“The truth is all that matters. We have to find the truth.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Give me your number. Just in case I remember something.”
When he hung up, I called the bishop on his private line.
“MacLeod surfaced,” I said.
“What did you tell him?”
“You don’t have to worry.”
“Don’t be too sure of yourself,” the bishop replied. “The scandals in Newfoundland and the States are making them bolder.”
“He sounded reasonable. This MacLeod says he spoke to you before, about Father Roddie. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“He seemed to know certain details that only you and I and … well … one other person knew.”
“I wouldn’t give it another thought.”
{19}
Christmas was grim. The end of miserable 1995. Around suppertime on Christmas Eve, I called Sextus but got no answer. Heard a dozen vague confessions. Tried to nap but couldn’t. Called John. Got his answering machine. Checked in on choir practice. There are four people in the choir. Three women and Bob. Bob has a warm baritone. They make an okay sound. Had a few cocktails alone, waiting up for eleven o’clock when I’d go over. Carols at eleven-thirty. The silent, holy night was still, air sharp. You could hear the heavy breathing from the bay, a giant lung. Feeling the poetry of inebriation. They say drinking alone is a bad sign. But what if you’re always alone? What if solitude is the norm?
Sextus would have said if you worry about drinking too much, you probably aren’t. But I never brought it up with him because it didn’t occur to me that I might be. What was it my father used to say? All things in moderation. You can drink like a fish as long as you’re moderate.
I nearly fell asleep on the altar during the Christmas carols. Midnight Mass is a blur in my memory. Waking up Christmas morning, I couldn’t remember the end of it. I recall standing at the foot of the altar just before the end, improvising a windy Christmas message. I cringe, remembering my seasonal enthusiasm. In the morning, when I dragged myself back for the ten o’clock Mass, I found the vestments strewn around the sacristy. A tumbler of wine got me through the next hour.
What would it be like, I wondered, not being alone?
People were brief, almost shy, at the door afterwards, and I was grateful. And I was grateful for the sharp, clean air, refreshing as a glass of water. Exhaustion, I told myself. I’m just tired. The pieties of Advent and the wearying traditions of the Nativity. Hours sitting in the confessional, waiting for the occasional penitent. Unexpected visitors with small gifts. Fussing with the church. Lights, trees, the Nativity scene. Then the masses. It seemed more frantic than usual because that Christmas fell on a Monday.
Effie didn’t come home for the holiday. Did she really think of it as home?
I slept most of the afternoon on Christmas Day and woke up in the dark, feeling uneasy. Poured a drink. The phone rang and it was Stella. She seemed stuffed up.
“You’ve probably been wondering,” she said. “I sort of dropped off the face of the earth.”
“How are you now? You don’t sound so hot.”
“A little touch of the flu.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. How are Danny and Jessie? It must be difficult for them.”
“They’re getting by. I was supposed to go to Hawthorne to have dinner there, but I couldn’t face it. The flu got me off the hook.”
“The flu can dig in this time of year.”
“I’ll be okay. Feel free to come over. I don’t think I’m infectious anymore. But I don’t have a turkey. Is that okay?”
“Turkey is overrated,” I said.
“Like a lot of other things.”
I laughed.
I felt the irresistible urge for another drink. Thought better of it. Looking out the big window at the bay. So peaceful there. Tiny lights in the distance, on the mainland. Outside, the wind was stirring. You could hear it whispering. The bay moved, repositioning itself to listen. The wind was trying to say something. I strained to hear. She’s still my friend, I thought.
christmas night, ‘76. the evening became a blur with surprising speed. there was rum and wine. many bottles of wine. i remember a long table. at least fourteen people, all talking simultaneously. jacinta beside me, flushed and merry. plates of food. golden chunks of chicken and thick crescents of crusted brown potato. large bowls of salad. my comprehension of the language improves with every drink. there are long disclosures about life in unimaginable places. the excitement of political turmoil all around. toasts to ernesto cardenal, obando y bravo, the dawn of hope in managua. someone cried out vinceremos, and the place went still as everybody stared awkwardly at alfonso’s flushed face. jacinta murmured vinceremos and raised her glass. then the babble resumed, punctuated by explosions of laughter.
she squeezed my hand. vinceremos. we will triumph. life was suddenly a torrent in my veins.
Stella was pale and bundled for warmth. “Come in,” she said. “I’m making toddies. You’ll join me?”
“Sure.” Pleasantly surprised.
A priest rarely gets to see a woman’s naked face. Stella’s, that night, revealed dark shadows below the eyes and the small crinkles time etches there. Her lips were dry, her skin sallow, hair captured and secured by a small elastic band, except for a fugitive lock that draped the brow, occasionally blocking an eye.
This, I thought, is what intimacy is like.
† † †
after everyone was gone, jacinta started cleaning up. alfonso told her: leave it for the morning; it will be easier then. you should sleep here anyway. it’s late.
you’re sure? she said. it’s christmas, what could happen? i really should go home.
just to be on the safe side, he said. you know where the spare room is.
