The Bishop's Man
Page 13
That was my message January 1, 1995. I thought it was an appropriate reflection on the meaning of Christ’s birth and the eternal hope He brought with His arrival among us. The extraordinary promise that gets us through the dark days until the enlightenment of Pentecost and the rebirth of spring. And the promise that one day we will know a summer without end. Et cetera.
Afterwards, young Donald O’Brian told me it was awesome.
Four days into the New Year, Sextus called to tell me that when Effie went back to Toronto after her Christmas break, he was tempted to go with her. “Now I’m sorry I didn’t. Got used to having her around. The place isn’t the same without her. I can’t imagine how you manage there, all alone. It isn’t good for any of us. You, me, buddy out at the old place.” Then, after a pause: “Speaking of which … if you get a chance, maybe you should look in on John. I think he’s fallen off the wagon.”
There was a polite knock at the door before I had a chance to react. It was young O’Brian. I told Sextus I’d have to call him back.
“I’ll be heading back tomorrow,” Donald said. “To Antigonish … I was wondering …”
“Ah, yes. Your timing is spot-on.”
I had in fact just written his letter to the bishop. Two brief paragraphs. He was a member of the parish, baptized and confirmed, impeccable academic and moral history, strong family, father active in parish affairs, etc.
I invited him in and asked him to sit.
“When you get back, just call the office. He’s expecting you.”
“Ah.”
He looked surprised.
“When I was in the army,” the bishop said, “the people who had it worst were a couple of oddballs who hung around together all the time. Eventually everybody knew about them. You’d never see them doing anything, but you just knew. You could smell the chemistry.”
I was, at this point, just listening.
“Funny about that, how you can tell. Some people can spot a misfit a mile away. I always figure there’s no harm in them. But you can understand how some people get turned off, hostile even. Those two poor fellows, in the army … they had to put up with a lot.” He was swirling his drink, suddenly distracted by the disappearing ice cubes in the glass. “A strange, strange place to find them. The army.” He chuckled. “Of course, the war was on.”
“What about the priesthood? Did you ever expect to run into it in the priesthood?”
“Ahhhhh. I don’t like to think about it. It is, statistically, inevitable, I guess. And I suppose, theoretically, it doesn’t matter, does it? We’re all more or less eunuchs here anyway.”
You couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“Why are we talking about this, anyway?” He was momentarily confused.
“We were talking about O’Brian. But I’m not sure that I see the connection … with those guys in the army.”
“Yes. O’Brian. I’ve seen him,” the bishop said. “Playing the piano. Don’t you think he seems a bit … effeminate? A little light in the loafers, don’t you think? Not that it means anything.”
“I wouldn’t try to read anything into it.”
“He’s got talent, right enough. Full of music. We could use more of that.”
“His father is the heart and soul of the parish.”
“That’s good. What is it he needs?”
Donald said, “I might as well admit, I’m kind of nervous about all this.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” I said. “There’s no crime in changing your mind sometime down the road.”
He didn’t answer.
“Maybe you told me this, but when did you first get serious about a vocation?”
“It’s been in the back of my mind for years. Tell me something. You’ve been a priest—what, now?”
“Going on twenty-seven years.”
“You’ve seen all kinds of priests. Have you ever seen one that came even close to … the ideal?”
“Yes. Just one.”
He was waiting, I suppose, for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, he said: “That’s good. You’re lucky.”
may 1. alfonso is away. tonight jacinta came to visit for spanish conversation. she didn’t realize we were alone. i asked her if she’d stay. i don’t know what came over me. she was shocked. i am a childish fool.
† † †
John was sitting at his kitchen table wearing a heavy jacket, staring straight ahead. His face was pale, unshaven, deeply lined, eyes sunk in shadows. He’d aged since the last time I saw him, at the birthday party. He turned his head slowly, seemed to focus. I was standing in the doorway.
“He-hey,” he said. The smile was warm. “I was just thinking of having a little shot.” There was a package of cigarettes open on the table. “Maybe you’d care to join me.”
The careful enunciation and the exaggerated gestures told me he’d already had a shot and more. I just stood there.
“Well, are you going to come in or not?”
“People are worrying,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed. “Fuckin’ A.”
I removed my coat. “I’m going to make a pot of tea.”
“Be my guest. Or host. Whatever.” And he reached for the bottle in the middle of the table. The hand was trembling. Then he farted, long and loud. “Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“That was the closest the old man could get to humour,” he said.
“How long has this been going on?”
“He’d let one rip, then say, ‘Better out than your eyeball.’ Or, ‘Speak again, oh toothless one.’”
“John. How long has this been going on?” I repeated.
The place was fetid, sink full of dirty bowls. He’d obviously been existing on cereal and toast and Scotch.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”
“Christmas was two weeks ago.”
