The Trout

by Peter Cunningham

  The bishop is silhouetted by the bright window.

  ‘I call him in and confront him. He doesn’t deny it. I tell him that he knows the rules; that this cannot go on. He says he is just trying to help Maria with her immigration problems. She is a good Catholic, he says.

  ‘One thing leads to another. There are people in this world, I’m sure you know them, Alex, whose righteousness can only be expressed in exposing the sins of others. A group of parishioners make it their mission to have Maria deported back to Costa Rica as an undocumented immigrant. She is forced to give up her apartment. She is mysteriously laid off from her job as a cleaner in a local dentist’s surgery. Thomas is distraught. In an attempt to stop Maria’s forcible deportation, he moves her into his house in Saint Patrick’s.’

  Bishop Hal’s head sinks.

  ‘This is the final straw. I cannot permit a priest to live openly on church property with a woman. I give him an ultimatum, but he ignores me. I suspend him. He and Maria move out, into an apartment which he pays for. I expect then that he will leave the priesthood and marry Maria. In fact, I really hope that he will! Thomas is a man who needs a physical relationship and if leaving the priesthood and marrying will bring him peace and happiness at last, who am I not to wish him well and support him in this new phase of his life?’

  ‘But it was not to be.’

  ‘Less than a week later, when Thomas is away from their apartment, Maria is arrested and deported to Costa Rica. Poor Thomas! He wants to follow her, but there are no details of where she can be found. The deportation people refuse to help him. He makes no attempt to return to his house in Saint Patrick’s or to seek my advice. He starts drinking again.’

  Sixty years later and still he cannot escape.

  ‘He is admitted to ER on several occasions with head injuries from falling when he was drunk,’ the bishop says. ‘I try my very best to have him readmitted to rehab, but he refuses. Then, nine months or so ago, on yet another admission to ER, he is diagnosed with terminal oesophageal cancer. His medical insurance from the diocese covers his treatment. Then a month ago, he disappeared. I have no idea where he is. He’s a big strong man, as you know. A fighter. But when I got your call, I thought it might be to tell me he is dead.’

  9

  The lake brightens with the transit of the sun as Kay sits in our kitchen, waiting. She has come to a point where she can think of only a few simple facts, and these she clings to, like someone dreaming and re-dreaming the same images: I’m on my way home; Larry White is in possession of a letter addressed to me with a fish hook in it; Tim is out on the lake with Larry White. My message on her cell phone merely said that everything was all right and I would explain later. And yet what she has just found in Larry’s house has made her dysfunctional. She snatches up the phone and calls Keith.

  ‘It’s Kay Smyth.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Smyth?’

  ‘Has Tim come in yet?’

  ‘No, ma’am, but like I said, they’re going back to Mr White’s—’

  ‘I know what you said, Keith, and I went there and they haven’t come back. Look, I need Tim here now. Urgently. His, ah, father is calling from China to speak to him. I want you to get in a boat and go out and bring him back here.’

  ‘I can call Mr White,’ Keith suggests.

  ‘I’ve tried and he doesn’t answer! Now go out there, please, and bring him back! Tell him it’s an emergency.’

  As she sits there, shaking, thinking that she should have asked Keith to do that an hour ago, she’s lighting another cigarette when the phone rings. She grabs it.

  ‘Alex?’ She can hear breathing. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is Alex Smyth there?’ A man’s voice, an Irishman.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex’s not here—who’s calling?’

  A long pause.

  ‘This is Kay Smyth, Alex’s wife. Who’s calling please?’

  It’s as if he is struggling to find another word.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asks. ‘Who are you?’

  She can hear him, although he doesn’t speak.

  10

  The bishop and I walk back out through his house.

  ‘I believe he’s in Canada, in Muskoka,’ I say. ‘When I first got the hook he sent through the mail, I was terrified, but now I just want to meet him and tell him I’m sorry.’

