Bishop's Man

by Linden MacIntyre

  “I said Mass for Chisholm this evening, and since I was in the neighbourhood ...”

  “Come in,” he said.

  His apartment was dimly lit. A near-silent television flickered in a corner and a book lay open on a coffee table.

  “It came back to me this evening. Saying Mass in town. Thinking about your uncle Sandy . . . It was thirty-two years ago today we buried him, wasn’t it? I was thinking of him during Mass. Got them to pray for his soul.”

  “That’s wild. It completely slipped my mind. You’ll have a dileag, for the cold?”

  “No, thanks. Have you been hearing from my sister?”

  “Now and then. I think she’s staying put this Christmas. I wonder how John is doing these days?”

  “He’s fine. He came to see me. He’s been on the wagon since February.”

  “That was a bad one, last Christmas.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about this Christmas.”

  He sat then, arms folded. “We’ll see.”

  I appraised the room. “Actually, this is about all I really need. A nice little apartment. I don’t know why we have the glebe house anymore. A waste of heat and power.”

  He shrugged.

  “I ran into Donald A. Campbell this evening after Mass. You remember him. We were talking about Sandy. He said to say hello.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Calls himself Don now.”

  “When did he come home?”

  “He didn’t say. I hardly knew him. He mentioned he was one of the ones that found Sandy. He was with the search party.”

  “He’d have been pretty young.”

  “A little younger than we were at the time.”

  “Donald A.,” he repeated, smiling at some private memory. “I don’t suppose the wife was with him?”

  “He was alone.”

  He laughed aloud then. “Probably just as well.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Surely you remember Barbara.”

  {17}

  Mullins told me to wait in the kitchen. He had somebody in the office. He wouldn’t be long. Twenty minutes later I was still there, fidgeting. The kitchen told you just about everything you’d want to know about him. Bright yellow walls and clean white cupboards, a Formica countertop devoid of any clutter. Sink empty, aluminum and chrome blinding in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Dry dishcloth draped primly over a glinting faucet. Faint odours of furniture polish.

  I used to enjoy coming here. The neatness, the meditative silences when Mullins was away. The place feels stifling to me now.

  It was close to three in the afternoon. The sharp December sun slanted through a window facing northwest. Port Hood Island sat abandoned, waiting for the snow, the homes of the summer Americans silent and secure. Water in the foreground danced, tossing foamy spittle into the sharp wind. A chilly view, I thought, but inside the sun warmed the sanitary kitchen.

  The house was silent. Whoever he had in the office was either mute or speaking very softly. I could feel an irritated boredom settling into my bones. Typical Mullins.

  In the summer I’d escaped to the island on my boat a dozen times at least. Tucked the Jacinta inside the U-shaped wharf, the way young Danny showed me on that hot day in July. Meandered up to the little church he’d pointed out. Real peaceful there, he said. Obviously he knew. I’d sit in meditative silence with the ghosts of the solid, thrifty islanders of old moving quietly around me. The odd board squeaking in the floor and walls the only sound.

  “Wait in the kitchen,” he’d said, as if I were a salesman.

  Have a quiet word with him, the bishop said.

  I’d kill for a drink right now, I thought. Next thing I’ll be carrying a flask. Smiled to myself. The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. Ohhhh no.

  There was a large black housefly staggering along the windowsill and it reassured me in a way. A small imperfection to humanize that sterile place. The window in the bishop’s room is full of them. Where do they come from? Hundreds clustered in black, miserable clumps. Are they dead? Or hibernating? How did they get in there?

  I stifled a yawn. I wondered if he keeps a bottle in the cupboard like I do. I could look. What harm in checking?

  The fly was now stymied in a corner. No. He recovered. Started up the windowpane. I decided to give Mullins five more minutes and remembered: Bell sat here. For a year. Eating, drinking, bullshitting. Entertaining God knows whom or how. What is it about a guy like Bell that draws them to him? The guitar? Maybe if I was musical. No. He had charm and talent.

  I find it suddenly funny. God plays tricks. God is a joker who equips His cripples with gifts they use to pervert His holy will. And they flourish. People like me, designated to correct the perversions, undo the damage, languish like the sleepwalking fly. We ordinary mortals share the destiny of insects.

  I watched the fly for another moment, struggling. Now he was on his back, legs moving mechanically in the air, slowing down. Batteries running low.

  I wondered where Bell was at this moment. Driving somewhere in his BMW, hair slick with gel, and the new wife admiring him. I stood, stretched, eyed the cupboard door more closely. What do you think you’re doing? Turning into a sneak drinker. Worse than Bell.

