Sign of the Cross

by Anne Emery

  Chapter 7

  Bless me father — have I sinned. You know what I’m talking about.

  For too long I’ve held it in. Now it’s time to let the truth out.

  Your silhouette behind this screen. I know what you hide in there.

  I know where your soul has been. Darkness hiding in a prayer.

  — Lennie Gallant, “ I6 Angels”

  I

  I was no longer dealing with Brennan as a client, but I had taken up his invitation to join him and his cronies on their Wednesday poker nights. First, though, there was a bit of business to take care of; he asked me to come by early and bring my bill. He wanted to pay my fees without delay.

  “Now there’s an offer I don’t get every day, Brennan. You’re the kind of client I’d like to keep on the hook, so let me know if anything else comes up.” I would have occasion to look back on those words with a shudder, much the way Duncan would have reconsidered his remark about the pleasant seat he found waiting for him at the Macbeth residence in Inverness, had he lived to reflect upon it. But for now, I was content to accept payment and move on.

  “Wait a minute, Brennan,” I said when he handed me the cheque. “Kind of you to round it up, but it’s supposed to be written out to me, or to Stratton Sommers. I have to deposit it in the law firm account.” He had made it out to Montague Collins and Maura MacNeil.

  “What I have written, I have written.” He flipped his pen in the air, caught it, smiled, and turned away.

  This was Burke’s opening salvo in a campaign to get the Collins-MacNeil family back together. But that was not on the table tonight.

  I was not an expert card player by any means, but neither was Father O’Flaherty, who beamed with every good hand he received and lost his money every poker night. There were three more men in the regular group, and a couple of others who showed up on occasion. The regulars were a heart surgeon, Dr. Russell Shaw, a contractor named Rick Judd, and a rough-hewn priest, Gerald Brady, from one of the parishes outside the city. The amount of liquor consumed varied from week to week, Judd and Shaw being scotch drinkers, Brennan and O’Flaherty having one or two shots of whiskey, and the rest of us having a couple of beers. There was usually a pall of cigarette smoke, but I noticed Brennan limited himself to one or two cigarettes a night. “The voice, you know,” he said, grasping his throat, when he turned down a proffered smoke.

  These were enjoyable evenings, even when Brennan and a couple of the others directed most of their attention to their poker hands. Which was the idea, of course, but I had never been able to get very intense about cards. Even the dedicated card sharps contributed to the general conversation, however, and I heard quite contrasting accounts of Brennan’s and Gerry Brady’s visits to Head Office. Brennan had spent four years in Rome, in the 1970s, studying at the Angelicum and the Pontifical Gregorian University, where he earned degrees in some arcane field of theology. He felt right at home in the eternal city, learned to speak Italian fluently, and lived the good life by the sound of things. Brady’s experiences were different, and he kept us in stitches recounting his frequent gaffes in language, etiquette, and mores.

  The three priests expressed concern about a spree of vandalism at Catholic churches in and around the city, including St. Bernadette’s. The perpetrator broke candles and sprayed the usual foul words on the property.

  “Wasn’t there a break-in?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Kelly was nervous.” “Mrs. Kelly is nervous if she hears me strike a match,” Brennan replied.

  “Our vandal is nothing but a bush-league Satanist,” Father Brady declared.

  “Satanic stuff, is it?” I asked.

  “It’s not the real thing,” Brady replied. “St. Luke was painted over with ‘St. Lucifer.’ The number 666 was sprayed on the forehead of St. Joseph. Then there’s ‘you-know-what the bishop and all his minions’ — spelled minyans. Not the work of a true Satanic cult, by any means. What did he do here at St. Bernie’s?”

  “We’re the House of Evil and Priests of the Devil,” Burke replied. “That just about describes us, eh, Mike?”

  But Father O’Flaherty looked more apprehensive than amused.

  Nobody had been around when the vandal had struck some months before. And there were no incidents during my evenings round the card table — until late in April.