  ‘You were two kids,’ Bishop Werner says. ‘Neither of you did anything wrong. Fear lies in the unknown, in what we have hidden from ourselves. You and Thomas were no different.’

  ‘Is it possible to get a copy of that picture you showed me?’

  ‘I’ll photograph it with my phone,’ says Bishop Hal. ‘Do you have an email address?’

  We pause by the door with its motifs of moons and stars.

  ‘I’m sure you could have done without me dumping my problems on you,’ I say. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Please, no need,’ the bishop says. ‘You see, I already knew your story.’

  I’m staring at him.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says with a sad smile. ‘Thomas told me everything.’

  Kat sits, holding the phone.

  ‘Who is this?’ she asks again.

  The man says: ‘My name is Father Seán Phelan and I’m phoning from Ireland.’

  Her first reaction is that there has been an accident.

  ‘Has something happened? Is Alex all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I just want to talk to him.’

  Of course, she thinks, dizzily, he has already asked to speak to Alex.

  ‘Alex is away, Father. Can I help you?’

  Another pause.

  ‘But he should be back later today. He’s been in Ireland.’

  ‘I know.’

  During each silence, she wonders if he’s hung up.

  ‘Did Alex meet you, Father Phelan? In the last couple of days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must know each other.’

  ‘Yes, we were at school together. And in the seminary.’

  ‘So you’re old friends.’

  As he hesitates again, Kay suddenly knows that something vital has led to this call.

  ‘Father Phelan, you can talk to me,’ she says. ‘It’s fine to talk.’

  It’s such a lengthy pause that she reckons she has indeed lost him. She wills him to keep going.

  ‘Year and years ago, when I was only seven years of age… ’

  ‘Go on, Father.’

  ‘…I used to serve Mass here for the parish priest. His name was Father Charles McVee.’

  11

  Kay has been sitting for thirty minutes. Once Father Seán Phelan began, he could not stop. Kay heard a lifetime’s pain, decades of agony pouring out, as the priest explained how he had twice lacked the courage to tell the truth: once, over forty years ago, in a pub on Woodstown Beach; and again a few days before, when I had gone to his house outside Carrick. Now, haltingly, he described what had been done to him in the church sacristy, and also in the Phelans’ home, where Father McVee was a regular for Sunday lunch.

  ‘Part of me believed it had never happened,’ he said, ‘but that was the part of me that didn’t want to believe it. My parents thought he was a saint.’

  It takes a whole lifetime to come to terms with what we have hidden as children, Kay knows.

  ‘I could have helped Alex that day in Woodstown,’ said Father Phelan, ‘because I knew immediately what he was talking about. But to have helped him would have meant bringing shame on myself and that is something I have never been brave enough to do.’

  ‘You are being brave now, Father,’ Kay said. ‘Very brave.’

  ‘Tell Alex I’m sorry. Tell him my whole life has been a lie.’

  When the call is over, Kay makes herself go about household tasks, even though she doesn’t know where she will find the energy. She is sorry now that she ever doubted me, she will later say, for the call from Father Phelan has changed everything in a way that she well und
erstands: the past is finally being run to ground.

  Unfolding the ironing board, she sets it up, plugs in the iron and hauls out a basket of clothes. As she tries to concentrate on laying out a shirt on the board, she hears a car’s engine. Her breath is trapped in her chest as she stands there and a man’s shadow suddenly appears on the window.

  Larry White opens the door and walks in. He’s wearing shorts, deck shoes and a lightweight open jacket over a t-shirt that emphasises his physique. His dark hair is wet and slicked back. Tim, the top of his wetsuit still on, is behind him. Kay forces herself to be calm.

  ‘Hi, Larry.’

  ‘Kay, what’s the problem?’ Larry makes a quick survey, checking left and right, up the stairs. ‘Keith said there’s some kind of emergency.’

  She can’t help being drawn to the glaring smoothness running from his left temple to his jaw. A few weeks ago she looked forward to seeing this man; now she’s terrified of him.

