“Surely the cops also interviewed Ivy and she confirmed that her mother had attacked George in the past,” I said.
“Ivy was totally intimidated by her mother. She always threatened her with all sorts of bad stuff—like being sent away to an institution for disturbed children—if she ratted on her. Anyway, she already had a reputation as something of a wild child so it would have been her word against her mother’s. And since George was already exposed as a liar because of what he told the doctor . . .”
He went quiet and stared down into his coffee.
“Word has it that he still hasn’t confessed to Ivy’s death,” he said, “that he’s holding on to his story.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Part of me does—because he so loved her. But they had their terrible moments together. Like I was his biggest supporter. But when he was boozing we were in Jekyll and Hyde territory. I had great hopes that we were going to be partners together. We had three big jobs lined up—but he either showed up for work so hungover that he couldn’t function, or he’d not show up at all. Believe me, I pleaded with George to clean up his act—even told him to take two months off to get sober. George didn’t want to know. Eventually, one morning he walked in here so loaded and crazy that he actually picked up a two-by-four and told me he was going to kill me.”
“What happened?”
“My wife came in while this standoff was going on and had no choice but to call the police. I managed to make a dash out of the workshop. He started smashing up some cabinets we were working on. But here’s the intriguing thing: he only smashed those that he himself had built. Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor and started crying. I mean, bawling like he was the saddest, loneliest man on earth . . . which, at that moment, maybe he was. The police showed up. I told them I didn’t want to press charges, but they still took him off for ‘psychological evaluation’ and that was another mark against him.
“He was released two days later and wrote me this long, sad letter, telling me how he was going to sober up and how he hated himself for turning against me. I wrote back, saying that, of course, I accepted his apology and thought he was a brilliantly talented carpenter—but we could no longer work together. It was just out of the question. I never heard from him again. And then Ivy went missing . . .”
“How about the son, Michael?”
“I never liked him. Sullen, self-important kid—and like a lot of self-important people, not that bright. I know he tangled frequently with George and that George once knocked him down when Michael sassed him. Another black mark against George—though I gathered he only slugged Michael after the kid got caught dealing crystal meth. As you can gather it was one big happy family.”
“You still haven’t said whether or not you think George did it.”
Another long stare into his coffee.
“Will I be quoted on this?”
“Not if you don’t want to be.”
“I don’t. Everything instinctually tells me he would never have hurt Ivy. But I know how he turned against me. And I also know that, once he had nine beers in him, he was capable of extreme craziness. Then there’s the fact that he had that undergarment of hers in his workshop. So, anything is possible here. Anything. That’s about as conclusive as I’m going to get.”
I asked him if there was anyone else I should speak to.
“I guess there’s Larry Coursen—but I don’t like holy rollers who are as smooth as a Vegas croupier, if you take my meaning.”
“Nice metaphor. Maybe I’ll steal it.”
“Just as long as you don’t say you got it from me.”
“Anyone else worth chatting with?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You ask around town, everyone will tell you that George is guilty as hell . . . especially as the wife is now in good with God. But I have doubt. A lot of doubt.”
Before I left I thanked Dwane for his time and asked for directions to the MacIntyres’ house.
“It’s just two streets over from here,” he said. “You’ll see all the TV vans out front. I think the ghouls are waiting for the moment when Ivy’s body is discovered so they can get Brenda’s hysterical reaction.”
“When a mother loses a child . . .” I heard myself saying, then lowered my head.
“Tell me about it. Every day my boy is in Afghanistan, I think about that. About how . . . if . . . I’d cope.”
He stared back into his coffee.
“I think I’ve said a little too much.”
When I left Dwane I drove immediately over to the MacIntyre residence. As he said, it was easy to find. There were five large television vans parked outside—and assorted camera and sound men lounging around, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee in paper cups, looking bored. Behind them was a run-down split-level house. It needed a new roof, new siding, new steps up to its front door. There was laundry hanging rigid with cold on a clothesline. It had the prerequisite rusted-out car perched on the front lawn. It reminded me of one of those houses you see in Appalachia or any rednecked corner of North America that immediately spoke of social deprivation and bad education and a no-hope view of life. Poor George MacIntyre didn’t have a chance. Everything Dwane told me—like Missy Schulder before him—painted a picture of a man who was in a domestic hell without respite. I could only think about my own personal situation—with my parents, and then with Theo—where I too felt a certain helplessness; a sense that I was with people who just didn’t play fair. George MacIntyre raged against others and drank. I raged against others and used the delusion of being in control of things as a way of denying my depression. George MacIntyre lost a child. I lost a child. Though the details of our stories were wildly different, we shared the same underlying fury at the inequity of others. And it killed the most important thing in both our lives.
I drove around Townsend for another half hour. I passed by the school again. I noted that none of the houses were substantial or venerable, that this was a community with no visible signs of wealth. I stopped in the mom-and-pop restaurant for a cup of coffee. I sat at the lunch counter and tried to start a conversation with the hard-faced woman who was serving me.
