The Bishop's Man

by Linden MacIntyre

  “We were going to send this one to St. FX. That’s where you are, isn’t it?”

  I tried to read his face for insinuation, but failed. “Didn’t you play football yourself … I seem to remember …?”

  “Hockey. You have a good memory. I actually tried out for Winnipeg. When the old WHA was going. Got homesick, though. I’m impressed anybody remembers. How’s the coffee?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  A healing silence descended for a moment. I presumed his mind was briefly back in Winnipeg.

  Eventually I said: “I’d like to hear as much as you care to tell me. And I want you to understand that this is just for the record. We are in no doubt about the truth of what you’ve already told us. I want you to understand that. Our only concern is the well-being of your son. And of course … and this is why I want to talk to him … any other possible … victims. We have to know the extent of this … situation.”

  I knew that the anger was in check for the moment but that I would have to deal with it again when the time was right. When the tears were ready. Anger is safest when there are tears close by to extinguish it.

  “Okay,” he said, and breathed deeply. “Jesus, this is hard.”

  “Let’s just pray for a moment. Privately, if you wish. Let’s ask for guidance here. And justice. In the end, that’s what we want.”

  He nodded fervently, lowered his head and clasped his hands before his face. In less than a minute he was sobbing.

  † † †

  When we sat down to Christmas dinner, they asked me to say grace, and after I finished I noticed the William person still smiling at me. The eyes, at least in my imagination now, were full of secret information.

  Stella was seated across from me. She winked.

  The old lady beside me was William’s mother, the aunt. Peggy.

  “I imagine you’re happy to see the end of Christmas,” she said, nudging me. “I always feel sorry for the poor priests at Christmastime.”

  I smiled. “It isn’t as busy as it used to be.”

  “I suppose not,” she said, turning to her plate.

  Later, the old lady, Peggy Beaton, nudged me again, leaned close and said: “I suppose you have the Gaelic too.”

  “The what?” I said, confused.

  “Your sister has beautiful Gaelic,” she said, nodding toward Effie.

  “Oh, yes. No. I’m afraid most of mine is gone. Like everything else.” I tried to laugh.

  She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s like the faith. All watered down now. Or gone altogether. The times we live in, I suppose.”

  She sighed.

  I was shocked by the boy’s youth. Or maybe he just looked younger than his years, standing there dwarfed by his father, who brought him into the room, large arm draped over his shoulders.

  “This here is Father MacAskill,” he said. “The bishop sent him. We’ve been having a good chat. He wanted to meet you.”

  The boy was timid. His handshake tentative and soft. “Hello, Father,” he said quietly.

  The discussion was delicately phrased. The first incident happened during a visit to Halifax for a hockey playoff two years earlier. They stayed in a hotel. Father Al came to his room late. Checking, he said. To make sure the boys were all accounted for. Wouldn’t want to lose one of you, he said, joking. Father would make you laugh. But he wouldn’t leave. You look miserable, he said. I think you need a hug. It all seemed so normal.

  How wrong he was.

  And why didn’t he speak up sooner?

  He had no answer. Just shrugged and looked at his father.

  We worked together to sedate the worst of it with clinical evasions. Bum. Penis. Anus. The boy knew those words but didn’t know the proper words for the acts in question, so he eventually stumbled and fell silent.

  And when he started to sniff, his father lost control.

  “God damn it,” he cried, bringing his fist down suddenly on the small table in front of me.

  “Please, Dad,” the boy pleaded.

  After dinner, Effie whispered: “I see you and Aunt Peggy hit it off.”

  “Aunt Peggy?”

  “Their aunt, Peggy. I was talking to her.”

  “Oh, yes. You made a big impression.”

  “We might even be related,” she said brightly. “I had her do her sloinneadh. There were some familiar names.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “When did you become an expert on the family tree?”

  “Stop it. You’re as curious as I am.”

  “About what?”

  “The Gillis connection. Peggy was a Gillis, originally. She thinks our grandma might have been a Gillis.”

  “I only know of one Gillis connection that seems to matter to you,” I said playfully.

  She gave me a look of disdain then walked away, arms folded.

  Sextus noticed the tension. His eyes said Whaaat?

  And then insinuating William was standing there with a cup of tea trembling in his hand. He was staring at Effie as she went. “A beautiful lady, your sister is, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Yes, I suppose she is.”

  “I was listening to herself and Mamma talking gaidhlig. It was lovely to hear the two of them.”

  “You obviously have it yourself,” I said.

  “Ah, well. Beagan droch ghaidhlig, as they used to say. Then of course, they’d say there’s no such thing as ‘bad Gaelic.’ Right?”

  “That’s what they’d say.”

  “Your sister says we might be related, in a roundabout way.”

  “Did she now?”

  “She didn’t say exactly how. Through your grandmother, I think.”

  “They say everybody around here is more or less related,” I said, and he nodded.

  There was a sudden commotion in the kitchen. Loud greetings. And a gush of cheer and chilly air. Then Sextus entered the room to inform us that a fiddler had arrived, one of the new crop of local young musicians making reputations far afield. There was still a childish innocence about him, a warmth that started in the eyes and enriched a toothy smile. Beside him was Danny’s girlfriend, Sally. The fiddler, she told me, was her brother, Archie. After introducing us, she walked away in search of Danny.

