Father Sweet

by J. J. Martin

  “They’re harmless,” I said. “Just boozers.”

  “What about the bum? Shouldn’t we have helped him instead of throwing rocks?”

  “That guy is up to no good.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He’s dirty and weird and drunk.”

  “He looks gross,” Jamie said, “that’s for sure.”

  We sorted nails. He looked upset.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I just don’t get it,” said Jamie. “Paying Rob to see his wiener.”

  9

  The next morning, we attended a religious ceremony. Larry Lozinski, my dad’s friend from work, and his son, my friend David, had invited us. David was Jewish — he and his family were the only Jews we knew. So, we really didn’t know what to expect when we arrived. What we saw wound up deeply offending my parents, and we made an abrupt exit immediately after it was over. My father drove us home, angry as hell. He drove so madly around cars and buses on Innes Road’s narrow two lanes that cars honked at us — a very rare occurrence.

  Usually, my dad was silent and lockjawed. As he never seemed to speak about himself, it was hard for me to be certain exactly what he was feeling or what was going on in his head. Each morning, he awoke after a short night’s sleep with his mouth set in the same day-long clench from the evening before.

  Periodically, he would blow up. Like right now, as we drove home from my friend David’s house. Dad’s jaw gyrated furiously as if he was chewing his teeth out.

  “Larry told me it would be like a baptism,” Dad said. I watched him eat the corners of his mouth. “And I don’t want to hear anything from you two back there.” He jerked his thumb at Jamie and me. We undid our little clip-on ties and exchanged frightened glances as we fastened our seat belts.

  I think I knew what my parents were upset about, but I tried to understand to be sure. Was it what the mohel had said? He said, “Now I’m going to say a blessing Aaron would say every morning to the people as they wandered in the wilderness. Today let it serve to remind us our lives are a wilderness, and we, too, wander it. May this child find meaning and peace in his life.” Was that it?

  We had entered their bright house in Beacon Hill, which smelled of dinnertime and was loud with laughter and full of jostling, happy people. Well, not entirely, David’s mother had eyes brimming with tears and eyebrows twitching upward to the centre of her forehead. Women rubbed her back and hugged her, which I thought was nice and I found myself staring. My own mother stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and one brow arched into her hairline. In a way, David’s mother was the opposite of our mother, all soft curves and care. When the crying baby emerged at last, passed from aunt to aunt, uncle to uncle, David’s mother reached out to the infant like he was precious gold. The baby was finally carried in ceremony to the mohel, and to the knife.

  Dad’s knuckles were shiny as marbles at the top of the steering wheel.

  “I can’t believe what that disgusting old man did with his … his lips,” Mum said.

  “And Larry told me not to worry, it would be like a baptism. What kind of religion —”

  The car lurched right without stopping at the light.

  Yes, I saw it, too. It looked like the mohel put the baby’s penis in his mouth. Did he? He certainly bent over. My parents gasped out loud. I said nothing, but, yes, I found it weird, especially with the knife and everything. But, then again, it all seemed weird. My brother missed the whole thing because he was attacking a bowl of chips. David, who was my age and played hockey with me, seemed royally bored. I took my cue from him, and assumed this was normal. Apparently my parents did not think so.

  As soon as it was over, our parents grabbed us by the scruff and we left.

  In the car, they spoke as if we could not understand them.

  “That horrible godfather character, what did they call him? The Quacker?”

  “The Kvatter.”

  “Well, that joke — if you can even call it a joke — was plain sick.”

  “What are you supposed to do when you’re faced with something like that?” my father said.

  “You leave, that’s what you do. You just leave.” Mum pressed her lips together in a thin line.

  We pulled up our driveway. Without a word or a glance, Dad kept the car running while we staggered out, nauseous. He squealed off to work before I even shut my door. Mum marched to the kitchen and made angry clatter with pots and pans.

  My brother and I tore off our good clothes like escaped convicts, and donned our grubbies. We were headed back to the woods.

  “Don’t be late, boys. Home by five,” Mum shouted as we mounted our bikes. “Father Sweet is coming tonight.”

