The Big New Yorker Book of Cats

(illustration credit p01.1)

DEATH OF A FAVORITE

Fiction

J. F. POWERS

Ihad spent most of the afternoon mousing—a matter of sport with me and certainly not of diet—in the sunburnt fields that begin at our back door and continue hundreds of miles into the Dakotas. I gradually gave up the idea of hunting, the grasshoppers convincing me that there was no percentage in stealth. Even to doze was difficult, under such conditions, but I must have managed it. At least I was late coming to dinner, and so my introduction to the two missionaries took place at table. They were surprised, as most visitors are, to see me take the chair at Father Malt’s right.

Father Malt, breaking off the conversation (if it could be called that), was his usual dear old self. Fathers, he said, meet Fritz.

I gave the newcomers the first good look that invariably tells me whether or not a person cares for cats. The mean old buck in charge of the team did not like me, I could see, and would bear watching. The other one obviously did like me, but he did not appear to be long enough from the seminary to matter. I felt that I had broken something less than even here.

My assistant, said Father Malt, meaning me, and thus unconsciously dealing out our fat friend at the other end of the table. Poor Burner! There was a time when, thinking of him, as I did now, as the enemy, I could have convinced myself I meant something else. But he is the enemy, and I was right from the beginning, when it could only have been instinct that told me how much he hated me even while trying (in his fashion!) to be friendly. (I believe his prejudice to be acquired rather than congenital, and very likely, at this stage, confined to me, not to cats as a class—there is that in his favor. I intend to be fair about this if it kills me.)

My observations of humanity incline me to believe that one of us—Burner or I—must ultimately prevail over the other. For myself, I should not fear if this were a battle to be won on the solid ground of Father Malt’s affections. But the old man grows older, the grave beckons to him ahead, and with Burner pushing him from behind, how long can he last? Which is to say: How long can I last? Unfortunately, it is naked power that counts most in any rectory, and as things stand now, I am safe only so long as Father Malt retains it here. Could I—this impossible thought is often with me now—could I effect a reconciliation and alliance with Father Burner? Impossible! Yes, doubtless. But the question better asked is: How impossible? (Lord knows I would not inflict this line of reasoning upon myself if I did not hold with the rumors that Father Burner will be the one to succeed to the pastorate.) For I do like it here. It is not at all in my nature to forgive and forget, certainly not as regards Father Burner, but it is in my nature to come to terms (much as nations do) when necessary, and in this solution there need not be a drop of good will. No dog can make that statement, or take the consequences, which I understand are most serious, in the world to come. Shifts and ententes. There is something fatal about the vocation of favorite, but it is the only one that suits me, and, all things considered—to dig I am not able, to beg I am ashamed—the rewards are adequate.

We go through Chicago all the time, said the boss missionary, who seemed to be returning to a point he had reached when I entered. I knew Father Malt would be off that evening for a convention in Chicago. The missionaries, who would fill in for him and conduct a forty hours’ devotion on the side, belonged to an order just getting started in the diocese and were anxious to make a good impression. For the present, at least, as a kind of special introductory offer, they could be had dirt-cheap. Thanks to them, pastors who’d never been able to get away had got a taste of Florida last winter.

How would you feel if the mouse did that to you? (illustration credit 1.2)

Sometimes we stay over in Chicago, bubbled the young missionary. He was like a rookie ballplayer who hasn’t made many road trips.

We’ve got a house there, said the first, whose name in religion, as they say, was—so help me—Philbert. Later, Father Burner would get around it by calling him by his surname. Father Malt was the sort who wouldn’t see anything funny about Philbert, but it would be too much to expect him to remember such a name.

What kind of a house? asked Father Malt. He held up his hearing aid and waited for clarification.

Father Philbert replied in a shout, "The Order owns a house there!"

Father Malt fingered his hearing aid.

Father Burner sought to interpret for Father Philbert. I think, Father, he wants to know what it’s made out of.

Red brick—it’s red brick, bellowed Father Philbert.