  ‘I needed Tim,’ she says lightly. ‘His dad’s due to call. Thanks for bringing him back here. But now… ’

  ‘Quite a little champ you got in the making here,’ Larry says, taking off his jacket. ‘He’ll be on just one ski before you know it.’

  Kay busies herself with the ironing board, folding it away. ‘Larry, can you excuse us, please? Maybe another time?’

  ‘Mr White says this is his most favourite house in Bayport,’ Tim says.

  ‘After my own, remember?’ Larry says.

  ‘Tim,’ Kay says steadily, ‘I want you to go to your bedroom.’

  ‘Grandma?’ The child is still in thrall to his recent lake adventure. ‘It’s the daytime.’

  ‘Go to your room,’ she says firmly. ‘Now.’

  Tim, bewildered, but a little scared too since she so seldom speaks to him like that, goes up the stairs. Larry is holding his jacket, frowning.

  ‘This is not a good time, Larry,’ Kay says pointedly. ‘Please.’

  ‘Hey, I want to tell you about Tim.’

  ‘It will have to keep.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Look, I’m not feeling too good, okay? So please just go.’

  ‘Let me help you.’ He takes a step forward. ‘Sit down, Kay. Let me get you a glass of water.’

  ‘No. Go, please.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says and puts a chair beside her. ‘Sit down, Kay. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Kay sits, trying to compose herself. Larry is drawing up another chair.

  ‘You can talk to me,’ he says.

  ‘Grandma?’ Tim has re-emerged and is standing on the stairs.

  ‘Tim,’ Kay says, ‘I told you to go to your room. Do it!’ She stands, her breath short, until she hears the bedroom door click. ‘Larry, this is my house. I need my space.’

  ‘I’ve just spent an hour water-skiing with your grandson,’ Larry says with a big, engaging smile; ‘I think I’m due some kind of explanation.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. I just want to be on my own.’

  ‘And I want you to calm down and listen,’ Larry says and stands up. ‘Whatever it is, I can help you. There’s obviously something wrong.’ He reaches for her. ‘Please… ’

  ‘No!’ She stumbles back, three or four paces, into the kitchen. ‘I want you to leave.’

  Larry follows coolly, like someone for whom this kind of situation is not unusual. ‘Not until you tell me what’s going on.’ His attitude has acquired an unyielding set to it. She sees the muscle in his jaw twitching. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Kay?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’ He takes another step forward.

  Kay’s fingers fumble for the kitchen scissors. ‘Get out!’ She points the scissors. ‘Don’t touch me!’

  Larry is circling warily. ‘You’re crazy. I would never harm you. Do you not understand? I worship you.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’

  ‘From the first day I saw you.’

  ‘Who are you really, Larry?’ Kay gasps. ‘Where have you come from? And why is there an envelope addressed to my husband in the locker beside your bed?’

  Larry lets out a slow breath, as if these are indeed big questions.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay, I can explain.’

  ‘You were at my window that night in Charlton,’ she says. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No way would I do that.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘Kay, I want you to put down the scissors,’ he says. Once more he looks around. ‘Is it Alex? Is Alex here? Is he threatening you?’

  Kay screams, as loudly as she can. Larry falls back a step, as if she’s hit him. The telephone rings.

  ‘Kay, give me the scissors.’

  The telephone rings and rings.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ Larry says.

  Kay reaches to the phone on the wall, the scissors still held out rigid.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Kay, it’s me,’ I say.

  Part Five

  Ontario, Canada

  Two Years Ago

  1

  We’re sitting in the sun on the porch with a pitcher of Kay’s home-made lemonade. Nearby someone is cutting a lawn: the constant engine sound in the middle distance rises and falls over our little community, tying us all to this place on a Sunday morning.

  Earlier, Gavin called from China, and he and Tim spoke for nearly an hour. Now I hear the thump of a football and see our grandchild throw his hands triumphantly in the air.