  Ho-hum. I checked my watch for the umpteenth time. Time’s up. I opened the kitchen door. There was a fairly new deck just outside, a place to sit and watch the summer sunsets. A view inferior to mine, I thought. I decided to leave discreetly. No sense disturbing them, old Mullins and his secret guest. I actually felt relief, admitted that I don’t really have the stomach for this anymore. Carrying messages from the bishop. Little warnings.

  The air was stinging after the overheated kitchen. I felt refreshed. But before I reached the car, I heard Mullins’s voice. He was standing in the front doorway, arms folded over his chest. There was a woman with her back to me, making her farewell. And when she turned, I saw Jessie MacKay. She seemed surprised that I was there, a bit disoriented.

  “Where do you think you’re going,” Mullins called out merrily.

  He looked briefly at the kitchen clock. “I don’t suppose a cocktail would be out of order? How about yourself? You take a drink?”

  “On occasion,” I replied.

  From the cupboard he plucked a forty of vodka. Of course—no danger of detection on the breath. On ice, I tell him. He splashed tonic into his. Vodka-tonic was something he discovered in Poland, he informed me, during the second visit of His Holiness JP2, in 1983. Have you ever been? No. I was working at the university in ’83. A different kind of ministry, a bit less glamorous. But he wasn’t listening.

  “Poland’s all different now, I understand. But then? Communist, but utterly inspiring. A bit of repression suits the soul, it seems.” He chuckled briefly. “At Czȩstochowa, oh my God, Jasna Góra, the shrine of the Black Madonna. Hundreds upon hundreds of thousands turned out to hear the pontifical High Mass on a Sunday morning. In the rain.”

  “I can only imagine,” I murmured, thinking, Old Mullins sounds positively aroused!

  “I almost panicked in the mob. My feet kept slipping in the wet grass and mud. The crowd? You aren’t going to believe this. The crowd was so packed . . . so tightly packed . . . people jammed so tight, that afterwards the buttons all fell off my coat. That’s the God’s truth.” He excused himself to go to the basement in search of another bottle of tonic.

  “Don’t bother,” I called out. “I can live without the mix.”

  “Good grief, no. It’s no bother at all. You have to try this. You’ll be hooked.” I could hear him humming a tune from the basement stairway.

  “How’s the drink?” he asked, waiting for my judgment.

  “I’ll strengthen it if you don’t mind. It’s delicious, but don’t you find the tonic . . . sweet?”

  “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the liquor bottle. “It’s actually a summer drink. But I wanted you to try it.”

  I poured a solid dollop.

&n
bsp; “Poland was unbelievable,” Mullins said. “The faith of those people. The crowds at Mass. The defiant demonstrations. The floral crosses in the public squares. Jaruzelski actually trembled when he met the Holy Father. Bent the knee. I saw it on TV from my hotel room. It was awesome.”

  “I read somewhere that it was the beginning of the end for all that, the Soviet bloc and all the rest.”

  “It was indeed. And I was there when it started, God be praised. How often does a simple fella from around here get to see the start of history? Or the end of it . . . however you want to look at it.”

  I sipped my drink.

  “Have you ever met His Holiness?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was in Toronto in ’84. At Downsview. I slept out all night with the crowd to get close enough. Nearly perished from the cold and the dampness, but it was worth the pain. Met him after the big Mass.”

  “Did you know that I was on the altar for the concelebration at the Commons in Halifax?”

  “Get away with you!”

  “Highlight of my life. The charisma of the man just radiates. You can’t help but be affected by it. Inspiring. The man could have been anything. Could have led his country, maybe saved it from the Communists in the first place. Who knows? He’d have been an amazing general. A Sikorski and then some. And on top of everything, he’s an artist. Writing plays and poetry. A blessing in our time.”

  “You’re up on your Poland,” I said, smiling.

  “Made a study before I went. Got hooked on the history.”

  “Here’s to Poland,” I said, raising my glass.

  “Right on. And to all the poor Polacks and what they’ve been through. Just think of the survival of that little island of Catholicism over the centuries. Against the Turks. Nazis. Communists. You name it. How’s the drink now?”

  “Well. They always say you can’t fly on one wing.”

  I stared out at the dying afternoon, suddenly depressed, a small, cruel anger stirring.

  “Chopin was Polish, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed he was. A national hero.” His face was quizzical.

  “They wanted Chopin at the funeral last month, but you vetoed him in favour of some fiddle player.”

  “Oh, that,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Everything has its place.”

  I studied my drink. Amazing what it does for poise. “I almost forgot. I’ve been told to raise something . . . I was talking to the boss the other day. The bish.”

  He was waiting, head tilted to one side, half smiling.

  “I guess you’ve put the devil among the tailors, with the business at Little Harbour.”

  “Oh, that,” he said with another wave of the hand, relaxing. “So what are they saying?”

