Somewhat to Father Pat’s relief, Frame had already left. No need for a bit of priestly advice. But, as Father Pat looked out the chapel doors into the bright light of the morning, he noticed the door of a black chauffeur-driven car swing open and the distinctive black fedora of the Minister of Transport moving over to make room for his friends the Frames.
Father Pat decided then and there that the next day he would visit Cartwright, who had tipped him off in the first place. He would institute an Easter haircut as part of his seasonal routine and catch up on the gossip.
Cartwright only added to his suspicion that a nefarious deal had indeed been done. The usually ebullient six footer, his shirt pocket frayed from years of pulling combs in and out, was abnormally cautious, allowing as Frame was maybe still onside. He hadn’t heard anything really and wasn’t sure if the original rumour was true after all.
Father Pat found himself getting abnormally tense. What was Cartwright really saying? Was Frame onside or not? The chipped hand mirror was produced and as Father Pat surveyed his thick grey mop, for once relatively in order, he noticed in the reflection a short balding man he had not seen in the shop before listening intently to his exchange. He stopped short, paid Cartwright and left the shop feeling there were new pieces to the puzzle but not sure where they fitted.
A PHONE CALL from Deirdre the next day, as he was preparing his Easter sermon threw little more light on the situation. She had made an inquiry and the press people in the minister’s office were very curt with her. There was a vacancy on the Transport Commission. It paid well but no decision had been made. They claimed to have never heard of Frame’s brother.
“They weren’t very friendly,” Deirdre told him. “The conversation ended with a snide reference to ’something that meddling priest might have dreamed up!’ They know how important you are to the stop-the-dump movement, and they must know Frame’s the key. But I did find out that Frame and his brother bought a couple of tables at the minister’s last local fund-raiser. That’s a lot of money. So they do know him and have put up some real cash. Something fishy here, but it’s like trying to spear jello. Anyhow, hope I’ve helped.”
She had indeed and it was good to hear her voice. He wished her happy Easter, even if it didn’t mean much to her. She had not darkened a church since she left home to go to journalism school, and she had no intention of returning to what she liked to tease him about as his “hocus-pocus”.
He got up from his writing and looked up the stairs to the master bedroom. The light was out. Brenda must have fallen asleep. One less explanation of what he was talking to Deirdre about this time. Brenda was no fool. She knew her husband had a female friend that she hoped was only that.
He went to call Paddy. Unusually, the dog had not come in for her dinner, despite endless calling and a quick trip around the block to search her out at the Brown’s, whose white male poodle stirred something in Paddy despite the fact the dog was fixed. No Paddy.
Now his drawn out “P-a-a-a-ddies” echoed into the cool empty evening. No familiar clink of tags on the red collar as the dog rounded the corner by the big maple. No Paddy at all.
“MY DEAR FRIENDS,” Father Pat, resplendent in St. Bart’s finest Easter priestly garb, cope and all, launched into his sermon. He actually felt quite grand as he pumped himself up to be worthy of one of the few full houses of the year.
Ah, the platform — beloved of politicians and priests alike. And this was a “good room”, as his political pals used to call a warm, receptive audience. Every time he faced a crowd, it seemed like the same crowd — a group of indifferent human beings that in a twenty minute sermon or speech required him to collectively seduce and convince.
“Today we celebrate the conquest of evil by love. We affirm our belief in hope, our belief in the greatest mystery of our humanity, our continuing and unalterable yearning for something above and beyond and more permanent than our worldly trials, our daily cares, our temporal tribulations … our yearnings …” he heard himself through his second ear and decided to check his verbosity.
“Christ was a charismatic, let’s not forget. He was immensely popular. Multitudes in the gospel means crowds, huge ones. And they followed him everywhere in those magical two years. But was he more than a minor prophet, a nuisance, a threat — crucified by the establishment because of his radical views …” And Father Pat sounded his now familiar lead into Christ’s death and resurrection, being careful not to overplay the biblical account of the dead Christ being seen alive. He moved, deftly he thought, to the faith of Christ’s followers and how their belief and their teachings about their leader changed the world and gave it an unrivaled heritage of spiritual hope and promise — including hope that there was existence beyond this world.
“But the principal revelation that those who knew Christ and were inspired by him share with us is the power of love, the power of forgiveness, the power of unselfish devotion to a cause larger than ourselves.”
Great, he thought, now I can do a smooth little “transition” — the key to all good speechmaking — into the community’s collective approach to the dump issue.
“This community has felt that power in coming together over a critical public issue. There is obviously a big difference between saving the world and saving the kind of community we have come to cherish, but the energy, the commitment, yes the collective faith we have in our ability to struggle and win this battle together against powerfully insensitive and irresponsible forces give us an insight into what we can do when we transcend ourselves.”
Am I pushing this too far? Father Pat paused dramatically — in reality he was stopping a thought progression he felt was unworthy of the place and the day.
“But you did not come here today to be reminded again about the situations that trouble us in the world outside this church. I can only say that a community that finds unity in a cause can also be plagued by dissension and disunity if there are those who abandon it for their own personal gain. I pray this will not happen …”
Father Pat then moved on to what he felt was a ringing appeal to take the love that Christ and his followers had shown us into our contemporary world. The he put aside his notes and changed track.
