Father Sweet

by J. J. Martin

  “That’s the job description,” said the head nurse, a powerful-looking woman in Hello Kitty scrubs and a hoodie.

  “Does she ever ask to go to church?”

  The question made her blink. “She’s not mentioned it. Would you like us to add that to her routine? There’s a chapel on the ground floor.”

  “No, I’m just surprised,” I said quietly. “The lady I knew would have put priority on that.”

  “People change all the time.”

  So here she was at the end of her life and all the churching had come to this. “Suppose so.”

  The nurse gave me a double take. My face must have looked portentous because she stopped reading her file and seemed to suspect something was up. Something suspicious, with me. I stood there too long, chewing my lip like an idiot. Likely, as a palliative nurse, she’d seen it all. “You know, she’s in good hands,” the woman said, a searching note in her voice.

  “My niece would love that shirt,” I said, and headed for the elevators with no intent to ever return.

  11

  It was two years after the wedding, and Clare was having difficulty getting pregnant. It turned out she and Jamie both had fertility problems, and so they relied on in-vitro wizards at a Sussex Drive clinic to help fulfill their family wishes. Personally, I suspected the difficulty getting pregnant was a sign from God that our family was not meant to nurture children. That our poisoned line was not meant to survive.

  The twins were born five years ago.

  Back when Clare was expecting, I asked Jamie how he thought he could possibly qualify as a father. How would it be possible after the childhood we had.

  “Why would you ask? I’m going to be a great dad.” He smiled confidently as if there was a comedic reason he was trying to cover up.

  “Let me guess. You’ll do the opposite of how Dad raised us?”

  “No,” said Jamie. “Remember when we were young? You used to tell me to trust my instincts, look at the environment, listen. You were a real Boy Scout. You trusted me.”

  I smiled at him. His notion felt distant to me, but true. Distant from where I was now, but I remembered the boy who was able to lead calmly a shaking and terrified Jamie away from bullies like Rob and Squirm, who were planning to rub a racoon carcass on him, and bring him to where rain falling on leaves was miraculous and reassuring. My eyes lowered at remembering that boy.

  Jamie was, in fact, a warm, strong father who could lead his own children in the same way. And it made me feel good that I inspired him, even a little. But jammed in hard against that feeling was shame. What did I know about anything? I knew that you’re supposed to do the right thing, but I instead allowed myself to rot into a derelict. I’d been cowardly all my life since then.

  I wish it was a kidney or his heart that was the problem with Jamie because that way I could help. I could donate. It would be a big thing that I could feel good about, something I could use as a step for my courage and become the man that I should have been.

  I could have done something significant with my life.

  Jamie always hated being close to dead things. Now he was facing death himself. It should be me. Would his own corpse disgust him as much as Dad’s did? Or would he understand it was a part of himself? If he could stand next to his own body, what would it be to him but a horror?

  What did I have going on? And I had no fears of dead things such as he had. I had a fantasy that I could hold him while he was cremated — me burning alive — so that he would not have to be alone in the furnace. Me, a martyr. That would make up for all the time of my life I had wasted.

  As if on cue, my phone pinged with a text from him.

  Where R U?

  House, I texted back. I had been sleeping at the house for three days now and had started wearing Dad’s clean underwear, T-shirts, and socks. My own apartment sat empty a twenty-minute drive away.

  Cleaning or reading?

  I didn’t respond.

  On the kitchen counter was the copy of Tinsel Circus and its bonkers article about Griff Kelsey and Father Sweet. I’d read it twice last night. In fact, I had to read it twice because seeing Father Sweet’s name in print made me ill, and my eyes kept skipping over the parts about him. I had to force myself to read about his can’t-make-this-stuff-up journey from Canada to Vatican II to Hollywood, where he led a remarkably old-fashioned parish, funded by Griff Kelsey, and lived with his new young acolyte, Antony.

  The article was mostly about Griff Kelsey and the scandals surrounding him prior to the release of King of Blood, a movie I have only vague recollections of being in theatres, but according to my quick internet search, was a big hit.

  Every time Father Sweet’s name appeared in the article, and once I could drag my eyes over the lines, I felt personally slapped and galled that he was in such a grand spotlight as a glossy American magazine. My mother, if she could have understood, would have been over the moon.

  He was quoted speaking about two things: Vatican II and its dreadful effect on the Church, and Antony.

  “Judgment entered the Church. But not the judgment of God, the judgment by the individual congregant. It is why liberalism is the enemy of the Almighty, and anyone faithful to Him.”

  Sweet is earnest and serious. Antony tugs at his sleeve and whispers to him.

  “Ah, my acolyte. Antony’s family are Catholics in the best sense.” He smiles at Antony and strokes his back. “His father and mother gave him to me to complete his education.”

  It was that last part that stuck with me more than anything. Although there was another portion that specifically related to something I knew plenty about, something that existed deep in the cellars of my mind.

  “It was the weekend Pope Paul VI died,” says Sweet. “I had just returned from an extremely disappointing camping trip. I had been thinking about my dear friend and mentor the Monsignor Aloysius Gast. Then it was revealed to me that everything I loved about my vocation, I had fought to destroy.”

