Bishop's Man

by Linden MacIntyre

  The sorrow comes in waves, the way the restless shoreline sighs and rustles long after the passage of a distant vessel. I turn to the bookcase and the old diaries, the silent guardians of my secrets. I take one down. Open to a random page.

  april 22. afterwards, she cried and cried and cried. but when i tried to comfort her she told me she was happy. the tears are happiness, she said . . .

  There was a knock at the door and Bobby O’Brian called from the kitchen. I went out to meet him. He was standing there with his son, Donald. He handed me a package.

  “Fruitcake,” he said. “The wife sent it over. The old-fashioned kind, with brandy. Hardly anybody makes it like she does anymore. I think you’ve met the young fellow here. Donald.”

  We shook hands again anyway. He was smiling. The nervousness I’d noticed the last time I’d seen him was gone.

  “I was wondering,” Bobby said, “if you had a few minutes to spare. Something we wanted to discuss with you. Something we need from you.”

  I told them to follow me to the den.

  “You do the talking,” Bobby said to his son, who cleared his throat and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said. “How I want to spend my life. What I want to do, long term. And I’m pretty convinced . . . that I want to become a priest. To try, anyway.”

  I was struggling not to seem surprised. I was more accustomed to watching them go, or encouraging them to leave before they became a liability to all of us.

  “When did you decide this?”

  “It’s something I’ve always had in the back of my mind.”

  “He’s always been different from other kids,” Bobby said proudly. “I never encouraged him one way or another. You always dream of something like this, but you know from experience that it isn’t something you can influence.”

  “I’m sure you’ve thought it through,” I said to Donald.

  “I have,” he said fervently.

  “But you must have questions.”

  “Hundreds. Maybe we can talk again. One on one.”

  “We can have all the talks you want,” I promised.

  He needed a letter of introduction for the bishop. I said I’d write one and we all shook hands again.

  After they were gone, I sat for a long time staring out over the frozen fields. The dull, chalky day was fading. This time of year you can see the murky darkness rising like sediment, dirtying the daylight. What will I tell this Donald O’Brian? How much will I disclose about the isolation? The struggle against idle speculation, or worse? The pain of personal impotence? The sterility of moral power in the age of secular celebrity? Struggles I didn’t know about before becoming a priest, or only in some abstract way that I was able to belittle and defer. Living alone but without privacy. The burden of trust without intimacy. Watching the endless nights rising from the scattered ashes of innumerable solitary days. Struggling with fantasies about the ordinary.

  How much should he know of this, or we of him and all his secret challenges?

  I poured a drink.

  And I remembered Father Roddie, the philosopher, and his words the week before my ordination: Nobody is perfect, not in this life; but we have to show, by example, how to manage imperfections.

  But Father Roddie didn’t reveal to me the secret weapon for the management of imperfection. I had to learn that for myself. I had to learn about hypocrisy alone.

  New Year’s Eve, Stella called. Wanted to know my plans for the evening. I laughed. No plans. Tomorrow is Sunday. A workday.

  “If you have nothing better to do, you can drop by for a drink,” she said.

  I said I’d think about it.

  New Year’s Eve. The end of 1994. After the evening Mass I decided to walk over to Stella’s. I considered crossing through the field behind the church but was daunted by the likelihood of snowdrifts. So I took the longer way, along the highway then up the mountain road for about a kilometre. Years ago, in another country, I walked like this, still innocent of the perils that lie in the perceptions of others, walking toward the warmth of hospitality unconscious of any potential for danger there.

  She was watching television. She had a glass of wine beside her, but there was also a bottle of Scotch on the cupboard. I poured, irritated finally by the nervousness that always grips me in moments like this. Envying people like Sextus, with all his certainties. I made the drink stronger than I normally would have.

  “I expected a party,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

  “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. “We’re it. I hope that doesn’t make you nervous.”

  She was wearing jeans and a bulky turtleneck and her feet were bare. The occasion of sin? We watched the television in silence. During a commercial break she explained that she’d long ago concluded that she hated New Year’s parties and all the false cheerfulness.

  I agreed.

  The program started again.

  The tension diminished with my drink.

  We spent the evening like that, sitting in big chairs sipping drinks, laughing occasionally at the television. Venturing briefly into large speculations, backing away from areas of potential disagreement. There’s a warmth in her house, I thought. A living warmth, partly from the way she’s arranged it. The furniture. The light. Rugs. Soft and full.