“Sad about the MacIntyre girl, isn’t it?” I said.
“Uh huh,” she replied, half regarding me warily.
“Did you know her or the family?”
“Everybody knows the MacIntyres.”
“Were they good neighbors?”
“You’re a reporter, right?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not a definitive answer.”
“Yes, I’m a reporter.”
“Well, now that I know that, I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”
“I’m just doing my job,” I said.
“And I’m doing mine—which is running my restaurant and not answering your questions. George MacIntyre’s got enough problems on his hands right now . . .”
“That’s sort of an answer, isn’t it?”
“You trying to twist my words?”
“No—but I sense from what you just said that you aren’t of the opinion that MacIntyre is evil incarnate.”
“I’m not carrying on this conversation.”
“Was he as bad as the papers made him out to be?”
“You tell me. You’re on their side.”
“I’m on nobody’s side.”
Behind us came a voice.
“Brenda MacIntyre is a saintly woman.”
The owner of this voice was a woman in her early forties—plump, dressed in the brown polyester uniform that workers at Safeway were forced to wear. When I caught sight of the uniform I immediately remembered that Brenda MacIntyre wore one of these as well.
“Are you a member of her church?” I asked.
“She’s Assemblies, I’m Church of Christ. But we’re both people who have been touched by the Lord. And I know that Brenda is really suffering right now—but she has her faith, which is sustaining her.”
From be
hind the counter came the voice of the boss.
“I think you’ve said plenty, Louise. And I think we’re going to ask this visitor to finish her coffee and leave us in peace.”
“I was just trying to help,” Louise said.
“You were very helpful,” I said.
“And you owe me one dollar twenty-five for the coffee,” the boss said.
As I left the restaurant my cell phone started to ring.
“Nancy Lloyd?” said a voice I was already familiar with courtesy of many television and radio interviews. “It’s Reverend Larry Coursen here. Might you be in Townsend now?”
How did he know that . . . or was he just surmising?
“Actually I am.”
“Well, it’s a truly busy day—and not just because of poor dear Ivy MacIntyre. But I could spare you fifteen minutes if you came by the church right now.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, then quickly wrote down the directions he gave me.
I didn’t need them—as the Assemblies of God church was located at the far end of the gasoline alley. It was modest-sized, built in an International House of Pancakes red-brick style. There was a large billboard-sized poster to the right of the main entrance, showing two very well-scrubbed, very white parents in their mid-thirties, their arms around two very well-scrubbed, very white children (a boy and a girl, naturally), both around nine or ten years old. I felt that same aching sadness that always hit me whenever I saw any tableau—either real or staged—of parents and children. This time, however, the sorrow was undercut by the “Kodak moment” cuteness of the family and the mawkishness of the words blazoned above this picture: “All Families Are Miraculously Healed at Townsend Assemblies of God!”
You mean, the way the MacIntyre family was “miraculously healed”?
I parked in the capacious car park—its ability to handle a large number of vehicles an indication of either Coursen’s success as a pastor or a very false sense of optimism. There was a large new Land Rover Discovery parked to the side of the church. I sensed it must be Coursen’s as he advertised it with a vanity license plate on which were embossed two words: “Preacher Man.” The front doors of the church were open. I wandered inside. The vestibule had more blown-up life-sized photographs of the sort of happy parishioners who looked like they also modeled part-time for the Land’s End catalog. There were slogans on all of them: “Divine Love Conquers All!” . . . “At Townsend Assemblies We Are All One!” . . . and finally, just one word: “Praise!” There were also donation boxes, above which were further slogans: “It Feels Great to Tithe!” and “He Is Always There for You!” I had never visited any Eastern European countries during the era of Communism—I was far too young—but I imagined this was a miniature version of the exhortations that were plastered in all public places, reminding the subservient citizenry that “The Five Year Program Is the Only Way Forward.”
I doubted, however, if any Eastern European apparatchik dressed liked Larry Coursen. He must have heard me come in, as he emerged from the main body of the church into the vestibule. He was wearing a chocolate-brown cardigan, a purple shirt with a clerical collar, slightly flared blue jeans, and (just to remind everyone we were in Alberta) highly polished black cowboy boots. He was in his early forties, with thick blond hair somewhat coiffed, and—as I had noted on the television—very white teeth. His voice was sonorous, calming.
“Nancy, what a pleasure . . .” he said, extending his hand.
“I appreciate your time, Reverend.”
“Larry, please.”
“OK, Larry . . .”
“And you’re with the Vancouver Sun?”
“That’s right.”
“A fine newspaper. You from BC yourself?”
“No, back East.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Ontario.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Dundas,” I said, pulling a name out of a hat, as I had read a recent newspaper story about a well-known Canadian rock singer turned ace photographer who grew up in Dundas.
“Dundas! No kidding. I did some of my early pastoral work in Dundas!”
