The Father Pat Stories

by Patrick Gossage

  He remembered sounding like a bit of a religious zealot that day: “No, I don’t think I do understand father. And I really don’t want to know any more. But of course I’ll be courteous. I hope she’s a good deal older than I am!” Pat had heard of an distant uncle taking up with a nineteen-year-old and knew that it was the talk of the family. And his girlfriend Priscilla had told him about one of her girl friend’s uncles attacking her in her bed and causing great trauma. Help, was this a scenario that applied to his upstanding father?

  Murray Cheyne put his arm around Pat and looked at the teenager knowingly. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “Maybe you never will. But I’m the same man, your father, that I was before I told you about this woman … aren’t I? So trust me, that’s all I can say.” And he looked at his watch, got up and walked away, not waiting for an answer.

  He returned locked in animated conversation with a very young, very blonde woman in a red bathing suit and robe. Father Pat’s most vivid memory of Jill was her wonderful smile, a shallow V that lit up her face in a remarkably attractive way. She had a lot of very red lipstick on that smile, a red that matched her stylish, late 1950s beach outfit.

  “Pat, I hear you are thinking of being a priest …” she said as she came bouncing up. And there he was shaking her hand warmly and looking up into, no, being absorbed by that wonderful smile. He was instantly disarmed.

  “Yes, yes, I’m thinking about it,” he said. “I mean, I want to go to seminary. At least I’m pretty sure I do. My mother isn’t for it though …” Father Pat remembered how surprised he was that Jill paid no attention to his perhaps blundering mention of his mother. And how relieved he was that she was a practicing Catholic. At least she probably prayed.

  The next day, it was smiles and fun all around. Father Pat saw a relaxed, rollicking side of his father he had never been privy to before. They quickly started to call each other nicknames. Jill became “lips” to Pat, and she thought this was hilarious and pursed and puckered her lovely mouth every time Pat called her that name. He found himself becoming quite flirtatious with the young woman.

  Murray called Jill “Little Jock”, her nickname by her late father, Jock, Murray explained. And Jill called George “Pop” and repeated it explosively whenever she had a chance. They frolicked in the pool that afternoon, Murray displaying over and over a swan dive that turned into a splay-footed belly flop that had the poolside crowd laughing. Then they dressed for dinner. It was a dream. Being brought up in a family of boys Pat knew little of women, particularly young women, and he found Jill far much less scary than he might have imagined.

  As the memories continued to flood back, Father Pat remembered being wary of only one thing during that blissful twenty-four hours. He watched his father and Jill closely to see if there were any signs that they were “more than just friends.” Strangely, he could only recall dropping her off at her room and Jill giving both of them a family-like embrace. If this was his father’s closely held adulterous secret, there were no open signs of physical attraction.

  But then at sixteen, what did I know? Father Pat thought, as a large semi-trailer blocked the entrance to his side street in Ridgewood. The semi intruded itself into his reconstruction of events of nearly thirty-five years ago. “I wonder how old Jill was back then, what her last name is, and where she is now?” Father Pat said under his breath, realizing his recollections had raised more questions than answers in his active imagination. But no time for that now as he pulled up behind the rectory.

  QUESTIONS SURROUNDING JILL plagued Father Pat all week. He found them disquieting. For, while at that point he had never actually betrayed Brenda, he knew what it was to be middle-aged and wonder about one’s appeal to the opposite sex, let alone what was left of your appeal to your wife. Yet, if his father had been having an affair with this girl, he now saw that she was ridiculously young when he met her at Jasper. And his dad had said he had known her for some time.

  In the days that followed, Father Pat had an opportunity to ask his brother Peter if he knew of Jill and whether she represented just a friendly gesture to a war colleague, or somewhat more.

