The panel’s projector wouldn’t work. So Father Pat dragged out an old flipchart that was wedged in one of the cupboards at the back, and we waited while the panellists drew their crooked charts and tables on that. Money and attendance. Shift in population. A shortage of priests.
“A shortage of female intelligence,” Annie muttered behind me in her characteristic clever way. But I could tell from her tone that it was an effort for her to be there.
“Miss Annie!” Kelsey protested beside her. But she couldn’t stop giggling. She’s been living with Annie these past months ever since she told her mother that she was pregnant. It is good to hear her laugh. Thought she’d forgotten how.
“You’re a priest in the making aren’t you?” Annie said to Kelsey matter-of-fact-like.
I concurred, “An altar server.”
Kelsey’s face got serious then.
Of course she is. Everyone knows it’s how priests have been recruited for centuries. First an altar server, then for some, a chosen few who hear the call, priesthood.
About six weeks before, Kelsey had asked to come to church with Annie and when she saw the older ladies on the altar and then the occasional boy, she said, “Hey, I could do that.”
“So you could,” Annie had said. “So you could.”
The only reason Annie had agreed to attend the panel was to support the rest of us. “You know I’ve never been a speechmaking person,” she’d said to us when we first asked her. At the time, I couldn’t help but notice a slim shadow of fear flit across her face.
When it was my turn to speak, I stood up and looked them all in the eye. I pointed to the stained glass windows. “Those were twenty years of bake sales. Each one bought and paid for one at a time. Those vestments you wear on Sundays, Father Pat—”
He shifted in his chair when I said that. He never liked drawing attention to himself. But here he was on the hot seat.
“All that gold edging, that was our mothers’ work. All their pin money went for thread. What eggs they sold in town, the sacrifice of sweets during Lent, the sacrifice of a new dress, a new hat, the sacrifice of sweet things for a lifetime. Their children without shoes in summer. Made do with skin leggings in winter. Just so’s they could set aside to buy the best silk thread for your robes.
“This church is going on ninety years old. Our fathers trowelled the plaster, hammered the beams and laid floor, then carpet, then floor again. Insulated. Lowered the ceiling, raised the ceiling. Repainted and repainted how many times?”
All Father Pat said was, “Why can’t you go up the road to Victoire?”
The land is better at Victoire, the farmers richer; the land around Majestic, with our poor grey soils, is boreal country. We are a plainer people, without ecclesiastical ambitions of any kind.
“We are not the same people as Victoire,” I said out loud.
He did not follow my meaning in the least. “The church is the people, not the place.”
“Don’t you see Father,” said Vera, rising from her seat, “we are the church in this place!”
VERA
I was ready, my cue cards dog-eared by the time the night arrived. But the consultations were a formality. The bishop didn’t attend. He said he wanted an objective opinion from a team of lay experts: one was a consultant from a prominent marketing agency in the city, one a real estate broker, and the other a banker. The bishop said he wanted to remain neutral.
We presented the facts. An increase in attendance, an increase in programming, including a children’s program. A service every Sunday, most of them lay-led. Attendance up fifty percent in the past three years. Taxes paid up. A well-maintained facility — a new furnace last year, new casements for the windows — a successful fundraising drive. Even non-Catholics gave. They consider St. Joseph’s a historical and community resource.
“But what about the roof?” The banker looked up from his papers, took off his gold-rimmed readers.
“We do need a new roof,” I admitted. “We do need help for that.”
The suit continued. “These figures are hardly representative, might be statistically misleading when you only have a congregation of one hundred and fifty people and not likely to grow much more. Demographic projections for this area look grim. You’ll probably be seeing the last of your catechism classes with this mini-baby boom in the province.”
“We’ve studied the demographics too,” I assured him. “We know the population from farming is shrinking but depending on what the county does, the population from acreage dwellers and commuters could sky rocket. Eighty-five percent of new membership this year were former urbanites moved to the country.”
The real estate man unbuttoned his sports jacket, looked up. “But none of this addresses the question of ministry.”
“We share Father Pat with four other communities. We’ve sponsored three people from our parish to the diocesan leadership training program. One of them has gone on to study theology. They take turns serving our parish on Sundays when the priest can’t attend, giving the sermon and passing out communion. One organizes a special visitation ministry, all volunteers, for the sick and the shut-in.”
I saw the marketer bend his head, his eyes focused, his hands disappeared below the table, his elbows moving. Checking his mobile.
I may not have an MBA, but I know this community needs a place to dream itself and if the church in our time won’t be the place, then the church of the future will. But there’s another question here, one that they refuse to acknowledge but is happening in spite of all their best planning. The church of the future is going to have a lot more women in leadership roles, and I’m going to do whatever I can to make it so.
“Two more lay leaders are in formation and will be able to lead services in a couple of years. We feel we are well positioned for the future. Our finances are in excellent shape. We send money to the diocese every year.”
The one with wire reading glasses glanced at the budget sheet, cleared his throat. “A modest donation for a budget in the millions.”
For this meeting, Father Pat had opened the parish books to them.