  “I heard about you,” said Archie. “I don’t get to church as often as I should. I’m on the road a lot. But they say you’re giving the place a new lease on life.”

  I laughed and shrugged. I then noticed his friend, who appeared to be a little older. He told me his name was Donald.

  “Donald O’Brian,” he said. “You know my father, Bob. In Creignish.”

  There was something familiar about the adolescent rasp in the voice. From the confessional, perhaps.

  “I remember you from campus, but you probably don’t remember me,” he said. “I live downtown.”

  I said I remembered him. “Your father is the backbone of the parish,” I said.

  He smiled broadly. “The old man should have been a priest. Of course … where would that leave me?”

  We laughed. Where indeed!

  And soon Sextus was handing out drinks again and young O’Brian was sitting stiffly at an old upright piano in the living room. The fiddler was on a wooden kitchen chair beside him and the music became a living thing that danced among us.

  Afterwards, the old lady, Peggy, asked her son to sing a song. “Come on, Willie. Gabh oran. Chust one.”

  Willie looked sheepish and declined, but Peggy insisted and the room went quiet.

  “I’ll just sing one, then,” he said eventually.

  I realized I understood the words. Age reopens forgotten places in the memory, I thought. Then I caught young Danny MacKay staring at me. His posture struck me as aggressive, one elbow propped on his knee, hand cupping the side of his face, the other hand clasping his thigh.

  “What did you think of the song?” I asked him afterwards.

  He made a derisive gesture.

  Then the singer was squatting
beside his mother, talking quietly. And she began to struggle to her feet.

  Stella moved quickly. “You aren’t leaving,” she said with exaggerated disapproval.

  “It’s late,” Aunt Peggy said. “And it’s starting to snow again. Willie is getting anxious.”

  “But it isn’t late at all,” said Stella. “And you’re only up the road and it’s only a little flurry anyway. I can see the moon.”

  “No, no,” William insisted, already guiding the old lady out of the room, tension in his face.

  Near Danny’s chair, old Peggy stopped and he stood and gave her a quick, gentle embrace. William stood back, watching silently.

  When they were gone, Sextus remarked, “There goes one strong argument against temperance.”

  I asked what he meant.

  “Some other time,” he said. “You know his claim to fame?”

  “No.”

  “He’s never been across the causeway.” He tilted his head, arched his eyebrows in mute disapproval.

  “So, how well do you know Stella?” I asked.

  “Not nearly well enough. I met her when she first landed in Toronto. You should have seen her then.”

  She stepped briefly into the kitchen, smiled, went out again.

  “Ohhhh, yes,” he said. “Then I saw her at a singles thing in town.”

  “I didn’t realize that you were that hard up. Cruising singles functions.”

  He looked at me with a slight trace of hostility. “By the way, Effie and I are thinking of leaving soon. What about yourself? Maybe you want to wait. Obviously you have your own ride.” He nodded in Stella’s direction.

  “I’ll get my coat,” I said.

  † † †

  We held back briefly near the door while Willie and his mother got their coats and boots on. On the way out, the old lady paused, took my hand in hers.

  “Be sure to come and visit. I was talking to your sister, Effie. She says maybe we’re related. And she said you’ve got lots of Gaidhlig …”

  I laughed and winked. “We’ll see.”

  I felt a sudden weariness. After months of inactivity, the days before Christmas had become endless hours crouched in the confessional, tedious visits to the housebound. Mass Christmas Eve. Mass at midnight. Two masses that morning. I was aware of a great weight. Anxiety and weariness. Or maybe a yearning.

  Stella seemed to read my mind. “You really have to go?”

  “I really do.”

  “Some date you are,” she said, and poked my ribs playfully.

  The wine, I thought. It’s the wine that makes her eyes go green like that.

  Then young Danny was in front of me, a drink in his hand. “Can I get you something, Father?”

  “No. I’m thinking of sneaking away.”

  “Hey, it’s just getting started.”

  His warmth seemed genuine now, and it occurred to me that this might be his essence, the basis of his friendship with his father.

  “I did something the other day,” he said. “I didn’t want to bother you. But there was an old tarp in the barn and I used it to cover the back of your boat. Keep the snow out. Snow is bad for the old wooden boats. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “No. Thanks,” I said.

  There seemed to be a struggle behind the slightly amused expression on his face, something he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for.

  “You’re kind of different,” he said at last, encouraged by his drink. “Not the kind of priest I’m used to.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

  “I’m used to Mullins,” he said, and laughed.

  “Mullins isn’t so bad,” I said carefully.

  “I suppose. Given half a chance he’d be all right.” And he fell silent again, looking at the contents of his glass. “But I don’t think a fellow would be able to talk to Mullins … about things. You know what I mean?”

  I waited for more.

  “I tried once. To talk to him. It was a big mistake.”

  “That’s too bad,” I murmured.

