The Bishop's Man

by Linden MacIntyre

I was no longer conscious of the edge, or of the rocks below. Only of the soft meadow and the endless sky. I was suspended on a current of ecstasy, already airborne. Time fused, past, present, future merged, meadow and horizon—one continuum. I was on the threshold of the absolute.

  Act. Don’t think. You’re almost there. I took a deep breath. Closed my eyes.

  Jude’s hand was gentle on my shoulder. “It’s something I could never do,” he said, peering past me. “This rock climbing … you’d have to have a death wish. Dopes on ropes, I call them.”

  The voice was soft, the chuckle a low, insinuating rumble in his throat, his fingers now firm, digging into the cloth of my jacket, drawing me back, away from the ledge, toward him.

  “You have to be careful near the edge,” he said. “The overhang is treacherous in places.”

  I turned my head toward his voice and he was staring off dreamily, past me into the distance.

  Finally, Danny cleared his throat and slowly said: “But you don’t think … if your friend hadn’t come along?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You’d never expect that somebody in your line of work …”

  And I heard myself ask: “What is my line of work? What do you think my line of work should be?”

  The expression on his face was the look of a child trying to understand abandonment.

  So I said: “Danny … let me tell you what I think a priest should be. I think a priest should, first of all, be human.”

  I kept it brief. I had a friend once in a place called Honduras. An exemplary priest, perhaps the only one I’ve ever known. Danny listened, face solemn, until I finished, then just sat for a long, still moment.

  Around the silence there was wind. He coughed briefly, cleared his throat.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “That’s some story.”

  The clock ticked.

  “I guess a fella never really knows what people have to put up with.” He shook his shaggy head then stood. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said. And shuffled down the hallway.

  When he came back, he asked: “So who do you think killed the poor fellow? The priest. Your friend.”

  “In a way,” I said, “I did.”

  † † †

  They’d been gone, our dead Alfonso and Jacinta, for almost a week. Now the cops were back. Calero and a younger man. They were in uniform, and one of them had a weapon you rarely see in the hands of a policeman. It was a machine gun of some type, short and stubby, with an oversized ammunition clip protruding. He had his finger on the trigger out of habit. The third man was a civilian, a Canadian. From the embassy, he said.

  “We have a potentially awkward situation,” he said.

  “How well did you know this woman, Jacinta?” Calero asked.

  “Well enough,” I said.

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  I shrugged. “In El Salvador, I presume. That was where she was going.”

  “You know where?”

  “Aguilares, I think. Wasn’t that where Father Alfonso came from?”

  “Yes. But wasn’t she from Chalatenango? Some village in the mountains?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Might she have gone there?”

  “I have no idea, and why does it matter? She had nothing to do with Alfonso’s murder.”

  “Perhaps,” Calero said. “But we would like to speak with her.”

  The Canadian then spoke up. There was some uncertainty about the motive for the killing of Alfonso, he said. “The local authorities made certain assumptions at the time, relating to your friend’s political connections, some of his past activities. The motive seemed obvious. Maybe it was too obvious. They’re now leaning toward another theory. There are rumours, widespread gossip in the neighbourhood. Jacinta was having a relationship with a priest. It seems the rumours came to the attention of her estranged husband.”

  Did I know that her husband is an army officer? Did I know that he is a major in the FAES?

  I heard she might have had a husband once. But I never discussed it with her.

  “I would hate to have him as my enemy, this Major Cienfuegos,” the younger policeman said.

  And after silently consulting the other two, by way of knowing glances, Calero said: “There has been a significant development in our investigation of the tragic death of Padre Alfonso.

  “We have arrested a soldier from her husband’s battalion. He was attempting to cross the border near Colomoncagua. Under interrogation, the soldier has suggested that the killing of the priest was motivated more by honour than by politics. He admits to the assassination. But we aren’t certain who he meant to kill. It was dark. His mission was to kill ‘a Red’ who was a priest. After inquiries locally, he assumed the target was Padre Alfonso, a well-known supporter of the Communists.

  “But we understand you’re known here as Padre Pelirrojo … Your hair, I presume?”

  “They call me that.”

  “We have to consider the possibility that he got … the wrong Red. Can you be of help in that regard?”

  “Hardly,” I said stiffly.

  “Yes,” Calero said, studying his hands. “Of course.”

  “We don’t propose to take a chance,” the Canadian diplomat interrupted sourly. “We’ve made our own inquiries. We’ve been in touch with your bishop and he agrees. Perceptions can mean life or death in this part of the world.”

  They had made arrangements. I would leave the country that very day to return to Canada.

  They were thorough. I quickly packed my bags. An embassy car was waiting outside the door. We all shook hands.

  I realized at the end of it that Danny had reached across and his huge hand was on mine, loosely.

  “No fuckin’ way that was your fault,” he said grimly. “No way, José.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You have to start believing that.”

  I nodded.

  “I wish I could offer you a drink,” he said.

  “That’s okay.”

