Blood on a Saint

by Anne Emery

  People who know Ignatius Boyle say he was a frequent visitor to the statue of St. Bernadette even before the claimed apparitions brought hundreds of pilgrims to the site. Residents of the First Day men’s shelter say Boyle sometimes bunked down at the shelter, but on many nights he slept in makeshift quarters in the same area of the city as St. Bernadette’s church. Supporters of Boyle maintained a vigil outside the hospital until he was released on October 11. One of those supporters told this newspaper that Boyle is nothing but a convenient scapegoat. “Let’s hope these nasty rumours do not turn into something worse, like false charges of murder. Ignatius Boyle is a saint. God knows he is innocent.”

  Of course he is innocent, Brennan said to himself. Or, at least, let us hope so. He got up from the table, decided to brush his teeth again, and started for the stairs. He met Mrs. Kelly coming down. She gave him a look of churchy disapproval and said, “Late night, Father?” He ignored her, went on to perform his ablutions, and then headed over to his church to vest for Mass. He wondered whether Monty Collins would remember and be able for his liturgical obligations this morning.

  Monty

  “Where the hell have you been, Collins?” Pike Podgis bellowed from his seat in reception as Monty arrived at Stratton Sommers to begin his workday.

  “I’ve been at morning Mass, Pike,” he replied, and winked at the receptionist, Darlene, on the way to his office with his client in tow.

  “Bloody likely!”

  He had indeed been at Mass, and had been surprised and impressed, not for the first time, at how Father Burke was able to recover from a hard night of drinking and carrying on to fulfill his role as a stand-in for Jesus Christ at the sacrificial altar. When Monty knelt at the communion rail with the other members of the choir, Father Burke looked fresh-faced and clear-eyed, and gave the appearance of one who had never been troubled by a minute’s lost sleep, let alone a hard night in a sleazy blues bar. The priest held the host before Monty and every other communicant, saying without a trace of a slur, “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen.” The splendid neo-Gothic church with the sunlight streaming through the coloured glass of the windows, the ancient tones of the chant, and the magnificent harmonies of the Renaissance motets lifted Monty from his workaday cares and his hangover, and he had felt as if he were suspended between heaven and earth.

  The presence of Podgis, bug-eyed and sweating in his fur-lined bomber jacket, slammed him down onto the hard ground of earth once again.

  “How may I help you today?”

  “You could start by being in your office during normal business hours, so when I come all the way over here on a bus from Dartmouth, I don’t have to wait around till you saunter in.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  They sat in the office, and Monty offered Podgis a cup of coffee. This did nothing to soften his client’s belligerence.

  “Yeah, coffee. Now when are you going to start taking my case seriously?”

  Monty picked up the phone and asked Darlene to bring in two cups of coffee. When he and Podgis had each enjoyed their first sip, Monty said, “Of course I’m taking your case seriously. I don’t know why you think otherwise.”

  “First of all, you blow it at the prelim.”

  “We’ve been over that. We didn’t blow it. What’s your next point?”

  “You sit there as cool, calm, and collected, as bored, as if this was some petty shoplifting by a little greaseball whose name you can’t remember. That’s not what this is, Collins.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point is that this is the biggest fucking case of your career. This is so big there will be book deals, maybe even a movie! That’s if you stop dicking around and do a good job. If you don’t, I’ll be your worst nightmare!”

  “Get over yourself, Podgis.”

  “How dare you talk to me like that!”

  “Be serious. And tell me this. Why did you have some little gopher follow me to my gig last night?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. If I hear or see one word on the news about my evening or anyone else’s evening of relaxation at the blues bar, you and that little shithead are going to regret it. Your cub reporter is going to regret it because Brett Bekkers will get an earful about his amateur antics, and that will be the end of his TV career. You are going to regret it because I, as an officer of the court, will feel compelled to reveal to the police and the Crown that I saw what you attempted to do to a Crown witness. And that constitutes an obstruction of justice. It’s theoretically possible that you did not kill Jordyn Snider, but I saw the obstruction offence with my own two eyes. By the way, it carries a sentence of up to ten years in prison.”