  “You, now. I figure a fellow could talk to yourself about anything. Right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Maybe one of these days.”

  “The door is always open,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” he said, suddenly awkward in his manner and movements.

  I nodded in the direction of the two musicians, who were chatting quietly, the music finished for the moment. “You’d know those guys pretty well, I suppose.”

  He just stared. Then he stood up. “I’m kind of old-fashioned. They’re a bit too modern for me.”

  The smile was gone.

  “Charity,” the bishop said. “I’m wearing holes in the knees of my trousers praying for charity. It’s something I’ve always been short on. I don’t mind admitting it. Intellectually, I know things work out. They go away. They’ll think things through. Thank the Almighty for a second chance. Then they’ll come back to us, prepared to serve … often better priests for the encounter with their weaknesses. Better able to understand the weaknesses of others. Remember Augustine.

  “But it’s in here,” he said, pointing toward his bony chest. “It’s in here I have the problem. I have a hard time getting past the dirty details. I have a hard time not judging.”

  “Maybe,” I said carefully, “the judgment is legitimate. Condemnation might be called for. If I had my way, we’d hunker down, hold our noses and let the proper authorities handle them.”

  The reaction was instantaneous. “The proper … authorities? You think the cops and the prosecutors are the proper authorities? Have you seen what’s been going on in other places? The feeding frenzy … all the enemies of Catholicism dropping their phony ecumenical masks, thrilling at the discomfort of the Mother Church. Lay people using every opportunity to play up their own anticlerical agendas at our expense, blathering about celibacy, for God’s sake. As if celibacy is at the root of all perversions. You’ve got to get that thinking out of your head, boy. It’s an ugly world out there. We have to handle this ourselves. Keep the enemy out of it.”

  “I don’t disagree. But we can’t forget about … the … other parties. The youngsters.”

  “Go ahead and say the word,” he mocked. “‘Victim’? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Call them what you will. I’m seeing damage there.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “They’ll get over it. They’re young. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else. The dope. The cars. The promiscuity. Life is damaging, but never forget the healing power of the Sacraments. The Sacraments mitigate the damage. We can’t let a bunch of misfits and complainers undermine the Sacraments.”

  And I’ll admit it now. It made sense to me back then.

  † † †

  Outside, the night was brightened by the pristine snow, a looming moon and flinty stars. The air was sharp and clear but tinged, I noted, by the spicy tang of marijuana. Effie and Sextus were in the car, waiting, engine running.

  I stood for a moment, patting my pockets as if searching for keys. Instinctive subterfuge. Then I looked around.

  “You’re leaving, Father,” said the fiddle player. You could see the glow of the cigarette in his hand.

  “I am,” I said.

  Archie was relaxed, but Donald O’Brian actually looked frightened, hanging back in the shadows.

  I considered neutralizing the moment with a disarming acknowledgement of the smoke, but decided against it. Too soon for such familiarity, I thought.

  I walked toward the car, snow crunching beneath my feet.

  Too modern, Danny had said.

  I smiled.

  The drive home left me edgy. Sitting alone in the back of the car, I was conscious of a feeling not unlike a childish disappointment. Perhaps, I thought, it’s my basic puritanism. People think that I’m straitlaced. Hard line, Effie said.

  feb. 20. tonight i touched her face. i couldn’t help
it. i just placed my palm along her jawbone. her cheek is soft and warm. but i could tell it bothered her. she removed the hand, but held it briefly. and, god forgive me, i’m not sorry.

  I knew there was no possibility of sleep. So I poured a strong drink. A Christmas Carol was playing on TV, and I realized that I’d never really watched it all before, so I settled back to see it through. He understood it, I thought. Old Dickens. His insight into Christmas, the unity of past, present and future, the possibility of liberation through generosity.

  As Alfonso said repeatedly: the Holy Spirit dwells in all of us, rich and poor alike.

  The Ghost of Christmas Past was reminding Scrooge of forgotten happiness when the telephone revived me. It was Effie.

  “Just checking in,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, no. Is everything okay?”

  “Sure. I just felt a little guilty. I was sharp with you before. Then watching you go into that dark house all alone. I should be staying with you.”

  “Come on. I thrive on solitude.”

  “Sure. That’s what I used to think.”

  There was a long silence. I could hear slow music in the background.

  “Did anybody talk to John today?” I asked.

  “We tried to call this morning. To see what he was up to. There was no answer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sextus thinks there’s a lady somewhere. And I hope so. You’re both alone too much. It isn’t good for you.”

  I ignored the loaded comment. And we just sat there, at our opposite ends of the ephemeral connection, wondering where to go next.

  Finally, she said for the thousandth time that she wished the Church would wise up and allow people like me to find partners, that nobody should be expected to live in emotional isolation without becoming damaged.

  “I don’t think I’m all that damaged … yet,” I said.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, I couldn’t help thinking how … natural it seemed, you and Stella arriving there together.”

  And, unexpectedly, I wanted to hear more. How did we look, arriving there together? Friends? A couple? A scandal in the making?

  “Stella? You always were a bit romantic.”

  “Any time you want to talk.”

  “We should get some sleep.”