by J. J. Martin
“Ha!” Danny said. “That didn’t happen.”
“No. And when that didn’t happen, Sweet and his ilk believed they failed the Church. Destroyed the mystery. So he started saying homilies against it, and saying the Tridentine Mass — the one they used before Vatican II. He came to regret his role in changing the liturgy and wanted to fight to change it all back.
“Imagine regretting your life’s greatest achievement? He joined the Pius X society, which is a group of Traditionalist renegades who believe the Church started going wrong after the death of Pius X.
“The bishop told him to quit the society or he’d be kicked out of the Church. He wrote a letter essentially telling him to go to hell, and they excommunicated him.”
“But that’s not the whole story,” Danny said.
“You know Maccabees?”
I was scrutinizing Danny, and it took a moment before I came to realize the question was for me. “Remind me,” I said.
“Judas Maccabee led a revolt to restore Jewish worship at the temple after pagans had seized it. That’s how these guys think of themselves versus Rome. They even call the pope the Antichrist.”
“I don’t care about any of this. All of this is useless. Useless information. How did he meet Griff Kelsey?”
“Sweet loves celebrities and people with power. He’s a real star-worshipper. Griff Kelsey is rich. He funds the Pius X society. Naturally, when he heard that a Vatican II delegate was recanting everything, he wanted him for his own pastor. And off goes little Benjamin Sweet of Cape Breton to Hollywood.”
“You don’t care that some clergy think the pope is the Antichrist?” said Danny.
“Something you want to say, mister?” Padre snapped at him. “Sweet has always been in a group of eccentrics. There are a lot of sub-communities among the clergy. He and plenty of others are now rogues.”
“Boo-hoo.”
“Personally, I couldn’t be a priest if Vatican II had never happened. The old Church was too secretive, too weird. Not enough of a focus on ministry and too much focus on mystery. Somehow, though, the Church has been dying in Canada all the same. When I started as a priest, the pews were full, there were liberals and conservatives. A broad swath of people. Nowadays the pews are nearly empty and only conservatives remain. But guys like Sweet and Gast, they always felt like outsiders.”
“Aloysius Gast,” I said.
“A well-placed, slippery man with political connections in Rome. He would have thrived in medieval Europe.”
“I know all about Gast.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later. First, tell me about the kids. I want to know about the kids.”
Padre and Danny shared glum looks. I repeated the question.
“There’s no doubt,” Padre said. “That unquestioning loyalty of the priestly class is one thing these guys miss about the pre–Vatican II days.”
“You mean it was easier for them to get away with it on a massive scale?”
Padre shifted in his seat. I wondered if he would answer my question or dodge.
“They think the openness of Vatican II is what’s killing the Church. They might be right. Catholicism is a secret institution. Think of how big the change was. Once parishioners understood Mass, looked the priest in the face during confession, and engaged with the world, light was shone into the shadows. It was ugly, what it showed. John XXIII wanted the focus of the Church to be justice. That is what happened.”
“Justice, eh?” I said. Dodge.
Danny stood up and walked to the kitchen, leaving Padre and I alone in the lounge with the TV.
I pointed sharply where Danny had walked. “Justice?”
Padre held up his hands as if to say slow down.
“I know why you’re here,” I growled to him. “With Danny. I’ve seen this show before. When you-know-who was sent out of our parish, another priest like you came in to clean up the mess. That’s what you’re doing here. I’m going to kick his fucking head in.”
“You can do that, but I’ll stop you. I can tell you what happened, but you have to promise me you won’t hurt him. There’s more here than you realize, and you need to believe me that I’m here to help. There’s help here for you, too. I know why you’re here.”
“Danny,” I called in a hot, chippy voice. “Get in here. Think it’s time you came clean with me, bud.”
“You know more about all of this than you let on,” said Padre to me gently. “I can imagine how angry you are right now. I want to talk with you.”
Danny shuffled in from the kitchen, holding a beer bottle to his lips. Padre and I were in the lounge chairs and observed Danny lean against the wall, keeping his distance. He scratched the back of his calf with his foot, socked in a dirty white athletic tube.
“So, we’re doing this now?” asked Danny. “Is this the kumbaya moment?”
I stared at him. The pot lights hit his tinted glasses exactly right so I could see the outline of myself as a reflection. The effect was so creepy I shivered. “What did you do?” I asked.
Padre held up his hand. “Before you judge Danny, I’d like you to think about how it was for you when you were young.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” I said. “You don’t know a goddamned thing about me.”
“Sure he does, brother,” said Danny. “Takes one to know one.”
My hands clenched into fists and I sprang up out of the chair to charge at Danny but was stopped by Padre, who slammed me to the floor and pinned me around the neck.
I was immobilized, more from the shock of this sudden violence than its actual mechanics.
“Just because I’ve got this,” Padre said, pointing at the Roman collar of his shirt, “shouldn’t make you assume anything.”
“Listen, brother,” Danny said. “Padre knows — people like you and me. He knows it because he hatched from the same egg. Different Sweet. Same Father.”
