Bishop's Man

by Linden MacIntyre

  The kettle whistled. I walked toward the stove.

  “I never thought I’d live to see her back in that old house,” he said.

  “Where do you keep the tea?”

  He waved toward a cupboard door. “She told me things, back when we were . . . young. It was pretty upsetting.” He suppressed another belch. “I’ve done stuff I’m not very proud of. Because of things she told me. Not that I’m blaming her for anything.”

  “I know what you mean. We all—”

  “No you don’t. Nobody around here knows dick.”

  I poured a cup of tea, set it down in front of him. He stared at it as if wondering what it was.

  “I’ll get over this,” he said. “In my own time.” Talking to himself, as if I’d gone already. “Wicked how we screw each other up.”

  Then he dabbed his cigarette in the cup of tea.

  {11}

  Young Danny MacKay was going downhill, according to reports from Stella.

  “You have to talk to him,” she said. “His parents are beside themselves. And stress is just about the worst thing possible for his father’s MS.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Mood swings. Acting out. Sudden outbursts of verbal violence, even at home. Rumours of brawls in town.”

  “Sounds like growing pains.”

  “They really want you to have a talk with him.”

  “It isn’t really my place. He’s in Mullins’s parish.”

  “Mullins,” she scoffed. “Mullins is one of the reasons the Church has become irrelevant to the people who need it most.”

  “Come on now,” I said.

  She’d arrive evenings, unannounced, with food. Stay to chat over a drink. And when the chill and the silence that seemed to be essential features of the old glebe got to me, I’d instinctively head to her warm and welcoming house.

  “People are probably gossiping,” she said once with an easy smile. “You should throw them off by visiting other people too.”

  “You think that would do it?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

  The grey eyes were unblinking and I could tell that she was waiting for me to advance the cautious conversation. I smiled.

  She looked away. “Poor Danny. Then there’s the relationship with Sally. I worry about her and her expectations. Some people lack the capacity for the kind of commitment Sally needs. That’s something you can only learn from shared experience. Something we generally learn when it’s too late. After failure.”

  “Was he from here or . . . there? Your failure.”

  “From there,” she said without a pause. “I don’t know if you understand that . . . about commitment ...”

  “Indeed I do. Indeed I do.” Finally I asked: “Who was he? Your . . . failure.”

  “Him? Nobody special. A navy guy. I met him in Halifax. He persuaded me to move to Toronto. It’s an old story. We saw what we wanted to see. Didn’t see the obvious, until it was too late.”

  I waited, but there was nothing more, it seemed, worth saying. Then she laughed nervously.

  “But I feel safe with you,” she said.

  They showed up unannounced. If Danny was going downhill, you’d never know by looking at him. He seemed poised and confident. Sally was apologetic. They were having a disagreement, Danny explained, and because they both saw me as an approachable type of older person, he said they should just come straight over. He didn’t think I’d mind.

  “It’s kind of like we’re half related anyway,” he said jovially. “You owning my old boat and all. It’s like you’re married to my ex, in one of those . . . amicable arrangements you get nowadays. I can come by any time I want . . . to see the kids.”

  He was laughing now and I suspected he’d been drinking, or was high. I told them to come in. I was pleased to see them, no matter what.

  “That’s the sort of stuff we were talking about,” he said. “Life over the long haul. I figured the way it was heading, we were going to need a referee.”

  “Oh, come on,” Sally said. “Let’s not be bothering poor Father. He’s got more important things to worry about.”

  I told them I was boiling water for some tea. They both expressed an interest.

  The mood had changed, though, by the time I returned from the kitchen. He was seated by the window with his coat on, staring out over the bay, chewing gently on some gum. She was studying the photos on the mantel. She took down the one from Puerto Castilla.

  “Was that you?” she asked.

  “Yes. A long time ago.”

  “And friends of yours?”

  “Yes. Another time, another world.”

  “Oh. Where was it?”

  “Honduras. Back in the seventies.”

  “I didn’t know. That must have been amazing.”

  I shrugged.

  “And do you stay in touch?”

  “No. I lost track of . . . her.” I noticed that my hand was shaking when I pointed, but she seemed entranced by our youthfulness.

  “And him?” She was staring at Alfonso. “He’s cute. Where did he get to?”

  “Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “It’s kind of a sad story. About him. He passed away.”

  “My God,” she said. “And him so young.”

  With that, I took the photo from her hand, returned it to the mantel. “He taught me some important lessons. About how to live. One of them is to take full advantage of every moment. Know what you’re after. Keep your eye on the ball.”

