Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  Blair was a happily married man, but even he couldn’t help notice how attractive Carla looked in the middle of all this hell. He wondered why Cam never acted on his obvious interest in her. Blair was pretty sure she was interested, too. Maybe he should have Sue invite them both to a barbecue, or even better, one of the Friday night sweats they tried to attend as often as possible. He smiled at the thought of Cam slipping into a sweat lodge, only to find Sue and Carla already inside. He knew Cam would be furious, but would never offend Sue. If they sat through the sweat, Blair was confident Kisu’lk, the Great Creator, would show them the truth about their feelings for each other. That, or Cam would leave the lodge and silently wait Blair out. Delivering payback in the next sparring match. It was a risk, but Blair had faith. He smiled at that notion, too. Blair was a devout Catholic, but now he was beginning to have a deeper faith in the spirituality of his ancestors.

  Blair had grown up on the Membertou reserve in Sydney, a cluster of shabby homes behind a white wooden church on a hilltop inside the city limits. Sweats were not a part of his life then. His own heritage was not discussed at home, and certainly not in school. It wasn’t just ignored. It was forbidden. There were no schools on his reserve, so he attended the white schools in the city. He was afraid to tell the other kids where he lived, although his classmates told him he was obviously a BFI. He didn’t know they meant Big Fuckin’ Indian. When his uncle told him what it meant, he’d had to fight back tears. His uncle soothed him and told him it was really a compliment. Uncle Terry was the only one who spoke of Mi’kmaw heritage then, and Blair thought most of it was nonsense.

  Later, he took it more seriously, when he learned Uncle Terry was a survivor of the cultural genocide of Canada’s Indian Residential Schools. Blair hated the term now. They were not schools. They were concentration camps, where Native children were locked up and forced to speak English, deny their heritage, and live on vitamin supplements and liquids, just so doctors could see how it would affect their health. Terry told him how they used to eat scraps from the garbage after the teachers’ plates were cleaned in the kitchen. Terry was among the first survivors to speak publicly about the abuse. His bravery led to a renewed interest in culture, and a defiant rage among Mi’kmaw youth.

  Blair’s Membertou was openly called a reserve, another word for slum. It was the militancy among the older kids in his neighbourhood that changed that. With Uncle Terry’s guidance, they channelled the anger into a desire to do something positive. They signed up for the free university education offered to Mi’kmaw kids, and slowly the changes began.

  Only three weeks ago, on a trip home, he drove through Sydney, the city he had feared so much as a child. He saw closed businesses and signs of collapse. Then, he drove into Membertou to see newly paved streets, new businesses, and signs of fast growth. All because long-ignored treaties with the federal government made First Nations communities a great place to do business. Some of Membertou’s earliest university students became the first Mi’kmaw to graduate from law school where they read, and understood, those treaties. They opened the floodgates. Today, his old slum is the pride of the Unama’ki tribe. No one calls it a reserve. It was his first job, as a member of the Unama’ki First Nations police force, that had led Blair to become a Mountie.

  “What are you thinking about?” Carla asked.

  “Sweat lodges, racism, retribution, and my stubborn partner. You?” Honesty was also a part of the heritage. He smiled, and again wished he’d grabbed the mint.

  “Um, well now that you bring Cam up, can I ask you something about him?”

  “Sure, Sergeant. What do you need?” He stepped back in the elevator and leaned against the rear wall.

  “It’s personal, so if you feel a loyalty to him I’ll understand.”

  Blair gathered the thick black hair that hung past his neck, pulling it tight. He released it as he realized it was what Sue called his evasive move.

  “I guess it depends. What do you want to know?”

  “I noticed how he rubbed the scars around his wrists at the Gardner crime scene. I’ve heard the stories about what happened to him. I just wonder how much of it is true, and how much is just the usual blue exaggeration.”

  “Shouldn’t you ask him?” Blair knew Cam wouldn’t talk about it, and didn’t think he should, either.

