by Joy Kogawa
Both babies died, one after the other, that day. Their parent birds did not abandon them. It may have been the lice. The summer of the miracle had become the summer of sadness. Father sat quietly all afternoon.
“What a pity, what a pity,” he repeated softly. He didn’t want to invite anyone for tea and he didn’t want to go out for his weekly visit with a couple who lived in a group home nearby. “I’m a sentimental old man.”
We ate supper in silence.
Late that night, Father called to waken me. “Come and see, Millicent. Come and see. Bring your camera.”
I descended the stairs to a sweet, musky fragrance, a light perfume pervading the living room. The night-blooming cereus, that awkward plant with its tough cactus leaves and its long, ungainly stem touching the ceiling, was finally in flower.
“Isn’t it astonishing, Millicent? Oh, if Mother could see this! What an uncommonly beautiful flower it is.”
I placed the camera on a tripod and took several shots. Mother had been tending that plant for ten years. Now, for the first time, it was in flower. On the very day that the baby birds died, layers and layers of long, thin white petals were opening like frilly skirts and a cascade of jungle incense filled the room. It lasted for almost an hour. Then it was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Father does not talk about the baby birds. Father is habituated to positive thinking. He calls friends and talks about his flower. He framed the best photograph and tells guests over and over how he has been caring for the plant for so long.
“It’s Meredith’s gift, you see. I’m so blessed,” he says. “God is so good to me—that He has allowed me to live to see His beautiful night-blossom.”
Father’s complete recovery from his stroke has been remarkable. He is a man who has recovered from every illness and accident in his life. Some call it a miracle. Others say it is faith at work. One parishioner at St. John’s said, “Well, he’s obviously living right.”
The people from St. John’s drop by frequently, and Father the raconteur charms his guests with tales of his daughter’s devotion. As his self-congratulatory speeches again dominate the airwaves, my irritation sometimes surfaces. A kind of early-morning soul weariness assails me these days. I find myself turning into my mother with her fixed, long-suffering smile. Sometimes I can hardly hold back my disgust as he basks in his own praises.
On two occasions recently, I’ve tried to ask what he did to Jeffrey. Repelled though I am by it all, I tell myself that, however perverted he may be, he is not in any way a violent man—possibly Jeffrey was right and it was a brief moment’s touching, and just one time. It’s possible that he did not do lasting harm. But Jeffrey was a particularly sensitive, intelligent child. And he was so impressionable.
One early Saturday morning after a sleepless night, I phoned Jeffrey and broached the subject again, as delicately as I could. “I’m worried about what happened to you,” I said, “that time when you were twelve.”
“You worry too much, Mom.”
“What do you feel about what Grandad did? What do you feel about him?”
“Oh, he’s a great guy.” The answer came back too quickly, straight out of his mouth, not from the heart, not from the body.
“Don’t you think he’s a hypocrite?”
A pause this time. “Well, we’re all hypocrites, aren’t we?”
“But you don’t believe the things he stands for. The church. The Bible. Faith. Any of those sorts of things.”
I could imagine the quizzical look on his face, half amused, half challenged. Jeffrey has a way of sidestepping heavy questions by making light of them. “Hmm. Well.” A light chuckle. “I guess you’re right about that. Maybe he did me a favour. We can get along pretty well without all that religious baggage, don’t you think?”
A favour? I wanted to cry out. He did you a favour by betraying you? It’s good that you’ve turned away from the rich world of stories that could guide you on a journey towards freedom? Jeffrey, no, it wasn’t a favour, I wanted to shout. Instead, I said quietly, “I don’t know what to think, Jeffy.” My way was not Eleanor’s way. I was not the sort of person who rocked boats. I let the conversation drift to other things.
A few weeks ago, Father and I were watching the news together. Two Roman Catholic brothers were being charged with sexual abuse of boys.
“What do you think about that, Father?” I lowered the volume slightly with the remote control.
He nodded gravely. “Vengeance is not a good thing,” he said quietly. “No. Not good at all.” He was obviously concerned for the two brothers and had not a thought for the boys. No mention of trust or betrayal. After a moment, he added, “The problem is celibacy. It’s a harsh measure. Much too harsh. It’s not natural.”
“But you were married,” I blurted out.
His head dropped forward a little. “Yes.” After a moment, he added, “Mother—certainly Mother was a wonderful woman. Certainly, she was. But”—he shifted in his armchair and looked obliquely in my direction—“can you understand? She was completely without those feelings.”
I remembered Mother turning aside when I asked her about sex. With a look of distaste, she’d said, “Sex is an animal thing.” Mother was decidedly prudish. For years I had believed that Father’s deviant behaviour was partly, if not altogether, Mother’s fault. Poor Mother. There was no point in arguing the matter now. Wherever she was, she was beyond false accusations.
“Do you think you have been forgiven, Father?”
