The Centaurus

Caldwell is tidying up the ticket receipts as Phillips tiptoes to him and says, “George. You mentioned a missing strip.”

“One eight oh oh one to eight one four five.”

“I think I’ve placed their whereabouts.”

“Jesus, that would be a load off my mind if you had.”

“I believe Louis has them.”

“Zimmerman? What in hell is he stealing tickets for?”

“Shh.” Phillips glances with an eloquent twist of his mouth in the direction of the supervising principal’s office. In him, conspiracy becomes a species of dandyism. “You know he’s the older boys’ teacher up at the Reformed Sunday School.”

“Sure. They swear by him up there.”

“And did you notice Reverend March coming in tonight?”

“Yeah, I waved him through. I wouldn’t take his money.”

“That was right. The reason he’s here, about forty of the Sunday School were given free tickets and came to the game in a group. I went up to him and suggested he sit on the stage, but he said no he thought he’d be better off standing at the rear of the auditorium and keep an eye out; about half the boys come from up in Ely, where they don’t have a Re formed Church.”

Vera Hummel, hey, comes through the entrance. Her long yellow coat swings unbuttoned, her bun of red hair is breaking loose from its pins; has she been ru

Caldwell calls to her, “Did you have a game today?” She coaches the girls’ basketball team.

“Just got back,” she says, not entirely halting. “We were humiliated. I just gave Al his supper and I thought I’d come see what the boys could do.”

She is gone up the hall, toward the rear of the auditorium.

“That woman certainly loves basketball,” Caldwell says.

“Al works too long hours,” Phillips says, more darkly. “She gets bored.”

“She’s cheerful-looking, though, and when you get to my state, that’s all that matters.”

“George, your health worries me.”

“The Lord loves a cheerful corpse,” Caldwell says, rudely exuberant, and asks boldly, “Now what’s the secret about these tickets?”

“It’s not an actual secret. Reverend March told me that Louis suggested that as an incentive to regular Sunday-school attendance a half-way prize be given, for perfect attendance up to the first of the year.”

“So he sneaks in and swipes my basketball tickets.”

“Not so loud. They’re not your tickets, George. They’re the school’s tickets.”

“Well I’m the poor horse’s neck who has to account for them.”

“It’s just paper, look at it that way. Mark it ‘Charity’ in your books. I’ll back you up if it’s ever questioned.”

“Did you ask Zimmerman what happened to the other hundred? You said forty kids came. He can’t give away the other hundred, next thing every four-year-old m the Reformed nursery will come crawling through that door with a free ticket.”

“George, I know you’re upset. But there’s nothing to be gained in exaggeration. I haven’t spoken to him and I don’t see that anything would be gained. Make a note for charity and we’ll consider the matter closed. Louis tends to be high handed, I know; but it’s for a good cause.”

Secure in his knowledge that his friend’s prudent advice must be taken, Caldwell indulges in a final verbal expenditure. “Those tickets represent ninety dollars of theoretical money; I resent like hell handing them over to the dear old Reformed Sunday School.” He means it. Olinger is, except for a few marginal sects like the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Baptists and the Roman Catholics, divided in friendly rivalry between the Lutherans and the Reformeds, the Lutherans having an advantage of numbers and the Reformeds an advantage of wealth. Born a Presbyterian, Caldwell became in the Depression a Lutheran like his wife, and, surprisingly in one so tolerant, sincerely distrusts the Reformeds, whom he associates with Zimmerman and Calvin, whom he associates with everything murky and oppressive and arbitrary in the universal kingdom.

Vera enters the back of the auditorium by one of the broad doors that are propped open on little rubber-footed legs which unhinge at a kick from snug brass fittings. She sees that Reverend March is over toward the corner, leaning against the stack of folding chairs that for assemblies and stage plays and P.T.A. meetings are unfolded and arranged on the flat area which is now the basketball court. Several boys, legs dangling in dungarees, perch illegally on top of this stack, and through this back area men and boys and one or two girls are standing, craning to see over one another’s shoulders, some standing on chairs set between the open doors. Two men in their middle twenties greet Vera shyly and stand aside to make room for her. She is known to them but they are forgotten by her. They are ex-heroes of the type who, for many years, until a wife or ritual drunke

This minister is a tall and handsome man with a bony brown face and a crisp black mustache fastidiously shaped. The war made him. In 1939 he was a tender, small-boned graduate, not quite twenty-five, of a coal regions seminary. He felt effeminate and enfeebled by doubts. Theology had given his doubts shape and depth. In retrospect the religiosity that had prompted his vocation seemed, insofar as it was not sheerly his mother’s will, a sickly phosphorescence exuded by sexual uncertainty. His ti