  “Well, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. A little over a year ago I thought maybe he was interested, but then he shut me down and walked away.”

  Blair smiled. So this wasn’t just morbid curiosity. Perhaps Kisu’lk worked in elevators too.

  “So, you are interested in Cam?”

  The elevator door opened, and they stepped out into a tiny vestibule with doors on either end leading into the parking garage. Carla blushed as she stepped into the vestibule.

  “I guess so. Yes, I am. Please, don’t mention it to him.”

  “Look, Cam doesn’t like to talk about his scars. If you think maybe you care about him, you’ll have to accept that. Maybe you’ll even get him past it. I think that would be good. I can tell you, this is not just the badge rumour mill. What’s being said is not even close to what really happened.”

  She looked up into Blair’s eyes with a genuine concern that made him feel good about sharing with her. She might be exactly what Cam needed.

  “If he doesn’t talk about it, how do you know?”

  “We spar together. I’ve seen the other scars. His ankles, his back, chest, legs, everywhere, really. You have to remember, he was a prize catch. Not quite an American soldier, but still a white infidel in uniform. A sniper, at that. He’s joked about it a little with me. If I manage to beat him in the ring, he’ll compare it to the beatings over there. They used to put him in the middle of a village square where all the young men would whip him with water-soaked ropes. He was chained and couldn’t fight back. The people cheered it on.”

  “He told you that?” Her tone was challenging, as if she wanted to believe he was making it up.

  “In bits and pieces. I shouldn’t tell you, but you need to know he is a complicated guy, and maybe that’s why he pushed you away. Do me a favour.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t get involved with him if you think you can’t handle all of it. He hasn’t had a lot of breaks in life.”

  “You really care about him.”

  “If you get to know him, you will too. Just tread carefully.”

  “Can I ask one more thing?”

  “Go ahead.” Blair moved toward the door to the parking garage, wanting this conversation to be over. He wanted to go see a stripper about a dead preacher, not spill Cam’s secrets.

  “His wife. What happened?”

  Blair stopped at the door and thought for a moment. He sighed.

  “She had a heart defect. Died while he was in captivity. Took a couple of days before anyone found her. I think he blames himself for that. Doesn’t make sense, but there you have it. Seriously, Sergeant, I like you and I think you might be good for Cam, but I am starting to get uncomfortable here, so can we leave it alone?”

  “Yes, and thank you.”

  She touched his shoulder as they moved through the door into the garage. Blair headed to his car, saying a silent prayer to both Jesus and Kisu’lk that he had not betrayed his best friend, with a quick postscript that if he had, Cam would never find out. He thought about the fourth level of creation in Mi’kmaw culture, Kluscap, the first one who spoke. Legend had him created by a bolt of lightning striking the earth. Blair finally popped that mint as he started the car. He laughed out loud. His decision to be the first to speak might well set off a lightning storm of another kind.

  Friday, sunset

  The fast-fading rays of the setting sun painted the cross on top of the two-hundred-foot spire a deep ochre, like dried blood in sand. A veil of darkness draped the rest of Saint Mary’s Basilica.
Irish Catholics built the sandstone cathedral as a testament to their faith in the dying decades of the 1700s. Now, Halifax’s first Catholic church sits like an afterthought at the foot of Spring Garden Road.

  In the bright sunshine of the day, the sidewalks on both sides of the road are crammed with beautiful people buying beautiful things. Trendy young office workers lug six-dollar lattes past panhandlers who stand invisible at the curb, empty cups in hand. The homeless sit huddled against fire hydrants and utility poles. Halifax doesn’t have a trendy Main Street or a Skid Row. Spring Garden is a little of both.

  At night, the tide shifts, and Spring Garden is taken over by angry, young rich kids in torn jeans and baggy black hoodies. They scowl and bluster at anyone who walks past and then tweet about it on seven-hundred-dollar phones. The real thugs roll past in Escalades, looking for someone to shoot. Even they wouldn’t waste real lead on wannabe hoods.

