by Anne Emery
She went through the pages, counting under her breath. She had to restart a couple of times but in the end she found twenty-seven entries.
“And you worked there for four months, which came to eighty-five work days in all?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, twenty-seven out of eighty-five. That’s almost a third of your time. One or two sick days every week.”
“No, I was there more than that.”
“Perhaps so. Let’s look again.” Monty made a show of turning the pages. “What was your last day in the office at St. Bernadette’s?”
Her eyes darted to her counsel, but Underhill’s face was without expression.
“Never mind your lawyer, Ms. Tate. You have to answer the questions yourself. What was your last day on the job?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Would it refresh your memory if I showed you the termination letter at tab one of your list?”
“August twenty-eighth.”
“You were let go on that date.”
She answered in a voice barely audible. “Yeah.”
“And yet you had a sick day marked for Friday, September eleventh?”
No reply.
“Ms. Tate? A sick day entered in your book in advance? Could you go ahead to Friday, September eighteenth? Another S there? And ahead again to Monday the twenty-first?”
Still no response.
“How do you account for those entries?”
Silence and squirming.
“Ms. Tate? Did you plan ahead to take so-called sick days?”
She did not supply an answer, but Monty did not need one. He let her experience the discomfort for a couple of minutes, then resumed his questioning.
“Did Monsignor O’Flaherty ever criticize or make any complaint about your work?”
“No! He was really nice. Not picky, picky, picky.”
“Did Father Burke ever criticize you for anything, other than the spelling and punctuation errors in your correspondence? And all your . . . sick time?”
Her expression was that of a child of ten. “He was mean! He’s not a very good priest!”
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“He growled at Gary!”
“Who is Gary?”
“My fiancé.”
“What happened with him?”
“He would come and pick me up after work or, like, at lunchtime. And Father Burke was rude to him!”
“In what way?”
“He would say he had to leave.”
“Where was Gary, that Father Burke told him to leave? Was he waiting in the doorway?”
“He was, like, with me.”
“In the office?”
“Yeah.”
“So what would Father Burke say to Gary?”
“He’d say, ‘Get out of the office.’”
“I know you can’t put yourself in Father Burke’s mind — ” God knows “ — but what was your impression of why he said that? What do you think he objected to?”
“He thought Gary was looking at stuff on the computer. But he wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t at the computer?”
“Well, he just used to sit at it when I was doing other stuff.”
“Did he use the computer?”
“Not to spy on the church’s stuff, or the money records, just to . . . he likes computers.”
“I see. So that’s what Father Burke took issue with.”
“And he thought Gary was looking through the file cabinets. But he wasn’t! He was just leaning on them, and if they were open that wasn’t Gary’s fault.”
“That would be your responsibility, wouldn’t it? Keeping the filing cabinets closed and the records private?”
“I was busy! And anyway, that’s not all of what he did. One time Gary was outside, and he swore at him! Burke did.”
“Is that right? What did he say?”
“It’s too rude to say it here.”
“Say it anyway. We don’t mind.”
She looked to her lawyer again, and received a slight nod.
“He said to Gary, ‘Get the fuck out of my churchyard or I’ll boot your arse from here to the fucking harbour.’ It was unbelievable, a priest talking like that! I was so upset! I told Monsignor, and he tried to cover it up by saying people in Ireland use the F word a lot and it’s not as bad as here. But that didn’t make me feel any better.”
She had informed on Burke to O’Flaherty; it was a wonder she still had her kneecaps. Aloud, he asked her when this last incident had happened. The open conflict between Burke and the boyfriend was news to Monty.
“It was after.”
“After what?”
“After I stopped working there.”
“So that incident does not form part of this lawsuit.”
“It should!”
“Those are all my questions, Ms. Tate. Thank you.”
The fact that the plaintiff’s lawyer was in no hurry to examine Monty’s clients till some date to be agreed on in the future told him what the lawyer thought of Tate’s case; Monty could expect an offer to settle before too long. There was no case, and the church’s offer of one month’s salary was more than she would ever get from a court.
†
Monty dropped in on Brennan Burke that evening to fill him in on the proceedings.
“Well?” Burke asked, when Monty had made himself comfortable in one of Burke’s chairs. “How did it go?”
“It went as expected. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if I were you.”
“I haven’t been. What did she say?”
“She said you never called her Befanee.”
“Nobody should call anyone Befanee. Sounds like baby talk for Bethany, which I assume it is. The parents couldn’t spell it, or pronounce it properly. Befanee, did you type that fing for me yet? It has to be done by Fursday, for the Feology Conference, on the Summa Feologiae. Ah, thuck it!”
“I have to say I was a little surprised at the letter you sent out to Kiri Te Kanawa.” Burke’s lips pressed in on each other. “First of all, what’s the story on her? I know she’s coming to the Cohn, and I’m hoping to get tickets. But, Brennan, this letter. Hardly up to the standard I’d expect of you . . .”