  The six of us were sitting there, playing the hands that had been dealt us, Brennan and Dr. Shaw puffing clouds of smoke from the enormous Cuban cigars they had clamped between their teeth. The doctor had a “Heart Health” T-shirt on; Brennan’s said “Roma” and something in Italian that I couldn’t read; Brady and Judd wore sport shirts; Father O’Flaherty was ready for bed in an emerald green dressing gown and slippers. Shortly after we sat down, the phone rang. O’Flaherty, who was closest, leapt up to get it. Brennan whispered: “I let it slip that I’m expecting a call from my sister in Dublin tonight. She works over in London, university prof, teaches Irish history to the Brits. The nosy gaffer wants to chat her up.” But it was a wrong number. O’Flaherty returned to the fold.

  Brady and Shaw were trying to interest the rest of us in a fishing trip to a camp in the interior of the province. “Sounds like great crack, a weekend away like that,” O’Flaherty agreed. “What do you say, Brennan?”

  Burke just snorted and continued to puff on his cigar.

  But O’Flaherty was keen. “We’d get up at sunrise to fish, we’d play cards out on the deck in the evenings, enjoy the silence. Idyllic, I’d say.”

  Brennan removed the stogie from his mouth and regarded O’Flaherty as if he’d gone simple. “How would you be concentrating on your cards when you’ve got one hand on the go constantly, swatting flies away from yourself? And fish. They’ve people to bring fish to you now, Michael. You don’t have to go out at the crack of dawn to catch them yourself. Fishmongers, supermarket operators, cordon bleu chefs, Mike. These people are there to be used, when you’ve a longing for something from the salt seas.”

  “Fresh water fishing we’re talking about here, Brennan,” Brady explained. “We’re not going to charter a trawler.”

  “Sorry. My mother never told me where fish come from. You boys go ahead and commune with the wood ticks. Now, are we going to play cards or are you going to treat me to a serenade for banjo —” he looked at O’Flaherty “— and harp?”

  “Isn’t he insufferable?” Brady remarked to the table at large. “He and my old man would get along famously.” The priest launched into a tale about his father, who had taken over the family farm when the grandfather was too enfeebled to do the work. The story of the reluctant and ineffectual farmer could have been tragic, but the storyteller had us in fits of laughter.

  “Now tell us about your own da, Brennan,” urged Father O’Flaherty, who looked on indifferently as his pile of chips was scooped up by Burke. “A recent immigrant, I understand.”

  “If 1950 is recent to you, Mike, then my father’s still green in the face from the boat trip over.”

  “Those times get more and more recent to me every day,” the old priest replied, to appreciative laughter. “Now, you and your family came over —”

  The phone rang again, and Brennan trumped O’Flaherty in a grab for the receiver. “Yes. Hello, darlin! Grand. Ah. Now, are you asking for the wise counsel of kindly Father Burke? Or am I speaking to you as brother Brennan? Thought so. In that case, put the run to him. Oh, you did. Well, between Dublin and London, I know you’ll find a man more to your liking. But wait now, Maire. I have just the fellow for you right here. Slight of build, blue of eye, light-coloured hair —” He looked over at the poker table. “Would you gentlemen describe Mike here as cute?”

  “Oh, yeah!” we chorused as one.

  “Cute as a bug,” Bren
nan said to his sister, “and he loves Irish girls, don’t you Michael?” Father O’Flaherty blushed. “Here. I’ll put him on, so you can speak to the old sod. About the old sod, I mean. To Mike.”

  O’Flaherty’s eyes made the round of the table, then he went for the phone. “Good evening, Maire,” he said with hearty good cheer. “You’re keeping late hours over there.”

  Brennan turned his attention to the table. “Let’s play a hand without him.”

  O’Flaherty must have gabbed for half an hour, during which time we played a more serious brand of cards. Then he rejoined us without alluding to the telephone conversation. Ever the gentleman.