  Two winos huddled against the side of the sandstone-and-stained-glass basilica. They shared the last dregs of a bottle and watched the cars roll past. If they looked up, they’d see the glow reflected on top of the highest free-standing spire in North America. They never looked up.

  Inside, Father Greg Neville sat in the front pew. The church was empty, the last of the parishioners from the evening Mass long gone. He looked into the stained-glass tableau suspended overhead. The five panes sat at the top of the wall high above the massive crucifix at the back of the altar. They reached skyward and inward to join at the peak in a classic Gothic arch. They seemed to lean into the basilica above the altar. A miracle of art and engineering that showed God’s hand. Local shipbuilders had designed the roof and built it with simple hand tools. It was a classic ship’s hull design turned upside down to protect the flock.

  Greg worked the rosary beads through the fingers of his left hand, praying silently to the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary at the centre of the stained-glass masterpiece. Mary was his true mother. He’d known that since he was a child. His grandfather said he was born to atone for the sins of the woman who gave him birth. A woman he never knew and never thought of as his mother. The Camino taught him the true price of that ignorance, and he would now change it. He would lead his brothers closer to her as well. Embracing the memory of his earthly mother would be good for his soul. It would help him to better understand the burdens his parishioners faced. He knew that. It would not change what his grandparents had told him.

  He was a miracle child, born to do God’s work. How else could you explain the son of a killer and a junkie having become the guardian of so many souls? A miracle child just like Jesus, whom he believed to be his brother. He pressed his right hand to his chest. The crucifix, given to him by an earthly brother, a link to the heavenly one. The rosary beads moved swiftly through his fingers as he prayed for Sandy Gardner, for Thelma Waters, and, above all, for the Church. He prayed that the terrible things that were happening would not push people further away. He asked for guidance, asked Mary to lead him, to hold his hand and show him the path. God’s will was behind all of this. Greg closed his eyes in prayer. His will would not, could not, lead to yet another blemish on His name.

  A tear slipped past a closed eyelid and down the side of his deeply tanned face. He did not reach to wipe it away. It was a mark of his failure. How could he have befriended a man Cam claimed was involved in such horrible, unspeakable things? How could he have failed to see that that man wanted help, wanted his help?

  Greg thought of his last meeting with Sandy Gardner. They’d sat in the same chairs in which he and Cam sat only a day ago. A small fire was burning in the pit at the centre of Sandy’s impressive patio. Greg had marvelled at the beauty of the place, and he felt the sin of envy as they spoke. He could still see Sandy, one moment sitting beside him, drink in hand, staring into the fire, the next, up tending the flames to no apparent end. Greg recognized the actions of a tormented soul, but at the time he wondered how a man with so much could still feel such torment. He reflected now on how selfish that thought had been. He should have reached out to Sandy and asked what burden he was carrying in his silence that night. Sandy confided that he had demons and wondered if his earthly failures could destroy the good God was doing through his church. Greg had dismissed Sandy’s question, assuming the demons he spoke of were in the glass in his hand. Greg knew Sandy liked to drink. At worst, he believed, his friend sometimes used drugs. Greg saw that as more self-indulgence than demons of torment, and he offered no words of support, no opportunity for Sandy to unburden himself. It was the failure of a young priest. One he must learn from now. He moved the tiny beads through his fingers and asked Mary to help him grow through this pain.

  He opened his eyes and breathed in the familiar warmth of the basilica. The sharp smell of the industrial cleaning wax mixed nicely with the heavy sweetness of melting wax from the candles that flickered beside the altar. A hint of incense lingered. He loved this church more than any. It had been a sign when he was placed here straight out of the seminary. The place that once offered a spiritual home to so many now stood empty most of the time. If not for the wonderful ladies of the CWL, the pews would be dust covered. Some of them were only filled at Christmas and Easter. The stone walls and spire erected to be seen from afar, to lead the faithful home, were now seen by many as a fortress built to protect hypocrites and liars. Greg and the others who were ordained with him, the new generation of priests, would change that. They would save the Church first and then save its people. For without the Church, the people could not be saved.