  Could it really be like this? I mustn’t spoil it.

  “I like your place,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s talk of a new glebe.”

  “I heard. What do you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me. I probably won’t be here long enough to appreciate a new place.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she said quickly. And I felt oddly thrilled by the anxiety in her voice.

  “You know the way it is. Like the army. You keep getting transferred.”

  “Not necessarily. We expect commitment.”

  “Since when did the priest’s commitment matter to you?” I said playfully.

  “Touché,” she said, raising her wineglass.

  At midnight we toasted the year ahead and for a moment I considered taking her in my arms. In a brotherly way, of course. But I thought better of it. Fear of misunderstanding. It can start with something as simple as a hug.

  “Here’s to ’95 and all it brings.”

  “All kinds of joy,” she said. “I have a good feeling about ’95.”

  Before I left, I mentioned that I’d had a visit from the O’Brians. Bob and Donald.

  “Ah,” she said. “They went to talk to you.”

  “Yes. Obviously you know why.”

  There was a long, deliberate silence as she studied the last of her drink. “Maybe a nightcap?” She smiled.

  “I’m okay.”

  She sighed. “Donald told me, Christmas night, that he was hoping to talk to you. He was nervous.”

  “Nervous!” I laughed. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Because you caught him smoking a joint,” she said.

  “Does he actually think, after all my years at the university, that I’m shocked by the smell of grass?”

  “Of course, you realize there’s something else,” she said.

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  She studied me for a moment then focused on the wineglass again, tipped it, swirled the contents thoughtfully. “He’s probably gay.”

  I laughed. “What gives you that impression?”

  She flushed. “Just a feeling that I get.”

  “Ah, well. We all have our little challenges.”

  I can see her still: the way she cocked her head to one side, skeptically, then looked away from me and smiled as if to some invisible third person in the room.

  It was time to leave, but I lingered at the door.

  “I’m glad you came over,” she said. “I enjoyed it . . . the nicest New Year’s Eve for years.”

  “Yes,” I said. “For years.”

  And wanted to s
ay more. But caught her hand briefly then let go, turned away and left.

  There was a message on my answering machine. Effie and Sextus. Wishing me the best. Also asking if I’d heard from John.

  Sitting alone in my darkened living room, staring out over the black bay with my second large whisky in my hand, I realized that, one day, I’d have to tell them everything. Probably for my own good.

  april 29. after mass this morning, a man was asking questions about alfonso. pleasant fellow. well dressed. see him at mass regularly. he attends every day. speaks very good english. says he was once the local representative for coca-cola. talking about how much he admires alfonso, for his homilies on justice. calero, the name. he says he became a police officer. because of the way the country is heading.

  {10}

  In January it becomes impossible to defer the reality of winter and her casual betrayals. You feel that summer and her pretty sister, autumn, have gone perhaps forever. There is that sense of personal abandonment. That’s when we turn inward, and hope to find some comfort there.

  That was my message January 1, 1995. I thought it was an appropriate reflection on the meaning of Christ’s birth and the eternal hope He brought with His arrival among us. The extraordinary promise that gets us through the dark days until the enlightenment of Pentecost and the rebirth of spring. And the promise that one day we will know a summer without end. Et cetera.

  Afterwards, young Donald O’Brian told me it was awesome.

  Four days into the New Year, Sextus called to tell me that when Effie went back to Toronto after her Christmas break, he was tempted to go with her. “Now I’m sorry I didn’t. Got used to having her around. The place isn’t the same without her. I can’t imagine how you manage there, all alone. It isn’t good for any of us. You, me, buddy out at the old place.” Then, after a pause: “Speaking of which . . . if you get a chance, maybe you should look in on John. I think he’s fallen off the wagon.”

  There was a polite knock at the door before I had a chance to react. It was young O’Brian. I told Sextus I’d have to call him back.

  “I’ll be heading back tomorrow,” Donald said. “To Antigonish ... I was wondering ...”

  “Ah, yes. Your timing is spot-on.”

  I had in fact just written his letter to the bishop. Two brief paragraphs. He was a member of the parish, baptized and confirmed, impeccable academic and moral history, strong family, father active in parish affairs, etc.

  I invited him in and asked him to sit.

  “When you get back, just call the office. He’s expecting you.”

  “Ah.”

  He looked surprised.

  “When I was in the army,” the bishop said, “the people who had it worst were a couple of oddballs who hung around together all the time. Eventually everybody knew about them. You’d never see them doing anything, but you just knew. You could smell the chemistry.”

