Bishop's Man

by Linden MacIntyre

  “A long time ago, I probably did.”

  “Cassie asked me last night if you had been sexually abused.”

  “Wow.”

  “Came right out and asked.”

  “And you told her what?”

  “I told her no.”

  “Thank you.” She stared straight ahead for a while. “You said that you disliked him . . . once upon a time.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Was it because of me?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “I hit him once. And he fell down. He left me with a load of guilt and I turned it all back against him. Does that make sense?”

  “Not really.”

  “I overpowered him and it revealed my fundamental impotence. That’s the best that I can do by way of explanation.”

  “You overpowered a lot of people in your time, a ghraidh. Usually because of me.”

  “Never after that,” I said.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Something good came out of it.”

  I was bereft of words. I stared at the crowds of people unloading bags and suitcases from taxis and cars and buses, suddenly aware of all the intimacies of separation. Light kisses, hand holding. An unshaven man and a tall teenaged boy stood talking quietly. Then they hugged. The boy kissed the man swiftly on a cheek, then turned and walked toward the automatic doors. The man stood for a moment, looking stunned. A commissionaire with a fat pad of traffic tickets approached him. They spoke briefly.

  I opened the car door and climbed out. Fetched my suitcase from the back seat. The commissionaire moved in our direction.

  “This summer,” she said, “we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  I nodded even though I knew we wouldn’t. The journey toward understanding is finished, imperfectly as always. But done.

  The commissionaire motioned impatiently for her to leave. She ignored him.

  “I’ll be turning fifty soon,” she said. “I’ll be looking for advice.” She handed me a large bottle of mineral water. “Here. One for the road.”

  “What’ll I tell Sextus?” I asked.

  “Tell him I’ll be turning fifty. See how he reacts. Let me know if he gags.” She smiled. She could have passed for thirty.

  I waited for more, but she laughed, blew a kiss and drove away.

  I watched her go. I walked into the airport feeling anxious. Going home alone again.

  {29}

  Bobby O’Brian met me in Halifax. Spring was slower here, as usual, grim grey skies clamped down on the blackened land. People at the airport in Toronto were in their shirt sleeves; in Halifax, the air was harsh and gritty. Bob was saying that there had been snow in the morning in Creignish two days earlier. We drove mostly in silence. People missed you, he said once.

  Just past New Glasgow, through the naked trees, I could see the Northumberland Strait. Home was on the far side of the water. I felt unsettled, contemplating the reality before me. Endings and beginnings. Bell is over there somewhere, according to his wife.

  In Antigonish I asked if we could stop at the chancery for a moment.

  The bishop threw his arms around me, calling out to people in the office to come and say hello. You won’t believe who’s here.

  Even the secretary, Rita, seemed surprised at his show of enthusiasm.

  When we were alone, I asked straight out, “What about the MacLeod story?”

  “Hah. They blinked. Not a blessed murmur.”

  “Why? What’s your theory?”

  “It isn’t a theory,” he huffed. “It’s a fact. They have no case. Some smart lawyer figured that out. Of course, you heard the sad news.”

  “Sad news?”

  “Father Roddie.”

  “What about him?”

  “He passed away, God rest his soul. You didn’t hear?”

  “There wasn’t much outside news where I was.”

  “I thought I wrote. It was sudden. Three weeks ago. The stress, I imagine. God forgive them.”

  I studied his face and his perplexity seemed genuine.

  “In any case, that would have been the clincher. Who’s going to slander the dead, eh? Especially when the evidence was a crock to start with.”

  I was nodding, unable to suppress the uneasiness stirring inside.

  “Anyway,” he said conclusively, slapping my shoulder, “it’s great to see you. You’ve taken years off. Now get down there and back to work.”

  Bobby said he’d heard from the young fellow in Korea. He liked the place but couldn’t escape the homesickness. He was thinking about another stab at the priesthood.

  I said I wasn’t surprised.

  We crossed the causeway. After the battering of more than forty winters, it looked like it had been here forever. As natural in the landscape as Cape Porcupine and the hills of Creignish. Is this what happens? Time and winter work together, creating uniformity, knocking things and people down to size?

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “I never doubted his vocation.”

  Bob stared straight ahead. “I often think about poor young MacKay. A fella never knows.”

  He insisted that I eat with him and his wife when we reached Creignish, and I made a show of sociability. I could see, across the field, that there was a light on at the last house on the mountain road.