Padre released his grip.
I sat up and found myself shaking uncontrollably. Danny shuffled back to the lounge chair and watched the TV.
“Don’t say you and I are the same,” I said to Danny, not looking at him. “We are not. You hear?”
“You need some time,” said Padre. “Want some water?”
I shook my head. I slid one fingernail deep under the lid of another and felt pain in the quick. Padre gestured for me to sit on the sofa, as far as I could get from Danny without leaving the room.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “About me.”
“I understand,” said Padre.
“I could get a haircut and wash, too, brother.”
“What did you do, Danny?” I asked, quieter now. “You tell me now.”
He drank.
“That’s not gonna change what you did,” I insisted.
“Who’s afraid to talk about his sins?” Danny said, licking dry lips. “At the school, I was there for a grade three art class. I was helping one of the little girls out of her painting smock.”
Danny stopped talking and stared at his beer, peeling the label in one single piece.
“I ran my hands under her shirt. I didn’t mean to do it. But I did. It was like I was on automatic pilot. I was like a robot. It scared the living shit out of me. I ran out of the school.”
I gagged. I could smell Father Sweet’s rancid breath in the tent.
“Then he called the bishop,” Padre said, calling me back. “And then the bishop called me.”
I took a deep breath. “What about the parents?”
Padre and Danny were silent.
“So noble. Both of you,” I hissed. “You fondle a kid and skulk away. And you help him hide.”
“I don’t think she knew that something happened,” Danny said.
“Danny says he’s never done this before, and I believe him.”
“And that makes it okay?” I said.
“I don’t think it’s okay,” said Danny quietly.
I called him a coward
, then looked at Padre. “You say it’s important to teach kids about right and wrong, that their souls are on some sort of cosmic merchant’s scale. You scare the piss out of them with hell, and treat them like sinners, and meanwhile, here you are with your shitty, exploiting, pornographic habits.”
After a while, Danny spoke in a low voice. “If I could, I’d just leave and go live far away,” he said.
Padre held out his palms. “All things in due course,” he said.
“Call the parents right now,” I said. “You’re hypocrites! You say you’re looking out for God’s children, but you’re predators.” My hands trembled. I felt a rabbit’s urge to run.
“We’ve been talking,” Danny said, looking at Padre. “A lot. About the past, about what’s next, about the best thing to do.”
“Oh yah? The best thing for you,” I said. “Nicely played. For you.”
Padre sat back and handed me my whisky glass. “Okay. Okay. Let me ask you, what is it that you want?”
Here was the reason I came, and I had yet to stake the position and ask for the help I needed.
“I read the article,” I said. “And I need to do something about it.”
“Okay.… What?”
“I want to talk to the parents. The parents of that kid, Antony. I need to know how to get to him. Get to them.” I jammed the fingernail in deep. “I need to do this,” I said. “Not for myself, you understand. But because my brother asked me to. I have to do this for my brother.”
“Odd,” said Padre. “Why wouldn’t you do this for the parents? For Antony? What would you say?”
“Can you help me find them? Not Danny. I’ll be calling the police shortly. Just you.”
Danny and Padre said nothing. They blinked at one another, seemingly confused by my comments. To me it was clear as day.
“The two of you have convinced yourselves of something that isn’t legitimate,” I said. “The whole goddamned thing should come down. You need to go to the police.”
“All in due course,” said Padre.
I pulled myself to my feet. “All in due course, eh? I’ll tell you something. My dad worked thirty years for the government. Here’s what he did, good Christian man that he was. He rode through reserves with a posse of armed men and took kids away from their parents. He gave them to the Church, to raise and educate. Guess who was his favourite priest?”
“The thing is, it’s not just Sweet,” Danny said. “Sweet used to be at Gast’s school in Saskatchewan, too.”
My mouth snapped shut and I set my jaw.
“Gast thinks Danny is one of them,” Padre said.
“Danny, you are one of them,” I cried. “You just said it.” I felt faint. “Wait a minute. That guy is still alive?”
“Monsignor Gast has got to be over a hundred,” Danny said. “He lives in Mexico now.”
“In a Traditionalist Catholic compound,” continued Padre. “An Apostolic Society. Some of the priests have been excommunicated, some have not. But all of them are there because Latin American Catholics still keep their bad apples hidden.”
“I was invited. To come to Gast,” said Danny.
I shook my head. “Bad apples,” I said. “It’s not the apples, it’s the orchard.” I had never felt so filthy. Well … maybe never.
“Will you help me find Antony’s parents?” I asked Padre.
“Yes,” Padre said. He looked at Danny, and the glance worried me. “But I — we — want something from you in return.”
13
“I’ll be going away for a while,” I said to Clare. “My little project to … you know.”
“Get on track?” she asked.
I sighed. “Brought some stuff for the kids,” I said, nodding at the box in my arms.