  He had him. Monty could actually see the colour draining from his client’s pugnacious face. Podgis evidently realized that he had crossed the line and pissed his lawyer off to the point where he would turn his own client in.

  Monty drove the point home. “You play hardball with me, I play hardball with you. Now, what’s it going to be? No more of the kind of activity I saw last night?”

  “Okay, I hear you.”

  “Call him. Let me hear you say it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m going to make sure this goes away. Get him on the phone.”

  Podgis was seething, but he picked up the phone and found his man. “That work you were doing. The, uh, backgrounder on some of the people involved in my case. Job’s over. Don’t need you anymore. Ever. What? Did I hear you right? You’re telling me what is a crap assignment and what isn’t? Dream on. They won’t want you over there. Oh yeah? Don’t come to me looking for a reference!”

  Well, that was that.

  Monty moved on to his next point. “Your interview only served to emphasize our reliance on Ignatius Boyle as an alternative suspect. As a result, the prosecutors will be looking for a way to clear Boyle, eliminating him as an effective defence for us. So, no more interviews with the media. If anyone gives interviews, it will be me. And that is unlikely. Agreed?”

  “Whatever.”

  †

  Monty put the talk show bigmouth out of his mind for the rest of the workday. He made a call to Maura at lunchtime to see if she might be interested in going out for dinner, but she already had plans for a girls’ night out. She would be dropping their daughter, Normie, off at a birthday party, and their son Tommy Douglas had been tapped to babysit his baby brother, Dominic. Dominic was a bone of contention, given the fact that he was conceived when Maura and Monty were on the outs, and Maura was seeing someone else. The someone else was an Italian named Giacomo, and Monty assumed he was Dominic’s father. The baby had his dark Mediterranean looks. In the early stages, Monty could not imagine the day when he would accept another man’s child into his family. Never mind that he too had enjoyed the company of the opposite sex during the long separation, so Maura was no more “guilty” than Monty himself, and never mind that the pregnancy was, to say the least, unplanned and unexpected. He had still been unable to accept it. The situation was not made any easier by times they had all spent together with Father Brennan Burke, and the baby in the group looked more like Burke than like his mother’s husband. Not that Monty believed there had ever been a coupling between his wife and his best friend, and he went weak in the knees whenever he tried to imagine what Maura would do to him if she could read that unworthy thought in his mind. But there had been the occasional glance from others that Monty found acutely embarrassing. He knew, however, that it was long past time to get over all that. The baby was nearly a year and a half old now. Monty wanted to develop a solid relationship with Dominic, a delightful child, and that was starting to happen more and more in recent months.

  Father Burke had read the Riot Act to Monty and Maura when they were in Ireland together the previous summer. An exhauste
d Burke, following a night on the streets assisting a troubled homeless young boy, had taken Monty and Maura aside in the sacristy of a Dublin church and, without any of his usual irony or sardonic comments, pleaded with them to put their differences behind them. Life was too short to let their troubles keep them apart any longer. He had been particularly forceful about the need for Dominic to have a father present in his life. And Monty could not disagree. He felt the same way. And he was becoming more attached to the little boy with every passing week.

  Here was a chance to spend some time with him alone. He called Maura again, and offered to look after the baby himself, letting Tommy Douglas off the hook if he had other things to do. So that was the plan.

  Maura was all dressed up and ready to go when Monty arrived at the family home on Dresden Row. Normie was in a scarlet-red party dress, which set off her auburn curls. She held a brightly wrapped present in her hand.

  “Whose birthday?”

  “Megan’s, from school.”

  “How old is Megan? Eighteen now?”

  “No! She’s ten, Daddy. She’s my friend, not Tommy’s! You’re making jokes again.”

  “Oh, right. Have a good time, dolly.”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be really fun.”

  Monty turned to Maura. “You have to see this.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

  “What is it?” his daughter asked.

