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Authors: Linden Macintyre

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BOOK: Bishop's Man
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“Right away. Give me your number. I’ll be back at the condo in … forty-five minutes.”
He never called, and when I tried again, his number had been discontinued.
 
Pat was explaining: “My oldest daughter and her husband are living in Halifax and they’ve just had a baby.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Your first grandchild?”
“Third, actually,” she said, crossing her legs and settling into a comfortable position. “I just wanted your opinion on something.”
Behind her the day was dissolving into a dirty shade of brown.
“Can I get you something?”
“God, no, thanks. I can only stay a minute. They’re calling her Epiphany.”
“Well,” I said, struggling to look serious. “That’s original. For a name. A bit of a change from the Stephanies and the Natalies and the Ashleys.”
“Isn’t it a little blasphemous?” She was leaning forward anxiously. Her sweater had a revealing loose, scooped neck.
“No. But maybe the name will cause her a bit of grief when she’s older. Kids can be cruel.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I have a friend, for example. They named him Sextus. And—”
“Sextus Gillis,” she said brightly. “Of course. You two grew up together.”
“When we were growing up, people would try to tease him about his name. They can make life miserable.”
“You think,” she said. “How little it takes. And where is Sextus now? Somebody mentioned he moved back. They saw him at one of the socials. I haven’t seen him for years.”
“He’s back. He comes by now and then.”
“A piece of the devil he was.” She laughed, and I could see in the dying light that there was a flush on her cheeks. “My God. Sextus Gillis.” Then she was smiling at me. “I don’t think you remember. I’ve been wondering all along. You don’t, really, do you? From when we were younger?”
“Well, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge.”
“I used to go out with Sextus a bit. We actually … double-dated. Me and him, you and a friend of mine. You must remember.”
I guess you’re mad at me.
“Ah, well,” I said, confused. “Dating didn’t play a very big part in my younger days.”
“Come on. You’re not trying to tell me you don’t remember Barbara?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, I suppose if you were anything like your friend, I shouldn’t be surprised. That fellow had more girlfriends than … I don’t know what.”
“Actually, the name has a nice ring to it,” I assured her. “Epiphany.”
“The truth of the matter—why I’m really here—is that they’d like to baptize the baby here. What would you think?”
“That would be great.”
“God love you,” she said. “They’ll be so happy.” She was leaning forward again, a hand resting on my forearm.
I allowed a moment’s silence and the swift, giddy pleasure of her presence to pass through.
She sat back then. “Wasn’t that awful about the MacKay boy? Him so young. I don’t suppose you know the family?”
“Actually, I do.”
She sighed. “I guess there’s no way to understand something like that. Suicide. Such a waste.”
The gloom was deepening and I considered reaching for the reading lamp behind my chair, but I didn’t.
Then she laughed loudly, standing abruptly and smoothing her skirt. “Sextus Gillis. You tell that
donus
to come and visit.”
“I’ll pass it on,” I said.
“I suppose he’s aged, like the rest of us.”
“Actually, he’s quite fit, in spite of everything.”
“That would be him all over. He was always so … I don’t know how to put it.”
I watched the tail lights of her car turn into tiny specks and vanish.
Alfonso knows, I whisper.
How could he know anything? She is laughing. Unafraid.
I feel it in my bones. He knows.
And what if he does?
We’re priests?
You’re men.
I have to talk to him.
She shrugs. I turn away.
Hey, she says. I turn back. She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. Don’t forget me.
How could I?
Search your heart, she says. The conscience speaks through the heart.
What about my brain? I say.
The brain can get confused, she says, with too many voices babbling. The voices of old and angry men. Listen to your heart. My heart says we should take a holiday together.
A holiday? But where?
Puerto Castilla, she says. We’ll live on the beach, like ordinary people.
What about Alfonso?
We’ll take him with us.
{20}
T
he bishop seemed distant, distracted. He was sitting behind a desk in the chancery, which was unusual, sipping a coffee that I’d bought for him at the local Tim’s. He seemed sour.
“I hate bloody January,” he explained. “It feels like we’ve had six weeks of it so far and we still have two to go.”
“You had a break,” I said.
“Some break,” he huffed. “A bishops’ conference in Ottawa in January. Actually, this abuse crap was all over the agenda. Everybody’s having a problem all of a sudden. I suppose it could be worse. We could be dealing with the Indians.”
He’s beginning to show his age, I thought sadly.
“What’s happening with us?”
“Nothing new,” I said. “I spoke to Bell briefly on a bad line … still waiting for him to call back. He was in Miami.”
“Miami?”
“I’m sure he’ll call in his own good time.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. What about yourself? You said you wanted to chat.”
I told him I just wanted to touch base. I wasn’t so sure that Creignish was working out the way I’d expected.
“That’ll happen,” he said. He had his hands laced in front of him on the desk and seemed to be unusually interested in his fingernails.