“With respect, Sirs, five thousand dollars is not a small donation for a parish of one hundred and fifty people.
“We host an annual turkey supper that draws more than six hundred people from the area. We host a dance every May Day in honour of Mary and draw that many people easily. That is how we paid for the new furnace last year. We host a joint graveyard clean-up day with the United Church once a year that brings people in from all denominations.
“Last but not least, our finished basement is used as a daycare during the week. School plays are mounted in our sanctuary for the entire community. A local folk club rents our space for a series of concerts every winter. What we gain in rent, we put back into maintenance.”
I sat down, my legs still shaking, an ache in the small of my back. Behind me the crowd of two hundred, residents from all around, stood to clap.
At break I heard the marketing kingpin lecturing the other administrators. The cell phone in his hand, doubling as his pointer. “This is the age of big box stores and big box churches. Majestic will never amount to much either economically or socially. All these small churches north of the capital are a problem. No major industry in this area. Small time oil and gas. The growth is going south or further north.
“The people already commute to jobs. They commute for groceries, for dentists, for doctors. It’s already an expected part of country living. Why would worship be any different? It’s for the common good. And if all else fails you can always remind them that loyal Catholics obey the chain of command.”
He caught me watching at that moment. Caught himself, faltered, tried to turn away. I just stared.
FATHER PAT
When I got out of the seminary, I thought I had a clear idea about my future, who I was, and what I could contribute. I’m the priest: the leader, the confidant, the mediator. I thought people would come to me, ask my opinion, even de
fer to me once in a while. When I got to Majestic, I waited for someone other than the parish council chair to invite me for supper.
After a snowstorm, out shovelling, one of the old guys, Jack, came to help me with my driveway and asked how I was settling in.
I took a chance. “The people,” I said, “don’t seem very friendly.”
He stared at me a minute. “You’re not going to like this,” he said finally. “But you’ve got to go to them, Father. Come down to their level. I know you’re not a drinking man,” he motioned to the hotel, “but if you wait for them to invite you, you’re going to wait till the cows come home.”
Some of the old guys in the meetings say you get over the craving, you get stronger, so you can be with people who drink, even people who get drunk and not let it bother you. It’s true I can drink the consecrated wine every week and I don’t feel tempted. But nowhere else, yet.
I press my own cassocks. Do my own laundry. Make sure to shine my shoes every night. I have an old vehicle. A Chev Suburban. I do all my own maintenance. I have the same three television channels as everyone else. I could have got cable, but most here don’t.
The only person I might see for days on end is the housekeeper, Rita Chambers. She always looks surprised to see me at home in the middle of the day. When they told me about the housekeeper, I almost dismissed her. I can cook; I can clean. I can take care of myself. Oh, they said as if they knew I’d be lonely, you’re going to need her. Now she’s often the only person I see all week.
If they only knew what I need or why I’m here. I wonder what they’d say. I had an affair with the director of religious education. A man, not a woman. I have never known how to reconcile it, this attraction I have for men. Wanting to confide in them, needing to be noticed by them, to lie with them. I thought I could escape into prayer, into service. Into celibacy.
We both had to leave the parish. He to another diocese, me to Majestic. It was a scandal, hushed up, like it never happened. As soon as they could, people forgot about it, went on with their business. “We don’t have priests like that.” That’s the thing about Catholics, they don’t want to believe it even when it’s right in their faces.
I was sent off to rehab for my drinking. The reason, the bishop was sure, why I got involved with my own sex. I didn’t know what I was doing.
Even if I had been so inclined, Rita is plain Rita. I think they do that on purpose. Make sure they pick the least likely to pose an obstacle. The most interesting thing she gets up to is watching old episodes of Star Trek and attending scrapbooking conventions. She tells me that’s her ambition for Majestic. To get a scrapbooking show here one of these years. Like everyone else, she’s a one-of-a-kind, but she’s not a temptation.
“Bishop,” I said, “the main social outing here is the pub. If you want me to stay out of trouble, you’re going to have to get me out of here.” That was what made him act finally. He had no one to put in my place.
4
ANNIE
Across the road, in the schoolyard, the children dance rhymes. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. They’ll play like that for hours if they can. How they skip and sing. They know what’s coming: we all fall down! They laugh about it.
Three blind mice, three blind mice. See how they run, see how they run.
Maman did not want to be a farmer’s wife. She married a man in uniform. The son of a blacksmith with ambitions for industry. Bricks. Nana said my maman wanted a town house and a proper espaliered garden. My father said she wanted a place safe from war. A place far from La Grande Guerre. She had to settle for a two-room shanty of spruce two-by-fours, with curtains for dividers instead of walls, in the outliers of the Canadian West, living next door to a kiln that spilled black smoke seven days and seven nights at a stretch.
The children’s voices haunt like a heat mirage on the horizon.
Here we go around the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.
Ah, here’s where the preparation begins.
This is the way we wash our clothes.
Yes, so it is. In a way, they’re right. The scrubbing, the ironing, the laying out.
On a cold and frosty morning.