  “Don’t be such a blind old fool, Pat,” Peter said. “I remember a Jill — can’t remember her last name — coming to the house once after I was back home on study break from university. Dad was very friendly with her and mother was cold as ice. Yeah, she even called him pop, and that didn’t go down too well with either of them. She’d have been in her early thirties then. Lovely blonde. She was passing through town on the way back west. I just thought, you old lecher, Dad, where have you been hiding this one? Daughter of a dead friend. Oh yeah! How naive can you be?” And having delivered himself of the last word on the subject, Peter went on to impress Father Pat with his knowledge of their mother’s alleged “fling” during the war with a wealthy doctor who felt he had to stay home to look after his carriage-trade practice. Father Pat found both stories neither believable nor amusing.

  “YOU KNOW, DAD, I thought a lot last week about that trip we took to the Rockies and the day we spent with that friend of yours, Jill. What ever happened to her? And was she really the daughter of a friend of yours who got killed in the war?” Father Pat was quizzing his father on his visit a week later.

  It very quickly became clear that it was going to be hard to extract the truth from Murray Cheyne that day.

  “Well, didn’t see much of her for several years after that. She lived out west. She did drop by once on the way back west and your mother nearly took a hairy fit. Don’t know what she thought … but we did have a good time at Jasper, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, Dad, we did. But what’s become of her? Did she ever write after Mom died?” Father Pat had already cooked up all sorts of melodramatic scenarios and was anxious to have them confirmed or denied by the weak old man.

  “No, no, never did. I used to drop her a line from time to time. But not for years. I thought of trying to track her down … but then your mother’s death was a real punch in the gut, and I wasn’t in any way, in any way whatsoever, ready to deal with Jill,” Murray said, gripping his trembling hands together.

  “What do you mean by that, Dad? Were you in love with Jill? Listen, you don’t have to tell me, but you obviously enjoyed her … I remember.”

  There was a long, long pause. The frail old man squinted intensely at his son. Then he looked down at his skinny hands folded together on his soiled dressing gown. He looked very, very old, Father Pat thought.

  “All I can say, if you want to know the truth, you meddling bugger you, is that I’d like to see her again. Her name is Jill Riddell — pronounced Ridd-ell. Not riddle, Riddell, two ‘l’s I don’t know where the hell she is now. The last time I heard, she lived in Vancouver. There! Is that enough?”

  “SO, I DON’T know, Terry. I feel like a combination of Perry Mason and Ann Landers, but somehow I feel I owe it to the old man to find this woman and get them together. Maybe I’d like to see her smile again, too. What do you think?” Father Pat was carrying on in his friend Terry’s classic basement den, sipping a very exclusive brand of malt whiskey, and had just finished telling him the whole story of his father and Jill, the mystery woman.

  “Pat, this would be a big deal. All we have is a name and a general indications of where she may live — and the fact she has a great smile. That’s it. I don’t know. But, God, this is good,” Terry said as he took a big sip. Father Pat insisted on drinking his malt on the rocks and it drove Terry crazy. “You wouldn’t know, of course, you ignorant priest, because you’re diluting the precious fluid,” Terry added.

  Father Pat enjoyed a bit more of the diluted fluid. “Terry, we have two things going for us,” he said in a conspiratorial tone all too familiar to Terry. “An unusual name. And perhaps a bit of an MO — that means modus operandi for idiots like you who never studied latin …”

  “What do you mean? You know nothing about her,” Terry jumped in. “It’s hopeless. Why not admit it.”
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  Father Pat searched his memory for other clues as they had another sip in silence. All he could think of was the fact she always wore red. Great clue, he thought. Then in a flash he remembered that over steaks that night in Jasper they had talked religion, and she had said that as a Roman Catholic, she perfectly understood the young Pat’s sense of calling at that time. He remembered that this had been one of the things that had made him feel more comfortable about a woman who might otherwise have appeared as a threat to his family.

  “Well, smart ass,” Father Pat said feeling his clue merited an uncharacteristic outburst. “She’s Catholic — that narrows it a bit. And I’ll wager that she’s still a devout one, too. She sounded like she was when I talked to her about my plans to become a priest.”

