Bishop's Man (19 page)
Authors: Linden Macintyre
“Touché,” she said, raising her wineglass.
At midnight we toasted the year ahead and for a moment I considered taking her in my arms. In a brotherly way, of course. But I thought better of it. Fear of misunderstanding. It can start with something as simple as a hug.
“Here’s to ’95 and all it brings.”
“All kinds of joy,” she said. “I have a good feeling about ’95.”
Before I left, I mentioned that I’d had a visit from the O’Brians. Bob and Donald.
“Ah,” she said. “They went to talk to you.”
“Yes. Obviously you know why.”
There was a long, deliberate silence as she studied the last of her drink. “Maybe a nightcap?” She smiled.
“I’m okay.”
She sighed. “Donald told me, Christmas night, that he was hoping to talk to you. He was nervous.”
“Nervous!” I laughed. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Because you caught him smoking a joint,” she said.
“Does he actually think, after all my years at the university, that I’m shocked by the smell of grass?”
“Of course, you realize there’s something else,” she said.
“Oh? What might that be?”
She studied me for a moment then focused on the wineglass again, tipped it, swirled the contents thoughtfully. “He’s probably gay.”
I laughed. “What gives you that impression?”
She flushed. “Just a feeling that I get.”
“Ah, well. We all have our little challenges.”
I can see her still: the way she cocked her head to one side, skeptically, then looked away from me and smiled as if to some invisible third person in the room.
It was time to leave, but I lingered at the door.
“I’m glad you came over,” she said. “I enjoyed it … the nicest New Year’s Eve for years.”
“Yes,” I said. “For years.”
And wanted to say more. But caught her hand briefly then let go, turned away and left.
There was a message on my answering machine. Effie and Sextus. Wishing me the best. Also asking if I’d heard from John.
Sitting alone in my darkened living room, staring out over the black bay with my second large whisky in my hand, I realized that, one day, I’d have to tell them everything. Probably for my own good.
april 29. after mass this morning, a man was asking questions about alfonso. pleasant fellow. well dressed. see him at mass regularly. he attends every day. speaks very good english. says he was once the local representative for coca-cola. talking about how much he admires alfonso, for his homilies on justice. calero, the name. he says he became a police officer. because of the way the country is heading.
{10}
I
n January it becomes impossible to defer the reality of winter and her casual betrayals. You feel that summer and her pretty sister, autumn, have gone perhaps forever. There is that sense of personal abandonment. That’s when we turn inward, and hope to find some comfort there.
n January it becomes impossible to defer the reality of winter and her casual betrayals. You feel that summer and her pretty sister, autumn, have gone perhaps forever. There is that sense of personal abandonment. That’s when we turn inward, and hope to find some comfort there.
That was my message January 1, 1995. I thought it was an appropriate reflection on the meaning of Christ’s birth and the eternal hope He brought with His arrival among us. The extraordinary promise that gets us through the dark days until the enlightenment of Pentecost and the rebirth of spring. And the promise that one day we will know a summer without end. Et cetera.
Afterwards, young Donald O’Brian told me it was awesome.
Four days into the New Year, Sextus called to tell me that when Effie went back to Toronto after her Christmas break, he was tempted to go with her. “Now I’m sorry I didn’t. Got used to having her around. The place isn’t the same without her. I can’t imagine how you manage there, all alone. It isn’t good for any of us. You, me, buddy out at the old place.” Then, after a pause: “Speaking of which … if you get a chance, maybe you should look in on John. I think he’s fallen off the wagon.”
There was a polite knock at the door before I had a chance to react. It was young O’Brian. I told Sextus I’d have to call him back.
“I’ll be heading back tomorrow,” Donald said. “To Antigonish … I was wondering …”
“Ah, yes. Your timing is spot-on.”
I had in fact just written his letter to the bishop. Two brief paragraphs. He was a member of the parish, baptized and confirmed, impeccable academic and moral history, strong family, father active in parish affairs, etc.
I invited him in and asked him to sit.
“When you get back, just call the office. He’s expecting you.”
“Ah.”
He looked surprised.
“When I was in the army,” the bishop said, “the people who had it worst were a couple of oddballs who hung around together all the time. Eventually everybody knew about them. You’d never see them doing anything, but you just knew. You could smell the chemistry.”
I was, at this point, just listening.
“Funny about that, how you can tell. Some people can spot a misfit a mile away. I always figure there’s no harm in them. But you can understand how some people get turned off, hostile even. Those two poor fellows, in the army … they had to put up with a lot.” He was swirling his drink, suddenly distracted by the disappearing ice cubes in the glass. “A strange, strange place to find them. The army.” He chuckled. “Of course, the war was on.”
“What about the priesthood? Did you ever expect to run into it in the priesthood?”
“Ahhhhh. I don’t like to think about it. It is, statistically, inevitable, I guess. And I suppose, theoretically, it doesn’t matter, does it? We’re all more or less eunuchs here anyway.”
You couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“Why are we talking about this, anyway?” He was momentarily confused.
“We were talking about O’Brian. But I’m not sure that I see the connection … with those guys in the army.”
“Yes. O’Brian. I’ve seen him,” the bishop said. “Playing the piano. Don’t you think he seems a bit … effeminate? A little light in the loafers, don’t you think? Not that it means anything.”