“God came into the world to save sinners, and I am a sinner.”
“But don’t sinners have to turn from their sins? The Bible says you have to repent and turn. Do you think it was God’s fault? God just didn’t help you? Why did He not give you the strength to resist the temptation?”
Father turned back to the TV. The news had changed to the story of a lost child. “Those are the sorts of questions humans ask,” he said, “but God has all the answers. God knows everything.”
He was dismissing me, I thought. At the same time, it was a kind of answer to say he did not have an answer. It seemed he was leaving the matter to God. He got up to go before the news was over. “God is love,” he said as he shuffled away. “God is love.”
A parrot could say as much, I thought.
I didn’t raise the subject again for a few days, but questions continued to obsess me. What did he think love was? I worried about his state of mind. Had he ever repented? Did he know that what he had done was wrong? His complete lack of remorse was puzzling. And chilling. Could he, who seemed to have no conscience in that one area, have a healthy conscience otherwise? What monstrous mockery of faith was it that allowed him to experience forgiveness without turning from his sin? Or was forgiveness his word for licence?
Once more I approached the subject. It was Sunday morning and we were driving home from church.
“About the past, Father, and the boys. I don’t know how many there were. I don’t know what you did. I’m just wondering—do you think they were harmed?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose so. No. They’re all living quite happy lives, I believe.”
“How do you know?”
No answer.
“You didn’t think you were doing wrong?”
Again, no reply. When I parked the car, he fumbled his way out of the seatbelt by himself and made his way to the house. “Father, you didn’t think you were doing wrong?”
His voice trembled as he said, “Why are you persecuting me, Millicent? It’s all so long ago.”
He struggled as quickly as he could to the front steps and climbed, holding the railing, one step at a time, like a toddler. Old age is a time of such vulnerability. It seemed to me, as I watched him making his way unsteadily, that accosting him with my wounding questions was in some ways like child abuse. I didn’t want to be a bully. He was frail and in his dotage and it was all just too late.
After that Sunday’s non-conversation, I didn’t think I would questi
on him again. It was so hopeless and pitiful. He was an old man now, I told myself, and the right and loving thing would be to let him spend his last days in his own way, with his own conscience or lack of conscience directing him. I had tried to speak to him. I had tried and tried. I had done enough. It was time to close the book. I would just have to make sure he was not left alone with boys.
And then Eleanor called. She had news about Martin from her sister, Stephannie. They were in San Francisco. Martin had been found unconscious on the floor.
“What? What happened?”
“It’s not the first time, Millicent. He made one other suicide attempt in Sweden.”
“No! I had no idea, Eleanor. Did you know that about him before? Why didn’t you tell me? He seemed so strong, and so sure of himself. It couldn’t have had anything to do with Father, could it? He said he didn’t blame Father. His parents got divorced when he was quite young, didn’t they?”
“Stephannie wants to bring charges.”
“Against Father? My God, that would kill him.”
“Kill Father! What about Martin? Think about Martin, Millicent! He has just tried to kill himself!”
Eleanor called again in the middle of the night. I was dreaming of a brown ball the size of a quail’s egg lodged in my ear. I didn’t believe what she was saying.
“The new rector at St. Chad’s? Oh no. Father couldn’t have done anything like that. He couldn’t have.”
“Ask him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I’ve set the small, round table in the sunroom for afternoon tea and scones. Mother’s favourite Mozart is playing softly in the background. The room is full of flowering plants, hanging ferns, spider plants. The afternoon sun beams through the leaves.
“Father, how are you feeling?”
“I’m very well, thank you.” He stirs the milk with his special teaspoon, once, twice, and places it shakily in the saucer.
“This strawberry jam is quite good, isn’t it?”
“Lovely and thick. Yes.”
“Not quite as good as Mother used to make.”
Father is relaxed. I butter the scones for him. We sip our tea in silence. Finally, I sigh deeply and lean towards him. “There are some things I need to ask you, Father. Some serious things—because I need your help. I know how you have felt sometimes—that I was persecuting you. But Father, I never—never ever—wanted to hurt you. I know you never wanted to hurt anyone either. All my life, you must know this, I’ve loved you so much. And right now, because—because I’m in pain, I need to ask you some things. Is that all right?”
He looks blankly at me.
“Shall I pour you another cup of tea?”
He nods.
Once again, the milk, the stirring, once, twice, the shaking off of the drops, his hand unsteady with the palsy of old age.
“Have you ever talked to anyone about—about the boys—about the sex? Have you ever told anyone the whole story? Everything?”
He looks down at the table and shakes his head slightly.
“I need to ask you about yourself. My pain is because I don’t understand.”
He doesn’t respond.
“That time you’d been away from home so long. You were at the Juniper Centre up north. That was the time you were caught and sent home. And you saw the bishop.”
There is no expression on his face.
“Is it something that happened most when you were travelling?”