"My house is red brick," said Father Malt.

"I noticed that," said Father Philbert.

Father Malt shoved the hearing aid at him.

I know it, said Father Philbert, shouting again.

Father Malt nodded and fed me a morsel of fish. Even for a Friday, it wasn’t much of a meal. I would not have been sorry to see this housekeeper go.

All right, all right, said Father Burner to the figure lurking behind the door and waiting for him, always the last one, to finish. She stands and looks in at you through the crack, he beefed. Makes you feel like a condemned man. The housekeeper came into the room, and he addressed the young missionary (Burner was a great one for questioning the young): Ever read any books by this fella Koestler, Father?

The Jesuit? the young one asked.

Hell, no, he’s some kind of a writer. I know the man you mean, though. Spells his name different. Wrote a book—apologetics.

That’s the one. Very—

Dull.

Well …

This other fella’s not bad. He’s a writer who’s ahead of his time—about fifteen minutes. Good on jails and concentration camps. You’d think he was born in one if you ever read his books. Father Burner regarded the young missionary with absolute indifference. But you didn’t.

No. Is he a Catholic? inquired the young one.

He’s an Austrian or something.

Oh.

The housekeeper removed the plates and passed the dessert around. When she came to Father Burner, he asked her privately, What is it?

Pudding, she said, not whispering, as he would have liked.

"Bread pudding?" Now he was threatening her.

Yes, Father.

Father Burner shuddered and announced to everybody, No dessert for me. When the housekeeper had retired into the kitchen, he said, "Sometimes I think he got her from a hospital and sometimes, Father, I think she came from one of your fine institutions"—this to the young missionary.

Father Philbert, however, was the one to see the joke, and he laughed.

My God, said Father Burner, growing bolder. I’ll never forget the time I stayed at your house in Louisville. If I hadn’t been there for just a day—for the Derby, in fact—I’d have gone to Rome about it. I think I’ve had better meals here.

At the other end of the table, Father Malt, who could not have heard a word, suddenly blinked and smiled; the missionaries looked to him for some comment, in vain.

He doesn’t hear me, said Father Burner. Besides, I think he’s listening to the news.

I didn’t realize it was a radio too, said the young missionary.

Oh, hell, yes.

I think he’s pulling your leg, said Father Philbert.

Well, I thought so, said the young missionary ruefully.

It’s an idea, said Father Burner. Then in earnest to Father Philbert, whom he’d really been working around to all the time—the young one was decidedly not his type—You the one drivin’ that new Olds, Father?

It’s not mine, Father, said Father Philbert with a meekness that would have been hard to take if he’d meant it. Father Burner understood him perfectly, however, and I thought they were two persons who would get to know each other a lot better.

Nice job. They say it compares with the Cad in power. What do you call that color—oxford or clerical gray?

I really couldn’t say, Father. It’s my brother’s. He’s a layman in Minneapolis—St. Stephen’s parish. He loaned it to me for this little trip.

Father Burner grinned. He could have been thinking, as I was, that Father Philbert protested too much. Thought I saw you go by earlier, he said. What’s the matter—didn’t you want to come in when you saw the place?

Father Philbert, who was learning to ignore Father Malt, laughed discreetly. "Couldn’t be sure this was it. That house on the other side of the church, now—"

Father Burner nodded. Like that, huh? Belongs to a Mason.

Father Philbert sighed and said, It would.

Not at all, said Father Burner. I like ’em better than K.C.s. If he could get the audience for it, Father Burner enjoyed being broad-minded. Gazing off in the direction of the Mason’s big house, he said, I’ve played golf with him.

The young missionary looked at Father Burner in horror. Father Philbert merely smiled. Father Burner, toying with a large crumb, propelled it in my direction.

Did a bell ring? asked Father Malt.

His P.A. system, Father Burner explained. Better tell him, he said to the young missionary. You’re closer. He can’t bring me in on those batteries he uses.

No bell, said the young missionary, lapsing into basic English and gestures.