“Let’s make a promise,” Stella said. “Tonight we won’t talk about Danny. Is that okay?”
I nodded.
We talked about her work. She was a high school guidance counsellor with degrees in psychology. We talked about marriage, betrayal, alienation. I remember listening intently, refilling glasses, clinging to slippery details, trying to store them in the memory. Determined not to forget. But failing—there were so many glasses, so many cascading images. I remember her paleness went away. Face flushed, eyes shone. Eyes wept.
And then Danny’s name. “We agreed not to talk about it,” she said. “It’s all too terrible.”
I think I sobered momentarily, but there were soon more tears. I held her briefly. But mostly I remember just sitting, staring at the table, talking. She was listening intently. Voices and confusion.
She interrupted me. “Stella,” she said, now smiling. “I’m … Stella.” She enunciated her name carefully.
“What did I call you?”
“Jacinta.”
† † †
i want to see where you sleep, she said.
what about alfonso? i said.
world war three wouldn’t wake alfonso, she said.
and, jokingly, i asked: how would you know?
I woke up on her chesterfield. My head was on a pillow and there was a quilt bunched on the floor. I sat up quickly. Fully clothed, thank God. The house was silent. No evidence in the kitchen of where we’d sat. Table clear. Cupboard tidy. Not a glass or dish or empty bottle in sight. The place smelled antiseptic, as if scrubbed by fairies overnight.
I realized that I was conscious of all this because the room was filled with a soft blue light. Through a kitchen window I could see the black spruces on the mountainside, the snow packed around them in a harsh contrast. And the roof of my telltale car parked in her driveway. The clock above the sink reported that it was seven-fifteen. A surge of panic drove me to my feet.
Driving down the mountain road, I saw three recognizable cars go by. Men heading for the mill, irritably alert. One pale face turned toward me as his car flashed by. The priest on the road at that hour? Somebody sick on
the mountain. Maybe that’s what they would think. The priest should always get the benefit of the doubt.
The sky was a dark blue then with large cold clouds racing, giving the towering church steeple the appearance of instability. The swift clouds would stop and the church would sway. I had to look away, head spinning. I imagined the soft darkness and the silence inside. The unwelcoming house waiting.
The echo of the church door closing lingered as I walked toward the front and knelt in the sanctuary. Candles flickered. Silence returned, broken only by the occasional mysterious creak or snap. I had called her Jacinta. A wave of sorrow swept up out of nowhere and I lay flat, face down, arms spread. Jesus, what is happening? There was no reply. The red carpet gave off a sweet-spiced odour, some kind of powder the women sprinkle when they vacuum.
I prayed.
“Alfonso, you must speak to me.”
But it is Jacinta who replies.
“Happiness grows from the unity of heart and soul …”
Her hand was dry and delicate and warm upon my brow.
“Are you happy?”
“I am,” I said.
“I love you,” she said.
“And I love you.”
The hand was gentle, respectful. Squeezing my shoulder. The voice saying hello.
“I saw the car in front. The door was open and the dome light on. I was worried about your battery. Then I realized you were in here. I thought maybe there was something wrong. You’re okay, Father?”
“Yes. I know it seems strange.”
“You remember me?” he asked. “Archie the fiddler … Don’t worry about it. I’ve known strange—I’ve been to New York City.”
“I remember.”
He was squatting beside me, staring intently at his hands, working at something with his fingers. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, swiftly licking at a crooked little cigarette. “Actually … I hear there’s lots of religions use this stuff in their liturgy.”
I looked at his face and he was smiling broadly.
He struck a match on his thumbnail, inhaled a cloud of smoke. Held his breath. “I don’t suppose …” he said, exhaling, holding it toward me.
“No,” I said quickly.
“It isn’t easy,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.”
“That’s what I was telling Donnie. Think twice before you jump into something like this.” He waved the cigarette around, taking in the silent church, the emptiness.
“How is he? Have you heard?”
“Okay, I guess.” He stood. “I’d better mosey. Some old one is going to walk in here any minute now to light a candle for somebody. I think she’d find this weird. Unless she’s been to New York City. Which would be unlikely.”
I struggled to my feet.
Stella called at noon to ask how I was feeling.
“Fine,” I lied.
“I’m glad we talked … It explains a lot.”
I wanted to ask: What did I tell you and what does it explain? But there was a sinewy hand grasping my throat, blocking the words.
Finally I said: “I think I’m losing my mind.”
Or did I only think I said it?
I finally reached him on the day after Boxing Day.
“I was devastated,” Bell said, sounding it. “Has anybody figured out why?”
The connection was noisy, but the voice was unmistakable. He seemed to be shouting.
“Everybody and nobody,” I said. “Mullins says the fishery. He was in a lot of debt and the prospects here aren’t great. He was even thinking of leaving for the West to look for work.”
“My God. Is that true?”
“We have to talk.”
He was shouting. “What? Talk?”