  “Copy of a letter full of mistakes — the kind I know you would never make, Normie — and it was written to an opera singer named Kiri Te Kanawa.”

  He put the letter on the coffee table, and his wife and daughter bent their heads to read it, Normie squinting at the lines.

  “Where are your glasses, sweetheart?” Monty asked.

  “I’ll get them before I go to the party. Promise. I can read this without them.”

  Under the letterhead of the Schola Cantorum Sancta Bernadetta, there was an address in New Zealand, and the document read:

  Keeree The Canowa

  Dear Ms. The Canowa,

  I note with interest you are shedjuled visit to Halifax on 6 February 1993. I have long been an admirer of you’re work, but I shall for the time being restrane myself from lodding you’re talents and acomplishments, and perseed to the purpose of my letter. I am the Director of a Choir school for children here in Halifax, and of the Schola Cantorum Sancta Bernadetta as well. (I inclose a Brosherr describing the Schola.) I intend to arrange for members of both School’s to attend you’re matinay Performance at the Rebecka Cone Auditorium. And I am wondering weather you might be so kind as to except our invitation to drop by the School and recieve a little tribbute from our Student’s. I would be happy to make all the arraignment’s for the visit — transpertation, refreshments and so on. I can be reached anytime at the above Address and phone number. I thank you for considdering my request, and irregardless of your decision, I look forward to hearing you at the Cone.

  Sincerely,

  Brennan Burke

  “Irregardless? Perseed? Every second word spelt wrong. Apostrophes in all the wrong places.” Maura looked up. “Who typed this thing?”

  “Befanee Tate. It’s in our list of documents for the wrongful-dismissal case. Unfortunately, the only thing she got right was the address, because Brennan handed it to her. Then he dictated the letter and went on his way. This is the result.”

  “Brennan must be wild.”

  “I thought he was going to have to be put on life support when I brought up the subject after the discovery exam. The only woman he thinks more of than Kiri Te Kanawa is the Blessed Virgin Mary.”

  “What will Kiri think of him when she gets this?”

  “You might not want to mention it to him. Could send him over the edge.”

  “I can imagine. Well, it’s time we were off, eh, Miss Normie?”

  The ladies said their goodbyes then and headed out for the evening, and Monty turned his attention to the baby, Dominic, who was sitting on the dining room floor playing with a train set. He was a handsome little boy with black hair and dark eyes that sparkled when Monty walked into the room. He remembered the feeling he had when Tommy Douglas and Normie would kick up their feet and look positively joyful to see their dad. He had the same feeling right now, and he picked Dominic up and swung him around, bringing out gales of laughter from the little fellow. Then they sat on the floor together and staged multiple train wrecks to the boyish delight of both of them. Dominic gabbed away, using his ever-increasing vocabulary of nouns, verbs, and exclamation points.

  When it was bedtime, Monty got him cleaned up and changed, and picked out a story book to read. But Dominic had other ideas. He toddled into his closet and began rooting for something; Monty had no idea what.

  “Come on, buddy, time to get into bed and have your story. What are you doing in there?”

  Dominic began pulling toys off a shelf in the closet and trying to hide them behind his back. He looked up at Monty with his big brown eyes. Monty could almost see the mischief in those eyes.

  “What are you up to, you little sneak?”

  “Neek, neek!” The little boy clapped his hands together and laughed as if the word “sneak” was the funniest thing he had ever heard. At that age, it might have been.

  “Wait till you hear what else is in store for you with the English language, Dominic. Do you know what everybody says about guys like you after you’ve done all your sneaking around?” He gave the baby a gentle poke in the belly. Giggles again. “They say you snuck around.”

  There were peals of laughter, the little face suffused with joy. How simple things were at that age, how uncomplicated the bliss.

  “Yeah, Dominic, everybody’s gonna snarl and snipe and snap at you because you snuck around pulling all your toys out when you’re supposed to be snug in your bed.”