  Pure bullshit, I knew, but a way to bring the focus back to them. She was listening intently. Even he, still staring out the window, seemed to be engaged. Unexpected news of death has that effect. Captures attention, if only for a moment. He was slouched deep in the chair, hands thrust into the coat pockets.

  “Excuse me while I get the tea,” I said.

  “So, where were we,” I asked, setting down the tray, “before we got sidetracked into ancient history?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Coming here was his idea.”

  He cleared his throat, took his hands out of his pockets. “Not entirely true. Why don’t you tell him what we were talking about before you dragged the Church into it?”

  There was a heavy silence. You could see the sudden look of betrayal in her eyes.

  He stood, walked to the tray, picked up a mug of tea. “You see, I know lots of couples our age who got married and after a year or so all you ever hear is how miserable they are. How they feel trapped ...”

  “That has nothing to do with us . . . and I’m sure Father knows all about it already.”

  “Maybe so, maybe no,” he said. “All I know is that I see what happens to people when they get married and settle down too soon, before they really know what they want—”

  “That’s just a cop-out,” she said. Then she looked at me directly: “What he’s really saying is that we should just . . . live together, without getting married.”

  “Just temporarily,” he said. “I’m not talking about civil or whatever it is. I’m just talking about easing into this thing . . . gradually.”

  “He’s talking about shacking up,” she said with a sorrowful smile. “Call it what you want. It’s shacking up.”

  “Well,” he said, “we wouldn’t be the first, now, would we?”

  Then they were both staring at me.

  “Marriage is all about commitment,” I said, searching for originality. When in doubt, ask a question.

  “But I’m not sure I understand the problem. You’re both so young. Both living at home . . . close enough to see a lot of each other. Any time you want, I gather. If you’re in doubt about the big commitment . . . why not ...” And I allowed a chuckle to finish the thought.

  They looked at me blankly.

  “Why not just leave things as they are? The status quo isn’t exactly . . . hardship, is it?”

  They were silent.

  “And in any case . . . I thought you two were thinking long-term anyway.
That there were no immediate plans for the big step.” I shrugged and waited.

  Finally she spoke: “Are you going to tell him or am I?”

  He was back in the chair, buried in his silence. “There’s nothing final,” he said at last.

  “He wants to go away,” she said wearily. “He wants to go out west. And he wants me to go with him. And I say we get married first.”

  “And I say it would be a recipe for disaster,” he said.

  “And I say I don’t want to live in sin. I don’t want to be like everybody else. I want—”

  “—to be just like Mom and Dad,” he finished mockingly.

  “And what’s so wrong with that?”

  “When did you start thinking about leaving?” I asked.

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “It’s all he’s talked about since Christmas,” she said. “Going to Alberta.”

  I stared at him, waiting.

  “You have to consider all the options,” he said. “The more I think of it, this place is fu—this place is on the rocks.”

  “I’ve been after him to go back to school,” she said.

  “There’s a laugh,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s just idleness,” I said. “The new boat is pretty well finished. Right?” He nodded. “Once fishing starts and you get back out there, you’ll realize just how far away Alberta is . . . and what you’d lose.”

  “The new boat was a mistake,” he said miserably. “I hear there’s even talk of closing down the harbour. Moving everyone to somewhere else.”

  “Really? Moving where?”

  “It’s just talk so far. Pig Cove. Murphy’s Pond. It doesn’t really matter. I’ve been around long enough to know, when they start talking about something you don’t want . . . get ready for it.”

  “I agree with him on one thing,” she said. “If we both went away, it would be too expensive to have two places. We’d never get far enough ahead so we could come back here and start again. Or ever have our own home. We’d be trapped in some strange place.”

  “And you think staying here and you working at the Wal-Mart and me going broke in the fishery is going to get us launched?”

  “I’d rather sell my body than work at Wal-Mart,” she declared. Then laughed miserably.

  “You can see why we needed a referee,” he said.

  “I’m afraid you need a wiser one than me,” I said.

  “Anyway,” he said, standing suddenly, “why don’t we all sleep on this? Nothing needs deciding right away.”

  I agreed wholeheartedly, relieved at this unexpected reprieve.

  Sally looked broken but got up to follow him.

  On their way out, Danny stopped at the mantel and studied the photograph. “So what happened to your friend?”

  I shrugged. “It was complicated. Complicated times in a complicated place.”

  “I’ve read stuff about that,” he said. “He looks like a student.”