  There it was. We groaned. She meant we had to wear nice clothes — again — and endure a long, tedious meal with adults. There were precious few days left of summer holiday. And Father Sweet himself was coming to our house. An excruciating “best behaviour” evening.

  10

  Later, after we returned home to clean up for dinner with Father Sweet, I overheard Mum on the phone.

  “What has happened to us, Trixie?” she said. “When I was growing up, nobody ever got divorced. I didn’t even think it was possible for Catholics to get divorced! I know. I know.”

  Oh my god, I thought. Is she talking about her and Dad? I was on the second floor and crept thief-like toward the stairs, just out of view.

  “So what? When my dad came back from the war he drank all the time.… Sure.… Yes, I think he did, but Mother stuck by him.… Yes, even after what’s-her-name … no, that’s for sure. They never change, you’re right.… Boys will be boys.”

  My brother joined me and we both sat on the hallway floor in silence, breathing as little as possible.

  “Marriage until death. Father-knows-best. Church on Sundays. On and on.… Exactly — me, too.”

  My brother mouthed words at me, I don’t get it. I gestured for him to shush, and I shrugged. If she hears us eavesdropping, I thought, we’ll get spanked. It felt like hiding from a wild animal.

  “Well, we’re the ‘me’ generation, after all. Or maybe this is the Pepsi Generation, ha-ha-ha.… Yes. That’s true.”

  Now came a long pause where she listened to Trixie’s tinny voice in the receiver.

  “Just a minute, Trix,” she said. My brother and I locked eyes and held our breath. Was she checking to see if we were stealing a listen?

  Then, I heard her strike a lighter. Mum lit up a cigarette.

  “Clearly something’s supposed to be different, I agree. I don’t understand how a family is supposed to be,” she said quietly. “We got liberated in the sixties.… So here we are! I guess.… She was such a hippie. Me, too! But, my god, you’ve got to come back to earth. I mean how are you supposed to raise, well, respectful children? How are you supposed to be good? Society will come apart at the seams.… You remember those bombs in Montreal wasn’t that long ago.… No, of course I’m not saying that. I’m only saying — you know — people can’t just do whatever they want. We’re all sinners. That’s what they say. No rest for the wicked. Exactly. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

  She took a long, thoughtful drag on her smoke. “She swans about like Princess Margaret. You know, I suspected something when they stopped going to Mass. She should have dragged him to church, eh.” She exhaled smoke. “Yep. Dragged him. Temptations out there just too strong. Well yes, that’s true, too, eh.… Men. Tsk.”

  Mum listened to Trixie for a while, humming agreement.

  “Makes me think, you remember Father Sweet’s homily last week? No? Hm. He said suspicion of good men says more about you than them.”

  She laughed.

  Mum’s voice got low. “Will she still go by ‘Birk’? Mmm-hmm. Do you know if she gets full custody of Brian and Briar?”

  Brian Birk’s parents were getting divorced. Unbelievable. In grade five I remember Brian insisting that divorces only happened because the wife was a slut. He got in
a few fights over this one.

  My brother and I sighed in chorus.

  “Poor Brian,” I whispered. My brother nodded.

  “Well, Trixie, none of this is really any of my business, either,” my mother said. “But you let me know if you hear anything new. Bye, love.”

  We tiptoed away from our listening perch.

  I secretly worried it could happen to us, as well. Back in my room, Jamie asked me why I figured divorces happened. I told him I had no idea. But Mum’s words stayed with me the rest of that evening, even though they made no sense to me — that somehow if Brian’s parents had kept going to church their family would have survived.

  11

  Father Sweet himself made quite a regal picture at the head of our dining-room table. But I couldn’t quite reconcile the Father Sweet eating my mother’s peas with the Father Sweet at school and Mass.

  When Father Sweet appeared at school, teachers straightened their backs and enunciated like bad actors who needed to poo, or as if in the presence of the Royal family. No adults who knew him seemed immune. I was dragged to an ordination at the Notre Dame basilica once and I heard two old ladies whisper in the pew behind me they hoped to hear Father Sweet sing, in his famous, quavering voice. They did not know him, but they knew his legend.

