by Jim Stark
Steve waved goodbye, and as soon as he got to the kitchen, he took her advice. “You want one, Bill?” he asked.
"No thank you,” said Bishop Doyle sternly as he sat down on the far side of the table. “And I'd appreciate it if you'd call me by my proper title."
Steve finished making his Dagwood sandwich in silence, and Bishop Doyle wasn't about to be the first to speak. They were like two boys in a contest to see who would blink first, except that here, only one contestant had any interest in winning.
"You sure I can't make you one of these beauties?” asked Steve as he sat down opposite his former colleague and chomped off his first bite. “We used to make these all the time at Youth Camp,” he continued with his mouth full. “Remember?"
"Why did you request this meeting?” asked Doyle tensely, as a gaggle of laughing eleven-year-old boys flashed and splashed across his memory. “I think it might be best if you would state your business."
Too bad he doesn't finish his sentences, thought Steve. I'll take it as implied: state your business and leave.
"Two reasons, really,” said Steve as he removed some stray mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth and licked his finger. “First, I wanted to inform you and the CACB that I will not be following through on my threat to talk to the media about the events of April 18, Good Friday, when we had our ... our parting of the ways. I thought you'd like to know that."
"I'm very glad to hear it, Steve,” said the Bishop. “I trust prayer had a role to play in changing your mind?"
Steve threw back half a glass of fresh, cold milk before making his response. “Oh, it's not so much that I changed my mind, Bill,” he said. “It's just that it won't be necessary now. That whole thing will take care of itself when the LieDeck goes to market. It would be vengeful of me to waste my time ushering the process along. It's a new world we've got here, isn't it?"
Bishop Doyle flushed. He knew the sex scandal would be shoved out in the open for all to see, in sordid detail, and that would rock Canada and exact a fearsome toll from the Church. “There's ... a second thing?” he said, hoping to slide past the abuse issue.
"I want to ask you a favor, Bill,” said Steve as he reached beneath his cardigan and flipped a button in his shirt pocket. “A small favor."
"What is it?” asked Doyle suspiciously.
Steve tried to use his tongue to dislodge a cracked peppercorn from between his teeth, but it didn't work. He took a toothpick from the angel-shaped clay holder on the kitchen table and did the job right, with a single poke and a twist. He took another small bite of his turkey sandwich, swallowed it with too little chewing, and scolded himself, silently, for procrastinating. “Say the Credo for me,” he said, without looking up into Bill's eyes.
"Say ... the Credo for you?” asked the startled bishop.
"Yes Bill,” he said, gently, putting down his sandwich and settling in for the duration. “I'm asking you to say the Credo ... for me ... please.” He looked directly at Bill's face, planting his elbows on the table and leaning forward, resting his chin on his interlocked knuckles.
The Bishop was stunned. He had no idea if this troublesome ex-priest was somehow searching for his faith, or ridiculing him, or provoking him. Whatever the case, this was a favor that he could not refuse.
"I believe in God the Father Almighty, ma—"
"Beep,” went Steve's LieDeck.
"...maker of heaven and—"
"Beep."
"...and Earth, and—"
"Beep."
"...and in Jesus Christ, His—"
"Beep."
"...His only Son—"
"Beep."
Steve held out his hands on the kitchen table. His eyes begged the Bishop to take hold, but it wasn't to be.
Bill Doyle couldn't continue. He stared in the general direction of the half-sandwich and felt his soul evaporate. “Why did you do this to me?” he asked through silent tears. “Why did you destroy my faith, my life?"
"I didn't destroy anything, Bill,” countered Steve softly. “I ... I like you, actually, and you notice my LieDeck didn't beep when I said that. You were the only guy who had the guts to stand up and say out loud what everybody else was thinking last week."
Doyle took off his wire-rimmed glasses and closed his eyes, and wished that ears had been made with lids as well. He wished he had a magical eraser that could scrub out the last minute of time. He wished he were dead.
