by Paul Butler
The lean man with the hollow cheeks seemed welcoming enough. When I asked if I could see the priest, stammering over the words, he turned away sharply but beckoned me to follow. Then, when we reached the threshold to the vestry, he told me to wait. Something in his fussy, fastidious manner eased my nerves. It felt as though it had started, that a small cog in some mechanism for the reclamation of lost souls had been set spinning. Soon other parts of the machine would whir and clank into motion.
Standing now under the archway over the vestry door, I could hear the low voices of the man and the priest but couldn’t make out the words. Was this the sound of my salvation? Were they mapping out the plan there and then? For the first time in my memory, I could feel a weight drawing me down to my knees; it seemed sweet all of a sudden to subjugate my will, to lay myself low before something greater than myself. It would be a relief, a blessed relief, to give it all up, to say I was wrong all this time – defying, sneering, fornicating, drinking, and stealing – to lay out my sins and ask for help. I had made a ruin of my life, I could see that. But a light had shone, spearing through my vanity, and a clean fire of fresh hope burned in my chest. It couldn’t be too late.
The low talking ceased and I heard the creaking of a chair, then the approach of footsteps. Father Ryan appeared under the arch, his small eyes tired but piercing under grey bushy brows. I waited for a moment but he said nothing.
“Father,” I ventured, “I would like to apologize for this morning.” My throat closed up as I spoke; my voice was thin and unfamiliar to myself.
He stared at me, unblinking.
“I am . . . I am ashamed,” the words came out so distorted I could barely recognize them. My mouth had become numb and its workings beyond my control.
“Why?” he asked without emotion. “What great change has come over you since you passed out in a stinking heap upon the steps of this great symbol of the faith?”
Was this some test? There was neither kindness nor pliability in his voice. Nothing of the subtle change in the air could be found in his creased features, nor in the weary sigh that accompanied his words. His breath smelled of stale communion wine, and when I looked into his bleary eyes for some sense of compassion or understanding, all I could see was a piercing dislike.
“A maid,” I said. “A maid who lives on Meeting House Hill.” His immovability, like death, had commanded instant truth. I had admitted it was a woman and, for an instant, I expected my zeal to be punctured. But another realization overtook me; my answer had corresponded entirely with a flavour I remembered from my mother’s murmured prayers and icons. This, at last, was the mystery I had never understood: the stream of poetry beneath life’s drabness; Jesus in the clothes of a beggar; the young woman who can alter the world; the virgin on the donkey; the French peasant girl and the grotto. “She suggested I come,” I said with suddenly growing confidence.
His expression did not change though I willed it to. There was another deep exhalation and then the words: “What earthly use are you, Fitzpatrick?” The question – incorporating as it did its own answer – had such thundering verity for him, it did not even require a shake of the head.
I gazed back at him, helpless. Veins stood out like tiny red maggots in the white of his eyeballs. There was nothing for me here. No fall from a horse for me, no blinding light. I had told him the truth and this was his answer.
Nine
July 7, 1892
Tommy
Was she a demon or an angel? Or did angels seem like demons through the eyes of the wicked? Was this the source of my confusion?
I took another draw from the bottle, and let this join the thousand other such riddles which had been circling in my head since Sunday. The straw pricked my back and my legs ached from too many days on drink.
If I was wicked, if I was beyond redemption, sweetness and kindness could only trap me into reaching beyond my grasp. This is surely what had happened on Sunday. I had stood high on the wall of expectation. I had reached for the succulent fruit of salvation only for the brick to dislodge itself beneath my feet. Perhaps it wasn’t Kathleen’s fault. Her advice might have helped one of her kind, but I was not one of her kind. Her words had sent me tumbling into the abyss, into nights of crawling blindness, into hours of confusion with laugher around my ears as I stumbled into walls, bottle in hand.
I was too drunk and distracted to read, so I had not bothered to light the taper. Ryan snored away rhythmically, and I wondered what it would be like to be like him – simple as a daisy, no chains to bind me, no needs, no urges, no visions sent to tempt or confound me.
“Why don’t you present yourself to the priest,” her voice rang in my head, “say you regret the disturbance you caused?” Were there really butterflies dancing about her shoulders as she spoke? Were there really soft white wings growing from her back?
I took a violent slurp, and some of the liquor splashed over my mouth and landed on my shirt. If O’Brien or the others smelled it on me tomorrow, they would mention it for sure, and if they did I couldn’t see how I would stop myself from striking. How much did I care? I needed money, but for one purpose only now. An important purpose though, it had to be said.
I had stood on Meeting House Hill this evening, watching the dark windows from the opposite side of the road. I had wanted to approach, to scuttle down the alley on the side of the house and climb to the third floor where I would undoubtedly find the servants’ garret. What had held me back was shame – a strange new emotion for me. Shame had swirled around within me like brine inside a barrel. I thought such feelings had long since withered, like seeds too long unplanted under a scorching sun. But the hope of Sunday, the vision of Kathleen’s freckled white skin, the cool interior of the Cathedral with its air of new beginnings; these things had reawakened so many dead things. Shame itself would die away of its own accord if it were not for the hope which kept feeding it. It was hope that was burning me, hope that would not leave me alone. Even tonight, the ambition of a Romeo had smouldered somewhere deep inside my chest as I had watched those sleeping windows.