“Yes,” I shouted back. “I want to talk to you. How well did you know him? You were going to try to get in touch with him last summer.”
I thought we’d lost the connection, but I could still hear traffic roaring in the background. Car horns blaring. Someone spoke to him and he covered the phone for a moment.
“I’m back,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Oh,” he said hesitantly. “Miami, actually. Combining business and a little holiday. As you can tell, I’m on a cellphone.”
I cleared my throat. “When will you be back in Toronto?”
“Not for ages. I have a place in the Virgin Islands. I’m going there for a few months.”
“Did you manage to talk to him last summer, when you were here?”
“Look,” he said, “why don’t I get right back to you on a real phone.”
“When?”
“Right away. Give me your number. I’ll be back at the condo in … forty-five minutes.”
He never called, and when I tried again, his number had been discontinued.
Pat was explaining: “My oldest daughter and her husband are living in Halifax and they’ve just had a baby.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Your first grandchild?”
“Third, actually,” she said, crossing her legs and settling into a comfortable position. “I just wanted your opinion on something.” Behind her the day was dissolving into a dirty shade of brown.
“Can I get you something?”
“God, no, thanks. I can only stay a minute. They’re calling her Epiphany.”
“Well,” I said, struggling to look serious. “That’s original. For a name. A bit of a change from the Stephanies and the Natalies and the Ashleys.”
“Isn’t it a little blasphemous?” She was leaning forward anxiously. Her sweater had a revealing loose, scooped neck.
“No. But maybe the name will cause her a bit of grief when she’s older. Kids can be cruel.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I have a friend, for example. They named him Sextus. And—”
“Sextus Gillis,” she said brightly. “Of course. You two grew up together.”
“When we were growing up, people would try to tease him about his name. They can make life miserable.”
“You think,” she said. “How little it takes. And where is Sextus now? Somebody mentioned he moved back. They saw him at one of the socials. I haven’t seen him for years.”
“He’s back. He comes by now and then.”
“A piece of the devil he was.” She laughed, and I could see in the dying light that there was a flush on her cheeks. “My God. Sextus Gillis.” Then she was smiling at me. “I don’t think you remember. I’ve been wondering all along. You don’t, really, do you? From when we were younger?”
“Well, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge.”
“I used to go out with Sextus a bit. We actually … double-dated. Me and him, you and a friend of mine. You must remember.”
I guess you’re mad at me.
“Ah, well,” I said, confused. “Dating didn’t play a very big part in my younger days.”
“Come on. You’re not trying to tell me you don’t remember Barbara?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, I suppose if you were anything like your friend, I shouldn’t be surprised. That fellow had more girlfriends than … I don’t know what.”
“Actually, the name has a nice ring to it,” I assured her. “Epiphany.”
“The truth of the matter—why I’m really here—is that they’d like to baptize the baby here. What would you think?”
“That would be great.”
“God love you,” she said. “They’ll be so happy.” She was leaning forward again, a hand resting on my forearm.
I allowed a moment’s silence and the swift, giddy pleasure of her presence to pass through.
She sat back then. “Wasn’t that awful about the MacKay boy? Him so young. I don’t suppose you know the family?”
“Actually, I do.”
She sighed. “I guess there’s no way to understand something like that. Suicide. Such a waste.”
The gloom was deepening and I considered reaching for the reading
lamp behind my chair, but I didn’t.
Then she laughed loudly, standing abruptly and smoothing her skirt. “Sextus Gillis. You tell that donus to come and visit.”
“I’ll pass it on,” I said.
“I suppose he’s aged, like the rest of us.”
“Actually, he’s quite fit, in spite of everything.”
“That would be him all over. He was always so … I don’t know how to put it.”
I watched the tail lights of her car turn into tiny specks and vanish.
† † †
Alfonso knows, I whisper.
How could he know anything? She is laughing. Unafraid.
I feel it in my bones. He knows.
And what if he does?
We’re priests?
You’re men.
I have to talk to him.
She shrugs. I turn away.
Hey, she says. I turn back. She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. Don’t forget me.
How could I?
Search your heart, she says. The conscience speaks through the heart.
What about my brain? I say.
The brain can get confused, she says, with too many voices babbling. The voices of old and angry men. Listen to your heart. My heart says we should take a holiday together.
A holiday? But where?
Puerto Castilla, she says. We’ll live on the beach, like ordinary people.
What about Alfonso?
We’ll take him with us.
{20}
The bishop seemed distant, distracted. He was sitting behind a desk in the chancery, which was unusual, sipping a coffee that I’d bought for him at the local Tim’s. He seemed sour.
“I hate bloody January,” he explained. “It feels like we’ve had six weeks of it so far and we still have two to go.”
“You had a break,” I said.
“Some break,” he huffed. “A bishops’ conference in Ottawa in January. Actually, this abuse crap was all over the agenda. Everybody’s having a problem all of a sudden. I suppose it could be worse. We could be dealing with the Indians.”
The Bishop's Man: A Novel Page 21