  On day thirty-nine, Jude and I took our last walk together. Sitting on the little bench soaking in the sunshine, he asked abruptly if I thought I’d got anything out of the experience at Braecrest.

  “A good rest,” I replied. And I actually believe that now, and that there is value in physical fitness. Thinking of Stella, and that tennis would be starting soon. And yearning for the shore. “Do you have women friends?” I asked.

  “Oooh ho ho. There’s a trick question.”

  “Sorry,” I said quickly.

  “That’s okay. I never actually tried to have women friends. Not since ordination. But I spent time in monasteries and teaching. Had a couple of women who were teaching colleagues.”

  “Monasteries?”

  “I’m an Augustinian. We have a parish in Ottawa. Which was my downfall. Too much freedom in a parish. We were too close to Montreal and the casino.”

  We stared into the distance for a while. Spring birds flitted among the budding branches and there was a warm breeze. I thought of Creignish and the chill northwest wind that bores down the gulf this time of year, throwing the occasional defiant snowstorm against the cowering inhabitants. The rains, still harsh and icy.

  “The faith,” he said. “What a powerful force when you think about it. Paul. Augustine. Luther. Pascal. My God. This notion that we only have to believe in eternity to become a part of it—I could buy into it myself if only it didn’t result in the devaluation of this.” He spread his arms as if to gather in the vast spectacle before us.

  “Paul to the Romans,” I said, smiling. “It’s all in there, I guess.”

  He sat up suddenly and half turned. “Did you know what Luther was doing when he came up with that insight … about justification by faith?”

  I shrugged.

  “He was taking a dump. Sitting on the toilet reading Paul to the Romans. And it hit him like a bolt of lightning. Just like that. An idea that would change the world forev
er.” He settled back. “Don’t you think that’s just perfect?”

  “So how do you deal with faith?”

  “Look at that,” he replied, gesturing toward the escarpment. “I know it is there. I see it. On my worst days? I just think about the escarpment. Or stare up into the universe. That’s usually enough. Then, of course … I get greedy. Head for the tables, looking for true immortality.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “No more tables. No more pills.” He was nodding his head, absorbing his own certainty. “Flee as a bird to the Mountain,” he said.

  I looked at him, confused.

  “Psalm eleven. I read the Psalms for the poetry.” He looked off into the distance. “‘For lo the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string … that they may shoot the upright in the heart,’ or something like that. I’m thinking of taking five weeks and walking from Queenston to Tobermory. I think I can do it, exploring the escarpment and the faith all the way. Avoiding the wicked and their bows and arrows.”

  I suddenly felt envious and lonely.

  “What about yourself?” he asked brightly.

  “I plan to spend a week around Toronto.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “A bit of unfinished business there.”

  “And after that?”

  “We’ll see how things turn out in Toronto.”

  A lone gull came out of nowhere and fluttered past.

  “The first few days on your own are the worst,” he said with a sigh.

  “You sound like you know.”

  “Ah, well,” he said. “This is my third trip here.”

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” Danny said after a long pause. “I’m going to yank my head out of my own arsehole and start thinking of other people for a change. That’s what I’m going to do.” Then his hands were on my shoulders, face close, eyes shining, booze fumes almost overwhelming. “Time for me to get on with it. And you know what? I’m starting with you.”

  “Me?” I laughed.

  “Well … first I’m going to call the wife.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Up at Stella’s. She’s been up there for a week. She said she couldn’t stand it here anymore with me the way I’ve been.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I’m going to teach you how to drive that Jacinta properly. Okay? I’ve been noticing the little comments around the shore, about you bumping into things.

  They’re bad for mockery around here. We’re going to fix that.” He sat down. “Starting tomorrow. You’re going to learn to drive that boat.”

  “Maybe we should wait till the boat is in the water.”

  He studied my face intently. I smiled.

  “Good plan,” he said.

  Walking back, Jude said: “It’s always a mistake to identify too closely with any institution. That might have been our downfall. Losing ourselves inside the vastness of the Holy Mother Church, forgetting who we are as people … our personal uniqueness.”

  I must have seemed surprised.

  “Institutions are amoral,” he said. “We should never lose touch with our individuality. Once you lose that, you lose touch with the basics. The right and the wrong of things. I have to think we’re conditioned to do the right thing, as people. But not as institutions. There’s no morality in an institution. It’s just a thing.”

  I stopped. “You mentioned once that you might have a Toronto phone number for Brendan Bell.”

  “Yes. In fact I do. I’ll get it for you. I know you’ll use it with discretion.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “It would probably be best if he didn’t know I gave it to you. Assuming he’d remember who I am.”

  “Of course. But why the discretion?”

  “Ah, well,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. “A few years back I was approached about a rather sensitive matter that involved young Brendan. I wouldn’t want to say too much about the circumstances. But some of the higher-ups back home thought it might be a good idea if Brendan spent some time in Ottawa. At my high school there. It’s a Catholic school for boys. They wanted me to arrange something for him. A temporary teaching job. I’d be looking after him, see.”