  I admit I felt a tinge of parish pride.

  During Mass, the other altar boys and I got a good view of him up close in his element, the weekly service.

  These were his masterpieces.

  Many of his sermons were dramatic historical lectures on the lives of the saints and the ancient traditions of the Catholic Church. By contrast, most priests I can remember would shake off their hangovers and deliver weekly homilies about everyday things like neighbourliness, peace of mind, charity, or forgiveness. They might even throw in the odd TV show reference or a joke. I remember one homily at the Notre Dame basilica, delivered by a funny celebrant whose name I forget. He was talking about sin, of which you didn’t need first-hand experience to know was wrong. This was like many things in life, he suggested. “For example,” this priest said, “it burns with a blue flame, but I don’t encourage you to try it.” That was a real crowd-pleaser. Especially among boys.

  On the other hand, if Father Sweet uttered jokes, you needed a university degree to understand them. If he ever said “TV, ” it would probably be an abbreviated Latin expression; he often slipped Latin into Mass, causing my father and a few others to nod solemnly.

  I remember in one homily about the daughter of Jairus, he spoke ecstatically of Saint Martina, a ten-year-old martyr for the early Church. Milk spurted from Martina’s neck when she was beheaded, moving many witnesses to join in Christ. At the time the story sent shivers through my spine. Thinking back now, I mostly remember his face turning red when he described her long, swanlike throat in orgasmic detail.

  These lectures acted like anaesthetic on the kids in the congregation, but they obviously made grown-ups behave like our religion was important, righteous, and Father Sweet a genius.

  And he was a musical genius, too. Lesser celebrants may have mumbled their way through the liturgy, but Father Sweet usually sang it. When he crooned that Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ will come again, he hit such a pitch you’d imagine Jesus roaring in on a 50cc dirt bike like Evel Knievel, accompanied by a horn section, a dance troupe, and fireworks.

  From our up-front vantage, altar servers like me observed the audience effect. The congregation was a field of stick-straight men and women with wide eyes, unmoving, blank-faced, with slumping or fiddly kids mixed in. And there were the ones in between — teens or preteens — who shifted from the stare-eyed stillness to fidgety, and back again.

  Every grown-up wanted him as a prop for their dinner party, as I learned by overhearing my parents’ jealous talk about our neighbours, the Lemieux family, who were very close to Father Sweet.

  If you could get him, and if you had a piano, he would lead the party in a sing-along of ancient show tunes. Everyone was proud if they could host a party with him as a guest.

  By dessert, the summertime sunset blasted into our dining room. Father Sweet was praising the benefit to the spine of a nap on a hardwood floor while Mum set out bread pudding and a boat of hot maple syrup.

  Of course, Dad had asked him to say grace when we first sat down. Father Sweet replied that he would sing for his supper, chanting a Benedictine grace that Mum said was truly beautiful. Now, while we passed the syrup, he said there was a second part of the blessing to sing.

  He moaned a Latin dirge. It was evocative and mournful, and I found myself smiling at him.

  A surprised twinkle flashed in his eye.  That’s when he zeroed in.

  “Here now,” he said to me, pointing his chubby little finger. “Tell me what mischief you got up to during the summer, my lad.”

  The spotlight startled me. My parents shot me warning looks.

  “Just ball hockey. Bike rides. Stuff like that.”

  “He’s going back to Scouts in a couple weeks,” my father announced with pride. “His Patrol elected him Patrol Leader for this year.”

  “Ah, Scouts!” Father Sweet cried. “The happy few! Enjoying the call of God’s Nature. Brother love! The mentorship of hale youth by hearty men!”

  “Yes,” my dad said, after a confused pause.

  “I imagine he’s quite a woodsman! Look at him. Lean as a jackrabbit. Fit as a wolf.”