  I felt I understood well “what he loved.”

  I brewed a pot of stale Nabob and opened a can of beans for breakfast. Between cold spoonfuls, I slurped black coffee and stared into the back garden. A drip of brown sauce fell from the spoon to my sweatshirt. I wiped it with my thumb and licked it clean.

  The article showed a big picture of Griff Kelsey’s sun-roughened, Botoxed, once-handsome mug. He was as big a celebrity as one could imagine. And a nutbar Catholic rebel who fought Rome with a regressive, crazy form of the religion that believed the pope was the Antichrist and translating Mass from Latin was the reason for all the corruption in the world. This was where Father Sweet, who used to lecture me on modernism and the importance of  Vatican II, had wound up. This was the guy who said the traditions he shared with his old mentor Aloysius Gast somehow involved me sharing a sleeping bag with him under the delighted eyes of God.

  After a few tries, attempting to put the words right, I pressed send, asking Jamie if he knew whether our father had any last requests or plans. Did he say anything about what he wanted done after he died?

  Woulda told U, he texted, after a while.

  It was almost eleven, and the sun was shining. Jamming the rolled Tinsel Circus into my back pocket, I took my coffee and bean can out back, setting them down to prop up one of the rusted patio chairs.

  I had a suffocating desire to do nothing and breathe and stare at the fence Dad had neglected to paint for twenty years. At the base, the wood had gone so soft and rotted that squirrels barely paused on their way into the neighbours’ garden on Woodburn Road.

  I sipped at my coffee, rapidly cooling outside.

  The kids are all right.

  Still need to tell you about Dad, I texted him. Tonite?

  There was a long break during which nothing came back, and I stared at my phone.

  Hi, came the text. It’s Clare. I’ve got Jamie’s phone.

  I sat up.

  What’s happening? Where is he?

  We’re at the
neuro.

  Can I call?

  He fainted. He’s fine. I’ll call you. Wait.

  Suddenly, the garden’s derelict calm changed complexion and the sun glared hard into my eyes. I stood and reread the texts. Then I dialed Jamie’s number.

  Exasperated, Clare’s voice answered by telling me not to worry.

  “Can I help?” I asked. “Who’s looking after the kids?”

  “Stop. Don’t worry. They’re at the neighbours’.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to help?”

  “You’ve got a lot going on; I didn’t think it made sense.”

  I surveyed the wreckage of my unemployed midday: eating beans from a tin can in my parents’ backyard and drinking stale coffee from a Smurf mug that asked me if it was break time yet.

  “I’ve got nothing going on,” I said.

  I could picture Clare at the doctor’s office, shaking her head trying not to tell me the truth, and then giving up.

  “Listen, we didn’t want to bother you.”

  There it was. “I get it,” I said.

  She groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, no. I get it.”

  “But the kids are all right,” she said.

  “That’s good. It’s what matters.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I took a deep breath. “I am so sick of hearing that question. I feel guilty people keep asking me that when it’s clear there are so many important things happening.”

  “Jamie’s worried about you.”

  “Can I talk with him?”

  “He’s lying down in another room.… Let’s just chat, me and you.”

  “I’m sorry, Clare. I wish I had the tumour instead of him. It would be so much easier.”

  Clare said nothing. It would, truly, be easier for everyone. I could picture her nodding her head, admitting it was true.

  “Jamie’s a great dad,” I said. “You both. How do you do it?”

  Clare hemmed a little. I hoped she was pleased with the compliment. She thought before responding. “I suppose … it’s not my job to build their life. I believe — and Jamie — we must help the kids find what works for them. Yah? And then get out of the way. It’s their lives, not ours.”

  “Have you told the kids? About, you know?”

  “Of course. In a manner that makes sense for them. I told them in the car when driving to school one day like it was no big deal.”

  “What on earth did you say?”

  “That Daddy’s got something wrong with his head and the doctors are going to try to make him better, but he may be different afterward and might not be able to talk. But I said we’ll still love him and look after him. And that was it. They asked a few questions, said they loved Daddy, then moved on. They were fine.”

  “Wow.”

  “With five-year-olds if you don’t make something into a big deal, they take the cue from you. It doesn’t help if you freak out.”

  “Our parents wouldn’t have told us anything. They would have thought it was for adults to deal with. In silence.”

  “Right,” she said. “Well. It’s the twenty-first century. And Jamie and I figure the kids can deal with it.”

  “What did the kids think of the funeral? Were they scared?”

  “Afterward Kitty asked me — it was cute — she said, ‘Mum, you know church? What’s that all about?’”

  My indomitable niece, Kitty. Amazing confidence and presence of mind. “I wouldn’t know how to answer that one.”

  “I said it was like a club where people get together to sing songs and talk about life.”

  I laughed so loud I scared birds out of the trees. “If only.”

  “She’s a child. It works.”

  “I don’t mean to sound pissy,” I said.

  “Your parents had different ideas,” she said. “Jamie always felt like you got worn down by it.”