  “Come on you old fool! She grabbed you because she was such a looker. I’ll bet she’s married and an agnostic like the rest of us.”

  “We’ll see — and thanks for the help.” Father Pat said with finality. He was finding this a bit tiring.

  “Wait, I do know the Catholic Bishop in Vancouver, I shudder to admit,” Terry said feeling he might be cut out of a potentially absorbing diversion. “Remember old John Stevens? He went part way through seminary with us. Then he decided he might as well have what he called ’the real thing’ and started over as a Catholic. Well, I kept in touch because we shared an interest in football — he could always get tickets — well I know this is of no interest to you …” Father Pat’s eyes were glazing. Interest in any sport was where he parted company with Terry.

  “Well maybe, just maybe, you might like to call your pal and explain my problem,” Pat said. “Perhaps you’d like to make an appeal to ecumenicism — if you can remember what that means.”

  “Oh have another dram, you tiresome old shit!”

  “WHAT’S YOUR READ on this, Deirdre?” Father Pat asked. He was having his regular Wednesday lunch. He hoped a little woman’s intuition would narrow the lead so he could find Jill before his father became too senile to appreciate the gesture. And, he thought, it’s a lot more than a gesture, and she’d better not have been his mistress or I’m going to have a hard time explaining this to God!

  “I’m trying to reconnect Dad with someone very special in his past before he dies. Do you understand my sweet?” He continued, letting himself talk to Deirdre in the kind of affectionate way that matched the way he felt about her.

  “Well, my sweet … No. I don’t,” she said, mocking him ever so slightly. “Sounds like a fling with a younger chick that he wants to recreate in his dotage. Sorry. But can’t see much else. You tell me.”

  “I think you are wrong,” Father Pat shot back. “As is Peter, the jerk. There was more to it.” Father Pat thought as he looked at Deirdre’s long form draped over the banquette at Bradley’s.

  “What if, just what if,” Father Pat heard himself saying, “what if this Jill was sort of like you are to me? A real female friend that I feel close to and that provides a sort of alternative … I don’t know … female input to my life. What if this Jill did that for Dad over the years what you’ve done for me. Without it ever becoming a real affair?”

  “No analogy. Sorry Pat,” Diedre said. She was not biting. “We’ve been friends for years and years, and you’re far too fat to appeal to me! This woman was the beautiful daughter — get it, — daughter of a dead friend. I’m just a friend and a bit too close to your age for the kind of chemistry you’re thinking about… or at least that’s what I think. But I have a feeling that if your father, Murray, is anything at all like you that he’s kept up a correspondence with this Jill. Remember when you first went to Ottawa and I was still stuck here at the Record? Your bullet point notes on what was going on? Not exactly love letters, but you did keep in touch. And you always said — no need for an answer, just FYI. I think I managed to send you a couple of clippings in return — But I can see your old father scrupulously sending the same kind of notes to this Jill and asking nothing back.”

  “Yes, I remember, and maybe you are right about Dad,” Father Pat said, mixing his thoughts. “But at least you came to Ottawa and I finally caught up with you. You knew everything about me over those months.”

  “Not quite.”

  Dear Pop,

  I don’t know why I keep getting notes from you and they always end with “no need to write back.” In fact I haven’t until now. Thinking we’ll see each other one day and we’ll catch up. Well, it’s been nearly five years and I’m writing you at your office so as not to cause you any embarrassment. And please, let’s figure out a way to see each other. Isn’t it just natural for a woman to want to see the Pop she loves?

  Life in Vancouver goes on. I’ve still been seeing Jamie, but he has no intention of getting married, and I’m going to dump him. What’s the use? There’s nobody like you and I’m not allowed to even admit you exist. I wish you could help me.

  I do appreciate the cheque you sent me a few months ago. And your notes. I did give the cheque to mom who really needed it. She lost her teaching job and has been working at the front desk of a small hotel here, and it doesn’t pay much.

