The Bishop's Man: A Novel

by Linden MacIntyre

I have reviewed it all in detail, every nuance of expression, every possible interpretation of every word. “Now that I can’t blame you, I blame myself,” I said at last. “I should have been able to help him.”

  Brendan’s face was sorrowful. “How do you think I feel? I knew the boy. He trusted me. We’d talk in the confessional. He felt safer there. He told me everything. Can you imagine? Me sitting listening to him, suddenly a source of comfort for him? And hope? But I couldn’t do a thing, just try to reassure him.” He shook his head, studying his tasselled shoes, hands now thrust again into the pockets of his jacket.

  “What did you tell his parents?”

  “Nothing. One of them already knows what needs to be known. They can share it when they’re ready.”

  “But there was somebody … somebody who …?”

  “I know what you need to know and what his father needs to know. But I learned it all behind the double seals of trust and the sacrament of Penance.”

  “That was your only relationship?”

  He studied me for a long, long time. “Yes,” he said at last. “Of course it was.”

  “I had to ask.”

  He nodded.

  As he turned to leave, he paused, as if making up his mind about some serious matter. “I don’t owe you or anybody else any explanations. The kid and I had more in common than you or anybody else could ever appreciate. He just knew it. Somehow he could see it in my face, my own miserable memories. Damaged people recognize each other. They see the signs of damage where even experts can’t. He trusted me because of that.”

  I watched his eyes and they seemed to search for sympathy.

  “I can’t get him out of my mind. I thought maybe … by visiting his parents. But it didn’t help, any of us. It didn’t bring him back. Right?”

  His face had the haggard, ravaged appearance of someone older. We just stared at each other for a long time. Until I felt the first pang of understanding.

  “You?” I asked.

  He nodded. “The memory is strange. You suppress, but never forget. That was why I didn’t think I was much help to him. Lost in my own self-pity. Try to imagine being a victim and a victimizer, locked up with yourself. You don’t have to believe me. Just try to imagine it.”

  He walked to the car and opened the door. Then he stood with an arm resting on the roof. And he said: “If it’s really important … if there is such a thing as a culprit in situations like these, then you should start looking closer to home. I shouldn’t have to tell you that … you could have looked it up yourself. It’s in all the literature.”

  I watched him drive away.

  There was but one thought in my mind. It is finished. But there was no feeling of relief.

  {31}

  Saturday afternoons always brought at least one sinner. Some alarmed adolescent or guilty husband. At the very minimum, one or two old women, remorseful over some small act of malice or uncharitable thought. Always someone for confession on the Saturday. But not this Saturday. Just one would have made the difference.

  Bell went away and took the fatal knowledge with him. Look closer to home, he said. And it was as if a door slammed shut. It is finished. Home is always impenetrable. This I know.

  I should be relieved. Bell is out of it. Father Roddie is dead, facing the only justice system that matters.

  I had one call from MacLeod, but I was barely listening as he spoke. He was angry. I didn’t care.

  “It’s a long way from being over. These things don’t stay buried. The story will come out. What happened cannot unhappen. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you,” I said. I am learning the new language of indifference. “You have a job to do. I’ll be waiting.”

  “You can count on that,” he said, before hanging up.

  Whatever.

  At five to four I filled a thermal coffee mug and crossed the driveway to the church. I sat in a pew near the confessional, awaiting the sound of vehicles outside, sounds of someone at the door, the signal to move inside the airless box. Awaiting the ritualistic mumble on the other side, the recitation of their shabby little privacies. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

  I used to approach the confessional in dread, knowing it was where my deficiency as a priest would be exposed. My contempt for weakness, loathing of failure, unwillingness to grant easy forgiveness. How long since I have heard a real confession? How long since I have made one?

  The air was still, as it usually is when heavy with moisture. It had been like this for two days. Spring had finally arrived behind the last thrust of the North Atlantic winter, and it was warm and humid. A Saturday in June. Two days ago the fog rolled in and stayed. You could see it advancing, a great slow, soft wall moving northward out of the strait. The day before, I’d launched the Jacinta. Today I’d hoped for sunshine. From the front room in the glebe I could see a patch of flat black water beyond the road, just below the hanging fog.

  Danny Ban had booked the boat carriage. Its owner and a boy were there early. When I arrived, they were manoeuvring the long wheeled contraption around and under the Jacinta. When she sat securely on the rig, they carefully backed her into the harbour. Danny was on board, standing at the wheel, and he started the engine with a roar just before they set him free. He backed out into the centre of the harbour, blue smoke puffing from the stern, oily water gushing from the boat intestines, then gently moved toward the dockside.

  “If there’s sunshine tomorrow … we’ll go out,” he said.

  But the day was dense with fog.

  It was four-fifteen. Still nobody.

  † † †

  I came that close to asking Danny Ban straight out. An older, wiser priest, back in the days of our unconstrained authority, would not have hesitated. He would have placed a paternal arm around those massive shoulders and spoken as if to a child.

  “We should explore the past for clues …”

  Maybe tomorrow, I thought. When the sun is shining. When we’re on the water, closer to our primal unity.