  “I see. Do you remember when that was?”

  “Oh, God. Five or six years ago, I’d say. I had to tell them I didn’t think it was such a good idea, Brendan teaching at a boys’ school. Anyway, they thanked me and said they’d work it out some other way.”

  “And do you know where they eventually … put him?”

  “Not a clue.”

  A crow squawked, abandoning a nearby tree.

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t heard a boo about him since. Just the gossip … that he left, did well in business. But I still have the phone number they gave me at the time. I think some relative of his.”

  After another interlude of silent walking, he said: “I should give you my number too. So you can let me know how you make out with him.”

  “I will,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

  Knowing even then, of course, I never would.

  {28}

  Effie was waiting in her car in the circular driveway in front of reception. Groundskeepers were planting annuals and clipping winterkill from bushes. Residents wandered in the background. She was reading a thick book and didn’t see me as I emerged from the front door. I rapped on her window and she smiled up at me. Nodded toward the passenger side. Once I was settled, she leaned across and offered up her cheek. I brushed it lightly. I felt a momentary panic, suddenly connected again to the reality of my history.

  “And how was that?” she asked brightly.

  “A worthwhile experience,” I said.

  “I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when you opened up.”

  “Your ears must have been burning,” I joked.

  She reached across and took my hand. “How are you really?”

  “Fine. A little bit disoriented. But fine.”

  “I’m looking forward to some quality time. My God, it’s been years since we had any time.”

  “I’m not sure that we ever did.”

  “I have a visitor,” she said. “But he’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  Her other guest was at the university. They’d both be back at dinnertime, she said.

  “Somebody famous,” I guessed.

  She laughed. “It’s only William from Hawthorne. I brought him up for a conference.”

  “Willie? What kind of conference is it?”

  “William,” she corrected. “And just hold off the judgments. You don’t know the half of it. You don’t know what an asset our William really is.”

  “Really. I’m in the dark.”

  “He’s an anomaly. We probably knew dozens like him when we were kids. But he’s one of the last … one of those sheltered people who preserves a pure chunk of our history in his head. Intact. In his case, the old poetry and folklore of the pioneers. Orally transmitted. He’s quite amazing.”

  “Poetry?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. But I have some scholars over from Ireland and Scotland and some of them wanted to record him, so I dropped him off with them before I went to pick you up.”

  “And how does Willie Hawthorne feel about being an … anomaly?”

  “He loves it,” she said.

  I laughed. “I suppose he’s taken my bed.”

  “You get the guest room. I put William downstairs, in the rec room.”

  My sister lives in the kind of house I associate with authority. It is built of granite, with corners and projections that make it appear larger than it turns out to be once you’re inside. The driveway is of black asphalt that always looks fresh. The neighbours have garages and, out front, hulking SUVs and solid little cars with numbers for names. Though it was still May, the maples and oaks and even the occasional elm were lush with summer greenery. Lawns had been mowed already. It is a street on which
misery is difficult to imagine.

  The guest room was sparse and clean, with a dresser and a bookcase full of ancient paperbacks and old school texts. Blurry Impressionist prints on the walls. I noted a crucifix above the bed and realized that it had been weeks since I had felt any inclination to pray. I sat on the bedside, slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and found the comforting beads there. It is Friday, I thought. The sorrowful mysteries. I let my eye travel the bookshelves. Nothing interested me. I lay back on the soft bed, caught again between truth and understanding, remembering the sanctuary of faith. I sat up, suddenly uncomfortable. Looked across the room toward where I almost expected to see Jude’s tidy bed, and felt a strange pang of anxiety.

  I stood at the bedroom window, longing for something larger and more reassuring than a city neighbourhood, even one that seemed to be constructed of granite, brick and limestone. Across the street a pretty teenaged girl was frowning as she spoke on a cellular telephone, sitting on her doorstep, one arm draped across her knees. A large tree branch wavered in front of me, just outside the window, concealing my presence. I studied the girl, her child’s face contorted by grown-up anxieties. Do they notice me? Do they like me? Am I significant? Am I safe?

  She was dressed to be noticed, a tight little sweater that stopped just above the navel. The way she sat, elbows perched on knees, a roll of baby fat fell over the waistband of low-cut jeans. The door behind her opened slowly. A boy emerged, about twelve years old. The girl continued her conversation. He stood behind her, then tugged her hair. She swatted with a free hand without even turning her head. He laughed, hopped slightly out of reach and went back inside.

  I thought of Bell. In a moment identical to this one he is going about his business somewhere.

  I went downstairs and found a telephone directory. There must have been a hundred B. Bells. I compared each number with the one Jude had given me. No match. I dialed it anyway.

  The whirr sounded half a dozen times before I heard the pickup. A man’s voice offered a tentative hello. I asked if Brendan Bell was there.

  “No. Who’s calling?”

  “An old friend,” I said.

  “Well, he isn’t here.”

  “Do you expect him?”