"The thing is,” said Steve, “I did some work with the LieDeck on this whole area of religious faith, and I was astonished to find out that the great majority of Christians don't believe in God. They want to believe, some of them rather desperately, but the fact is, they can't, and they don't. There may be a God, Bill, for all I know. Sister Beth ... I'm sure she believes. But you and I aren't believers. You can use a LieDeck to find out if you ever believed. And if you did, before, you can use the thing to find out when you lost your faith, and even find out why you stopped believing. The LieDeck doesn't make us who we are, but it's very useful in helping us understand who we actually are. I had to cope with the discovery that I never believed in God, Bill. It was devastating ... and it was embarrassing ... but it was real."
Doyle still had his eyes closed, and his head was gradually dropping. His lower lip was quivering, and the muscles all around his face were becoming mildly spastic.
"I'll stop if you say so,” offered Steve. When there was no response, he took it as a signal to carry on. “Reality seems to have this nasty habit of just existing out there, and existing inside ourselves, quite in spite of our perceptions of it. And we fool ourselves if we think otherwise, Bill. As far as I know—and as far as you know, it would seem—God is a myth, a man-made idea that serves a primitive emotional need to transcend death, to not die. It solves the problem of the fear we have of dying, and little more. We believe in God mostly because it has the effect of changing death from a very bad thing into a very good thing, but it doesn't even do that very well. As the saying goes, everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die. I've looked at this phenomenon every which way, Bill, using my LieDeck, and that's ... well, I'm afraid that's what it—uh—boils down to."
The Bishop opened his eyes and stared unfocused at a newly naked world.
The first time is the hardest, Steve reminded himself. Everybody said that, all those who had tested their belief in God and found only a puff of smoke. There was nothing to do but to continue.
"I know what you're going through, Bill,” he said. “I went through it myself, and I went through it alone. I came here mainly so that you wouldn't have to go through it all by yourself. I had the same sense of loss, the same remorse over wasting most of my life pretending to believe something that I didn't believe. And I know you blame me, Bill, but I'm not to blame. Sooner or later, you would have found yourself with a LieDeck in your hands ... in your office, or in your car ... and you would have tested your faith, and you would have ended up exactly where you are now, in a major depression ... except you'd be alone. I did this because I care, Bill, because I was your friend ... am your friend."
Doyle heard the words, understood the words. He wanted to scream out, to object, to let fly with some wild accusations, but the infallible LieDeck was sitting passively on the table, like an electronic Satan, silently endorsing a second assassination of Jesus Christ, the son of ... whomever.
Steve's own experience with this process had been less traumatic because he'd had doubts and suspicions about his faith for years. Bill would not have such an easy time of it.
After having gone this far, Steve knew he had to press on, whatever the risks. “The truth is—and this has been verified over and over in our research—the truth is that you can take hours, or days, or, I presume, weeks or months or perhaps years to get over the depression. But we also have the ability to deal with this wrenching experience in a few seconds if we want to, if we decide to. I've seen people do it, Bill. I've done it myself, several times. You just say to yourself �
��Well, that's reality,’ and you bloody well go on from there."
Doyle stared at his former colleague, his putative friend, at his sternum, actually, at the V in his buttoned up blue cardigan, near the spot where his heart was. “I'll ... have to leave here for a while ... so I can consider my position.” He replaced his glasses, and his eyes went from the cardigan to the photo of the pope above the fridge, straight up, never catching Steve's face on the way by. “Perhaps a leave of absence,” he said vacantly, with a wet pewter glaze over his pupils that caused the pope's peaceful face to shimmer out of focus. “What was that you said about dealing with this experience in seconds, Steve? I mean ... not that I can, but..."
"Well, to show you how it's done, if you took that option right now, you'd say, ‘But what will I do now?’ And I would respond ‘Well, Mr. Whiteside told me about a social project he's starting up next month through the Destiny Foundation. How about I try to get you a position there?’ And you'd say—"
"And I would ask you what the job entails,” said Bill, courageously, as he wiped tears away with a paper napkin. He managed eye contact for the first time since he'd faced his unbelief, or learned about it, made the leap from pseudo-Christian to ... well, to whatever came next.
Steve smiled as warmly as he'd ever smiled. This was much better than saving souls, especially since there were no souls ... as far as he knew. He stood up, walked behind his friend, and massaged his brittle shoulders. “I've got the use of a cottage in Norway Bay,” he said. “It belongs to my brother. I think you should stay with me for a while. We'll help each other."