  “Perhaps,” I said aloud at four-thirty, “I should go to the harbour. Just to check. Perhaps he’s there.”

  I removed the stole, folded it and placed it in my pocket, and left.

  Sextus jokes that the place has a bipolar personality. Sunshine makes it garrulous and sexy and reassuring. Under fog, or the lowering clouds that occupy the sky for long periods of time, it becomes dour and melancholy. As I drove north, the sea was smooth and dark, the leaden, drooping sky almost touching the water.

  It was nearly five when I arrived at the harbour, which was deserted except for one battered pickup truck. There didn’t appear to be anybody around. The tide was unusually low, Jacinta‘s cab barely showing above the wharf.

  “That’s an interesting name, all right.”

  I turned and with an inexplicable feeling of annoyance saw that it was Willie Hawthorne, leaning against a wall. When he moved toward me, he seemed unsteady. He reeked of stale alcohol.

  “Foreign, I would say.”

  “Spanish,” I said. “It’s a flower. A hyacinth. In English.”

  “She survived the winter pretty good.”

  “I guess we all did.”

  “I guess the last time I saw you was in the big city. That was something, eh?”

  “I hear you’re a celebrity up there.”

  He laughed.

  I could think of nothing more to say, so I tugged the bowline to bring the boat closer to the wharf so I could climb down.

  “The fella that owns that one had to run to town for something,” he said, nodding toward what had been the Lady Hawthorne. “You heard the American bought her. Some name he gave her, eh? The Sea Snake.”

  “Different,” I said.

  “It suits.”

  Something in his voice made me turn to face him. There was a strange insinuating smile on his lips.

  “I don’t suppose you’d take a shot,” he said, pulling a flask from his pocket, “after going to all the tro
uble to get dried out.”

  I waved a refusal, turning again toward the rope.

  “He was snaky, for sure, Danny Ban’s young fella, and he was sure as hell going to fuck that boat up, pardon my language. The way he used it. Woulda been a shame. A nice boat like that.” He examined his bottle. “I keep forgettin’ you’re a priest. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, the young fella was headin’ for a bad end anyway. No big surprise to me when he done himself in, the way he was.”

  I stood then, listening, suddenly a captive.

  “No big surprise to me. No way.” He was looking past me, off into the distance, as if he could see something important there. Chewing on the inside corner of his mouth. “I know things nobody else knows.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, turning back to my boat.

  “I heard all about Creignish. Him calling that young fellow from Creignish a fruit. You think. And himself worse.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to—”

  But he was now talking to no one in particular and I strained to understand what he was saying. The unsolicited words bubbled out. “He was a misfit from day one, he was. I know firsthand. Then along comes that priest, that Brenton Bell. Another one. Don’t think I didn’t know. One of those damn perverts from Newfoundland. You can spot them a mile away.”

  I realized that I had turned to face him, now mute. You ask that priest, that Brenton Bell they sent down here.

  “From the time he was nine or ten I could see it in him, true as I’m standin’ here.” He was nodding vigorously.

  “Shut your mouth,” I said finally. But it was as if he couldn’t hear me.

  “Sure enough, I know first-hand. The way he was, that little Danny.”

  “Shut up!”

  “First-hand. They come on to you when you’re weak. It’s how they work. He’d know when I’d be drinkin’. I’m only human.”

  “Shut your goddamned mouth.”

  “I’d give him money.”

  I stepped closer, but he was staring off toward the road. “I’m just waitin’ for that American to come back from town. I’m gonna tell him the whole story. He said he was gonna write it up. Maybe put it in a book. About that priest and what he done. That Brenton Bell.”

  I have, so far unsuccessfully, tried to remember the next moments, to reconstruct the precise sequence of small mental and physical events that followed. I have even considered drugs or hypnotism, for it seems, when I am being overwhelmed by doubts about myself, to be crucial that I know precisely what happened on that wharf. Something always blocks the memory, prevents the clarity. And I wonder: is it fear? Is it the fear of whatever conscience-driven power takes over reason when our faith in Mercy finally deserts us? Is it the fear of our capacity for self-destruction?

  In my struggle for objectivity I see myself again, now kneeling there, head hanging, upper body propped on stiffened arms, knuckles hard against the concrete decking. My shoulders are heaving, lungs struggling for air, throat expelling ragged sobs. There are clouds hanging low over the boats lined up along the dock. I am the only living thing. Where is William?

  I raise my head and look around me. But there is nobody to be seen.

  A lone seagull enters the frame, lands with what I sense to be some kind of urgency at the edge of the dock.

  There is a primal sound, a soft moaning, not unlike the wind. Standing near the transfixed seagull, I look down. And now there is unwelcome certainty: images that I try to reconcile with the man I’d always thought I was, the priest, advocate of hope and reconciliation.

  William was lying near an open hatch, body contorted. One leg was obviously broken. He was trying to move an arm, trying to speak. Blood oozed on a thigh where the flask had broken in his fall. The mouth struggled, but no words emerged, only a gurgling groan. Then one hand fluttered slightly in an unmistakable gesture. A silent motion, signalling for help.