“Is that a fact, now.” He raised his glass: “Here’s to the girls from Toronto … they say that they’re hard to get onto …”
I reached for his hand to take away the glass, but he moved it quickly.
“Don’t,” he said. And for an instant it was his father sitting there, Sandy Gillis, dark and dangerous.
I turned to the stove to let the moment pass.
“So,” John said eventually. “I hear herself was around for Christmas. Faye from Toronto.”
“She hasn’t been Faye for a long time. And yes. She stayed in town this time.”
“I suppose,” he said, puffing on a cigarette, “it would take a lot to open the old place this time of year.”
“That’s not so great for the jogging,” I said, nodding toward the smoke.
He laughed, dabbed an ash onto a saucer. “Where do you think that Faye business came from?”
“Just a phase. She was young. Looking for a new identity.”
“She’s had her share of phases,” he said, burping loudly.
“It seems to bother you. Him back in her life. Her coming and going here.”
“That? Fuck, no. I’m a perfectly modern man.”
The kettle whistled. I walked toward the stove.
“I never thought I’d live to see her back in that old house,” he said.
“Where do you keep the tea?”
He waved toward a cupboard door. “She told me things, back when we were … young. It was pretty upsetting.” He suppressed another belch. “I’ve done stuff I’m not very proud of. Because of things she told me. Not that I’m blaming her for anything.”
“I know what you mean. We all—”
“No you don’t. Nobody around here knows dick.”
I poured a cup of tea, set it down in front of him. He stared at it as if wondering what it was.
“I’ll get over this,” he said. “In my own time.” Talking to himself, as if I’d gone already. “Wicked how we screw each other up.”
Then he dabbed his cigarette in the cup of tea.
{11}
Young D
anny MacKay was going downhill, according to reports from Stella.
“You have to talk to him,” she said. “His parents are beside themselves. And stress is just about the worst thing possible for his father’s MS.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Mood swings. Acting out. Sudden outbursts of verbal violence, even at home. Rumours of brawls in town.”
“Sounds like growing pains.”
“They really want you to have a talk with him.”
“It isn’t really my place. He’s in Mullins’s parish.”
“Mullins,” she scoffed. “Mullins is one of the reasons the Church has become irrelevant to the people who need it most.”
“Come on now,” I said.
She’d arrive evenings, unannounced, with food. Stay to chat over a drink. And when the chill and the silence that seemed to be essential features of the old glebe got to me, I’d instinctively head to her warm and welcoming house.
“People are probably gossiping,” she said once with an easy smile. “You should throw them off by visiting other people too.”
“You think that would do it?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to try.”
The grey eyes were unblinking and I could tell that she was waiting for me to advance the cautious conversation. I smiled.
She looked away. “Poor Danny. Then there’s the relationship with Sally. I worry about her and her expectations. Some people lack the capacity for the kind of commitment Sally needs. That’s something you can only learn from shared experience. Something we generally learn when it’s too late. After failure.”
“Was he from here or … there? Your failure.”
“From there,” she said without a pause. “I don’t know if you understand that … about commitment …”
“Indeed I do. Indeed I do.” Finally I asked: “Who was he? Your … failure.”
“Him? Nobody special. A navy guy. I met him in Halifax. He persuaded me to move to Toronto. It’s an old story. We saw what we wanted to see. Didn’t see the obvious, until it was too late.”
I waited, but there was nothing more, it seemed, worth saying. Then she laughed nervously.
“But I feel safe with you,” she said.
They showed up unannounced. If Danny was going downhill, you’d never know by looking at him. He seemed poised and confident. Sally was apologetic. They were having a disagreement, Danny explained, and because they both saw me as an approachable type of older person, he said they should just come straight over. He didn’t think I’d mind.
“It’s kind of like we’re half related anyway,” he said jovially. “You owning my old boat and all. It’s like you’re married to my ex, in one of those … amicable arrangements you get nowadays. I can come by any time I want … to see the kids.”
He was laughing now and I suspected he’d been drinking, or was high. I told them to come in. I was pleased to see them, no matter what.
“That’s the sort of stuff we were talking about,” he said. “Life over the long haul. I figured the way it was heading, we were going to need a referee.”
“Oh, come on,” Sally said. “Let’s not be bothering poor Father. He’s got more important things to worry about.”
I told them I was boiling water for some tea. They both expressed an interest.
The mood had changed, though, by the time I returned from the kitchen. He was seated by the window with his coat on, staring out over the bay, chewing gently on some gum. She was studying the photos on the mantel. She took down the one from Puerto Castilla.
“Was that you?” she asked.
“Yes. A long time ago.”
“And friends of yours?”
“Yes. Another time, another world.”
“Oh. Where was it?”
“Honduras. Back in the seventies.”
“I didn’t know. That must have been amazing.”
I shrugged.
“And do you stay in touch?”