  A sudden change in the light, reflected in the stained-glass portrait of Mary, drew him from prayer. His gaze was drawn to the rack of candles. The flames moved as one, leaning first toward the back of the church and then the front. Someone had opened, and then closed, the side door. The only one he hadn’t locked. Probably one of the homeless men who liked to drink in the shelter of the church walls when they could. They also liked to make a dash for the collection box when they thought the church was empty. He always made sure the box held a few dollars. The collections from each Mass continued to dwindle as the congregation died off. What was collected was never placed in the old wooden box anymore. The bishop liked to joke the money was better spent on wine for the altar than wine for the parking lot. Greg believed money should flow out of the church not into it, but dared not say it to the bishop.

  He was surprised to see Bobby Simms walking down the aisle. Simms’s shoulders pushed the fabric of a black shirt as he dropped his right knee in front of the altar and lifted his hand to his forehead. He made a quick sign of the cross with a practised ease. He stood and smiled.

  “Hello, Father. Thought I might find you here.”

  “Hey, Bobby, do I detect a lapsed Catholic?” Greg shook Bobby’s hand. Felt the strength in a grip that stopped just short of inflicting pain.

  “Long lapsed, Father, and almost forgotten. But yes, I went to a Catholic boy’s school, was an altar boy, drank the Kool-Aid for a while, but I left the path. I was confirmed right there.” He gestured to the space in front of the altar. The same place where Greg and two other priests had lain face down on the day they were ordained.

  “Ah, so your conversion in prison was a return to Christ. That explains the strength of your faith. We could always use a man like you here, Bobby. Once a Catholic always a Catholic.” Greg flashed a quick smile and then let it fade. “Seriously though, how are you? This is a difficult time.”

  “I am coping, Father. I have His word and His love.” He looked toward the crucifix above the altar as though he expected Jesus to come down and join the conversation.

  “Indeed, it is all we ever need. Have you spoken with Cam? I know he was looking for you.”

  “No, Father, I’ve been avoiding him. He believes I had something to do with these deaths, and I am sad to say he brings out feelings in me I thought were gone forever.” Bobby walked to the rack of candles, and pulled a thin dowel from a b
ox of sand suspended on the side of the metal stand. He held it over a burning candle until the tip began to burn. He moved it over an unlit candle and watched the flame grow. “That’s why I am here, actually.” He pushed the burning dowel into the sand and turned back to Greg.

  “I’m not sure I can convince Cam of your innocence. I did try.”

  “No, no. God will do that. I know it’s been a long time, but I was hoping you would hear my confession. Help me to release the anger and hatred, so I can see him with a pure soul.”

  “I’d be happy to, Bobby.”

  The smell of stale beer and sweat slapped Blair in the face as he walked into The Fog Bank. Not the kind of sweat he was thinking about on the drive over Magazine Hill. On the upside, no one here would notice the donair leaking out of his pores. Three dancers wearing stilettos, thongs, and nothing else walked around the crowded barroom. A fourth wearing less worked the pole on stage. Late afternoon had barely faded into early evening outside, but another Fog Bank Friday night was in full swing. Blair grabbed a table near the door and tried to spot the girl from the newspaper ad. With no schoolgirl outfit, there was no way to be sure. The first one to head for his table was definitely not Sweet Lo. The heavyset brunette wore too much makeup, a tight blue miniskirt, and a sequinned silver tank top. The skirt was made of a kind of body-hugging fabric that stretched around every curve. Runners, yoga queens, and the heavyweight divas in the Walmart checkout line wore the same material. The waitress wasn’t exactly a heavyweight, but there wasn’t much stretch left in the skirt. She moved through the sea of tables easily. Might have been a dancer once, but that would have been before any of the girls working The Fog Bank now were born.

  “Hey, honey, what can I get you?” She mauled a wad of gum at the side of her mouth.