  “Maybe a couple of hands of Auction before you go,” Bobby suggested.

  “No, I’d better get home. No telling what’s there waiting for me.”

  There was a note pinned to my door: I hear you’ve been trying to get in touch. I’ll call. Brendan B.

  The house had been cleaned. Groceries were stocked and there was fresh milk in the refrigerator. Obviously a work party had been there. Fresh flowers in an unfamiliar vase at the centre of the kitchen table. I recognized roses. Something else yellow. Green ferns. A little card said Welcome Back. It was signed, simply: S.

  I heard confessions on Saturday and said Mass on Sunday. Everyone enthused about my appearance, and it was true, according to my mirror. I spoke about the reluctant spring, said that the appearance of indifference in the weather was deceptive. Crafted careful allusions to my own condition and noticed an unusual number of smiles. Afterwards, I sat in the empty house wondering what to do with the rest of the day. I studied old photographs and realized, now that I’d lost some weight, I’d begun to resemble my long-dead father again. Anxiety resurfaced. I stood before the row of journals, pulled one. Tried to read, but slept mostly.

  I’d been home a week and then Stella was standing in the doorway, hands jammed deep in her coat pockets, smiling. There was something about her hair that caught my eye.

  She said she was keen to hear about my trip, when I was interested in talking. She had a clinical interest, she said.

  “For sure,” I said. “I’m trying to make a gradual re-entry.”

  “By the way, Danny’s struggling. I wish you’d go to see him.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I saw him yesterday. At the boat.”

  Her eyes were pleading. “Jessie’s awfully worried.”

  Sextus was guarded on the phone, almost formal in his inquiries about my absence.

  “I understand you and Effie did some talking.”

  “Briefly,” I said.

  “It’s great,” he said, brightening. “Putting the past to rest like that, finally.”

  “I don’t think the past is that easy to dispose of.”

  “There’s that. When’ll I see you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still making some adjustments.”

  “Maybe I’ll drop by.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  The Jacinta stands alone now on the shore. The American has launched what used to be the Lady Hawthorne and rechristened her: Sea Snake.

  I wonder what Danny thinks of that.

  “Call me when she’s ready to go in,” he said as I was leaving him. “I’m serious about the driving lessons. I’m going to make a
seaman out of you.”

  From on top of the Jacinta’s shabby cab you can see the islands, Henry and Port Hood. There was once a lighthouse keeper and his family on Henry Island and a living community of frugal fishermen on Port Hood Island. Mostly all moved away now. Lighthouses everywhere are now automated or closed and abandoned, or demolished. Isolation is now an option for the wealthy or the odd. A choice.

  I knew him by the shoes. They appeared to be expensive, with tiny leather tassels, the kind that lawyers wear. Out of place in the sand and the coarse grass. Then he bent down and our eyes met.

  I was under the boat with a belt sander, grinding off the loose paint flakes. I didn’t hear his arrival because of the whine of the machine. Obviously didn’t hear him when he called out. Then I saw the shoes, and then the face.

  I rolled out and stood, batting clouds of red paint dust from my coveralls. Removed the safety goggles. I wasn’t ready.

  I’d been through the conversation a dozen times in my mind. It would be unlike other conversations. Calm. A neutral tone. I am not about to judge. Only to understand. I want to hear you speak about Danny MacKay. I want to hear his name issue from your mouth. And in your voice I want to hear remorse. I will not ask for details of your relationship. It no longer matters. All that matters now is atonement.

  His hands were jammed into the pockets of his leather wind-breaker. A sign of trust. His face was troubled.

  “I heard you were around,” I said, removing my gloves, stalling, I suppose.

  “Yes. Lucy told me you dropped by to see me at the condo. Sorry I missed you. I didn’t know you were in the city.”

  “Up on some personal business,” I said.

  “You’ve been asking questions about me.” He had his hands out of his pockets now, fingers laced together and folding, open and shut, as if to crack the knuckles. The face had an expression of wary amusement.

  I just stared, waiting.

  “I didn’t know you were an acquaintance of Eddie Sudac.”

  “I’m not, really,” I said. I folded my arms. I’m not sure why.

  “I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t have thought Eddie was your type.”

  “I don’t know anything about him, in fact.”

  He laughed, kicked at some sand with the toe of his elegant shoe. “Eddie. He’s quite a character. You don’t know what he does for a living?”

  “Union guy, I understand.”

  “That’s what his card says. His real job is to hurt people. For the union, of course.”

