— A priest?
— You remember me.
— Look out, chum. Look out of the way, said the flower-cart man.
— Don't you remember me?
— Here wait, I… could you sell me these lilies?
— Hurry up then, there's a cop coming. I'll leave you have all seven for a dollar, said the flower-cart man.
— Your face, yes, your face, but.
— Come on, chum. Talk to your friend here or give me a buck. There's a cop coming, the flower-cart man interrupted.
— I knew your face, but the round collar.
— And I knew you half a block away. But up close you don't look like yourself at all. It must be two years.?
— Two years?
— Since I saw you, that night, New Year's Eve, with your wife in the street. John picked up his suitcase again. It was a large, and apparently heavy Gladstone bag, which he'd put down to shake hands, stood with his palm open, extended, and withdrawn it when the confusion his gesture had caused threatened upset among the driving currents of people, the threat of smashed eggs, fallen lilies, and a broken vase, which he stood over now protecting with his large black-coated frame, ballasted by the heavy bag. — But I have to make a train, he said. He took half a step back. Then his face streamed crimson: for a full second his large features were at once exposed stilled by surprise and swimming in the harsh brilliance of the three neon letters above. He recovered his half-step, dropped the bag with another step forward and brought up a supporting arm. — What's the matter? Are you all right? His eyes fell under the shadow of the soft black hat-brim, and were gone as the lower part of his face, the moving lips, shone livid under the letters BAR blazing green. — Are you all right?
— Yes, good night. Good night.
— But I can't just leave you.
— Your train, your train.
— But what is it? You're shaking. John's features showed no shape now, his whole face shaded under the soft black hat-brim as his shoulders and both extended arms were caught again in the blazing letters, and an empty hand, then two, as the laden figure turned from his support. — But here.
— Good night. Your train. And you can't come in here. It's a bar.
— Bar? Certainly I can, I'll help you. John caught up his bag with one hand, and caught an elbow with the other. A lily dropped.
— Wait!
— What?
— The lily?
— I'll get it. Now, here… be careful of the door.
In the dim-lit end of the bar, shadows were contorted in the effervescent illumination of the juke-box; which also played Let's Do It. John cleared his throat and spoke in an attempted convivial tone, — What are you doing with lilies and, eggs is it?
— Yes, a little brandy.
— Overwork? Here. Do you feel better? Take a lesson from the lilies. John smiled, and extended a hand. — They toil not. The wrist on the bar was jerked away from him. — Are you all right? he asked again, seeking for some sign in the profile of the face turned from him, and he found none, and faced forward himself. There his eyes rose to the mirror behind the bar, where a fevered stare pinioned them for an instant.
— Did either of you guys. excuse me, father, did either of you gentlemen put in a call to Miami? the bartender intruded between them and the mirror. John shook his head; and when the bulk of the bartender moved on, he saw the reflection of his own face overcome with youth in such proximity to one who looked twice his age. — When I mentioned to your father… he commenced.
— My father!
— Yes. I mentioned I'd seen you, I didn't say.
— You saw my father?
— Why yes, traveling. On church business, I happened to stop in your town, and saw him.
— What did he say?
— What did he say? Why. John repeated. — He didn't say. we talked church business, that's about all. He smiled again, but drew back.
— But my father?
— Church business, John faltered, and cleared his throat again. — You see, I do a good deal of traveling, among out-of-the-way parishes where enrollment has fallen down, it's part of the revival in religious. interest going on all over the country, a lot of it is inter-denominational… — But my father? What did he say?
— Well to tell you the truth, John commenced, and looked down again, catching a cuff against his coat to draw it back and look at his wrist watch, — to tell the truth. he's quite old, isn't he. And he wasn't. very co-operative. The pressing necessities of the times.
— But what did he say?
Looking up, John's face startled more at finding itself uncom-posed in the glass. — It was strange, he said, and paused at the apparently unfamiliar resonance in his own voice, going on, — I got there on Sunday, Sunday morning. I thought, Why not go in and hear his sermon? That's always a good way to get a picture of the problems a congregation… a minister may be up against, but… It was strange. When I went into church, there was almost the feeling the sunlight had stopped. He's a big man, but it was his voice. He towered over the pulpit, he was holding onto it with both hands when I came in, and afterward I looked around at the faces. the sermon, his sermon was on some primitive Australian religion, but you see, to tell the truth.
— What?
John looked up. The lilies on the bar were browning at the edges. He shifted his eyes only far enough to reach the image beside his own in the mirror, but found only a stare of feverish continence which was lost below the mirror's edge. — I remember every word of that Australian. legend, the parallel he was drawing with. Christianity, I can't get it out of my mind. John had clutched the edge of the bar, lowering his voice and slowing his words, — Boyma big man; very budgery man. Him sit on big glass stone. Him son Grogoragally can see everything and go everywhere. See budgery man, like him; see bad man, plenty too much devil devil. Likes budgery man; no likes bad man: he growl too much. Budgery man die, Grogoragally tell Boyma; Boyma say, "Take him Ballima way, plenty budgery place." Bad man die; Boyma say, "Take him Oorooma way, plenty too hot, him growl there." Grogoragally plenty strong, him not so strong as Boyma.
Several people in the bar were looking in their direction. One detached himself and set out toward them, slowly, with the care of a navigator. Before him, his hands composed a shivering binnacle for what served, on this voyage, as a compass, a glass of whisky, perilously plumb between the gimbals of his fingers.
— It was strange, it was as though he could lead every good Protestant there. Oorooma way, if he wanted to. And then, when I walked home with him he would hardly talk about it, he would hardly talk about any of the things that a… man with the pressing responsibilities.
— Say, gentlemen, said a voice behind them. — I enjoyed your sermon. It was the figure from down the bar, a dilapidated bark indeed, heaving in toward shore now and seeking anchorage.
— But. me? He didn't ask about me?
— Well, to tell the truth I… scarcely mentioned… I said I'd seen you, and he asked in an absent way. it's an absent way he seems to have about everything, everything except when I saw him in the church. When I was talking to him, I'd turn to see he'd stopped, standing staring straight up at the sun.
— Gentlemen, I have a religion too, said the voice. — I'm a drunkard. Would you like to join my church?
— But you, John said, bringing a hand up, and the wrist beside the lilies on the bar did not draw away from his touch, — you need a rest, don't you. As his arm had come up, the sleeve drew back to expose the face of his wrist watch. — I have to hurry, but I wish. to tell the truth, when I saw you out there on the street I thought I recognized you and then I thought No, it can't be, it's an old man.