  “He was a priest . . . a heck of a priest. A Jesuit.”

  “And her?”

  “She was . . . I guess . . . a nurse, a dietitian. More like a doctor, under the circumstances.”

  “I guess there’s a pretty interesting story behind that picture.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  This one wasn’t a priest I knew very well, which made the prospect of my visit a little easier. He met me at the door of the glebe looking slightly dishevelled, showing signs of stress. I could smell alcohol, though it was still morning. Possibly from the night before.

  “You know why I’m here,” I said when we were seated in his study.

  “I could probably guess.” He lit a cigarette and toyed with the match, watching it burn until it was almost at his fingers. For a moment I was distracted by the proximity of flame to flesh. He shook the match then and dropped it in an empty glass, sighed and slouched. “I’m aware of gossip.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more than gossip.”

  “I see.”

  “But I want to hear your version of events.”

  “Why bother. I’m sure you’ve made up your mind already.”

  So I just waited, which was what I’d learned to do. Somewhere in the distance a fire truck started up a frightening cacophony of sirens and blaring horns.

  “You try to do your job proactively,” he said, fiddling with the cigarette. “You get bored. You go out of your way to engage with the young people. That’s the place to start, isn’t it? Maybe get them interested in a little bit more than the crap they watch on TV. Try to involve them in the life of the parish. Help make citizens out of them.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry I ever tried.”

  “You seem to be denying that there was anything improper in your relationships with ...” I nodded toward the notebook in my hand, but I didn’t open it.

  “I suppose it’s all written down there,” he said, staring at the notebook. “All the freaking lies.”

  “There are five names, each with several specific allegations. I can go through them. But I’m not going to name names unless—”

  “You don’t have to. I know who they are and I know what they’ve been saying.”

  “Okay.”

  “How much do you know about the five accusers?”

  “I know what they’re alleging.”

  He laughed. Is that all you know?

  “Help me out,” I said.

  “Do your homework. Look for the common denominator.”

  “The common denominator?”

  “Drugs. A bunch of little potheads. But different from the normal run of bad boys, the boys like I was—from the wrong side of the tracks. Down by the coke ovens. The guys who curse and swear and drink. Those, in your little notebook, are a bunch of little goody-goodies, little fags from Boulderwood who get caught using dope and start to make up lies to cover their tracks. They’re traumatized. They make me want to puke. But enough of that. What are you here for?”

  “You’re denying what they’ve said?” I flipped open the notebook.

  He laughed and shook his head. “How long have you been a priest?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I replied.

  “How come I don’t know you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Of course, I’ve seen you around and heard all about you. But you’re one of the few I don’t know personally. Why do you think that is?”

  “I think this is a little bit off topic.”

  “Maybe. But you know, there was a time when we were all more or less on the same team. Brothers, in a way. It had to be that way. We covered for one another. Somebody screwed up and the impulse was to protect the institution. Avoid scandal. We’re all human. Some of us slip up. Oh, we’ve all known Father So-and-So, the piss tank. And the odd guy who’s banging some parishioner’s wife or swiping money from the missions to cover a little gambling problem. But you never heard of them, outside the sacristy.”

  “Where’s this going?”

  “Now it’s dog eat dog,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Someone makes a little slip and it’s ‘call out the troops.’ It gets in the papers and it’s ‘throw buddy to the wolves.’ Throw him off the freaking raft to make them go away . . . Can’t have them poking around our underwear drawers lest they get stuff on the rest of us. Right? Isn’t that the way it is?”

  Before I left, I told him the good news. That we’d persuaded the families to drop plans to lodge a formal complaint with the police. The case was closed.

  He looked away, managing to hide any feelings of relief. I knew it was an act and struggled to resist grabbing him and pounding his arrogance into pulp. Suppressed memories of my father and Sandy Gillis flooded my mind. Just for a moment I asked myself, Why can’t I be like one of them? A man for a change. The way I once, briefly, was. Smash him down. Rejoice over the sight and smell and taste of his blood.

  “It’s really of no consequence to me,” he sighed. “I will say that, in spite of what you might think, I’m relieved that
the diocese will be spared a lot of unnecessary scandal and expense. I figured, when this all first arose, that it was about money. A bit of blackmail. I, of course, would have told them where to go, and I hope you would have too.”

  I interrupted. “You will go to Halifax tomorrow, early. You will be on a flight to Toronto at nine a.m. You will be met at the airport there and taken to a place called Braecrest. It’s a treatment centre. If nothing else, it’s a chance for you to deal with the booze problem.”