Free The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) by J.F. Powers Page A

fallen under the same old presumption disguised as the face of humility, by flooding his mind with maledictions. He suffered the piercing white voice of the Apocalypse to echo in his soul: But because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold, nor hot, I will begin to vomit thee out of my mouth . And St Bernard, fiery-eyed in a white habit, thundered at him from the twelfth century: “Hell is paved with the bald pates of priests!”
    There was a soft flutter, the canary flew to the window sill, paused, and tilted into the snow. Titus stepped too late to the window and stood gazing dumbly after it. He raised a trembling old hand, fingers bent in awe and sorrow, to his forehead, and turned stealthily to Didymus.
    Didymus closed his eyes. He let a long moment pass before he opened them. Titus, seeing him awake then, fussed with the window latch and held a hand down to feel the draft, nodding anxiously as though it were the only evil abroad in the world, all the time straining his old eyes for a glimpse of the canary somewhere in the trees.
    Didymus said nothing, letting Titus keep his secret. With his whole will he tried to lose himself in the sight of God, and failed. He was not in the least transported. Even now he could find no divine sign within himself. He knew he still had to look outside, to Titus. God still chose to manifest Himself most in sanctity.
    Titus, nervous under his stare, and to account for staying at the window so long, felt for the draft again, frowned, and kept his eye hunting among the trees.
    The thought of being the cause of such elaborate dissimulation in so simple a soul made Didymus want to smile—or cry, he did not know which . . . and could do neither. Titus persisted. How long would it be, Didymus wondered faintly, before Titus ungrievingly gave the canary up for lost in the snowy arms of God? The snowflakes whirled at the window, for a moment for all their bright blue beauty as though struck still by lightning, and Didymus closed his eyes, only to find them there also, but darkly falling.

JAMESIE
     
    THERE IT WAS, all about Lefty, in Ding Bell’s Dope Box.
    “We don’t want to add coals to the fire, but it’s common knowledge that the Local Pitcher Most Likely To Succeed is fed up with the home town. Well, well, the boy’s good, which nobody can deny, and the scouts are on his trail, but it doesn’t say a lot for his team spirit, not to mention his civic spirit, this high-hat attitude of his. And that fine record of his—has it been all a case of him and him alone? How about the team? The boys have backed him up, they’ve given him the runs, and that’s what wins ball games. They don’t pay off on strike-outs. There’s one kind of player every scribe knows—and wishes he didn’t—the lad who gets four for four with the willow, and yet, somehow, his team goes down to defeat—but does that worry this gent? Not a bit of it. He’s too busy celebrating his own personal success, figuring his batting average, or, if he’s a pitcher, his earned run average and strike-outs. The percentage player. We hope we aren’t talking about Lefty. If we are, it’s too bad, it is, and no matter where he goes from here, especially if it’s up to the majors, it won’t remain a secret very long, nor will he . . . See you at the game Sunday. Ding Bell.”
    “Here’s a new one, Jamesie,” his father said across the porch, holding up the rotogravure section.
    With his father on Sunday it could be one of three things—a visit to the office, fixing up his mother’s grave in Calvary, or just sitting on the porch with all the Chicago papers, as today.
    Jamesie put down the Courier and went over to his father without curiosity. It was always Lindy or the Spirit of St Louis , and now without understanding how this could so suddenly be, he was tired of them. His father, who seemed to feel that a growing boy could take an endless interest in these things, appeared to know the truth at last. He gave a page