Always watch the eyes.
They were blue and I swear they twinkled. He had bushy white eyebrows, broken blood vessels at the tip of the nose.
He acknowledged that he had a drinking problem. It started in Korea. Didn’t I know that he’d served in the army? Just stupid drinking then. But after he came back, he’d hit the booze to escape the flashbacks and the depression that haunted him. The things he saw. The things he heard about. Did I know he was a chaplain with the PPCLI?
The what?
Princess Pat’s . . . light infantry.
I nodded.
“War,” he said. “An awful thing. But you know that already.” He sighed. “I thought, being a priest, I’d be able to handle it. I was sure the faith would help put everything in perspective.”
He’d been getting help, he said, for the drinking. The other stuff? It wasn’t worthy of response. Some poor little retarded girl and a combination of misunderstanding and miscommunication. “That and a chalice full of malice.” He smiled. “But I suspect you know the way it is.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“Well. Your own father. Surely you, of all people, would understand.”
“He says he’s your bridge partner.”
I said it lightly, to avoid offence or pain.
The bishop looked like he was going to be sick. “I can’t believe you just landed in on him like that. It must have been a terrible shock for him, that kind of an . . . ambush. Especially with the history you two have. That business in the seventies.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“But you’re bothering me now.”
“Yes. I’ve asked around. Credible people confirm it. Father Roddie isn’t a well man. Hasn’t been for decades. Even he admits he has a problem.”
He sighed deeply. “You just won’t let go of it, will you. What did Father Roddie ever do to you?”
“There’s possibly more to it than we know. I’ve met with one of the accusers, by the way.”
“You mean the retarded one?”
“You know about her?”
He waved a hand dismissively. He was sitting behind his desk, eyes cast down, fiddling with paper clips. “At least it isn’t an altar boy this time. At least it’s a . . . female.”
“These things aren’t about sex,” I said.
“Whatever.” He sighed. “Okay. Leave this to me.”
“That really isn’t—”
“I’ll handle it,” he snapped, eyes burning. “Are you getting hard of hearing?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Is that all?”
“Father Roddie made a strange reference to my father.”
“He did? So what.”
MacLeod remembered me. There was familiarity in the voice on the other end of the line. “How’re ya doin’, Father?”
He reminded me our paths had crossed before, when there were rumours about some elderly priest. Did I know Roddie MacVicar? Doc Roddie, he was called by some. The eminent philosopher. Aquinas expert. Suspected pervert.
“I had him as a prof,” I said.
There was gossip years ago. My name came up, according to MacLeod, because it seems I was a parish assistant where something happened. There was even a story of a physical confrontation involving me and the old man. And that I got exiled over it, to somewhere in Central America.
“Absurd,” I said.
“That would have been some story, eh? What I heard was . . . you, I guess, half throttled the old guy. I said at the time, ‘If what I hear is true . . . more power to him.’”
“Somebody was pulling your leg.”
“I’m sure. Wishful thinking on someone’s part. But maybe if there had been more of that kind of old-fashioned reaction to things back then, we wouldn’t be in the pickle we’re looking at now.”
“What,” I asked, curiosity now in charge, “was the eventual outcome of your story back . . . when was it?”
“The seventies, I think. I dropped it. I remember calling the bishop at the time. He denied it flatly. In the end he persuaded me that the potential damage to an important institution like the Church was a strong argument for discretion.”
“I suppose there’s something to that.”
“It was probably the right call . . . then. I’m glad we didn’t get sucked into the hysteria, like in Newfoundland and Boston.”
“That wouldn’t have helped anybody.”
“Precisely.” There was a long pause before he asked: “So you probably don’t remember the second time I called?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“The old boy got up to it again. Late eighties, I think.”
“Sorry,” I said.
He laughed. “You gotta hand it to the old bugger. He must have been near seventy that time. It was about some handicapped person. A girl.”
“And what happened to that story?”
“The usual. Nobody talking. The old stone wall treatment. Anyway. That’s history. We might have a new situation now.”
He said Brendan Bell’s name turned up while he was following the recent prosecutions of priests in Newfoundland. He noted a reference to our diocese, Antigonish. A priest with a sex-related conviction in Newfoundland had ended up in Nova Scotia. Interesting, he thought, that they’d send him here. Did I know anything about it?
“What was the name again?”
“Bell. Brendan. I’m told you might have been acquainted with him.”
“The name sounds familiar. It rings a bell.” We both laughed. “Have you asked the bishop?”