Getting their hands ready, they are.
Oats, beans and barley grow. Oats, beans and barley grow. Do you or I or anyone know? How oats and beans and barley grow?
My maman used to grow the fattest fève beans. Nobody knew how she did it. Broad beans in this godforsaken country. Started them as soon as the sun returned to the eastern sky, soaked them a day at most. Placed them beside the small south-facing window in layers. My father built shelves for them. Outside she found the ground with the best soil. She’d string thick cotton sheets overhead to shield the beans from the midday sun. Stake them. Harvest them early in July before the worst of the heat, before the humidity and the pests overtook them. But what was the mechanism, the trigger that made them shuck off their coats and spend all their energies on one green shoot? I asked her once when I was very small. Je ne sais pas, ma petite.
It’s bound to catch up to you, not knowing how life works. Thinking you can master it. Were it as simple as sowing the seed and clapping. As simple as waiting.
JACK
When I hear the ambulance outside the hotel, I grab my cane, limp my way to the front door, throw it open. The attendants look startled. Bob and Florence are surprised to see me. Vera and Daisy, I think they always knew. “Help me!” I start to head back inside. “The Table of Truth!” I try again, sliding the sugar, the salt and pepper shakers, and the napkin dispenser to the end, removing them one by one to the counter in front of the postal wicket. Bob immediately understands and rushes ahead of the paramedics. Together the three of them turn the table on its side and wedge it carefully through the second door into the main part of the hotel. The women stay with Annie’s body. Only when the table is righted again and the attendants have returned to their charge, do I point. “There,” I command. “Put her there.” And they do.
Vera comes to me and gives me a big hug. “Oh, Jack, I’m so, so sorry.” I let my cane topple to the floor. My whole body is shaking. I know if I try to say anything, the tears will come.
Bob is upset too. “She was witch—” But he can’t finish.
Vera is the one who tells the others, tells Bob, “Let’s give them some time alone. To say goodbye.” The women unzip the body bag, gently move her onto the table, her head and body wound in gauze and white linens. Without even seeing her face or the tips of her fingers, I know her presence. And now, Annie Gallagher, whether you wanted it or not, we’re known in the public eye.
Last night we stood, an awkward couple, a little apart at the end of the evening; the meeting at the hotel done and put to bed. Me balancing on my one good leg and a little on you. It was our one shared ritual: watching the sun go down at the end of each day at the back of your house.
I said, as I always do, “You are an extraordinary woman, Annie Gallagher,” and squeezed your hand, what I do instead of a kiss. All you would allow me in public, even the near-deserted public of Majestic. You would say you’re old-fashioned, but I knew there was more to it than that. You were afraid that people would talk, make assumptions about your character. And people do talk. There’s no controlling that fact. You had to witch a well in the morning and were leaving early. I tipped my hat, then stood outside your back gate, bent over my cane, waiting to hear the lock click before turning to go, wanting to enjoy the last of the light before ambling into the alley.
Our relationship was always like that. Sometimes close, sometimes distant, the choice inexplicable from one day to the next, even after all these years. You were troubled and folded in on yourself. I knew your love in our touch, but I wished you could trust me with anything. “Anything, Annie,” I find myself muttering now. But I learned not to force you.
As it was, I knew the bishop’s coming was what was bothering you. I’d heard the stories, so many versions of events. We were a few years a
part in grades. What was not in dispute: the police car parked out front of the family home, your disappearance from school, and your return seven years later as a fiercely beautiful young woman. Hurt in some way we could not see but could sense, like the sealed wound in a wild animal. There was no mistaking it.
Last night, back out on the street, on my way home, that’s when I saw the magpies, piercing the air with caw after caw after caw. I saw the dead one and I saw the mate, preening the fallen bird’s feathers, pecking so softly at his neck. A sob rose in my throat, wanting the fallen bird to stand too. Shivering with sudden cold, shook to my bones, I struck the earth with my cane. I almost defied you, Annie Gallagher, so frightened I was for us. I almost hobbled back to hold you through the darkness, no matter the talk, no matter your fears. I hold you now.
FLORENCE
“All right,” I told Bob on the phone, “I know how to prepare the body.” When I was a child, undertakers were a city invention. “As long as we have help to move her inside.”
Yet all I can think about are the magpies congregated in the schoolyard last night. An old rhyme from childhood comes to mind: one for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for birth, five for rich, six for poor, seven for a witch, eight for heaven. We used to chant on the hopscotch court; we used to try to predict: Would it be sorrow? Would it be marriage? Birth? Never for me. Would it be death? We tried to hop quickly over the unlucky squares, land on the lucky ones.
My grandmother used to say, “We were all birds once. When they start to grieve, our sorrow won’t be far behind. They’re harbingers.” They know things. Like when a storm is on the wind, the length and advance of seasons, and when someone’s died.
After I was done my dishes, had swept the kitchen floor, and put out the trash, I found my spade and an old towel on the porch and went out to bury the unfortunate creature.
The Death of Annie the Water Witcher by Lightning Page 4