  Unlike Jamie and Clare’s approach with the kids — to help them design their own emerging lives — my folks used church as the dictating focus to structure and habilitate my life.

  “He says you used to stand up to them more and protected him when you were growing up. Then, right before you went to high school, you sort of gave up on everything. Stopped caring. He figured your parents’ negative vibes finally got to you.”

  “It’s not fair to blame them,” I said. “The only one to blame is me. It’s me.”

  “Things adults say to kids work like a spell on a person for their whole lives.”

  “I’ve had plenty of opportunity to get my act together.”

  “I won’t lie, I would feel better if I saw you happy. Maybe not even happy. Just doing something engaging. You know? Engaged with something you thought was … meaningful.”

  I took a breath. “Jamie said the same thing. I want that. I’m trying.”

  “You know, I gave Jamie some — oh, wait. Here’s someone who wants to talk with you.”

  She handed the phone over.

  “Hey, man,” said Jamie. “How are you?”

  “I heard you fainted.”

  “Just running some tests and planning the big day. Coming up soon, like a couple weeks.”

  “I can look after the kids,” I offered.

  “Nah. We’ve got a neighbour next door with kids of her own. No biggie. They just make it a play date. They’ll have a sleepover. Besides, I was hoping you’d be there when I woke up.”

  I told him I wouldn’t miss it.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “About brain surgery? Why would that make me nervous?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about. I’ve got an idea.”

  “Good.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I think it’s a start on — well — you know.”

  “You going to see a therapist?”

  “Not exactly. More of my own way of, I don’t know … working through things.”

  He exhaled. “Okay. Good start. This sounds good.”

  “Don’t get too excited.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “I’ve been thinking. Like maybe I want to do something.”

  “That almost sounds like planning and preparation. Who is this guy and where is my brother?”

  “Well, there’s something I want,” I said. “But it’s complicated.”

  12

  That evening, Danny and Padre planned to watch the Habs-Boston game and Padre called to ask if I would like to join them.

  “But first I need a favour if you could stomach it,” he said.

  “Depends.”

  “I need an altar server for tonight’s Mass,” he said. “And I was wondering if you’d mind.”

  “I’d mind.”

  “It would help me out.”

  “Get another kid from the bench.”

  “Kid? We don’t use kids anymore. You haven’t been to Mass in a while, have you?”

  “Just the funeral.”

  “Well, you saw Andy. He’s in his forties.”

  “Andy not available?”

  “His son’s got a ringette game at the arena tonight.”

  “Boys play ringette now?”

  “Why not?”

  “What about Andy’s wife?”

  “Well, the bishop doesn’t like female altar servers.”

  “Danny?”

  “Nobody knows Danny’s staying here.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  I decided to run some errands that afternoon, but showed up in time for puck drop. Padre met me at the door and was startled by my new look.

  “Wow,” said Padre. “Shave and a haircut. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Whisky.”

  “A man after my own heart.”

  Danny remained in the same chair I’d left him in a day and a half earlier, his eyes still glued to the screen, his lips still chewing the edges of his whiskers. At first,
I thought he wore the same Blackburn Funfair sweatshirt, but it was different. He sat low in the chair with his legs wide apart. I got the impression of a teenager trapped in the loose sinews of a hobo’s body.

  The reason I’d gotten a haircut and shaved my face was because of the unmistakable resemblance in our appearances. It depressed me. It worried me.

  Padre delivered to me a generous glass of whisky in an icy tumbler.

  “What’d you think of the article?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat and raised my glass. “Look,” I said. “I don’t want to be here, but … here’s to a difficult discussion.” I downed a few gulps.

  Danny looked at me. For the first time, his eyes seemed to focus. My toast brought a smile to Padre’s face.

  “The article was …” I said, taking a big breath. “It floored me. For a lot of reasons. First, I can’t believe or understand why you-know-who was excommunicated and why he’s become some sort of activist promoting such weird shit. Second, how on earth did he wind up in Hollywood with Griff Kelsey? And then third, I can’t believe how blatantly obvious …” I stopped.

  Padre sat on the edge of the sofa and grumbled agreeing noises. Go on, he seemed to say.

  “Like, the celebrity thing,” I said, feeling lost. My train of thought was broken. “I mean, I remember how charming he was and, Danny probably remembers, he was like a celebrity himself in Blackburn Hamlet. Probably all over Ottawa.” I didn’t look at Danny.

  “That’s not what you were gonna say,” Danny said and turned back to the TV.

  I felt my face go hot. “This was a mistake,” I whispered into my glass.

  Padre took a breath.

  “Sweet was excommunicated years ago,” he said. “Amazing considering he was a delegate at Vatican II.”

  “Yah, I knew that. Everyone knew that. So what?”

  “In fact, he’s the last living Canadian delegate to Vatican II. That was his life’s work. Until he was excommunicated.”

  “That guy’s full of shit.”

  “He was on a committee that changed the Mass into Canadian English. Many felt they went too far in modernizing the Church. You know, trying to be more accommodating and open. There was hope that Vatican II would revitalize the Church. Make it fun and appealing. That’s what Sweet and his friends thought. And Protestants would convert, and it would sweep the world.”