“I did. He claims this Bell guy is out now. Gone from the priesthood. Hasn’t got a clue where he landed. I thought of you. Maybe you’d know.”
“Me? You obviously think I’ve been mixed up in all the scandals.”
“Well . . . I wouldn’t mind talking about that sometime if you’re comfortable with it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Okay, then. Bell. What do you know about Bell?”
“I remember his name and I think I heard he got married, as a matter of fact. He dropped out of sight a while back.”
“Got married?”
“That was what I heard, I think, from someone at the archdiocese in Toronto. They definitely said that Bell was getting married.”
You could feel the deflation on the other end of the line. “That’s kind of weird,” he said finally.
“What is?”
“Father Bell, getting married.”
“Not so weird anymore. More than half of my classmates from Holy Heart are happily married family men now.”
“Yes. I suppose. There’s that. But Bell? I wouldn’t have thought he’d be the marrying kind.”
There was a long pause.
“I’ll be honest with you, Father,” MacLeod said at last. “I got a tipoff. That this suicide in Little Harbour—I’m sure you heard of it, this young MacKay fellow from Hawthorne—I heard it might have had something to do with abuse. This Bell guy’s name came up.”
This is where you say nothing.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I sighed.
“I know what you’re thinking. The witch hunt, eh? People looking for sexual abuse under every rock.”
“You have your job to do.”
“I know. It isn’t something I particularly enjoy. I appreciate your understanding.”
“The truth is all that matters. We have to find the truth.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Give me your number. Just in case I remember something.”
When he hung up, I called the bishop on his private line.
“MacLeod surfaced,” I said.
“What did you tell him?”
“You don’t have to worry.”
“Don’t be too sure of yourself,” the bishop replied. “The scandals in Newfoundland and the States are making them bolder.”
“He sounded reasonable. This MacLeod says he spoke t
o you before, about Father Roddie. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“He seemed to know certain details that only you and I and . . . well . . . one other person knew.”
“I wouldn’t give it another thought.”
{19}
Christmas was grim. The end of miserable 1995. Around suppertime on Christmas Eve, I called Sextus but got no answer. Heard a dozen vague confessions. Tried to nap but couldn’t. Called John. Got his answering machine. Checked in on choir practice. There are four people in the choir. Three women and Bob. Bob has a warm baritone. They make an okay sound. Had a few cocktails alone, waiting up for eleven o’clock when I’d go over. Carols at eleven-thirty. The silent, holy night was still, air sharp. You could hear the heavy breathing from the bay, a giant lung. Feeling the poetry of inebriation. They say drinking alone is a bad sign. But what if you’re always alone? What if solitude is the norm?
Sextus would have said if you worry about drinking too much, you probably aren’t. But I never brought it up with him because it didn’t occur to me that I might be. What was it my father used to say? All things in moderation. You can drink like a fish as long as you’re moderate.
I nearly fell asleep on the altar during the Christmas carols. Midnight Mass is a blur in my memory. Waking up Christmas morning, I couldn’t remember the end of it. I recall standing at the foot of the altar just before the end, improvising a windy Christmas message. I cringe, remembering my seasonal enthusiasm. In the morning, when I dragged myself back for the ten o’clock Mass, I found the vestments strewn around the sacristy. A tumbler of wine got me through the next hour.
What would it be like, I wondered, not being alone?
People were brief, almost shy, at the door afterwards, and I was grateful. And I was grateful for the sharp, clean air, refreshing as a glass of water. Exhaustion, I told myself. I’m just tired. The pieties of Advent and the wearying traditions of the Nativity. Hours sitting in the confessional, waiting for the occasional penitent. Unexpected visitors with small gifts. Fussing with the church. Lights, trees, the Nativity scene. Then the masses. It seemed more frantic than usual because that Christmas fell on a Monday.
Effie didn’t come home for the holiday. Did she really think of it as home?
I slept most of the afternoon on Christmas Day and woke up in the dark, feeling uneasy. Poured a drink. The phone rang and it was Stella. She seemed stuffed up.
“You’ve probably been wondering,” she said. “I sort of dropped off the face of the earth.”
“How are you now? You don’t sound so hot.”
“A little touch of the flu.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. How are Danny and Jessie? It must be difficult for them.”
“They’re getting by. I was supposed to go to Hawthorne to have dinner there, but I couldn’t face it. The flu got me off the hook.”
“The flu can dig in this time of year.”
“I’ll be okay. Feel free to come over. I don’t think I’m infectious anymore. But I don’t have a turkey. Is that okay?”
“Turkey is overrated,” I said.