“I wouldn’t try to read anything into it.”
“He’s got talent, right enough. Full of music. We could use more of that.”
“His father is the heart and soul of the parish.”
“That’s good. What is it he needs?”
Donald said, “I might as well admit, I’m kind of nervous about all this.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” I said. “There’s no crime in changing your mind sometime down the road.”
He didn’t answer.
“Maybe you told me this, but when did you first get serious about a vocation?”
“It’s been in the back of my mind for years. Tell me something. You’ve been a priest—what, now?”
“Going on twenty-seven years.”
“You’ve seen all kinds of priests. Have you ever seen one that came even close to … the ideal?”
“Yes. Just one.”
He was waiting, I suppose, for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, he said: “That’s good. You’re lucky.”
may 1. alfonso is away. tonight jacinta came to visit for spanish conversation. she didn’t realize we were alone. i asked her if she’d stay. i don’t know what came over me. she was shocked. i am a childish fool.
John was sitting at his kitchen table wearing a heavy jacket, staring straight ahead. His face was pale, unshaven, deeply lined, eyes sunk in shadows. He’d aged since the last time I saw him, at the birthday party. He turned his head slowly, seemed to focus. I was standing in the doorway.
“He-hey,” he said. The smile was warm. “I was just thinking of having a little shot.” There was a package of cigarettes open on the table. “Maybe you’d care to join me.”
The careful enunciation and the exaggerated gestures told me he’d already had a shot and more. I just stood there.
“Well, are you going to come in or not?”
“People are worrying,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed. “Fuckin’ A.”
I removed my coat. “I’m going to make a pot of tea.”
“Be my guest. Or host. Whatever.” And he reached for the bottle in the middle of the table. The hand was trembling. Then he farted, long and loud. “Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“That was the closest the old man could get to humour,” he said.
“How long has this been going on?”
“He’d let one rip, then say, ‘Better out than your eyeball.’ Or, ‘Speak again, oh toothless one.’”
“John. How long has this been going on?” I repeated.
The place was fetid, sink full of dirty bowls. He’d obviously been existing on cereal and toast and Scotch.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”
“Christmas was two weeks ago.”
“Is that a fact, now.” He raised his glass: “Here’s to the girls from Toronto … they say that they’re hard to get onto …”
I reached for his hand to take away the glass, but he moved it quickly.
“Don’t,” he said. And for an instant it was his father sitting there, Sandy Gillis, dark and dangerous.
I turned to the stove to let the moment pass.
“So,” John said eventually. “I hear herself was around for Christmas. Faye from Toronto.”
“She hasn’t been Faye for a long time. And yes. She stayed in town this time.”
“I suppose,” he said, puffing on a cigarette, “it would take a lot to open the old place this time of year.”
“That’s not so great for the jogging,” I said, nodding toward the smoke.
He laughed, dabbed an ash onto a saucer. “Where do you think that Faye business came from?”
“Just a phase. She was young. Looking for a new identity.”
“She’s had her share of phases,” he said, burping loudly.
“It seems to bother you. Him back in her life. Her coming and going here.”
“That? Fuck, no. I’m a perfectly modern man.”
The kettle whistled. I walked toward the stove.
“I never thought I’d live to see her back in that old house,” he said.
“Where do you keep the tea?”
He waved toward a cupboard door. “She told me things, back when we were … young. It was pretty upsetting.” He suppressed another belch. “I’ve done stuff I’m not very proud of. Because of things she told me. Not that I’m blaming her for anything.”
“I know what you mean. We all—”
“No you don’t. Nobody around here knows dick.”
I poured a cup of tea, set it down in front of him. He stared at it as if wondering what it was.
“I’ll get over this,” he said. “In my own time.” Talking to himself, as if I’d gone already. “Wicked how we screw each other up.”
Then he dabbed his cigarette in the cup of tea.
{11}
Y
oung Danny MacKay was going downhill, according to reports from Stella.
oung Danny MacKay was going downhill, according to reports from Stella.
“You have to talk to him,” she said. “His parents are beside themselves. And stress is just about the worst thing possible for his father’s MS.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Mood swings. Acting out. Sudden outbursts of verbal violence, even at home. Rumours of brawls in town.”
“Sounds like growing pains.”
“They
really
want you to have a talk with him.”
really
want you to have a talk with him.”
“It isn’t
really
my place. He’s in Mullins’s parish.”
really
my place. He’s in Mullins’s parish.”
“Mullins,” she scoffed. “Mullins is one of the reasons the Church has become irrelevant to the people who need it most.”
“Come on now,” I said.
She’d arrive evenings, unannounced, with food. Stay to chat over a drink. And when the chill and the silence that seemed to be essential features of the old glebe got to me, I’d instinctively head to her warm and welcoming house.
Other books
The Well-Wishers by Edward Eager
Farewell to the East End by Jennifer Worth
Ascendant by Craig Alanson
New Frontiers by Ben Bova
Murder for the Halibut by Liz Lipperman
Make Me Forget by Beth Kery
Divine Madness by Melanie Jackson
Arrest (A Disarm Novel) by June Gray
Unexploded by Alison MacLeod
The Bone Wall by D. Wallace Peach