  Monty wagged his finger like the old schoolmarm of days gone by and pointed to the bed. Dominic ran in the opposite direction, back to his closet, and began banging on the door with the palms of both hands, then turned to Monty with an evil grin.

  “Don’t get snarky with me, you little snoop. You know you’re not allowed to be snooping in there.”

  The door opened, and Maura walked in.

  “You’re back already!”

  “Mama!”

  “What’s going on in here, boys?”

  Monty put his finger to his lips and mouthed an exaggerated no at the baby. “Don’t tell!” Dominic looked at his mother, laughing, then looked away.

  “Nothing going on here. Just having a discussion about the vagaries of the English language before putting this little sneak down for a snooze.”

  That set him off again.

  “All right, then. You’d better get on with it. I’ll come back in and give him his good-night kiss. If he’s good.”

  “Oh, he’s a good boy. Aren’t you, Dominic? There’s nothing snide or sneaky about this little guy. Let’s get you into that bed now.”

  Maura quietly slipped out the door, and Monty picked the child up, lifted him high in the air, and wiggled him. Dominic went into a fit of laughter again, and his mother called from the hallway. “He’ll never settle down if you get him all wound up.”

  “You heard your mother. Wipe that grin off your face and snuggle down in your blankets.”

  Monty got him under the blankets and kissed his forehead, then said good night and started to tiptoe from the room.

  “Dada! Dada!”

  Monty turned to see Dominic with his arms outstretched to him. Nothing in the world could have made him resist. He went back to the child, sat on the side of the bed, and held him in a long embrace till he heard the soft, even breathing of sleep, and left the room.

  Chapter 10

  Brennan

  Brennan was assigned to yard duty on Thursday. He had promised Monsignor O’Flaherty
he would materialize before the multitudes and talk about miracles. It was the last thing he wanted to do, and he had succeeded in avoiding it up to now, but O’Flaherty had him down for January 7. The day had arrived, and here he was. At least he didn’t have to discuss the miraculous healing of diseased organs and running sores.

  It was cold and there was the occasional snowflake, but there was a crowd of around seventy-five people outside, kneeling at the statue or milling around the grounds or standing in line at the gaudy souvenir stands. There was now a laminated photograph of Ignatius Boyle affixed to a light pole. Brennan walked over to the statue of St. Bernadette and announced that he would be giving a short talk for anyone who was interested in the timely subject of miracles. The people gathered around him.

  “The most outstanding theophany — divine intervention — of the modern era occurred in southern Europe in 1917. At Fatima in Portugal. There had been a coup d’état in 1910, and the new government was anticlerical and hostile to the Church. Seminaries were shut down, Church property was seized by the state, it was forbidden to wear a cassock, religious orders were driven out of the country, and religious education in schools was forbidden. Like Ireland in the penal times. Anyway, this was the backdrop to the miracle of 1917.

  “Three young shepherds said that they had a vision of the Virgin Mary, that she appeared to them regularly at the same spot on the thirteenth day of every month. The three were Lucia dos Santos, who was ten when this happened, and her cousins Francisco and Jacinta Marto. He was nine; she was seven. The kids claimed that Mary had told them a secret, and they were not to reveal it to anyone else. Lucia’s mother repeatedly called her a liar, scolded and beat her to get her to admit she had made it up. Lucia wouldn’t back down. A ten-year-old girl, with her mother against her. Then the authorities got into the act. The government wanted the superstitious peasants shut down. And they wanted to know about this ‘secret’ the apparition had imparted to the children. Why this interest in the secret, if the apparition didn’t exist? But anyway. The police rounded up the children, brought them to jail, and shoved them into a cell with some of the local ne’er-do-wells. The kids had a bit of fun there at first. One of the prisoners played the harmonica, and another danced with Jacinta. But the frolicking was short-lived. The children were taken out of the cell and brought before the senior administrator, who demanded to know the secret the lady had imparted to them. The children refused to tell. The man threatened to boil them in oil.”