The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) Read Online Free PDF Page B

hear about social justice you could turn on the radio or go to the nearest stadium on the Fourth of July, and there’d be an old white man in a new black suit saying it was a good thing and everybody ought to get some, and if they’d just kick in more they might and, anyway, they’d be saved. One came to Our Saviour’s last year, and Father Egan said this is our new assistant and the next Sunday our new assistant was gone—poor health. But Daddy said he was transferred to a church in a white neighborhood because he couldn’t stand to save black souls. Father Egan would’ve come a-flying, riot or no riot, but he was dead now and we didn’t know much about the one that took his place.
    Then he came, by God; the priest from Our Saviour’s came to our room while the riot was going on. Old Gramma got all excited and said over and over she knew the priest would come. He was kind of young and skinny and pale, even for a white man, and he said, “I’m Father Crowe,” to everybody in the room and looked around to see who was who.
    The doctor introduced himself and said Old Gramma was Old Gramma, Daddy was Daddy, we were the children, that was Mr Gorman, who was just passing by, and over there was poor Mama. He missed Old Gramma’s old woman friend; I guess he didn’t know what to call her. The priest went over and took a look at Mama and nodded to the doctor and they went into Old Gramma’s room together. The priest had a little black bag, too, and he took it with him. I suppose he was getting ready to give Mama Extreme Unction. I didn’t think they would wake her up for Confession or Holy Communion; she was so weak and needed the rest.
    Daddy got up from the table mad as a bull and said to the white man, “Remember what I said, mister.”
    “But why me?” the white man asked. “Just because I’m white?”
    Daddy looked over at Mama on the bed and said, “Yeah, just because you’re white; yeah, that’s why . . . ” Old Gramma took Daddy by the arm and steered him over to the table again and he sat down.
    The priest and the doctor came out of Old Gramma’s room, and right away the priest faced the white man, like they’d been talking about him in Old Gramma’s room, and asked him why he didn’t go home. The white man said he’d heard some shouting in the alley a while ago that didn’t sound so good to him and he didn’t think it was safe yet and that was why.
    “I see,” the priest said.
    “I’m a Catholic too, Father,” the white man said.
    “That’s the trouble,” the priest said.
    The priest took some cotton from his little black bag, dipped his fingers in holy oil, and made the sign of the cross on Mama’s eyes, nose, ears, mouth, and hands, rubbing the oil off with the cotton, and said prayers in Latin all the time he was doing it.
    “I want you all to kneel down now,” the priest said, “and we’ll say a rosary. But we mustn’t say it too loud because she is sleeping.”
    We all knelt down except the baby and Carrie. Carrie said she’d never kneel down to God again. “Now Carrie,” Old Gramma said, almost crying. She told Carrie it was for poor Mama and wouldn’t Carrie kneel down if it was for poor Mama?
    “No!” Carrie said. “It must be a white God too!” Then she began crying and she did kneel down after all.
    Even the white man knelt down and the doctor and the old woman friend of Old Gramma’s, a solid Baptist if I ever saw one, and we all said the rosary of the five sorrowful mysteries.
    Afterwards the white man said to the priest, “Do you mind if I leave when you do, Father?” The priest didn’t answer, and the white man said, “I think I’ll be leaving now, Father. I wonder if you’d be going my way?”
    The priest finally said, “All right, all right, come along. You won’t be the first one to hide behind a Roman collar.”
    The white man said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that, Father.” The priest didn’t hear him, I guess, or want to