My body lurched from the bed, unexpectedly it seemed, and I found myself standing. The bottle was still in my hand, but my fingers were so numb I was afraid I might drop it, shatter the glass and spill the precious contents upon the ground. So I held it like a suckling infant close to my chest.
In three quick steps I moved to the door and shoved it open. Ryan moaned from his bed, and I stood for a moment gasping. Then I pushed myself into the night on unsteady legs.
I neglected to close the door not from lack of consideration – I had spells of quite maudlin sentimentality since Sunday – but because I suspected that in my present state, I could not close a door without slamming it. The night embraced me easily enough, and I found myself trotting down the gentle eastward incline to the Cathedral.
I hadn’t smoked for several days. I had avoided all spending on non-essential articles – anything, in this case, that was not alcohol, but my fingers probed inside my trouser pocket for my pipe and matches. I had an idea I needed to see fire tonight. There had been so many recently; no one would suspect this was any different. The city had lain for days under the withering gaze of the sun, its wooden eaves and rafters bleaching and shrinking like the ribs of an old shipwreck. Looking west from O’Brien’s farm I had glimpsed plumes from a distance and felt a tug of longing to be out there in the country, witnessing it all.
A luminous cloud cradled the Cathedral Cross; they both seemed to bounce along, a celestial chariot riding into battle, as I jogged toward them. I stumbled against a high wall and took a quick break, leaning back against the cool bricks and taking a pull from the bottle. Still breathless, I started off again. Time had turned to water, flooding around my ankles, pushing me forward with unnatural swiftness. It was a journey of ellipses and I found myself sinking into darkness then rising from the shadows like a sleepwalk
er. By the time I had reached the Cathedral courtyard my vision tipped and blurred just as it had on Saturday night, but this time I was not here for peace. I would not be found crumpled on the steps, nor lay myself vulnerable before a priest again.
I dodged to the west wall and crouched under its cover. This bottle was almost empty, but there was another under my bed. There would be very little waste. I could be home in less than a quarter of an hour, a full bottle of rum cradled to my chest. A rush of excitement spun around my head; I imagined the licking of flame around the stone and glass that had spat me out so contemptuously. I drew out the matches and a piece of tattered cloth that I had once used as a handkerchief. A strip of the cloth came out in my hands at the merest tug. I balled the strip and plugged the bottle with it. I shook the bottle until the rum had seeped quite through the fabric. My breaths formed soundless syllables: If I belong in hell, Father Ryan, if I am a thing of fire, Father Ryan, then beware my flames! I pulled out the cloth, unravelled it into a strip again and lowered it slowly into the upright bottle.
I felt for the matches in the darkness, my heart thumping hard. A sense of real danger invaded me and my hands began to tremble. But I managed to hold the match steady and strike. An orange flame appeared like a genie, bright and alert. Have I forgotten something? the question came unbidden. The breeze circled slowly, licking my earlobes like an overfond spaniel, and I felt the faint stirring of unborn tears. This was the same maudlin spirit that had hovered about me for days, muzzling in close whenever the flint of fury tried to overcome humiliation.
What about others who may be harmed? the spiralling air seemed to whisper. The small flame bobbed up and down, as though conspiring with the voice of caution. I let it go out, thinking for a second. It was true; there are housekeepers, maids and servants in the buildings surrounding the Cathedral. I had not even got so far as to think of the death that might be caused by flame, although I had experienced one fleeting vision of Father Ryan, cassock in flames, bloodshot eyes filled with terror. It had caused me a moment of happiness. Other than this, I merely wanted to make my mark on the stone, perhaps shatter some glass with the heat. I had imagined the sight that would next greet me in daylight if I strolled innocently past. I had pictured the blackened patch upon the proud stone, broken panes beneath. I had seen sombre faces, hushed voices, shaking heads.
I picked up a fresh match and turned it in my fingers, trying to think the qualms away. The breeze shifted again, and I thought of Kathleen in the city not far below. A fire had raged through St. John’s before my birth, before my father had come to the island. The old people still talked about it. How could I know she’d be safe if I lit the cloth? Flame had a mind of its own; it didn’t follow the will of its creator.
Defeated, I pulled the cloth from the bottle and stood. I lifted the bottle, tipped, and let the last of the rum slide into me. I drew my arm back and hurled the bottle hard. It landed square in the centre of the window.
The crash was astounding in the silence, like an earthquake in a monastery. I spun away breathless, my footsteps echoing after me, a traitor to the night.
Kathleen
My eyes opened into darkness.
I had been flying with angels, at least that’s who they had told me they were, those willowy, white-faced creatures with branches for arms, twigs for fingers, and dresses woven from grass and moss. We rode bestride rakes and broomsticks as witches are said to do. One of them balanced a large glowing orb on the pole before her. It hummed and sizzled with electricity and, even as she raced with us through the crystal night, she peered into its blinding depths and murmured soft endearments to the life within. Suddenly it slipped and fell from her broom and she let out a wail. We all circled above as her treasure fell like a droplet of gold into the cradle of the city, shattering upon a rooftop with a noise like splintering ice candles.