  My bloodied hand seeking comfort in a pocket encountered a soft silken fabric there, the confessional stole, symbol of my power to diminish the finality of death and in doing so expunge the fear of it. William’s eyes were fixed on mine, lips struggling to produce a sound until, at last, one faint word escaped.

  “Father?”

  The wet mouth struggled some more. Again, the single word. Father.

  And then: “Help me, Father …”

  I remember staring down at him, a terrible frenzy of revulsion thundering. And then I turned and walked away.

  Driving away from the wharf, I thought of Mullins, turned northward. Driving up the long hill near MacDougall’s, I met a car I didn’t recognize, then saw the American behind the wheel. Terrible words of judgment echoed in the memory … That day, a day of wrath, of wasting, and of misery, a great day, and exceeding bitter. When Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.

  I had the power to mitigate the wrath and wasting. I had an obligation to expel the misery. I pulled quickly to the shoulder of the road. Started to turn the car. But I knew it was pointless to go back. We can never go back.

  Minutes passed like hours. Or were the hours like minutes? Reason rushed back once again when a raucous fire truck roared past, lights flashing. A howling ambulance was close behind.

  I turned the car around and followed them toward the shore.

  Half a dozen curious spectators were standing at the wharf side, peering down into my boat. There was a kneeling woman, blonde head close to Willie’s ashen face, looking for signs of life. Unnoticed in the commotion, I stepped away. Two firemen disappeared over the side. Another dragged what looked like an oversized ironing board with Velcro straps from the truck and handed it down. Two ambulance attendants had a gurney waiting.

  Only the American seemed to notice me. “You’re the priest, aren’t you? MacAskill?”

  I just nodded.

  “I’m Dave Martin,” he said, holding out a hand. The expression on his face seemed to be saying, Shouldn’t you be down there too?

  But he said nothing more, and he turned away.

  A police car arrived just as the paramedics were lifting Willie over the side, transferring his still form to the gurney. The Mountie walked over to the group. There was a discussion that I couldn’t hear. Then he turned and stared at me, suddenly remembering. He smiled and walked over.

  “That’s your boat?”

  “Yes.”

  He brought out a notebook and a pen. “You’re looking well,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You know this guy?”

  “He’s from Hawthorne,” I said, and spelled it out. “William. Beaton, I think.”

  He wrote carefully.

  “He lives with his mother.”

  “Any idea how this happened?”

  “We were talking—”

  “When were you talking?”

  “Just before.”

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “I’m not sure. He was drunk. Kind of hysterical. I must have looked away for a moment.”

  “Wait here.” He walked to the ambulance and climbed into the back, re-emerging moments later. “What were you talking about?”

  “Personal matters,” I said.

  The policeman studied me suspiciously. “Personal?”

  “I know him. We know people in common. Frankly, it’s all a blank right now. What exactly happened.”

  “Have you been drinking, Father?”

  “No,” I said, maybe too sharply.

  “I had to ask. I’m not implying anything. I hear you’ve been away.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a good move. Going away. You missed some excitement. Or, maybe, the lack of it. I think you were talking to MacLeod, that reporter.” He was smiling.

  I nodded.

  “Messy,” he said, shaking his head.

  The ambulance pulled away slowly, the silent coloured lights revolving. Stopped momentarily at the road then turned northward.


  “Shouldn’t they be moving faster?” I said.

  “There isn’t any point,” the Mountie said.

  “We don’t know that,” I said, fighting desperation.

  “There’s a doctor here.”

  “What doctor?”

  “Her,” he said, pointing to the woman who had been crouched over him, looking for signs of life. “He broke his neck in the fall. Where will I be able to find you?”

  “You know where,” I replied.

  “Okay. I’m going to spend some time here, going over your boat. You have no objection?”

  “None,” I said.

  “Maybe when we talk … we can … catch up on a few other things.”

  “Maybe.”

  Much later, after the policeman came and left, it is important to remember the exact moment when I realized that my life had ended. The sequence of events is vivid now, preserved in the memory with extraordinary accuracy. I was in my study. There was bronze light falling through the doorway, illuminating a patch of wall. I turned and stared toward the large picture window in the living room. The fog had gone. The sky was a rich blue. It was a new day. I turned back to my desk.

  Beside the journals I had stacked there near a cardboard box, I had placed the photograph of my father and his friends, Sandy, Jack … three young men, their transient optimism preserved by the camera for all time. Two soldiers in fresh army uniforms. Jack in his work clothes. And the dead buck draped over the fender of the truck. Only the face of the deer seems to reflect the gravity of where they are, the knowledge of what lay before them. Hunters and hunted. Indistinguishable, in the long run.

  The photos and the journals spoke to me of failure. The tragedies that are the product of our inadequacies. One individual, the son of God who was also God, promised redemption from the consequences of our unavoidable failures. It is now so clear. The promise of redemption is another myth.

  A peculiar sensation passed through me. And I wondered: Is this what Sandy Gillis felt? And Danny? Is this what the devil tried to tell me on the Niagara Escarpment? That faith and hope are fantasies? Can this be true? My faith is just another culture?

  I knew a man who lived and died for faith and justice. And I believe his sacrifice brought hope to faithful people.