"Okay,” said the Bishop meekly ... ex-bishop.
"Bill, I'm so proud of you,” said Steve. He slapped the Bishop on the back, returned to his chair, and prepared to tackle the other half of his snack. “But enough of this silly sentimentality,” he said. “I don't go in much for that stuff since I got myself straightened out ... I mean about my religious—uh—status."
Doyle nodded, tried to agree, at least on the surface.
"Whiteside needs a cook at that project I mentioned,” said Steve as he took a bite of his turkey breast snack. “You're pretty handy with a skillet, Bill. You ... you want to be a cook?"
"A cook?” said Doyle in utter disbelief.
"Yeah, a cook,” said Steve as he opened his half-sandwich and added more pepper. “Somebody has to cook, Bill. I like to cook, and so do you. I've seen you make dinner a hundred times at the Catholic Youth Camp. I never saw anybody have as much fun as you used to have in that big old kitchen, with all those kids running in and out, driving us bloody crazy. Come on, Bill. Be a cook. There's lots of room for advancement when you start out at the bottom."
Chapter 44
THIN VENEER
Bill Doyle didn't commit to the particular career opportunity that Steve had suggested, but he did pack a bag and leave with him, by the back door, to avoid Sister Beth and the other staff. There seemed to emerge a tenuous bond between the two former prelates, as if they had survived a disaster together, the kind of experience that can't be put into words, that can only be understood by those who were there.
For Steve, the transition to civilian life was rooted in reality, permanent, and entirely liberating—this in spite of the problems and challenges it posed. For Bill, however, the jury was still out. His rational mind told him that his decision to leave the Church was both necessary and right, but his mind hadn't been in charge of things for quite a long time, obviously. This was not his idea of what being “born again” was supposed to feel like, or be like.
They took a taxi from downtown Ottawa to Steve's cottage out in Norway Bay. It was expensive, but Steve had an income again, from his work with the L.A.P., and he wasn't concerned about money, and he didn't want to call Patriot for a lift. Bill was in need of a place to live, to just be for a while, alone—alone with a LieDeck, to get to know himself, to make friends with himself, hopefully to make friends with the world as it really was.
The trip out was uneventful, mostly because further discussion of important matters couldn't take place in the presence of a cab driver. They talked a bit about the state of the world, and about recent political developments, but every topic seemed to slide inevitably back to the LieDeck, as surely as all roads once led to Rome.
"Great little spot, eh?” said Steve as the cab pulled up to the door.
"Wonderful tall trees,” said Bill. “It must be very peaceful here."
Steve asked the driver to wait for him. After they were inside, he gave his new roomie a quick tour of the cottage. “You got your stand-up kitchen,” he said in the manner of a harried salesman. “You got your carpeted living room, no fireplace. You got your three-piece bathroom with a chemical toilet. You got your full basement—God knows why, my parents never found a use for it. You got your wooden deck out back—we can eat there tomorrow if it stays nice. And you got your spare bedroom. It's yours for as long as you want it or need it. Here's a key to the front door.
"I'm sorry I can't stay,” he explained. “I've got a big meeting at Whiteside's. But I'm leaving you a LieDeck here. Use it, or don't use it. It's up to you. There's a lovely sandy beach a couple of hundred yards that-a-way. The government wharf is right at the end of the road. It's a nice place to think ... or eavesdrop. Talk to the people you see, Bill. They really like spontaneous conversation around here. Make yourself supper. There's lots of food in the fridge. I should be home by about ten o'clock. Maybe we'll go out for a beer at the British Hotel in Quyon and just talk awhile. You'll ... be okay?” he asked.
"I'll be fine,” said Bill. “Go. Go to your important meeting. I'll ... see you later. And Steve ... thanks ... I guess."
"Yeah,” said Steve. “It's kind of a mixed blessing, eh? The LieDeck, I mean."