Father Malt nodded, as though he hadn’t really thought so.

How do you like it? said Father Burner.

Father Philbert hesitated, and then he said, Here, you mean?

I wouldn’t ask you that, said Father Burner, laughing. Talkin’ about that Olds. Like it? Like the Hydramatic?

No kiddin’, Father. It’s not mine, Father Philbert protested.

All right, all right, said Father Burner, who obviously did not believe him. Just so you don’t bring up your vow of poverty. He looked at Father Philbert’s uneaten bread pudding—Had enough?—and rose from the table, blessing himself. The other two followed when Father Malt, who was feeding me cheese, waved them away. Father Burner came around to us, bumping my chair—intentionally, I know. He stood behind Father Malt and yelled into his ear, Any calls for me this aft? He’d been out somewhere, as usual. I often thought he expected too much to happen in his absence.

There was something … said Father Malt, straining his memory, which was poor.

Yes?

Now I remember—they had the wrong number.

Father Burner, looking annoyed and downhearted, left the room.

They said they’d call back, said Father Malt, sensing Father Burner’s disappointment.

I left Father Malt at the table reading his Office under the orange light of the chandelier. I went to the living room, to my spot in the window from which I could observe Father Burner and the missionaries on the front porch, the young one in the swing with his breviary—the mosquitoes, I judged, were about to join him—and the other two just smoking and standing around, like pool players waiting for a table. I heard Father Philbert say, Like to take a look at it, Father?

Say, that’s an idea, said Father Burner.

I saw them go down the front walk to the gray Olds parked at the curb. With Father Burner at the wheel they drove away. In a minute they were back, the car moving uncertainly—this I noted with considerable pleasure until I realized that Father Burner was simply testing the brakes. Then they were gone, and after a bit, when they did not return, I supposed they were out killing poultry on the open road.

That evening, when the ushers dropped in at the rectory, there was not the same air about them as when they came for pinochle. Without fanfare, Mr. Bauman, their leader, who had never worked any but the center aisle, presented Father Malt with a travelling bag. It was nice of him, I thought, when he said, It’s from all of us, for it could not have come from all equally. Mr. Bauman, in hardware, and Mr. Keller, the druggist, were the only ones well off, and must have forked out plenty for such a fine piece of luggage, even after the discount.

Father Malt thanked all six ushers with little nods in which there was no hint of favoritism. Ha, he kept saying. You shouldn’a done it.

The ushers bobbed and ducked, dodging his flattery, and kept up a mumble to the effect that Father Malt deserved everything they’d ever done for him and more. Mr. Keller came forward to instruct Father Malt in the use of the various clasps and zippers. Inside the bag was another gift, a set of military brushes, which I could see they were afraid he would not discover for himself. But he unsnapped a brush, and, like the veteran crowd-pleaser he was, swiped once or twice at his head with it after spitting into the bristles. The ushers all laughed.

Pretty snazzy, said the newest usher—the only young blood among them. Mr. Keller had made him a clerk at the store, had pushed through his appointment as alternate usher in the church, and was gradually weaning him away from his motorcycle. With Mr. Keller, the lad formed a block to Mr. Bauman’s power, but he was perhaps worse than no ally at all. Most of the older men, though they pretended a willingness to help him meet the problems of an usher, were secretly pleased when he bungled at collection time and skipped a row or overlapped one.

Mr. Keller produced a box of ten-cent cigars, which, as a personal gift from him, came as a bitter surprise to the others. He was not big enough, either, to attribute it to them too. He had anticipated their resentment, however, and now produced a bottle of milk of magnesia. No one could deny the comic effect, for Father Malt had been known to recommend the blue bottle from the confessional.

Ha! said Father Malt, and everybody laughed.

In case you get upset on the trip, said the druggist.

You know it’s the best thing, said Father Malt in all seriousness, and then even he remembered he’d said it too often before. He passed the cigars. The box went from hand to hand, but, except for the druggist’s clerk, nobody would have one.