“No. I lost track of … her.” I noticed that my hand was shaking when I pointed, but she seemed entranced by our youthfulness.
“And him?” She was staring at Alfonso. “He’s cute. Where did he get to?”
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “It’s kind of a sad story. About him. He passed away.”
“My God,” she said. “And him so young.”
With that, I took the photo from her hand, returned it to the mantel. “He taught me some important lessons. About how to live. One of them is to take full advantage of every moment. Know what you’re after. Keep your eye on the ball.”
Pure bullshit, I knew, but a way to bring the focus back to them. She was listening intently. Even he, still staring out the window, seemed to be engaged. Unexpected news of death has that effect. Captures attention, if only for a moment. He was slouched deep in the chair, hands thrust into the coat pockets.
“Excuse me while I get the tea,” I said.
“So, where were we,” I asked, setting down the tray, “before we got sidetracked into ancient history?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Coming here was his idea.”
He cleared his throat, took his hands out of his pockets. “Not entirely true. Why don’t you tell him what we were talking about before you dragged the Church into it?”
There was a heavy silence. You could see the sudden look of betrayal in her eyes.
He stood, walked to the tray, picked up a mug of tea. “You see, I know lots of couples our age who got married and after a year or so all you ever hear is how miserable they are. How they feel trapped …”
“That has nothing to do with us … and I’m sure Father knows all about it already.”
“Maybe so, maybe no,” he said. “All I know is that I see what happens to people when they get married and settle down too soon, before they really know what they want—”
“That’s just a cop-out,” she said. Then she looked at me directly: “What he’s really saying is that we should just … live together, without getting married.”
“Just temporarily,” he said. “I’m not talking about civil or whatever it is. I’m just talking about easing into this thing … gradually.”
“He’s talking about shacking up,” she said with a sorrowful smile. “Call it what you want. It’s shacking up.”
“Well,” he said, “we wouldn’t be the first, now, would we?”
Then they were both staring at me.
“Marriage is all about commitment,” I said, searching for originality. When in doubt, ask a question.
“But I’m not sure I understand the problem. You’re both so young. Both living at home … close enough to see a lot of each other. Any time you want, I gather. If you’re in doubt about the big commitment … why not …” And I allowed a chuckle to finish the thought.
They looked at me blankly.
“Why not just leave things as they are? The status quo isn’t exactly … hardship, is it?”
They were silent.
“And in any case … I thought you two were thinking long-term anyway. That there were no immediate plans for the big step.” I shrugged and waited.
Finally she spoke: “Are you going to tell him or am I?”
He was back in the chair, buried in his silence. “There’s nothing final,” he said at last.
“He wants to go away,” she said wearily. “He wants to go out west. And he wants me to go with him. And I say we get married first.”
“And I say it would be a recipe for disaster,” he said.
“And I say I don’t want to live in sin. I don’t want to be like everybody else. I want—”
“—to be just like Mom and Dad,” he finished mockingly.
“And what’s so wrong with that?”
“When did you start thinking about leaving?” I asked.
He waved a hand dismissively.
“It’s all he’s talked about since Christmas,” she said. “Going to Alberta.”
I stared at him, waiting.
“I’ve been after him to go back to school,” she said.
“There’s a laugh,” he said.
“Maybe it’s just idleness,” I said. “The new boat is pretty well finished. Right?” He nodded. “Once fishing starts and you get back out there, you’ll realize just how far away Alberta is … and what you’d lose.”
“The new boat was a mistake,” he said miserably. “I hear there’s even talk of closing down the harbour. Moving everyone to somewhere else.”
“Really? Moving where?”
“It’s just talk so far. Pig Cove. Murphy’s Pond. It doesn’t really matter. I’ve been around long enough to know, when they start talking about something you don’t want … get ready for it.”
“I agree with him on one thing,” she said. “If we both went away, it would be too expensive to have two places. We’d never get far enough ahead so we could come back here and start again. Or ever have our own home. We’d be trapped in some strange place.”
“And you think staying here and you working at the Wal-Mart and me going broke in the fishery is going to get us launched?”
“I’d rather sell my body than work at Wal-Mart,” she declared. Then laughed miserably.
“You can see why we needed a referee,” he said.
“I’m afraid you need a wiser one than me,” I said.
“Anyway,” he said, standing suddenly, “why don’t we all sleep on this? Nothing needs deciding right away.”
I agreed wholeheartedly, relieved at this unexpected reprieve.
Sally looked broken but got up to follow him.
On their way out, Danny stopped at the mantel and studied the photograph. “So what happened to your friend?”
I shrugged. “It was complicated. Complicated times in a complicated place.”
“I’ve read stuff about that,” he said. “He looks like a student.”
“He was a priest … a heck of a priest. A Jesuit.”
“And her?”
“She was … I guess … a nurse, a dietitian. More like a doctor, under the circumstances.”