  “Hurt people.”

  “Sure. Didn’t you know there were people like that in the world?”

  He had now crossed into a zone of smug condescension and I felt a quiet anger rising. I said nothing.

  “Mostly he specializes in breaking reputations. Relationships. Business ventures. Other unions. But he’ll also break bones. And there are rumours of worse. That’s Eddie in a nutshell.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He could hardly wait to get the word to me . . . Some priest comes to see him, asking questions, about me. Says you two had quite the chat about my history. He couldn’t recall your name, but I put two and two together when Lucy told me you were at the condo. So I’m curious as hell how you ended up talking about me to a prick like Eddie Sudac.” All semblance of irony was gone, replaced by a dark and threatening anger.

  “Actually,” I said after a long pause, “I only wanted to find out where you were. I couldn’t find you in the phone book.”

  “Oh. And what was so urgent that you’d end up talking to him?”

  “Somebody told me to call him.”

  “What somebody?”

  I felt a strange sensation in my hand and creeping tension through my shoulders, into my neck. And a rising column of outrage along my spine.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t really care ‘what somebody, ’ do you?” I struggled to smile.

  His face had gone pale and he moved closer. “And what was it you wanted to find me for . . . now that you have my attention?” His accent had regressed at least a generation, to somewhere among the rocks of his birthplace.

  I hesitated, but just for a moment. “I want to take you somewhere.”

  “Oh?”

  “If you’ll give me just a moment to clean up . . . there’s someone we should see.”

  “I’m actually in a bit of a hurry.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Maybe you’ll give me just a tiny clue ...”

  “We’re going to Hawthorne . . . It’s only ten minutes away.”

  “Oh. And, pray, what for?”

  “We’re going to visit the MacKays.”

  “Well,” he said, “isn’t that a coincidence.”

  “How is that a coincidence?”

  “I just came from there.”

  {30}

  I could see Stella’s car turning up the mountain road, so I continued on past the church, turned up behind her and followed her to the house. Parked there. We stood in silence for a moment, just staring. I walked toward her, uncertainly. She extended her hand.

  “I forgot to tell you the other day. You look good,” she said softly.

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  She laughed and patted her head. “You’d say that anyway.”

  “You did something to your hair.”

  “No,” she said, mildly defensive.

  Another silence.

  “I’d invite you in—”

  “No, no,” I finished. “Look at me. I’m just back from the boat. I’m desperate for a shower.”

  “Maybe later. Come by and have a drink. Or a cup of tea or something.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “I understand you and Danny had a talk.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad. I don’t know what you said . . . but he seems to be coming around.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t really say anything.”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes. A bit of listening.”

  “Maybe.”

  And we stood there for a while. Listening.

  “Is Jessie still with you?” I asked.

  “No. She went home yesterday.”

  Sunday was First Communion for the little ones. Catholic teachers at the school in town had done the work while I was gone, taught them all the basics upon which to build a vague theology. Saturday I examined them. Who made you? God made me. Why did God make you? Innocent questions masking a hard purpose. Simple answers, sufficient for now. I heard their first confessions and noted that a surprising number had already had impure thoughts. Television, I assume. I muttered meaningless absolutions. Assigned nominal penance. Three Hail Marys and say something nice about somebody you don’t like much.

  Yes, Father.

  “ . . . I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  Thank you, Father.

  And now they had come with their parents for the Holy Eucharist. Nine of them. The responses rolled easily from their tongues. In their faces I could see how faith should always be. It fits them loosely now, I thought, leaving room for growth. It will not always feel so comfortable. I wanted to warn them of the stress that comes with progress, that they’ll never wear the faith so easily again. The cruel paradox of faith: with each sacrament, there are new questions and fewer answers. Growth and curiosity, the elements of crisis.

  Sunday afternoon I drove to the Long Stretch. I unlocked the gate, drove into the yard and sat for a long time, just staring at the old house. A storage place for memories, mostly all bad. Each generation should destroy the habitations of the one before. Purge all evidence of past corruption. The dead flies and bat shit and dust and memories. Purge them all. Allow the imagination to fill in blanks with sentiment. What’s wrong with sentiment? What’s wrong with mythology? Both are palatable substitutes for reality.

  I have reviewed it all in detail, every nuance of expression, every possible interpretation of every w
ord. “Now that I can’t blame you, I blame myself,” I said at last. “I should have been able to help him.”