by J.F. Powers
Father Desmond, noting how little time Father Burner now had for himself (and for Father Desmond), suggested that the chancery be petitioned for help (“There’s just too much work here for one man, Ernest”), but Father Burner said no, and so resisted what must have been the worst of all possible temptations to him, the assistant’s sweet dream—to have an assistant. He said he’d go it alone. It almost seemed as if he were out to distinguish himself, not in the eyes of others—something he’d always worked at—but in his own eyes.
At any rate, he was beginning to act and talk like a real pastor. When Father Desmond came over or phoned, they talked of construction and repairs. Father Desmond, one of our most promising young pastors, was building a new school—with undue emphasis, it seemed to me, on the gymnasium. Father Burner, lacking authority to do more, made needed repairs. He had the rectory kitchen painted and purchased a Mixmaster for Mrs Wynn. He had the windows in the church basement calked and installed a small institutional kitchen there, thus showing all too clearly that he intended to go in for parish suppers, which he’d abominated in the past as the hardest part of the priesthood.
Father Desmond and Father Burner now spoke fluently a gibberish that only a building pastor could comprehend. They talked of organs, bells, and bulletin boards, coin counters, confessional chairs and hearing devices, flooring, kneeler pads, gym seats, radiation, filing systems, electric fans, mops, and brooms, and all by their difficult trade names—Wurlitzer, Carillonic, Confessionaire, Confession-Ease, Speed Sweep, the Klopp (coin counter); Vakumatic, Scrubber-Vac, Kardex, Mopmaster, and many more. And shrubbery and trees.
There was a great need for trees in Sherwood—a need that, I daresay, had never occurred to Father Malt, or, presumably, to many of the older inhabitants of the town. The new people, who lived in “ranch houses” and worked in Minneapolis, seemed to like trees, and so, in his new phase, did Father Burner.
“When spring comes,” he said, in cold January, ‘I’ll plant some maples.”
Father Desmond, who knew where Father Burner’s thoughts were hiding, said, “Someday you’ll build, too, Ernest.”
After fourteen months in the hospital, Father Malt was moved to the sisters’ infirmary in St Paul, where there were supposed to be other patients, including old priests, of similar tastes and outlook. In our busy rectory, the seasons had come and gone without pause, the seasons as we observed them—baseball, football, Christmas, basketball, and Lent again. There were further improvements, or at least changes. Father Burner got Mrs Wynn a white radio for her kitchen and thereby broke the tradition of silence we’d had under Father Malt, who hadn’t even listened to Cedric Adams and the ten o’clock news.
I spent my mornings in the parlor and thus escaped the full effect of Mrs Wynn’s programs, but in the parlor, or wherever I went in the house, I heard those same voices, always at the same hour, always repeating themselves, and for a while, at first, I took a certain interest in those miserable lives. Can a woman over thirty-five find love again? Should a girl, the ward of a man twenty years older, marry him? For these questions, as time went on, I could see there would be no answers.
In our rectory, another question was being asked, and for this question there had to be an answer. Father Burner was pastor of the church in all but name, and could hope, with good reason, that this, too, would be added unto him in time, if he worked and prayed hard enough. During the first weeks after the accident, Father Burner and Father Desmond had discussed the physical aspects of Father Malt’s case—what kind of cast, the number and type of pins, and all the rest. Lately, however, they’d been taking another line, more to the point and touching upon Father Burner’s chances.
The difficulty lay, of course, in Father Malt’s refusal to give himself up to the life of an invalid. Nothing could be done about appointing his successor until he actually resigned or died. No one, of course, openly suggested that he do either. It was up to him to decide. Father Desmond believed that, sooner or later, the Archbishop would go to Father Malt and precipitate a solution of the problem. But even the Archbishop was powerless to force Father Malt to resign against his will. As long as Father Malt wished, as long as he lived, he would be pastor, and this was according to canon law. Father Malt was an “irremovable pastor,” well liked by the people of the parish, a favorite at the chancery, where, however, it was known—according to Father Desmond—that Father Burner was doing a bang-up job.
Father Burner was the rare one who hadn’t asked for help, who was going it alone, with just two monks, down from St John’s, to assist him over weekends. He would go on retreat in June for five days (he wasn’t much on card games, though), but he planned no regular vacation. He worked like a dog. He lost weight. He was tired. I was edified.
In May, I heard Father Desmond say, “Ernest, it’s time to widen your circle of friends,” and so Father Burner, rather unwillingly, tried to give a poker party at the rectory. Father Desmond, popular (as Father Burner wasn’t) with the older men, a surprising number of whom claimed to have sold him on sobriety, invited several pastors and, significantly, no curates. But only two of those invited showed up—Father Kling and Father Moore. They belonged to the active set, a kind of Jockey Club for pastors, which maintained a floating poker game, a duck-blind, and a summer lodge. They gambled, hunted, and fished in common.
On the evening of the party, when they came into the dining room, where the cards and chips were laid out, I could see that Father Desmond had led them to believe that Father Burner, of all people, was playing host to an almost official session. Father Kling, a forceful man, glanced at Father Moore, a mild one, and remarked that he’d understood others were coming. With good grace, however, he and Father Moore sat down to play.
Father Desmond, who seemed to regard his function as essentially one of public relations, started right in to plump for Father Burner. “It’s a shame somebody doesn’t tell the old man to retire,” he said, referring to Father Malt. “It’s not fair to Ernest, here, and it’s not fair to the parish. This place needs a young man, with young ideas.” I, for one, wasn’t surprised by the utter silence that followed these remarks. Father Kling and Father Moore, as even Father Desmond should’ve known, were not so young themselves, nor were they so hot on young ideas.
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 conf
irmation 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.
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 anymore.”
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 7UP). 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 anymore 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.