He nods.
“It started when you were quite young?”
“Yes.”
“Did something happen to you? When you were a boy, I mean—what age?”
“Around eight, I think. An older boy.”
“Were you frightened? Was it pleasurable?”
“Oh, I was very frightened. And yes—yes it was—pleasurable at the same time. Frightening but pleasurable.”
“What did he do? Do you think that started the whole thing? Changed your life? Or maybe—were you—do you think maybe you were born that way? Some people think people are born that way.”
Is there the slightest brightening? His eyes lift upwards as he nods. “I have always thought I was different. Even as a small child, I didn’t like all the fighting.”
“That older boy. Did he—did he penetrate you?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“He just touched you?”
No response.
“And other experiences?”
“After that first time—yes, I started to do the same sorts of things—with other children. And, well, I had a friend—the son of a clergyman—he was my own age. He said he’d follow me to the ends of the earth.”
“And then you went to India. And you came to Canada.”
“Yes.”
“It was mostly with young men? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Things have changed so much since you were young. I mean, if we think about homosexuality. People say it’s not such a terrible thing these days. Maybe—do you think maybe it’ll be that way about children someday? Not such a terrible thing?” My question is a ruse. I need him to sense no judgement if I am to learn the truth.
“I don’t know.”
The whole truth, Eleanor said last night, may never come to light.
“Did you ever…Father, did you ever have anal sex with…with…?” How can I be asking this? Please God, let him say no. Let it be that he only touched the boys for perhaps the briefest second, that maybe he patted their behinds and let them go, that he did not frighten or startle or hurt them. I cannot believe he would hurt anyone. Jeffrey said he didn’t hurt him.
He looks away.
“Father, I don’t mean to embarrass you. But I want to understand. Can you help me? Didn’t St. Paul say we must bear one another’s burdens? If you’ve never told anyone—it must be such a great burden for you.”
He nods.
“More tea?”
His folded hands touch his forehead and his eyes are closed. Is he praying?
“Father, can you tell me—did you ever have anal sex? Eleanor went to talk with the new rector at St. Chad’s yesterday, Peter Bowles. Do you remember Peter Bowles? He said you approached him when he was a young seminarian.”
“Peter Bowles?”
“Is it true? Did you try to have anal sex with him? Did you, Father? Did you ever do that with other boys?”
His eyes still closed, he nods his head slowly. “Yes. There was that.”
My hand shakes as I put the teapot down. Father has admitted to this. He has actually done this. What have I been thinking all these years? What on earth did I think those two words meant? Sex. Boys. The truth is, I did not think. I did not ever imagine what he might actually have done.
“And when you were up north. How many boys were you involved with?”
“About…thirty maybe.”
Thirty! My God! Thirty! That means there were more. He admits to thirty!
I have to carry on with this. There may never be another opportunity. I am struggling for self-control and I register no change in my tone of voice. “And you—fondled them? Just once?”
Why am I saying this? I already know it was more than fondling.
“Mostly just one time.”
“With some, it was more than one time?”
“Yes.”
“And they were how old?”
“Around twelve perhaps. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty. Mostly around twenty. I—I loved them.”
“And you said there was anal penetration.”
“There was that.”
How can I be sitting here in this sunny room? How can my voice be functioning? How is it that I am not rising out of my seat in revulsion?
“And in the mouth?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“One time, Father—” I remember this suddenly. I remember that very small child. Both his parents were right there as well. “One time, after you came back from the North and the church fell apart, I s
aw you with a little boy. He was under five. Three maybe. Or four. He was on your lap. Even children that young?”
Just the slightest nod. One movement.
“And after you spoke with the bishop, it still continued.”
Another slight nod.
“To this very day. You could still….”
“I haven’t done….”
“But the urge….”
“Yes.”
“And Charlie, Father? Charlie too?”
“No. No.”
“Not when he was little? Too little to remember?”
“No. Not Charlie.”
“But Martin. Martin was up at Juniper North that summer, at the camp.”
“I don’t remember.”
“He was one of them. Did you penetrate him?”
“No.”
“But what did you do?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“He has been asked. He said you came to him at night and you put your hands under the blanket….”
Lord, this is an abandoned planet. No guardian angels have been here to stay the hands of those who harm. I shall never be able to doubt again that harm was done. Great and severe and lasting harm. I cannot ask any more questions. The torment of not knowing enough has been replaced by the torment of knowing too much. I have sunk my teeth into the fruit of the knowledge of evil. The small gnat lies dead in my hand—that whispering tiny hope that did once so temptingly flit through my mind. I have killed it with the stone that my heart now is.
I have tried to understand. I have failed to understand. I have come to the day when I doubt Love so thoroughly that I hardly know why I bother. I am praying because there is nothing else for me to do, like someone buried alive in the earth, waiting for death, and praying because there is nothing else to do.
