The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (69 page)

“We’re well out of that,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

They talked about the house, about the carved mahogany chimney piece, which, though, was spoiled by the glazed tiles (these reminding him of the Men’s Room at the Union Station in Chicago), and about what they’d need in the way of equipment—different plugs for the brass lamps, for instance, for there were a number of types in use in Ireland and they had the wrong type for this house, which, though, had to be expected.

“The odds are three or four to one against you whenever you move,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

He tuned in the American Forces Network, Europe, for the home news, and heard that there was a blizzard sweeping across the Midwest. Then “Mr Midnight” came on with his usual drivel about “music for night people, romance, and quiet listening . . . lonesome sounds of a metropolitan city after dark”—and they discussed “metropolitan city,” Mama saying that it was redundant, Daddy that he didn’t like the sound of it but pointing out that it might not be redundant in certain circumstances, citing bishops who were metropolitans, whose seats, sees, or see cities, were rightly called metropolitan seats, sees, or cities. But Mama still took exception to it.

After that, they talked—he did—about their friends in America, about Joe and the highway, about Fred and the river, more about Dick and those big old trees that were probably heavy with snow and ice now, and about that big frame house that had to be painted every five years.

“That’s one good thing about a house like this,” he said. “Pebbledash.”

“Yes,” she said.