“Before wishing you the happiest of Easters, I do want to make a personal appeal. You all know our human failing for loving pets. I’m no exception, and many of you know what my furry friend Paddy means to me. Well she’s missing, and please, if you’ve seen her, let me know. Thanks and a blessed Easter to you all.”
With the choir’s somewhat off-key but sonorous Alleluias sounding in his ears, Father Pat said the final blessing and, still floating, moved to the main doors of the church to shake hands with the congregation.
Father Pat’s descent to the worldly was quick and cutting. Barber Cartwright lingered until the last handshake and came over to confide that as chairman of the anti-dump movement, he had a call that morning from the a Toronto reporter (from the other paper, the rival to the Record where Deirdre worked) telling him the news that Frame was going to stop fighting expropriation and accept the province’s offer for his land because of his desperate need for the money.
The reporter told Cartwright that the dump in Ridgewood was now a done deal. He had quotes and would go with the story the next day and he wanted a reaction from the community. So much for my sermon, Father Pat thought.
Coming home he was surprised and relieved to see his dog running up to meet him. Crouching to welcome her back, Father Pat was first struck by the strong odour of barnyard dung. The red collar, which was always loosely around the dog’s neck, was missing. In its place, there was a rolled piece of paper tied to her neck with some binder twine. It read, “Lay off — it’s too late.”
In a flash of what he decided must have been divine inspiration, Father Pat knew that the collar must still be where the dog had been held. In all likelihood, that would be at the Frame’s farm, probably in their barn, and that if he could find the collar there and pin dogna
pping on Frame he just might be able to turn the depressing story around.
He called Terry. “Wow” was his one word reaction to the weird ins and outs of the past two days.
“This may be insane,” Father Pat finished the conversation. “But I think that idiot Frame tried to scare me off by stealing my dog and sending it back with a threatening note. Are you up for a little Easter sleuthing?”
Terry usually was. Easter or not. So he drove up from his suburban spread south of Ridgewood and together the two set off for the Frame farm in Terry’s fancy blue car. They bounced through ruts and puddles on the sideroad until, they made out the generous Victorian gables of the Frame farmhouse, looming behind an impressive row of tall spruce.
The Minister of Transport car that Father Pat had seen on Good Friday was in the drive, along with a variegated collection of Frame pickups. They could just make out a figure — doubtless the Minister’s chauffeur — slouched in the big sedan as they slowed down behind a row of scrub bushes fronting the field. A few curious cows mushed through the wet field to have a look.
“Any idea how I can get up the drive, by the chauffeur and into the barn without being noticed?” Father Pat asked, looking down at his feet and realizing that his priestly oxfords were not quite the right footwear for barnyard slogging.
Terry ruminated for a moment, watching the cows watching them. “Hey, what if I get the cows excited enough that the Frames and guests come out of the house on this side while you make a dash for the barn on the other?”
The plan had some merit, as the house had a door and drooping portico opening into a small garden facing the field in which the cows were presently lounging. Like all farmhouses, the front door was never used, and the only other entrance, through the summer kitchen at the back, would be a roundabout way for the Frames to investigate a ruckus in the side field. Terry found a disposable flash camera in the glove compartment and decided that might help scare the cows. The plan was sealed.
But at the penultimate moment, Father Pat started to have some doubts.
“Terry, I’m not sure we should be doing this. I’m a priest and it’s Easter and we’re about to trespass … Oh bloody hell!” He took a deep breath and looked anxiously out the window.
Terry leaned over and shook his shoulders gently. “Take it easy, Pat. We’ve gone this far for the right reasons. If it’s your reputation you’re worried about, I’d say people expect you to stand up for their rights. They expect you to go the second mile. They’ll forgive you …” Hell I’m sounding like a priest myself, Terry thought.
This eased the tension and Father Pat sat up and stared out at the cows. “Unreal,” he mumbled. “Unreal.”
The unreality then really commenced. Father Pat turned the collar of his old raincoat up and, head down, splashed up the drive to a position just behind one of the pickups, then looked back through two spruce trees, where he could just make out Terry in his old windbreaker climbing the fence into the field.
Suddenly, the bright spring day was shattered with Terry’s wild yelling and the cows’ mooing and thundering toward the house on the other side. Father Pat made his break and ran toward the barn, stumbling at the worn door to the lower stalls and only just breaking his fall into the dank interior.
“What the hell is going on — hey get off our property!” He could hear in the distance. Then the sound of Terry’s car roaring off, and closer, the distinct cranking of one of the big pickups and then the sound of it too fading into the distance. Apparently there was a chase, and on Easter Sunday the priest was left alone, a trespasser in the Frame’s barn.
But now Father Pat was fully committed. He oriented himself and found two empty stalls that could have been used to keep Paddy. The cobwebbed windows gave so little light that he had no choice but to feel through the old straw on his hands and knees. Finally in the far corner of the second stall, success. Paddy must have been trying to get out through a broken board and the collar became caught. A vet had once told Father Pat never to make a collar so tight that the dog couldn’t wriggle out of it if it got caught. This advice paid off that day.