Father Malt, seeing this, wisely renewed his thanks for the bag, insisting upon his indebtedness until it was actually in keeping with the idea the ushers had of their own generosity. Certainly none of them had ever owned a bag like that. Father Malt went to the housekeeper with it and asked her to transfer his clothes from the old bag, already packed, to the new one. When he returned, the ushers were still standing around feeling good about the bag and not so good about the cigars. They’d discuss that later. Father Malt urged them to sit down. He seemed to want them near him as long as possible. They were his friends, but I could not blame Father Burner for avoiding them. He was absent now, as he usually managed to be when the ushers called. If he ever succeeded Father Malt, who let them have the run of the place, they would be the first to suffer—after me! As Father Malt was the heart, they were the substance of a parish that remained rural while becoming increasingly suburban. They dressed up occasionally and dropped into St. Paul and Minneapolis, the Cities, as visiting firemen into Hell, though it would be difficult to imagine any other place as graceless and far-gone as our own hard little highway town—called Sherwood but about as sylvan as a tennis court.

They were regular fellows—not so priestly as their urban colleagues—loud, heavy of foot, wearers of long underwear in wintertime and iron-gray business suits the year round. Their idea of a good time (pilsner beer, cheap cigars smoked with the bands left on, and pinochle) coincided nicely with their understanding of doing good (a percentage of every pot went to the parish building fund). Their wives, also active, played cards in the church basement and sold vanilla extract and chances—mostly to each other, it appeared—with all revenue over cost going to what was known as the missions. This evening I could be grateful that time was not going to permit the usual pinochle game. (In the midst of all their pounding—almost as hard on me as it was on the dining-room table—I often felt they should have played on a meat block.)

The ushers, settling down all over the living room, started to talk about Father Malt’s trip to Chicago. The housekeeper brought in a round of beer.

How long you be gone, Father—three days? one of them asked.

Father Malt said that he’d be gone about three days.

Three days! This is Friday. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Everything stopped while the youngest usher counted on his fingers. Back on Tuesday?

Father Malt nodded.

Who’s takin’ over on Sunday?

Mr. Keller answered for Father Malt. He’s got some missionary fathers in.

Missionaries!

The youngest usher then began to repeat himself on one of his two or three topics. Hey, Father, don’t forget to drop in the U.S.O. if it’s still there. I was in Chi during the war, he said, but nobody would listen to him.

Mr. Bauman had cornered Father Malt and was trying to tell him where that place was—that place where he’d eaten his meals during the World’s Fair; one of the waitresses was from Minnesota. I’d had enough of this—the next thing would be a diagram on the back of an envelope—and I’d heard Father Burner come in earlier. I went upstairs to check on him. For a minute or two I stood outside his room listening. He had Father Philbert with him, and, just as I’d expected, he was talking against Father Malt, leading up to the famous question with which Father Malt, years ago, had received the Sherwood appointment from the Archbishop: Have dey got dere a goot meat shop?

Father Philbert laughed, and I could hear him sip from his glass and place it on the floor beside his chair. I entered the room, staying close to the baseboard, in the shadows, curious to know what they were drinking. I maneuvered myself into position to sniff Father Philbert’s glass. To my surprise, Scotch. Here was proof that Father Burner considered Father Philbert a friend. At that moment I could not think what it was he expected to get out of a lowly missionary. My mistake, not realizing then how correct and prophetic I’d been earlier in thinking of them as two of a kind. It seldom happened that Father Burner got out the real Scotch for company, or for himself in company. For most guests he had nothing—a safe policy, since a surprising number of temperance cranks passed through the rectory—and for unwelcome guests who would like a drink he kept a bottle of Scotch-type whiskey, which was a smooth, smoky blend of furniture polish that came in a fancy bottle, was offensive even when watered, and cheap, though rather hard to get since the end of the war. He had a charming way of plucking the rare bottle from a bureau drawer, as if this were indeed an occasion for him; even so, he would not touch the stuff, presenting himself as a chap of simple tastes, of no taste at all for the things of this world, who would prefer, if anything, the rude wine made from our own grapes—if we’d had any grapes. Quite an act, and one he thoroughly enjoyed, holding his glass of pure water and asking, How’s your drink, Father? Strong enough?