In an hour, Steve was back at the headquarters of Whiteside Technologies. The 7:00 p.m. meeting of the L.A.P. had been preempted by a call from Bertha McNeil, Godfrey's deputy prime minister, asking on behalf of the Prime Minister that Randall fly out by helicopter to the government's retreat house at Meech Lake, to consult with the inner cabinet about the LieDeck. Godfrey also wanted Randall to bring “Bishop Sutherland” with him, and Commissioner Joly too.
An odd request, thought Randall, the part about bringing Joly along. Surely he could make his own way out. But if the Prime Minister wants us to arrive together at Meech Lake exactly at 9:00 p.m., then that's what has to happen.
Commissioner Joly arrived at Whiteside's headquarters about 7:50 p.m. He wanted to see the Prime Minister's speech to the Commons at 8:00 p.m., on TV, before they flew in Whitebird III to Meech Lake. As it turned out, he needn't have bothered making the extra effort. Nicholas Godfrey issued forth with a river of platitudes, then informed the House that the full cabinet was meeting at 10:00 p.m., at Meech Lake, to discuss a detailed plan of action with regard to the LieDeck.
"I guess we're the warm-up act,” said Randall when the Prime Minister's speech was over. “I've got all the written reports from the subgroups. Too bad we didn't have time to go over them one last time. I guess they'll just have to do as they are. Five bucks says we get to Meech Lake before Godfrey."
Steve leaned his head back against the trembling seat and listened to the blades as they ploughed an invisible column of innocent spring air towards the Earth. It had been six days since he'd walked out of the Church, and he realized that he hadn't given a lot of thought to his ecclesiastical circumstances. Sister Beth had called Whiteside Tech several times, asking for him, leaving messages to the effect that many of his old friends had been trying to find out what was going on, why he had left the Church, and why he was involved with that new LieDeck device. Steve had decided not to return her calls. Bishop Sutherland no longer existed. He had rejected the Church when the Churchmen rejected his proposal to access the truth about sex abuse using lie detectors, only days before his life had been consumed by a new type of lie detector that might well shadow and shape human behavior for the rest of time.
He
reflected on the first time that he had tested his faith with a LieDeck. Clearly, he did not believe in God. He'd suspected as much for a long time, but that was the problem with belief. By definition, you could never really know if you believed or not. You could say you believed, you could try to believe, you could want to believe, you could act as if you believed, you could infer from your behavior that you believed, you could accept the feedback of others who accepted your profession of faith and treated you as if you were a believer, you could think you believed or believe you believed, but in the end, you could not actually know whether you believed or not. Now he knew, for sure. He didn't believe in God. Never had.
His old life in the Church was extremely hard to understand from his new perspective. He had little insight into how an intelligent, informed and balanced person like himself could spend decades in self-deceit and not be aware of it in the slightest. But if I could get hooked, he thought, then small wonder that poor old Bill got scooped up.
And there was the flock to consider ... the flocks, really ... plural ... believers of all stripes. What happens to one-point-seven billion Christians if the bottom falls out of the Jesus market? he asked himself.
He shook his head and wondered whether he was wasting his time worrying about imponderables. Like most people, he was starting to get caught up in his real-world responsibilities. He was too busy now to fret away valuable minutes on the minutiae of the spiritual condition ... assuming there even was such a thing.
And what a life I ended up with, he thought as he looked at the last hints of light on the western horizon. Six days ago he was the chairman of the Canadian Association of Catholic Bishops. That same day he was an ordinary guy at a dance in a “Beach Barn,” of all things. Two days ago he was in a grungy bar, consoling the formerly famous hockey star Buck Ash over his terminal lung cancer, unable to assure his new friend that death was anything more than the end of life, period. For the past few days, he'd been chairing the L.A.P. group at Whiteside headquarters, trying to get a handle on how humanity would cope with the LieDeck. And just yesterday, he had realized that he was buns-over-applecart in love with a pretty young security agent ... who apparently felt the same way about him. Bill Doyle had followed him out of the Church and was his roommate. And now here he was, on Whiteside's corporate helicopter, with the Commissioner of the RCMP, zipping up to Meech Lake to brief the inner cabinet! It felt like a B-movie script had been syringed into his brain by the Devil ... oops, no devil either, he thought. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind.