  “Nothing to worry about. But the boss thinks maybe you should crank it down just a little . . . Don’t get me wrong ...”

  “No problem,” he said with a weak smile. “But why didn’t he tell me himself?”

  His discomfort was sobering. I could feel the familiar tingling in my shoulders and neck. My readiness. “Probably it would have been the courteous thing—”

  “Freakin’ right,” he blurted, then stood and reached for the bottle. Poured for himself.

  “But don’t . . . don’t read anything into it. I just happened to be talking to him on other matters. I guess he assumes we have a connection because ...”

  He was watching, face wary, waiting.

  “Well, we’re almost neighbours,” I laughed. “And you know the way the mainlanders think. Everything on this side of the causeway . . . just like one parish.”

  His eyes said he was unconvinced.

  “Then of course there was the business with Brendan Bell.”

  “Bell? What business with Bell?”

  It took me a moment to recover. We had told him nothing about Bell. “Oh, just that ...” I said, reaching for his bottle. Stalling. “Hope you don’t mind ...”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Speaking of Bell, civilian life seems to be doing wonders for him.”

  “Really?” he said, honestly surprised. “You saw him lately?”

  “This past summer. I had the impression he planned to call on you, but I guess he didn’t.”

  “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since . . . God . . . how long now? Well, I’m offended.” He waved a hand, staring toward the window. His face was troubled. “I seem to get left out of everything.”

  I took a small sip. “Let me ask you something,” I said carefully. “How did you find Brendan as a priest?”

  “Clear hopeless. Lovely guy to have around . . . but a priest? I don’t know what he was thinking. He was more cut out for . . . the media. Or show business.”

  “Did he ever talk about Newfoundland?”

  “Oh, all the time. You know the way they are. I figured by the end of it I knew everybody he knew over there. I’m amazed he never dropped in. He plays a mean round of golf, Brendan does.”

  I studied him closely and saw only innocence. I saw the trust, remembered just how quickly it can vanish.

  I stood to leave. The headache I’d been getting lately had returned, throbbing. Possibly the start of a hangover. “About the bishop,” I said. “I wouldn’t be too concerned.”

  “It’s just that . . . and I’ll be frank . . . I’m a little ticked that he’d get you involved. I know you two are close, but this is different.”

  Different, I thought. And I wanted to ask, Different from what?

  “Just tell him I think I know what I’m doing. Okay? He doesn’t have to worry.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “The place has been profoundly unsettled by that business with the MacKays.”

  I agreed.

  “Maybe I should call him myself, his highness. I can explain. I won’t bore you.”

  “Whatever you think. Definitely. Call him.”

  Turning toward the door and almost as an afterthought, I asked how Jessie MacKay was holding up.

  “Ah. Poor Jessie,” he said. And he stood still for a while, just shaking his head. “I suppose I wouldn’t be telling stories out of school if I said why she was here.”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Her visit was, coincidentally, not unrelated to yours.” He laughed, studying his hands. “Will you have one more before you leave?”

  “I shouldn’t, but why not.”

  “She, even more than you and his royal highness, wants to calm things down. Put everything behind us,” he said as he poured. “She wants me to reconsider renaming the harbour. Thinks it’s pushing things too far.”

  I nodded.

  “I just realized that she’s also anxious that I back off a bit with the criticisms of the powers that be.” He laughed ruefully. “Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be too radical.” He shook his head, enjoying the notion. “I’ll shut up. But maybe you could play more of a role yourself, with the connections you have through the boat. You’re almost one of them. That little harbour is important to you people.”

  At the door he caught my arm and held me for a moment, face dark with concern. “There are bad things going on. These are good people, but weak. We have to lend whatever political power we have, though God knows it doesn’t add up to much anymore. But nevertheless.”

  I nodded.

  The sun disappears quickly in December. The darkness leaps up around you suddenly as the afternoon subsides, jamming icy fingers into your flesh. In truth, I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to face my crumbling glebe. Passing the Port Hood liquor store, I turned in.

  It was dark when I stopped at the Little Harbour wharf. The place felt odd, abandoned. The bait shed silent. Ropes clinking on a metal gibbet that, in spring and summer, winches crates of lobster from the boats below. There were no boats now. The dark tide swept outward purposefully, little eddies swirling near the piles. A gull shivered atop a pole, shifting from foot to foot. I reached into the back seat where I’d placed the bag from the liquor
store, fished among the large bottles for the small flask of vodka. Mullins is on to something. But he can keep his tonic.

  Across the harbour, high and dry and braced by empty oil drums and substantial blocks of lumber, the Jacinta presented a regal profile. Her flared bow picked up the pale glow of a high harbour light. The emotion I experienced was something close to love. “Jacinta,” I said aloud, cracking the seal on the bottle.