  I was, at this point, just listening.

  “Funny about that, how you can tell. Some people can spot a misfit a mile away. I always figure there’s no harm in them. But you can understand how some people get turned off, hostile even. Those two poor fellows, in the army . . . they had to put up with a lot.” He was swirling his drink, suddenly distracted by the disappearing ice cubes in the glass. “A strange, strange place to find them. The army.” He chuckled. “Of course, the war was on.”

  “What about the priesthood? Did you ever expect to run into it in the priesthood?”

  “Ahhhhh. I don’t like to think about it. It is, statistically, inevitable, I guess. And I suppose, theoretically, it doesn’t matter, does it? We’re all more or less eunuchs here anyway.”

  You couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  “Why are we talking about this, anyway?” He was momentarily confused.

  “We were talking about O’Brian. But I’m not sure that I see the connection . . . with those guys in the army.”

  “Yes. O’Brian. I’ve seen him,” the bishop said. “Playing the piano. Don’t you think he seems a bit . . . effeminate? A little light in the loafers, don’t you think? Not that it means anything.”

  “I wouldn’t try to read anything into it.”

  “He’s got talent, right enough. Full of music. We could use more of that.”

  “His father is the heart and soul of the parish.”

  “That’s good. What is it he needs?”

  Donald said, “I might as well admit, I’m kind of nervous about all this.”

  “I wouldn’t be too concerned,” I said. “There’s no crime in changing your mind sometime down the road.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Maybe you told me this, but when did you first get serious about a vocation?”

  “It’s been in the back of my mind for years. Tell me something. You’ve been a priest—what, now?”

  “Going on twenty-seven years.”

  “You’ve seen all kinds of priests. Have you ever seen one that came even close to . . . the ideal?”

  “Yes. Just one.”

  He was waiting, I suppose, for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, he said: “That’s good. You’re lucky.”

  may 1. alfonso is away. tonight jacinta came to visit for spanish conversation. she didn’t realize we were alone. i asked her if she’d stay. i don’t know what came over me. she was shocked. i am a childish fool.

  John was sitting at his kitchen table wearing a heavy jacket, staring straight ahead. His face was pale, unshaven, deeply lined, eyes sunk in shadows. He’d aged since the last time I saw him, at the birthday party. He turned his head slowly, seemed to focus. I was standing in the doorway.

  “He-hey,” he said. The smile was warm. “I was just thinking of having a little shot.” There was a package of cigarettes open on the table. “Maybe you’d care to join me.”

  The careful enunciation and the exaggerated gestures told me he’d already had a shot and more. I just stood there.

  “Well, are you going to come in or not?”

  “People are worrying,” I said.

  He stared at me for a moment, then laughed. “Fuckin’ A.”

  I removed my coat. “I’m going to make a pot of tea.”

  “Be my guest. Or host. Whatever.” And he reached for the bottle in the middle of the table. The hand was trembling. Then he farted, long and loud. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “That was the closest the old man could get to humour,” he said.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “He’d let one rip, then say, ‘Better out than your eyeball.’ Or, ‘Speak again, oh toothless one.’”

  “John. How long has this been going on?” I repeated.

  The place was fetid, sink full of dirty bowls. He’d obviously been existing on cereal and toast and Scotch.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”

  “Christmas was two weeks ago.”

  “Is that a fact, now.” He raised his glass: “Here’s to the girls from Toronto . . . they say that they’re hard to get onto ...”

  I reached for his hand to take away the glass, but he moved it quickly.

  “Don’t,” he said. And for an instant it was his father sitting there, Sandy Gillis, dark and dangerous.

  I turned to the stove to let the moment pass.

  “So,” John said eventually. “I hear herself was around for Christmas. Faye from Toronto.”

  “She hasn’t been Faye for a long time. And yes. She stayed in town this time.”

  “I suppose,” he said, puffing on a cigarette, “it would take a lot to open the old place this time of year.”

  “That’s not so great for the jogging,” I said, nodding toward the smoke.

  He laughed, dabbed an ash onto a saucer. “Where do you think that Faye business came from?”

  “Just a phase. She was young. Looking for a new identity.”

  “She’s had her share of phases,” he said, burping loudly.

  “It see
ms to bother you. Him back in her life. Her coming and going here.”

  “That? Fuck, no. I’m a perfectly modern man.”