“Never mind it.”
Burke looked as if he were going to be sick. Monty knew he was a great admirer of the brilliant New Zealand soprano, and his admiration encompassed more than her work.
“I’d as lief be picked up by the Blessed Mother, levitated from the churchyard, carried through the skies, dropped over New York City, and left impaled on the Empire State Building, as to imagine Kiri Te Kanawa receiving such an abomination in the mail. With my name on it. Now fuck off about it.”
Time to let up on him. “What was Tate’s boyfriend doing in the office?”
“Reading files and financial records on our computer and in our cabinets. And some notes I made in connection with my ministry to the inmates at the correctional centre. No doubt recognized a name or two. One time I caught him looking at the tallies of our Sunday collections.”
“No wonder you were mean to him.”
“Mean to him. That little gurrier. I put the run to him.”
“What happened later on? She says you told him to get the fuck off the property.”
“He was taking money off people at the statue. People devoted to St. Bernadette. I told you that before.”
“Right. You did. So it obviously didn’t end when Befanee lost her job.”
“I’m sure it intensified after the claimed apparitions, to make up for the lost family income.”
“Tell me what else you know about this.”
“He had a scheme going. He was approaching people in the churchyard, offering some kind of service or favour;
I don’t know what it was. I threatened to do him grievous bodily harm if I ever saw him at it again.”
“What kind of scam was it?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I’ve been keeping an eye out for him. Which I imagine he has copped on to, because he’s never there when I am. Yet I have spoken to people, and they’ve said he’s pestered them for money. What a pair. So, back to the point, what is going to happen with the lawsuit?”
“Nothing. They’ll settle it. They should have taken the offer in the first place. Now we cut it down, and they’ll have to take it as is. But Befanee may be on her way to a more exalted status than ex-employee of the parish of St. Bernadette. Right?”
“What?”
“The Church is taking this seriously. I could scarcely believe my ears when Michael O’Flaherty told me about the expert from Rome, someone from the investigation arm of the Vatican. Michael says these investigations are rigorous and take a long time to complete. That’s the last thing I expected in a case like this one. So, what’s the story on this priest from Rome?”
“He’s taking part in a conference in Ontario. Decided to stop in here.”
“What is he, some kind of psychic detective?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, what kind of investigation does he do? How detailed is it? O’Flaherty suggested that it would be quite elaborate and could go on for a while.”
“It’s over and done with.”
“What?”
“He did his investigation, and he’s already left town.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Well, what did he find out?”
“What’s there to find out, Montague?”
“He must have interviewed Befanee Tate, for one thing, considered the statement she made on television, examined the site, and — ”
“Why in the hell would he do any of that?”
“What else would he do? Is there some kind of ritual he would perform at the site?”
“No rituals. He came into the office. Asked about the Tate girl. I told him she’s suing us for wrongful dismissal. He saw the poster of the movie about St. Bernadette across from the secretary’s desk, and noted the fact that the actress achieved great fame and an Academy Award. And that was it. All he said was ‘Where do you drink?’”
“Drink? Does that mean he’s . . .”
“He’s what, Mr. Collins?”
“Um, not a native Roman?”
“Donal O’Sullivan, from Dublin.”
“I see.”
“We went out, had a few scoops, talked hurling and football, enjoyed some laughs, caught up on the news from Rome, and he flew out this morning.”
“So this ‘investigation,’ instead of taking days or even weeks, took only — ”
“Seconds.”
Brennan
The following day, just after morning Mass, Brennan was in the kitchen having a glass of orange juice when he heard a knock on the door. The priests’ housekeeper, Mrs. Kelly, came bustling in and said she would get it. She was back half a minute later with a heightened sense of alarm, over and above her usual case of the janglers, and announced, “It’s the police, Father!”
“All right. I’ll go see them.”
“There’s just the one. And he asked for you.”
“All the more reason for me to go see him.”
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll go see him.”
He left her fretting in the kitchen. Never in his life had he seen a person so permanently fretful and nervous as Mrs. Kelly. It was all he could do to maintain his shallow reserve of patience in her presence.
He went to the door, and there was a police officer who looked familiar, beyond the fact that he looked like the reincarnation of the soul singer Otis Redding. Brennan had seen this cop before, maybe the morning of the murder.
“Father Brennan Burke?” the cop asked.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Truman Beals. We haven’t met.”
Brennan put out his hand, and they shook.
“I’ve got something for you.”
“Oh?”
“A subpoena requiring you to testify at the preliminary hearing of the Podgis murder case, on Monday, the fourth of January, at the courthouse on Spring Garden Road.”
“Right.” Brennan took the document from the officer’s hand. “I knew this day would probably come. Still, it could be worse.”
“How’s that?”
“I could have been called to testify for the fucker.”
Beals looked startled for an instant, then laughed. “I hear you, brother. Father, I mean. Well, I’ll be off to spread more joy.”