The housekeeper, appearing at the door, said there’d been a change of plans and some of the ushers were driving Father Malt to the train.

Has he gone yet? asked Father Burner.

Not yet, Father.

Well, tell him goodbye for me.

Yes, Father.

When she had gone, he said, I’d tell him myself, but I don’t want to run into that bunch.

Father Philbert smiled. What’s he up to in Chicago?

They’ve got one of those pastors’ and builders’ conventions going on at the Stevens Hotel.

Is he building?

No, but he’s a pastor and he’ll get a lot of free samples. He won’t buy anything.

Not much has been done around here, huh? said Father Philbert.

He had fed Father Burner the question he wanted. He built that fish pond in the back yard—for his minnows. That’s the extent of the building program in his time. Of course he’s only been here a while.

(illustration credit 1.3)

SANCTUARY

On East Fifty-sixth Street one day last week, we noticed a hand-lettered sign on the windshield of a parked car. It read, Under your car is a kitten. Stay where you are until he decides to come out. Thank you.

| 1956 |

How long?

Fourteen years, said Father Burner. He would be the greatest builder of them all—if he ever got the chance. He lit a cigarette and smiled. What he’s really going to Chicago for is to see a couple of ball games.

Father Philbert did not smile. Who’s playing there now? he said.

A little irritated at this interest, Father Burner said, I believe it’s the Red Sox—or is it the Reds? Hell, how do I know?

Couldn’t be the Reds, said Father Philbert. The boy and I were in Cincinnati last week and it was the start of a long home stand for them.

Very likely, said Father Burner.

While the missionary, a Cardinal fan, analyzed the pennant race in the National League, Father Burner sulked. What’s the best train out of Chicago for Washington? he suddenly inquired.

Father Philbert told him what he could, but admitted that his information dated from some years back. We don’t make the run to Washington any more.

That’s right, said Father Burner. Washington’s in the American League.

Father Philbert laughed, turning aside the point that he travelled with the Cardinals. I thought you didn’t know about these things, he said.

About these things it’s impossible to stay ignorant, said Father Burner. Here, and the last place, and the place before that, and in the seminary—a ball, a bat, and God. I’ll be damned, Father, if I’ll do as the Romans do.

What price glory? inquired Father Philbert, as if he smelt heresy.

I know, said Father Burner. And it’ll probably cost me the red hat. A brave comment, perhaps, from a man not yet a country pastor, and it showed me where his thoughts were again. He did not disguise his humble ambition by speaking lightly of an impossible one. Scratch a prelate and you’ll find a second baseman, he fumed.

Father Philbert tried to change the subject. Somebody told me Father Malt’s the exorcist for the diocese.

Used to be. Father Burner’s eyes flickered balefully.

Overdid it, huh? asked Father Philbert—as if he hadn’t heard!

Some. I expected Father Burner to say more. He could have told some pretty wild stories, the gist of them all that Father Malt, as an exorcist, was perhaps a little quick on the trigger. He had stuck pretty much to livestock, however, which was to his credit in the human view.

Much scandal?

Some.

Nothing serious, though?

No.

Suppose it depends on what you call serious.

Father Burner did not reply. He had become oddly morose. Perhaps he felt that he was being catered to out of pity, or that Father Philbert, in giving him so many opportunities to talk against Father Malt, was tempting him.

Who plays the accordion? inquired Father Philbert, hearing it downstairs.

He does.

Go on!

Sure.

How can he hear what he’s playing?

What’s the difference—if he plays an accordion?

Father Philbert laughed. He removed the cellophane from a cigar, and then he saw me. And at that moment I made no attempt to hide. There’s that damn cat.

His assistant! said Father Burner with surprising bitterness. Coadjutor with right of succession.

Father Philbert balled up the cellophane and tossed it at the wastebasket, missing.