  It was around eleven-thirty when we heard the sound of breaking glass. We remained stock still for a moment, listening, then jumped from our seats and bolted for the rectory door, Father O’Flaherty shuffling behind. Brennan stopped to get a key from a ring near the entrance, then we went out to the parking lot, and ran to the side door of the church. Burke went through the vestibule into the nave and switched on a light. I was about a dozen feet behind him. Just as he turned to the left, a man leaped from a crouch beside the last pew, jumped on the priest’s back, and gripped his throat with one hand. He had something in the other hand, which he raised over Brennan’s head. Next thing I knew, Brennan had flipped him off, slammed him facedown on the church floor, and had his arms pinned behind him. This happened so fast I did not have a chance to call out, let alone reach the two combatants. A can of spray paint, full by the sound of it, clattered uselessly to the floor and rolled away. Brennan was on the vandal’s back, holding the pinned arms in place; he still had the cigar in his mouth. The phrase “muscular Christianity” came to mind.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the man cried in a voice that cracked with pain and anger.

  Brennan put his mouth, with the burning cigar in it, close to the man’s left ear and whispered: “I’m the Holy Father. And this,” he lifted the man’s head and twisted it towards the rest of us, “is the College of Cardinals. Prepare to be excommunicated. Right here, right now.”

  “I’m not even Catholic!”

  “Sure you are,” said Brennan. “Now be a good lad and tell us what kind of beef you have with the Church of Rome.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Brennan yanked the man to his feet and shoved him into a pew. His forehead and chin were bleeding, and he rubbed them with a raw-looking wrist. Brennan signalled to the rest of us and we sat around him to block his escape.

  “Speak!” Brennan barked at him.

  “Now, Brennan,” Father O’Flaherty said in his soft brogue, “let’s give the lad a chance to get his breath.” The man whipped around to look at O’Flaherty, who turned away from the young fellow’s blazing eyes.

  Brennan continued to smoke and glare malevolently at the culprit, who could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five years old; it was hard to tell. “Who the fuck are you guys?”

  “We’ll ask the questions here,” Burke snapped. “Who are you?” When there was no reply, Burke leaned towards him and I put a restraining hand on his shoulder. More gently — and anything would have been more gentle — he said: “We all have problems with the Church. What’s yours?”

  The prisoner looked at each of us, then settled on Father O’Flaherty; he peered closely at the older man before speaking. “You better not be one of them.”

  O’Flaherty cleared his throat and asked mildly: “One of whom?”

  “None of your business, you fucking Irish bog-trotter!”

  The Reverend Brennan X. Burke, B.A. (Fordham), S.T.L. (Pontifical Gregorian), Doctor of Sacred Theology (Angelicum), delivered a short homily: “Watch your language, you fecking little gobshite. It’s lucky for you Father O’Flaherty’s here.”

  The young man wiped blood from his face and looked belligerently at O’Flaherty in his dressing gown. O’Flaherty reached out a fatherly hand, but the prisoner flinched away. “You have nothing to fear from us, my son. Did somebody hurt you?”

  “I’m not hurt!”

  “So, what’s your problem?” Burke demanded.

  O’Flaherty held up a conciliatory hand. “I’m Father O’Flaherty. I’m the rector here. Now let’s see if we can get you some help, my lad. What’s your name?”

  “Yeah, right. Tell you my name. That’d be a genius move on my part.”

  “We want to help you,” repeated O’Flaherty.

  The young man’s eyes darted nervously to Burke who, in a calmer voice, said: “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Indeed he’s not going to do you any harm at all. This is Father Burke.”

  ” This guy is a fucking priest?”

  “Yeah, yeah, and an Irish bog-trotter too,” Burke replied. “Save your breath. Now, why don’t you let us take you somewhere you can be safe for the night. This man is a doctor.” Brennan turned to Dr. Shaw, who was holding a snow-white handkerchief out to the injured vandal. “He’ll have a look at you. And I’m sure he’ll be happy to accompany you and Father O’Flaherty to a shelter —”

  “I’m not going anywhere with them!”

  “— and in the morning we’ll set you up with a counsellor, or somebody else who can start to help you.”