Father Pat had no idea who was left behind at the farmhouse, so he had no option but to make his escape from the barn by making a break, hidden from the house, to a small wood behind the barn. If he kept going straight he was pretty sure he would come to the next sideroad.
His flight was not the invigorating, even liberating, walk in the woods of the Saturday before. The fields on the other side of the wood were awash in mud and water, and to get to the sideroad, Father Pat had to mush through a ditch ankle deep in water. Happily, however, as he pulled himself up the steep shoulder of the gravel road, a car came along. He waved his arms, it slowed and stopped. An electric window purred down.
“Father Pat! Where in the name of the good Lord have you been? Here — get in.”
It was the local bank manager, Mr. Greenwald, a pillar of the community, but not a St. Bart’s parishioner, Father Pat remembered with some relief. “Well I might as well tell you the truth …” Father Pat told the incredulous banker a laundered version of the story as they drove back to Ridgewood.
“And here’s Paddy’s collar!” Father Pat ended the story triumphantly, pulling the filthy collar out and pushing it in Mr. Greenwald’s face in his enthusiasm.
“Yes, yes. I’m sure it is,” he said, waving the object away snootily as he pulled up in front of the rectory. “Well, here we are. I do hope the police don’t get wind of your escapade,” he added dryly.
“Well, I hope I’ve done the right thing,” the priest replied, wondering what the regulated law and order of the banker’s world could possibly make of the madcap stunt he’d just been through in the name of the community.
Father Pat took off his dripping shoes in the vestibule of the rectory and padded into the parlor, where a not-amused Brenda was sitting silently with Terry who launched into his side of the story.
“I lost the Frames at the four corners and hid my car behind the rectory. And I think I got a photo of them, including the Minister — he was threatening me,” Terry blurted out rather like a boy confessing to his father. They both felt somewhat silly. In fact they were perhaps in the wrong. Still, they had gone this far and they decided, as they warmed up over a hot tea, to play it out to the full.
Deirdre was the key. Father Pat knew a dognapping story would be just too tempting for her. And that kind of publicity just might embarrass Frame enough to make him change his mind.
Father Pat’s phone call caught the reporter taking a Sunday nap and she sounded less than enthusiastic about producing a story to match the opposition’s on such short notice. She reminded her friends that she wasn’t on duty. They persisted.
“Oh, OK, I’ll come out.” she started to relent. “But only if Terry will be quoted, and if you’ll be quoted, Pat, and your friend Cartwright. Plus I must have the photos.”
By the time Deirdre’s old Chevrolet pulled into the rectory drive, Father Pat had Cartwright lined up. The priest was slightly ashamed of using the “duty as a Christian” argument, but it worked. And Terry and he had mentally prepared themselves to be part of the story. Paddy was all brushed for what might be the photo opportunity of a lifetime, with her red collar all cleaned up.
An hour later Terry and the priest stood on the rectory’s stoop with Deirdre mirthfully reviewing the story. The easy laughter was of old friends who had worked successfully together and were about to make a very public intervention, pleased with a plan that was coming together and that just might work. Then Father Pat and Deirdre started reminiscing about Ottawa politics. Terry took a deep breath and for a moment a vivid memory seized him, a strange evening they had had together nearly twenty years ago. It occurred a week or so after Father Pat was finally vindicated in the collection-plate affair.
It was at Deirdre’s sparsely furnished uptown flat. She had invited her two friends for an informal celebratory supper, making it clear that wives and other loved ones
were not welcome. Terry, engaged at the time, found it difficult and had to stretch the truth somewhat to accept. He could only guess what the priest had told his wife but assumed it was the truth.
As he was mixing his own drink in the cluttered little kitchen, he overheard a conversation he remembered to this day. It launched an evening of extraordinarily candid conversation.
“I thought of you last night,” Father Pat said sadly.
“Oh?” was Deirdre’s quick reply. Terry decided he would take his time making the drink and officiously rattled the ice.
“I really have to wonder what you have come to mean to me, and well, last night it sort of all came into focus. You’re doing things, you’re active, engaged, but at the same time you’re sceptical of people, you’re your own person, a bit removed — you are a lot of what I respect and value in another human being — male or female …” He paused, perhaps he hadn’t intended to even go this far.
“Look,” Deirdre said with a certain edge. “If you’re trying to make some friendship statement, don’t worry, the feelings are mutual. You mean a lot to me even if I don’t know where you’re really coming from. Now where’s Terry?”
This was Terry’s cue. He came out of the kitchen into the adjoining living/dining area. Deirdre and Father Pat were on the sofa with their backs to the kitchen entrance and as he entered the room, Father Pat was just kissing Deirdre on her right cheek with what Terry remembers could only be described as controlled passion. He had pulled Deirdre towards him and when Terry stopped and cleared his throat, Pat continued to look fondly at her while gently pulling back.
The Father Pat Stories Page 4