Oh, great . . .
“Do you know the Assemblies church on King and Sydenham streets . . . ?” he continued.
“Of course I know it. Passed it many times.”
“Right near the local branch of the Bay.”
“That’s it. It’s a rather modern building . . .”
“All Assemblies churches are. We are a rather new faith in Canada. Come on in—I’ll show you where we worship.”
As he held open the door into the church I felt a wave of fear. How insane to choose a small town as your false place of residence. Why didn’t you say Toronto or Montreal—a big city where anonymity rules?
But, at least, he seemed to have bought it . . .
The main body of the church itself looked like it had been styled after a sports stadium, albeit on a smaller scale, with banked seating all padded in white Naugahyde and a pulpit on a thrust stage. It was surrounded by spotlights. There was a garish white organ with gold-painted pipes and a choir loft that appeared to have room for one hundred voices.
“It’s very impressive,” I said. “And it also looks like it’s tailor made for televangelism.”
My tone was neutral, not sneering. But Coursen smiled tightly, trying to weigh what I meant by that.
“If you mean by ‘televangelism,’ spreading the Gospel through electronic means, then yes—it is something toward which we as a church are definitely aiming. Of course, we are a small town in Canada. But you know Oral Roberts began his ministry in a small church in Tulsa, Oklahoma—and look how his ‘vision’ expanded into his own nationally broadcast program and his very own university. Now do understand: my ambitions are not personal ones. Rather they are communal—in that Townsend Assemblies of God is a very close community with great spiritual aspirations when it comes to spreading the Good News that is the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“How many do you have in your congregation?”
“Well over two hundred very dedicated souls—which may not seem like a grand figure, but is still, if I may say so, impressive for a town of five thousand. You show me another church in Townsend that has five percent of the population.”
He motioned for me to sit down on one of the Naugahyde benches. He positioned himself relatively close to me.
“Might I ask your faith affiliation?” he said.
“I don’t have one.”
“I see. And why is that?”
“I’m not a believer, I suppose.”
He nodded and gave me the sort of smile that was somewhere between avuncular and sympathetic.
“For many people faith is the hardest thing in the world. “The Great Leap” and all that. But it is also the greatest gift you can receive. With it comes life ever after and a wonderful community of souls to support you while on Earth.”
I took out my pen and notepad.
“Is that a hint I should get off this subject?” he asked.
“I just don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Very good response,” he said, “even if it evades the subject. Were you raised in any faith, Nancy?”
“My dad was nothing, my mom a Unitarian—which, I suppose, from where you sit, is the equivalent of nothing.”
“Well, Unitarians don’t really believe in Divine Revelation, or the Paradise to Come, or even the Prevalence of Miracles . . . so, quite honestly, it’s hard to know what Unitarians get from their religion.”
“It’s a faith not based on certainty, but on doubt.”
“Can faith and doubt be neighbors?”
“Aren’t they always neighbors? You can’t have faith without doubt.”
“Well, I would argue otherwise. Faith negates doubt. Faith provides you with the sustenance needed to face life’s challenges. Faith provides definitive answers to the biggest questions facing us. And don’t you think there is a huge amount of comfort to be gleane
d from that?”
“If you need definitive answers, yes.”
“We all need definitive answers,” he said.
“That’s your point of view, not mine.”
“So you can live with ongoing doubt, no matter how painful that doubt might prove to be?”
“Perhaps it would be more painful to profess faith when you have none.”
A small smile from Larry Coursen. He was enjoying this banter, especially as he could see it was making me uncomfortable.
“We all have faith, Nancy. And we all have the power within us to remake ourselves anew. It’s simply a matter of giving yourself over to the Greatest Gift we can receive while we are alive.”
“Did Brenda MacIntyre remake herself anew?”
Another smile from the Reverend.
“Yes, Brenda herself had a magnificent transformation. When she first came to me she was a woman in crisis. Angry, hostile, alcohol-dependent, enraged at the world . . .”
“Violent?” I asked.
“I think she would be the first to admit she was raised in a violent family, that she married a violent man, and therefore was well acquainted with violent behavior.”
“But was she herself violent?”
“Describe what you mean by ‘violent.’ ”
“Physically attacking her children . . .”
“I’m sure she smacked her children when they were naughty. But attacking George? I think you have it backward. It was he who attacked her repeatedly.”
“Even though several people I interviewed informed me that George MacIntyre told them he’d been violently attacked by your parishioner?”
His lips tightened as I said the words “your parishioner.” He didn’t like that expression at all.
“And who might these people be?” he asked.
“I can’t reveal sources.”
“Well, I can definitively reveal the fact that I know Brenda MacIntyre’s soul—because, in the course of accepting Jesus as Her Lord and Savior, she revealed unto me all her sins . . . sins that have now been washed clean. And I can definitively state that she was never violent toward her violent and tragic husband.”
“Was Ivy MacIntyre also washed clean of her sins?” I asked.
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