for that alone. I wanted nothing less than my revenge.
I kept to the neighborhood, but avoided the rectory. I believed, of course, that their only strategy was to drive me away. I derived some little satisfaction from making my-self scarce, for it was thus I deceived them into thinking their plan to banish me successful. But this was my single comfort during this hard time, and it was as nothing against their crimes.
I spent the nights in the open fields. I reeled, dizzy with hunger, until I bagged an aged field mouse. It tasted bitter to me, this stale provender, and seemed, as I swallowed it, an ironic concession to the enemy. I vowed I’d starve before I ate another mouse. By way of retribution to myself, I stalked sparrows in the orchard—hating myself for it but persisting all the more when I thought of those bird-lovers, my persecutors, before whom I could stand and say in self-redemption, “You made me what I am now. You thrust the killer’s part upon me.” Fortunately, I did not flush a single sparrow. Since my motive was clear enough, however, I’d had the pleasure of sinning against them and their ideals, the pleasure without the feathers and mess.
On Tuesday, the third day, all caution, I took up my post in the lilac bush beside the garage. Not until Father Malt returned, I knew, would I be safe in daylight. He arrived along about dinnertime, and I must say the very sight of him aroused a sentiment
in me akin to human affection. The youngest usher, who must have had the afternoon off to meet him at the station in St Paul, carried the new bag before him into the rectory. It was for me an act symbolic of the counterrevolution to come. I did not rush out from my hiding place, however. I had suffered too much to play the fool now. Instead I slipped into the kitchen by way of the flap in the screen door, which they had not thought to barricade. I waited under the stove for my moment, like an actor in the wings.
Presently I heard them tramping into the dining room and seating themselves, and Father Malt’s voice saying, “I had a long talk with the Archbishop.” (I could almost hear Father Burner praying, Did he say anything about me?) And then, “Where’s Fritz?”
“He hasn’t been around lately,” said Father Burner cunningly. He would not tell the truth and he would not tell a lie.
“You know, there’s something mighty funny about that cat,” said Father Philbert. “We think she’s possessed.”
I was astonished, and would have liked a moment to think it over, but by now I was already entering the room.
“Possessed!” said Father Malt. “Aw, no!”
“Ah, yes,” said Father Burner, going for the meat right away. “And good riddance.”
And then I miaowed and they saw me.
“Quick!” said Father Philbert, who made a nice recovery after involuntarily reaching for me and his sandal at the same time. Father Burner ran to the wall for the crucifix, which had been, until now, a mysterious and possibly blasphemous feature of my beatings—the crucifix held up to me by the one not scourging at the moment, as if it were the will behind my punishment. They had schooled me well, for even now, at the sight of the crucifix, an undeniable fear was rising in me. Father Burner handed it to Father Malt.
“Now you’ll see,” said Father Philbert.
“We’ll leave it up to you,” said Father Burner.
I found now that I could not help myself. What followed was hidden from them—from human eyes. I gave myself over entirely to the fear they’d beaten into me, and in a moment, according to their plan, I was fleeing the crucifix as one truly possessed, out of the dining room and into the kitchen, and from there, blindly, along the house and through the shrubbery, ending in the street, where a powerful gray car ran over me—and where I gave up the old ghost for a new one.
Simultaneously, reborn, redeemed from my previous fear, identical with my former self, so far as they could see, and still in their midst, I padded up to Father Malt—he still sat gripping the crucifix—and jumped into his lap. I heard the young missionary arriving from an errand in Father Philbert’s brother’s car, late for dinner he thought, but just in time to see the stricken look I saw coming into the eyes of my persecutors. This look alone made up for everything I’d suffered at their hands. Purring now, I was rubbing up against the crucifix, myself effecting my utter revenge.
“What have we done?” cried Father Philbert. He was basically an emotional dolt and would have voted then for my canonization.
“I ran over a cat!” said the young missionary excitedly. “I’d swear it was this one. When I looked, there was nothing there!”
“Better go upstairs and rest,” growled Father Burner. He sat down—it was good to see him in his proper spot at the low end of the table—as if to wait a long time, or so it seemed to me. I found myself wondering if I could possibly bring about his transfer to another parish—one where they had a devil for a pastor and several assistants, where he would be able to start at the bottom again.
But first things first, I always say, and all in good season, for now Father Malt himself was drawing my chair up to the table, restoring me to my rightful place.
THE POOR THING
HER PENSION FROM the store wasn’t enough. She tried to conceal this from Mrs Shepherd, saying she preferred to be doing something, but knew she sounded like a person in need of a job, and she had, after all, come to an employment agency. Mrs Shepherd, however, found a word for it. “Oh, you mean you want to supplement your income.” And to that Teresa could agree.
The next day Mrs Shepherd called. She was in a spot, she said, or she wouldn’t ask Teresa to consider what she had to offer. It wasn’t the kind of position Teresa was down for, but perhaps she’d accept it on a temporary basis.
“You know, Mrs Shepherd, I don’t have to work.”