“That’s the spirit. See you in court, Truman.”
“See you there.”
The officer left, and Brennan returned to the kitchen to finish his juice. Mrs. Kelly was bent over the table reading the Daily News.
“Have you seen this, Father? You’re in the paper!”
“No, I haven’t seen it.”
“Well, here. Look. It’s about the miracles they say happened outside the hospital.”
“Is there anyone left in this city who’s not playing host to the Virgin Mary or performing miracles and magic tricks?”
“Father!” The housekeeper looked at him with shock and disapproval, her usual attitude towards him. She had disapproved of him the day he arrived to start up the choir school and to replace the sainted Father Shea who had moved on to another parish, and Brennan had not found his way into her good graces yet. Never would, it seemed. Not that he made an effort. Mrs. Kelly’s prissiness and nervous manner around him were minor irritations; he had other things to occupy his mind.
“Here, Father, you read it. I’ve already seen it.” She went off to her duties elsewhere in the house, and Brennan read the news article.
He knew what it was about because he had been interviewed. More claimed miracles, this time supposedly performed by poor Ignatius Boyle after being released from hospital. He had largely recovered from his injury and had regained his ability to speak English. Brennan liked Boyle, and his heart went out to the man for the life he had endured and for his current difficulties. And Brennan was intrigued by Boyle’s sudden ability to speak excellent French and discuss theological matters in that language. But nothing could persuade him to speculate in public about whether Boyle’s newfound abilities were miraculous. That went double for the latest claims about the man. If he, Brennan, had the power and might and authority to do so, he would issue an index of words that would hereafter be forbidden to Catholics. Top of the list would be the word “miracle.” He looked at the news article.
“IGNATIUS CURED US”: WOMEN IN VIGIL OUTSIDE VG HOSPITAL
A woman from Hammonds Plains says she has been cured of a longstanding condition as the result of touching the hand of Ignatius Boyle. Boyle is the man who was found unconscious on Morris Street on September 24 and who woke up in the Victoria General Hospital speaking French for the first time in his life. Muriel Chisholm, 45, says she has always had a stammer. Something about Boyle’s story drew her to the parking lot of the VG where supporters of Boyle gathered after his admission to hospital. When Boyle was released, on October 11, he met with the group, thanked them, prayed with them, and shook hands with several of the people before going to the homeless shelter where he has spent much of his adult life. Chisholm said from the moment Boyle touched her hand, she was able to speak fluently without a trace of a stutter. The problem has not recurred.
Another woman, from Eastern Passage, tells a similar story. Agnes Dempsey, 68, says she shook hands with Boyle and prayed with him. From that moment, she says, a longstanding anxiety disorder and related phobias ceased to trouble her.
Father Brennan Burke was qui
ck to dismiss the claim of a miracle. “The Church does not accept claimed cures of nervous disorders as miraculous. Unless it’s something physical, we do not even consider it,” he said. But Monsignor Michael O’Flaherty said there is no reason to discount the women’s claims entirely. “Even if there is no connection with Mr. Boyle, perhaps their prayers to God and their faith in Him gave them the strength to overcome their troubles by themselves. I will keep them in my prayers and hope that they maintain their recovery.” Muriel Chisholm was untroubled by the disagreement. Agnes Dempsey nodded her agreement when Chisholm declared, “I know Ignatius cured me. There is no doubt in my mind. It was a miracle, and Ignatius Boyle is a living saint.”
Chapter 8
Monty
The preliminary hearing for Pike Podgis got underway on Monday, January 4, 1993, in the courthouse on Spring Garden Road. Judge Ivan Thomas, a white-haired veteran of the Nova Scotia Provincial Court, would hear the case put forward by the Crown and decide whether there was enough evidence to send Podgis to trial on a charge of murder. In the usual course of things, Monty did not call any evidence for the defence at a preliminary hearing. There was no point showing his hand to the Crown with respect to the case he would be presenting on behalf of his client. But this time he had one witness to call. Otherwise, all he wanted to do was hear and evaluate the Crown’s evidence; he might do a bit of cross-examination if he could make that evidence a little weaker, or clarify a point or two for use in the future.
Another departure from the norm was his client’s insistence that the media be allowed to publish the evidence called at the prelim. Usually, the defence lawyer would apply for a publication ban, so that the evidence against the accused would not be out there tainting potential jurors for the trial down the road. If the defence applied, the judge was required to grant the ban. If the Crown applied, it was up to the judge to grant it or not. Pike Podgis, in his role as crusader for truth and freedom of expression, had instructed Monty to make a stand for the free circulation of information. Monty suggested to Podgis that he might regret it, but Podgis was having none of it. Monty had tipped off the Crown prosecutor, Bill MacEwen, in advance; after looking at his opponent wondering where the trap was, MacEwen said he had no interest in a ban himself and would not apply for it.