  My life as a dental technician has its ups and downs. I have my faith, luckily. And the ever more distant memory of your laugh.

  Take care — love you pop

  xo Jill

  There was no address on the letter, and the envelope had long since been lost.

  “So that’s it, Dad, the last time you heard from Jill?” Father Pat asked his father. He had finally pried this letter from him. The one tangible lead he had as to Jill’s whereabouts. It was five years old at least. The gem had been stashed under a revolting collection of broken glasses, soiled dressings, dirty socks and old flashlight batteries in the old man’s bedside table drawer.

  “I think this came about the time your mother died,” Murray Cheyne said. “I was too upset to reply, and that’s it. Then I had my stroke, and if there was anything else … yes, I think she called once. But I don’t remember. My address book got stolen with everything else when you guys put me here after the stroke and that’s it. This was in the inside pocket of an old suit you guys brought up here — god knows why — and I found it a couple of years ago. I don’t know why. Maybe it was Christmas and I had to put the damned thing on. I don’t know. Then I put it there in the drawer”

  Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, Father Pat’s inner voice told him as he left the hospital. On his return to the rectory, Brenda told him there as a call from Terry. Terry told him he had called the Bishop on the off chance he knew of a Riddell woman in Vancouver, a striking blonde.

  “The Bishop was a bit shocked about my request,” Terry said. “But when I told the old fart about her wonderful smile and penchant for red attire, he did remember a woman who had spoken out at a seminar on the role of women in the church — ’an awfully touchy subject these days, as you know old friend.’ He said the name Jill did ring a bell. Riddell didn’t. He said it was some years ago.”

  “Pretty slim pickings, but it’s a start. At least we know she still has a developed social conscience,” Father Pat said.

  “Careful, Pat, it wasn’t so long ago women weren’t allowed to do much in your church.” Terry replied.

  Later the same evening, a call came from Father Pat’s brother, Peter, saying his father had been poorly the last couple of days. A bad flu was worrying the doctor, and he just wanted to let the family know. Father Pat knew that if he wanted to engineer a reunion, he was starting to be up against a real and threatening deadline.

  That evening, he went on his well-worn circuitous walk with Paddy through to the suburban fringe of Ridgewood, where scruffy late autumn fields stretched beyond the last row of neat 1950s bungalows to the one-hundred-acre wood. He thought about the strange and fractured man-woman relations he had known or experienced. He thought of his old girlfriend Priscilla, his troubling two years with her. He had heard she now had a daughter whom he had never seen.

  How many distur
bed relationships he tried to deal with weekly as parishioners sought his advice. It was often the same. The love in a marriage had dissipated. There must be another woman. How could it be revived? He tried to be a good listener and that helped. He tried not to inject too much “love of Christ” into his counselling. He tried to be practical, to talk about forgiveness and friendship. But he imagined their horror if they knew he was trying to revive his father’s interest in what might have been a flirtation — or more — with a much younger woman. Why was he doing this? In his heart he knew that to bring joy to his dad at this stage in his failing life was worth the ethical risk.

  So, on a dull Tuesday afternoon, Father Pat sat in his study with Terry, a list of Catholic churches that Deirdre had copied out of the Record’s Vancouver phone book (they had earlier checked, and Jill was not listed under her name) and a tattered map of Vancouver Terry had borrowed from a neighbour. They had decided to go the church-search rather than the dentist-search route. There were a lot more of the latter.

  Terry knew Vancouver well enough to identify the kind of area in which a single women of a certain age might live in, and they were going to systematically call the churches in those areas and inquire if a Jill Riddell was a parishioner. They decided Father Pat and Terry would alternate calls. They started.

  Pat’s first call was a disaster. “Hello, St. Mary’s North Vancouver. This is Father Pat Cheyne from Toronto. I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to trace an old friend by the name of Jill Riddell, and I wonder if she is a parishioner?”