“The biggest problem with parish work,” I said, “is that there doesn’t seem to be enough to do most of the time. I’m beginning to think that the needs of the spirit diminish with affluence.”
“Affluence?” He laughed. “Affluence in Creignish?”
“Between the mill and the pensions everybody seems to get nowadays … people seem comfortable. They don’t really need me. Maybe if you were looking to cut back …”
He stood then, stretched and walked around from behind the desk. Sat in the empty chair beside me. Sighed. Told me parish work is organic, you end up doing what they want you to do, no matter how hard you try to get things going. They get resentful if you get too pushy. If you’re doing nothing and they aren’t complaining … be thankful. It means they need nothing. You can wear yourself out worrying about it, he said. Ministry is about other people’s needs. I know you need to be engaged. But your needs are secondary now.
“At the end of the day, we’re public servants.”
I was nodding, as if reassured. I told him I’d attempted to target the youth. Get some kind of organization started for them.
He raised a hand, smiling, shaking his head.
“That was a brave idea. But your timing is bad. Keep your distance from the young ones for the time being. No point asking for trouble. Safest place to focus is the Right to Life crowd. Or the charismatics. I know they’re active down there. Can’t do any harm there. Everything is black and white for them. The priest is god.”
He stood and stared out through a window. My mind raced with items from an agenda I’d been memorizing on the drive over. Now I felt confused. I thought: I don’t know him anymore.
“Why don’t we just cut to the chase here,” he said suddenly. “I heard about the little fracas last summer. How you got caught in the crossfire … between a couple of young scrappers at a social function.”
“You heard about that?”
“Happens to the best of us. You shouldn’t worry about it.”
“How did you hear about that?”
“Trust me,” he said. “I hear everything.”
I laughed.
“I get the impression that, in your own mind, there might be some connection between the fracas and that Hawthorne suicide. I gather he was one of the boys involved … am I right? And that young O’Brian.”
I nodded.
“Where is he now, by the way?”
“Travelling.”
“People will invent their own narratives. It’s what they do for their own mental health. Especially around here. They figure things out to suit their needs.”
“But in that case—”
He raised his hand. “You have to keep your perspective. I suspect the narrative could be a lot worse, from our point of view. Young fellow loses control, strikes a priest. Suffers irreversible remorse. Loses his mind. Bang. He’s gone. There could be a worse scenario.”
I studied the crucifix above the desk, struggled to stay silent. He looked at his watch then brightened. “Well, look at this. It’s noon.” Would I like a
dileag?
A little nip to cheer me up. He was trying out a new malt. Highland Park. Had I ever heard of it?
No.
We were on our second when he caught my hand. Was there anything else bothering me? Anything in particular? “A parish can be a lonely place,” he said.
“Loneliness has never been a problem for me.”
He smiled. “I want to tell you a little story. A little narrative about myself.” He sipped and continued to grasp my hand. “Some people will always misunderstand. Accidentally on purpose.” He was looking off into the distance. “I was a young fellow at Sacred Heart and there was a cook … years and years ago. A lovely country girl from Boisdale. Full of the devil and full of the Gaelic. I was pretty fluent then myself. We were always making fun of the old fellows behind their backs. She was hilarious.”
He was shaking his head now, smiling dreamily. “Once, they caught us laughing in the kitchen. She was leaning on me. That was all. We were holding each other up, the way you do when you’re weak from laughing. There was nothing improper. Just laughing after some mimicry of hers. I think she might have had her hand on my shoulder.”
He wiped at his eyes. “There was hell to pay. You can’t believe the fuss they made. The bishop got involved. Old Bishop John R., God rest him.”
I was watching his face closely. There was a strange movement in the pit of my stomach. His eyes were damp.
He stood abruptly and said, “I wasn’t getting at anything in particular. But it’s a good little story, eh?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Fortunately, it had a happy ending.”
“Oh?”
“She married somebody else.”
“Somebody
else?
”
“Did I say ‘somebody
else
’?”
I nodded.
“Well, well,” he said, studying the floor.
At the door I asked: “And where did the cook finally end up?”
“Ah. The marriage didn’t work out. The groom was a war vet. A bit damaged. Last anybody heard of him, he was in the Detroit area. She’s still around, though. She raised a couple of fine kids, I hear.” He was rubbing his chin. “I don’t expect my priests to be saints. I expect them to be men. But strong men. Right? A priest who is not a strong man is a sad case.”
“Right.”
“We’re never tested beyond our capabilities. If we fail, well, we have nobody to blame but ourselves.”
He hugged me warmly, held me a couple of seconds longer before pushing me away. “I’ve never been much for hugging men. Hugging is mostly for foreigners and phonies. But you’re like my own flesh and blood. We’re family. Do you know what I’m saying?” For a moment I thought he was watering up again. But he laughed suddenly and punched my shoulder. “You’re going to be all right.”
BOOK: Bishop's Man
13.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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