Get it, he said to me, fatuously.

I ignored him, walking slowly toward the door.

Father Burner made a quick movement with his feet, which were something to behold, but I knew he wouldn’t get up, and took my sweet time.

Father Philbert inquired, Will she catch mice?

She! Since coming to live at the rectory, I’ve been celibate, it’s true, but I daresay I’m as manly as the next one. And Father Burner, who might have done me the favor of putting him straight, said nothing.

She looks pretty fat to be much of a mouser.

I just stared at the poor man then, as much as to say that I’d think one so interested in catching mice would have heard of a little thing called the mousetrap. After one last dirty look, I left them to themselves—to punish each other with their company.

I strolled down the hall, trying to remember when I’d last had a mouse. Going past the room occupied by the young missionary, I smiled upon his door, which was shut, confident that he was inside hard at his prayers.

The next morning, shortly after breakfast, which I took, as usual, in the kitchen, I headed for the cool orchard to which I often repaired on just such a day as this one promised to be. I had no appetite for the sparrows hopping from tree to tree above me, but there seemed no way to convince them of that. Each one, so great is his vanity, thinks himself eminently edible. Peace, peace, they cry, and there is no peace. Finally, tired of their noise, I got up from the matted grass and left, levelling my ears and flailing my tail, in a fake dudgeon that inspired the males to feats of stunt flying and terrorized the young females most delightfully.

I went then to another favorite spot of mine, that bosky strip of green between the church and the brick sidewalk. Here, however, the horseflies found me, and as if that were not enough, visions of stray dogs and children came between me and the kind of sleep I badly needed after an uncommonly restless night.

When afternoon came, I remembered that it was Saturday, and that I could have the rectory to myself. Father Burner and the missionaries would be busy with confessions. By this time the temperature had reached its peak, and though I felt sorry for the young missionary, I must admit the thought of the other two sweltering in the confessionals refreshed me. The rest of the afternoon I must have slept something approaching the sleep of the just.

I suppose it was the sound of dishes that roused me. I rushed into the dining room, not bothering to wash up, and took my customary place at the table. Only then did I consider the empty chair next to me—the utter void. This, I thought, is a foreshadowing of what I must someday face—this, and Father Burner munching away at the other end of the table. And there was the immediate problem: no one to serve me. The young missionary smiled at me, but how can you eat a smile? The other two, looking rather wilted—to their hot boxes I wished them swift return—talked in expiring tones of reserved sins and did not appear to notice me. Our first meal together without Father Malt did not pass without incident, however. It all came about when the young missionary extended a thin sliver of meat to me.

Hey, don’t do that! said Father Philbert. You’ll never make a mouser out of her that way.

Father Burner, too, regarded the young missionary with disapproval.

Just this one piece, said the young missionary. The meat was already in my mouth.

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.

(illustration credit 1.4)

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 myself 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 counter-revolution 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.

| 1950 |

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THE CASE OF DIMITY ANN

Fiction

JAMES THURBER

When the last guests left, after a party that had begun with early cocktails, proceeded gaily through wine at dinner, and then liqueurs and highballs, the Ridgeways stood in the open doorway of their house and watched the Bennetts’ Buick flash its headlights at the turn of the driveway and disappear down the road.

Let’s have a nightcat, Ridgeway said. I say ‘cat’ because nobody ever talked about cats the way Bennett talked about cats tonight. All I can think of is nightcat, hubcat, foolscat, freshman cat—I can’t understand a cat man like that, he finished with a snarl.

Alice didn’t like the snarl, which boded more Scotch, and she said, I think I’ll go to bed. It’s after two, but she could see it wouldn’t work. I’ll finish the one I have, she said quickly. Then I’m going to bed. She hurriedly led the way back to the living room, as if she wanted to get the nightcap over with.

Wives always tell their husbands where they’re going, Ridgeway said sulkily. " ‘I’m going to bed.’ ‘I’m going to put my foot down.’ ‘I’m going to tell you