  What struck me forcibly yesterday in Detroit, when I saw the bishop’s photograph, was how little Terence had changed. In his red-and-white-checked shirt, standing on the edge of that happy group in the Catskills, I could still see the shape and cut of the boy who had grown into the man. I nearly cried when I saw him, for he could have been no one else. In his own way, he had eventually done what he had planned so many years ago on Flannery’s farm: to sail away, like Robinson Crusoe—in this case, to America, a land where almost no one knows anyone.

  This morning, I have explained everything to Kay, as best I can, beginning with those days of my childhood when Charlie McVee’s shadow fell over our lives. Within the confines of my promise to the bishop, I have told her all that I can about Terence, including my belief that he read my book and was hurt by what it did not contain. Until this morning, when we spoke, we had not discussed the fly hook he sent me in the mail. Terence knew the coachman would mean more than any letter—and he was right. I did him wrong once and I did him wrong again in my novel, by leaving him out. Now he has cancer, and may well be dead.

  We agree that the man at her window that night was probably a vagrant, in off the street in Charlton, looking for a place to spend the night. And any kid Tim’s age, having just seen a policeman assembling an Identikit of a suspect stalker, would be bound to see faces like that everywhere he looked. That’s what we agree.

  Kay is still recovering from her confrontation with Larry. Although she now thinks that she over-reacted to his appearance yesterday, and that Tim was not in any danger from him, it’s clear that Larry is not just the helpful ex-cop we once thought he was. In his over-the-top zealousness to protect her—which itself arose from an inappropriate interest—he behaved outrageously, entering our home and removing the most recent correspondence he could find from my office, apparently for the purpose of getting my fingerprints, or so he told Kay last evening, before he eventually left. He wanted to see if I had a record of domestic violence, he told her.

  I’m going to let a few weeks go by, just to let everything simmer down; then I’ll have a chat with him. You have to be careful how you deal with people in a small community like ours. As I said to Kay, although Larry was way out of line, we too were at fault, convincing ourselves that he might be Terence.

  I’m weary following my trip, and more than a little distressed by what I saw and learned in Ireland. A good lifetime has taken place in Canada, whe
reas in Ireland, during that same span, nothing seems to have changed. Kay has told me of her long conversation with Seán Phelan, of his outpouring of the guilt and shame imposed on him by a rotten system. The circumstances in which I found him—a virtual prisoner in his own house, ever fearful of the tide he feels turning against him, still terrified to tell me the truth—were so symbolic of his internal captivity. Even forty years ago he had used alcohol as his only means of escape.

  It is a tragedy too that my father did not have it in him to forgive me. That would have required a miracle, not the walking on water kind of miracle, but the more profound kind, the miracles that take place deep within us. What drives my father, even to this day? What holds the doctor so captive that he cannot even bear to look at me? Is it someone I remind him of that makes it so painful? Does he look at me and see my mother? Or when he sees me, is he sucked down to a place much darker than I will ever know?

  Kay sits back, her head tilted to the sun. We thought what we’d come through together years ago had prepared us for anything, but we were wrong. Life, for me at least, can never be taken for granted: the moment I sat back and fooled myself that my life was under control, like some animal I thought I had tamed, it whipped around and bit me.

  ‘Let’s take the boat out later,’ I say. ‘I’ll make a picnic.’

  Her drowsy smile. It’s going to be okay.

  A stack of stuff has piled up in my office; besides, I need to plan a trip to see my agent in Toronto. My head is light as I make my way inside.

  2

  I have read that the less you look at a computer screen, the better for your health; I write in longhand with a silver fountain pen, purchased many years ago in Dublin, a thick, ribbed instrument that connects my brain to the paper, at my speed. I remove the pen from its case, get out a yellow pad and switch on my pc. My aversion to reading from the screen extends to emails and their attachments, all of which I print out.