  The captive was escorted to the rectory under guard so that Mike O’Flaherty could get dressed, and he and the doctor could tuck their charge somewhere safe for the night. We followed them to the rectory, Brennan stopping to pick up the paint can and take it with him. The party broke up then.

  I called the next evening to see how things had gone and Mike O’Flaherty filled me in. The vandal had taken flight in the small hours of the morning. If Brennan had not been on the scene, and O’Flaherty had got to the guy first, would he have been more inclined to stay and seek help? Then I remembered how the intruder had attacked Burke. Father O’Flaherty would not have had the strength or agility to fight his attacker off. Things could have turned out worse.

  O’Flaherty had called a meeting of people from the church and youth centre early that morning. A young man fitting the vandal’s description had spent time around the centre a few months before. He had given his name as Jason. One youth centre volunteer said Jason had asked questions about the priests at St. Bernadette’s. What kind of questions? The guy wanted to know the priests’ names, their ages and where they were from. It was a pity, O’Flaherty observed sadly, that Jason had not stayed till morning.

  “Let’s hope Brennan is down on his knees somewhere beseeching the Lord to make him a channel of His peace, if the poor lad turns up again.”

  II

  I missed the next poker night, but had made plans for an afternoon of musical theatre at Neptune. It was one of those outings Maura and I were determined to take in together for the children’s sake. We had invited Brennan along, and were on our way to pick him up. An argument was in progress about the seats I had reserved.

  “If you’d bought tickets for tonight’s performance instead of this afternoon, Collins, we’d know for sure that Frank MacKay will be singing the part. If they have an understudy, I won’t want to be there...”

  The kids waited in the car while we went up to Burke’s room. “You don’t know there’s going to be an understudy. Why don’t you just wait for twenty minutes until you can read the program? Then you’ll know. It’s that simple.” But it wasn’t. Maura came from the kind of family in which everyone, whenever the phone rang, had to speculate and argue about who it was before answering it. If you ever call their house, let it ring ten times.

  We knocked on the priest’s door. Brennan came to greet us, unshaven, wearing a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt, with a glass of what looked like chocolate milk in his hand. He stood in the doorway and rubbed his back against the door jamb.


  “Sure sign of a bachelor,” Maura said, “scratching your back against the door post.” She looked him up and down. “I have to tell you, you’re the seediest cleric I’ve ever seen. To think I spent a whole night with you.” Brennan looked from her to me in momentary alarm, then obviously remembered the all-night wingding at the Strattons’.

  He turned to me. “Monty, have you read the papers? About the little girl who died in the car accident?”

  “Oh, yes. Very sad.”

  “And did you hear how she died?” Maura asked. “The news reports glossed over it, but I heard what happened. The child’s father is off at a party, all drugged up. He calls in the middle of the night and demands that his common-law wife, the little girl’s stepmother, go out and pick up some more drugs or booze or something he wants, and deliver it to him at the party, which is way over in Dartmouth. The stepmother doesn’t have the car — he has it — but why should he get off his arse when he has her to do his bidding? So the stepmother goes over to another apartment in her building and gets some bozo, who happens to be drunk, to drive her on this errand. A man says ‘jump,’ she says ‘how high and can I kiss your arse on the way up.’ She drags the little girl and her brother out of bed and into the car, puts them both in the front seat without seatbelts on, gets into the back seat herself, and reclines for the journey. And away they go to the crack house, or the bootlegger, or wherever they’re going. Then they head for the bridge but they don’t get there, because the drunk at the wheel loses control of the car and they smash into a power pole. The girl is thrown from the car, and lands on her head.” Brennan closed his eyes as if to shut out the picture of the child, still in her pyjamas, broken and dying. “The brother just had scratches. The driver, well, who cares? The stepmother was able to walk away from it. They rushed the girl to the hospital and worked frantically to save her life. This is where I heard the story, from a friend who works for the ambulance service. Anyway, do you know what she said, the stepmother, when the police showed up? ‘But he told me to go, he told me to go.’ This while the child was lying there losing consciousness! I hope that woman gets —”