“My dear, I know you don’t. You just want to supplement your income.”
“Yes, and I like to be doing something.”
“My dear, I know how you feel.”
“And I’m down for light sewing.”
“Of course you are. I don’t know what ever made me think of you for this—except they want a nice refined person that’s a Catholic.”
Teresa, dreaming over the compliment, heard Mrs Shepherd say, “This party isn’t offering enough. In fact, I hate to tell you what it is. Say, I wonder if you’d just let me call them back and maybe I can get you more money. If I can’t, I don’t want you to even consider it. How’s that?”
“Well, all right,” Teresa said, “but I don’t have to work.”
When Mrs Shepherd called again, Teresa said it wasn’t very much money and not in her line at all and would not be persuaded—until Mrs Shepherd said something indirectly about their friendship.
The next morning Teresa got on the streetcar and rode out into the suburbs. Mrs Shepherd had referred to Teresa’s charge-to-be as a semi-invalid. The poor thing who met Teresa at the door in a wheelchair wore an artificial flower in her artificial hair, but had the face of a child, small, sweet, gay. Her name was Dorothy. She had always been Dolly to everybody, however, and it did seem to fit her.
Teresa could truthfully say to Mrs Shepherd, who called up that evening to ask how things were going, that the poor dear was no trouble at all, neat as a pin, nice as you please, and that they were already calling each other by their first names. Mrs Shepherd was glad to hear it, she said, but she hadn’t forgotten that Teresa was down for light sewing. Teresa only had to say the word if she wanted to make a change.
Teresa’s duties were those of a companion. She went home at night, and had Saturdays and Sundays off. Dolly’s sister, a teacher, got breakfast in the morning and was home in time to prepare dinner. For lunch, Teresa served green tea, cinnamon toast, and a leafy vegetable. Over Dolly’s protests, she did some housecleaning. At first Dolly tried to help. Then she tried to get Teresa to give it up and listen to the radio.
That was how Dolly spent the day, dialing from memory, charting her course at fifteen-minute intervals, from Fred Waring in the morning to Morton Downey at night. In between came the dramatic programs that Teresa, as a working person, had scarcely known about. Dolly was a great one for writing in to the stations. She’d been in correspondence with CBS all during all the criminal trials of Lord Henry Brinthrop (of Black Swan Hall) in “Our Gal Sunday.” She was one of those faithful listeners who plead with the networks to bring back deceased characters, but it wasn’t the lovable ones who concerned her. She said some of the bad ones got off too easily, “just dying.” One afternoon she chanced to dial to “Make Believe Ballroom,” a program of popular recordings, and got the idea that it should include some sacred music. (After a week of constant listening, they heard the announcer read Dolly’s letter and ask listeners for their views. Dolly, expecting trouble, wrote another letter, but that was the last they heard of her suggestion.)
They were getting to know each other. Dolly, who had always been an invalid, said she’d hoped in the past that something might be done for her. Now, however, she was resigned to God’s will (she had visited St Anne de Beaupré in Canada, where it had not been God’s will to cure her, and Lourdes was too far and expensive), but, really, she wasn’t to be pitied, she said, when you considered the poor souls in the “leopard colonies.” The sufferings of the “leopards” were much with Dolly, and she sent them a dollar a month, wishing it might be more. They often discussed the leopards—too often to suit Teresa. Dolly had
read a great deal about them and knew of the most frightful cases, which she told about, she said, to excite sympathy in herself and others. Teresa said she was having nightmares from hearing about the cases (in fact she wasn’t). “Which one? Which one?” Dolly wanted to know, but Teresa wouldn’t lie anymore to her. Dolly said she was sorry. She didn’t stop her awful stories, however.
Mrs Shepherd called again. “Still getting along famously?”
Teresa, a little disturbed to hear Mrs Shepherd speak of her as a party she’d “placed,” which sounded so permanent, said that she had no complaints.
One rainy afternoon when it was so dark they should have had a light, and with the radio off on account of lightning, Dolly said, “Teresa, I consider you my best friend.” For some reason Teresa was moved to say that she might have married. The first time she had been too young, or so she had been told, and the second time, also the last time, she had been living with some people who hadn’t wanted her to leave them. They hadn’t been relatives or close friends, or even friends until she moved in, just people with whom she’d roomed, that was all. Dolly seemed to understand. Teresa could not say that she did, now, but was grateful to Dolly for not scolding or ridiculing her—others had.
Dolly said, “If you’d got married, Teresa, just think—maybe you wouldn’t be here today. Now tell me how you got your first raise at the store.”
Dolly, for someone who liked to talk, was a good listener, though she occasionally missed the point, or discovered one that Teresa could never find. “You want to hear that again? I declare, Dolly, you’re a funny one.”
So Teresa told her again how she’d seen this notice in the paper that the store had declared a dividend and how she’d worried all night over what she knew she must do in the morning. The first thing, then, after hanging up her coat and hat, she went to the supervisor of the sewing room. The supervisor sat on an elevated chair, a kind of throne in that mean setting, and stared down on the girls below.