“Like a lot of other things.”
I laughed.
I felt the irresistible urge for another drink. Thought better of it. Looking out the big window at the bay. So peaceful there. Tiny lights in the distance, on the mainland. Outside, the wind was stirring. You could hear it whispering. The bay moved, repositioning itself to listen. The wind was trying to say something. I strained to hear. She’s still my friend, I thought.
christmas night, ’76. the evening became a blur with surprising speed. there was rum and wine. many bottles of wine. i remember a long table. at least fourteen people, all talking simultaneously. jacinta beside me, flushed and merry. plates of food. golden chunks of chicken and thick crescents of crusted brown potato. large bowls of salad. my comprehension of the language improves with every drink. there are long disclosures about life in unimaginable places. the excitement of political turmoil all around. toasts to ernesto cardenal, obando y bravo, the dawn of hope in managua. someone cried out vinceremos, and the place went still as everybody stared awkwardly at alfonso’s’s flushed face. jacinta murmured vinceremos and raised her glass. then the babble resumed, punctuated by explosions of laughter. she squeezed my hand. vinceremos. we will triumph. life was suddenly a torrent in my veins.
Stella was pale and bundled for warmth. “Come in,” she said. “I’m making toddies. You’ll join me?”
“Sure.” Pleasantly surprised.
A priest rarely gets to see a woman’s naked face. Stella’s, that night, revealed dark shadows below the eyes and the small crinkles time etches there. Her lips were dry, her skin sallow, hair captured and secured by a small elastic band, except for a fugitive lock that draped the brow, occasionally blocking an eye.
This, I thought, is what intimacy is like.
after everyone was gone, jacinta started cleaning up. alfonso
told her: leave it for the morning; it will be easier then. you
should sleep here anyway. it’s late.
you’re sure? she said. it’s christmas, what could happen? i really
should go home.
just to be on the safe side, he said. you know where the spare
room is.
“Let’s make a promise,” Stella said. “Tonight we won’t talk about Danny. Is that okay?”
I nodded.
We talked about her work. She was a high school guidance counsellor with degrees in psychology. We talked about marriage, betrayal, alienation. I remember listening intently, refilling glasses, clinging to slippery details, trying to store them in the memory. Determined not to forget. But failing—there were so many glasses, so many cascading images. I remember her paleness went away. Face flushed, eyes shone. Eyes wept.
And then Danny’s name. “We agreed not to talk about it,” she said. “It’s all too terrible.”
I think I sobered momentarily, but there were soon more tears. I held her briefly. But mostly I remember just sitting, staring at the table, talking. She was listening intently. Voices and confusion.
She interrupted me. “Stella,” she said, now smiling. “I’m . . . Stella.” She enunciated her name carefully.
“What did I call you?”
“Jacinta.”
i want to see where you sleep, she said.
what about alfonso? i said.
world war three wouldn’t wake alfonso, she said.
and, jokingly, i asked: how would you know?
I woke up on her chesterfield. My head was on a pillow and there was a quilt bunched on the floor. I sat up quickly. Fully clothed, thank God. The house was silent. No evidence in the kitchen of where we’d sat. Table clear. Cupboard tidy. Not a glass or dish or empty bottle in sight. The place smelled antiseptic, as if scrubbed by fairies overnight.
I realized that I was conscious of all this because the room was filled with a soft blue light. Through a kitchen window I could see the black spruces on the mountainside, the snow packed around them in a harsh contrast. And the roof of my telltale car parked in her driveway. The clock above the sink reported that it was seven-fifteen. A surge of panic drove me to my feet.
Driving down the mountain road, I saw three recognizable cars go by. Men heading for the mill, irritably alert. One pale face turned toward me as his car flashed by. The priest on the road at that hour? Somebody sick on the mountain. Maybe that’s what they would think. The priest should always get the benefit of the doubt.
The sky was a dark blue then with large cold clouds racing, giving the towering church steeple the appearance of instability. The swift clouds would stop and the church would sway. I had to look away, head spinning. I imagined the soft darkness and the silence inside. The unwelcoming house waiting.
The echo of the church door closing lingered as I walked toward the front and knelt in the sanctuary. Candles flickered. Silence returned, broken only by the occasional mysterious creak or snap. I had called he
r Jacinta. A wave of sorrow swept up out of nowhere and I lay flat, face down, arms spread. Jesus, what is happening? There was no reply. The red carpet gave off a sweet-spiced odour, some kind of powder the women sprinkle when they vacuum.
I prayed.
“Alfonso, you must speak to me.”
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