  My dad cleared his throat to speak in his most pious tone. “Father, we’ve taken to praying the rosary once a week. Usually it’s Sunday evenings, but we would love to have you lead us tonight. How special is that, eh, boys?”

  My mother nodded and smacked my shoulder. “Yah, yah,” we said.

  Father Sweet mopped his beard with a napkin — the beard that did not hide the fact his face looked like a baby’s — and he clapped his hands so we would rise.

  Everyone retreated to the living room. This was the most sacred room in the house, despite its nauseating orange shag broadloom (which came with the house) and collection of fussy, dusty Victorian furniture. We were never allowed in here to sit on the uncomfortable sofa or wingbacks, and certainly never to place drinks on the high-polish tables. I got jammed between the hard armrest and Father Sweet on the loveseat. As he reached into his pocket and withdrew a linty rosary, Mum fetched ours from their casket in the china cabinet.

  Father Sweet led us through the whole performance, all business. Across from the loveseat was a mirror, and I stared at Father Sweet in a sort of half-sleep. His cheeks and eyes and pouty lips. His shiny bald head. And those gorilla arms. It was such a mismatch. As if some of his body had long ceased growing and others had regressed into animal parts.

  Twenty minutes later, Dad checked his watch. “Gosh, look at the time.”

  Father Sweet took his cue.

  “Thank you for a truly, truly outstanding meal,” he said, taking my parents’ hands. “Things are so sleepy at the church this season, with parishioners off at the cottage. It does make one lonely. Your kindness and generosity have touched me greatly.”

  In a surprise move, Father Sweet dodged right up to my side, yanking me close against his hip. “You know, handsome young Scout, what do you say we go camping? Just the two of us?”

  My mother’s eyes lit up and she clasped her palms together at her breasts. “Oh, he’d love to!” she said.

  I sputtered. “Well, school is starting soon.”

  “Oh, it’s not for two weeks, son!”

  “But Father, surely you’ve got duties,” said Dad. “We don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  “As long as I’m back for Saturday evening Mass,” he replied, scrutinizing my hair and face. “Say we leave Thursday? Ten a.m.”

  “He’ll be ready,” said Mum.

  “And we’ll hand the little varlet over,” Dad said, being funny.

  He blessed us, we crossed ourselves, and he drove off.

  “Well now! How about that!” Mum said, b
reaking the silence and beaming with pride.

  My brother and I gaped at the front door.

  “Dad,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “Please don’t make me go camping with Father Sweet. Please.”

  “You’re spoiled.” Mum frowned. “You’d just be lolling around here otherwise.”

  “Please, Dad. It’s going to be so weird.”

  “Tough titty,” said Mum. “This’ll be a great experience. Who knows what effect this might have on you?”

  “Nonsense,” Dad said, pulling his arms up and disengaging from me. “Your mother’s right. This will be a good opportunity for you.”

  “I wonder if I ought to pack your rosary,” she said to the ceiling.

  12

  I laid out my gear on our bedroom rug. My brother stretched out on my bed, grumpy.

  I ignored him and arranged my stuff on the floor. Bedroll, flashlight, knife, magnetic chess, some utensils, first aid kit, and the other usual things, like Muskol, matches, and a tin canteen. An extra pair of long-pocket camping trousers and a single set of shorts. A couple of wool layers. My K-Way windbreaker. I tried to be as prepared as possible. Be prepared — a Scout’s motto. If I didn’t know what was to come, I could at least know my equipment.

  “Sorry. I borrowed this without telling you,” Jamie said.

  He handed me a red-painted Sucrets tin filled with tiny emergency gear — a Scout project from last year. I scowled at him.

  “Give it.”

  “I put fresh matches in. You’re lucky, going camping.”

  “Bull-roar. I should get a badge for this,” I muttered.

  I was not bringing the great, brand-new International Orange nylon tent he and I bought that summer with paper route money. Father Sweet told Mum he would bring a tent, and plenty of food, as well.

  “So,” Jamie said, “what’s the bear situation?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yah, I heard last week that a grizzly ripped two campers to shreds near Pembroke.”