It was this sound that had awoken me. I turned on my mattress and pushed the hot bedclothes from my chest. Somewhere far off, footsteps were echoing through the night. I thought of Tommy, the man and the child in one body, wrestling against each other for control. Each wanted dominion over the senses they inhabited. The child was a cluster of appetites. He was in constant rebellion against restraint. The man knew there was a narrow line which allowed for work, sobriety, and joy.
The same struggle had never ceased for my father. Even now, as grey hairs dotted his head, the boy in him was a whirlwind of wants. But, with Tommy, the man was winning, I was certain of it. I recognized the look of pain and indignity in his eyes on Sunday as he swayed against the trunk of the old tree. Even his protestation about not going to the priest was a prelude to a bursting dam. He had been readying himself for change. What might not have happened to him since?
I looked to the window and watched the night sigh the curtain inward. I wanted to see him badly. Over the last few days I had even listened for scratching at the door at night. When I had left the house in daytime I had glanced around hoping to catch sight of a slumped, bedraggled figure perhaps loitering at the end of our street or around some corner.
But his keeping away was a good sign too; I knew that. He could not seek me out without compromising himself and me, without taking one or both of us from our work. My blood rushed warmly at the thought that it was my day off tomorrow. Mrs. Stevens was in Harbour Grace tonight and she would be gone until tomorrow afternoon. She had asked me to see to Louisa’s breakfast. But after that I could do as I pleased.
I could see myself sauntering up to the farm on Freshwater Road, watching from a distance as Tommy milked the cows and raked the fresh hay. How long would it be before he would glance up and stop in surprise? I smiled into the darkness at the thought.
Everything so far had come from Tommy. I had merely reacted, complying to his demands and his pleas. This would be a message, clear and unequivocal: I am seeking you out. You poor wreck, you bleary-eyed, unshaven failure of a man who holds within him such possibilities for kindness, thoughtfulness, intelligence, and grace. I am seeking you out because I believe in that soft light I’ve seen in your eyes, and I believe in the startling conjunction of spirit and thought that has woven itself through all our conversations. I couldn’t deny it even if I wanted to, and so here I am.
A melody cut through the darkness – a snatch; it ceased as suddenly as it started. I rolled onto my side unsure, just for a moment, of its source. And then I remembered. The tune had haunted me for a day before fading entirely from my mind, and there had been nothing to remind me of it in the meantime. But why was she playing it now? Alone and in her room at night?
The bed creaked under me and I rose, pushing the last of the blankets from me. I felt the prickle of hairs on the back of my neck and the rise of a drum in my chest. This was my tune, my music box if it was anyone’s. By playing it now, when dreams wove at will through the atmosphere, Louisa was scooping into the chamber of my dreams, stealing away the gold. A panic rose inside me that she could thieve my feelings for Tommy or his for me.
I made the door swiftly this time and groped my way onto the landing. I listened again at the top of the stairs, half expecting it to start again, then descended to the second floor, my nightdress whispering around my ankles. I knocked sharply then entered.
“What?” came the voice from the darkness.
I was speechless for a moment. Had she been expecting me? Her tone brought me back to the world as it was, rather than the world of the imagination. Suddenly a music box was merely a music box; sentiment and matter were not interchangeable. What right did I have to burst into her room to challenge her about a something that belonged to neither of us?
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice lost between dying anger and confusion.
I could make her out from the moonlight scattering over the bed. She was sitting up, holding the music box to her chest. I moved in closer, jealousy sinking like a failed soufflé.
“I
can’t sleep,” she replied. Her tone was still sullen, but she was tugging me with her words.
“Why?” I replied softly, sitting down on the corner of her bed.
“Because I’ve been bored beyond endurance,” she announced. “I have been dying.”
“That will change,” I said, wondering how I could have felt jealous. She was more my child than my rival.
“Oh it will. I’m making sure of that.”
“How do you mean?”
The worry returned. There was challenge in her voice, and the music box glinted under a moonbeam as though basking in conspiratorial light. Had Louisa somehow got to Tommy, after all? Was it possible a dalliance had formed? The tiger returned to my chest and prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. A vision flitted into my brain of Tommy as he had been that night, scratching, tapping at the door. I saw myself going to the door as I had done then; I witnessed again his face distorted through the glass. Then the vision replaced me with Louisa. What if he had returned one night this week when I was asleep? What if Louisa, and not I, had heard him?
Louisa stared at me. Her lip seemed to tremble. “I mean I can grab what doesn’t come to me, and neither you nor Mother can stop me.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice wavering. “Don’t be angry. I couldn’t help it. He came yesterday when you were at the store, after Mother had gone to the station.” My heart pounded and I was unable to move. “He wanted to take my picture too.”
“Your picture?” I whispered. Like a cul-de-sac, the ending of the story led nowhere, made no sense to my searching brain.
“Yes,” she said, furrows of distress etching her brow. “Why not? He did it for you?”