Every time we spoke, Clare and I had eye-contact problems. We said things we wanted to take back. But underneath it, I loved her. I valued her more than she probably realized. I don’t know if she shared the sentiment.
She smiled. “I like the haircut. You look good like that,” she said, holding the door open for me.
I stepped onto the polished marble tiles of the house and set down the box.
“So, what’s with all the mystery? Are you taking your dad’s inheritance and joining a commune in California? Going on a retreat? Becoming a Scientologist?”
It was fair game, I felt, given that she had a right to know, both as my sister-in-law and as someone who had tried to help. “Sorry for the mystery,” I said. “I could do better.”
“As long as,” she said without looking at me, “you’re trying.”
Kitty entered from the kitchen, with a sticky face and a bowl of apple slices. She gave me a hug, spilling fruit on the floor, and invited me inside, trying to pull me by the hand.
“No, honey,” I said, squatting down. “I just came to drop something off. I’m going on a trip.”
“What in the box?” she asked.
I lifted the lid. “For when you’re older. These are books that Daddy and I had when we were young. See? There’s Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown and a huge pile of comics.”
“Huh,” she said.
“What do you say?” said Clare.
“Thank you,” she said over her shoulder as she left.
“There’s something about this,” said Clare quietly, “that makes me think you aren’t coming back. And I hope that’s not so.”
I did my best to smile reassuringly. “I’ll see you for Jamie’s operation.”
14
I was sleeping in my old room in Blackburn Hamlet. I had stopped packing up and removing dad’s belongings from the house for the time being. It felt like a half-empty time capsule and felt like I belonged nowhere. But I felt closer to the kid I was — the person I was — than I had felt in decades.
I went to the grocery store to restock the fridge, parking my car near the Legion hall where Jamie and I used to attend Scout meetings. Just beyond the hall, south of the town was a trail into the greenbelt that led to the Mer Bleue bog. It was on that trail I remember Mike Racine taking the troop on our walks into the bush.
In my hand was a brand new Blackberry. First thing in the morning I traded in my old, cracked Blackberry for a new phone and opened the calendar application for the first time. I had never bothered to put anything in the calendar before, but now I had one specific date and time to plunk in. Jamie’s surgery date was set. I needed to be up and at the Civic Hospital for Wednesday morning, 6:00 a.m., in two weeks’ time. The app created a dark- red monolith to mark the twelve hours of the day I’d be sitting with Clare in the waiting room.
I had plenty to get done beforehand.
In the late afternoon I drove to Gloucester city centre and picked up my new passport. I had never owned one in my life. I sat in my truck and looked at the portrait, official, clean-cut and serious. Sanctioned by Her Majesty and the Government of Canada and dressed with a hexadecimal number. Like I knew what I was doing and should be trusted by authorities to cross borders and conduct affairs.
The sun was setting as I drove back to Blackburn, crossed over the Green’s Creek bridge, and felt my jaw tighten confidently into a smile. I tilted the rear-view mirror down to look at my face to be sure. There it was. A smile.
I drove to the rectory and spotted Padre on the front lawn, chipping walnut husks with a nine iron.
“If you’re truly offering,” he said as I walked to him, “I will take all these clubs. They are ten times better than the set I’ve been using.”
“They’re yours. Use them in good health,” I said.
“Did you get your passport?” Padre asked, chipping a walnut into the hedge.
“And the tickets. For me and Danny. Though I don’t know why he has to come.”
“Well, that’s the deal. Still. You’re generous.”
“What my dad left me is more than I need.”
“You might think you’re saving Antony, but in so doing these things you’re saving much more. You know that Jewish saying th
at he who saves a life saves the world?”
“That’s a bit much.”
“Well, you’re saving yourself, aren’t you?”
“I thought you black-shirts would say only God can save any of us?”
“I would never say that. That’s bullshit,” said Padre. “God helps those who help themselves. Ben Franklin.”
I poked at the golf bag with my foot and chuckled.
“Somebody,” I said, “a long time ago … told me you cannot save yourself. Salvation only comes from above.”
“Who says there’s one kind of salvation? What a lousy world it would be, where everyone should be passive. Waiting to be saved like the cavalry is coming to save the settlers from the Natives.”
I was stung by the Native comment. “My dad did the opposite.” I pictured my father, passionless, with a set jaw, pulling a young boy away from his screaming mother, and handing him to Father Sweet. For his own good.
That image — a priest receiving a child from my father — made me shudder. It was such a horrible thing. Especially when it occurred to me that the parent of that child — unlike the way Jamie and I felt our parents cared for us — might actually love him, the way we loved Kitty and Harry.
“People should know better,” said Padre.
“What people should do,” I said, “is fuck off. Everyone’s got an idea about what everyone else should do.”
Padre stopped golfing and regarded me evenly. “A man who saves a life saves a world. Nobody’s life is without injury. I’m talking about you now. The best medicine for your kind of injury is to do a good turn in exchange. That’s how decency gets its footing. And I see what you’re doing.”
“No, you don’t.” I dug into my thumbnail. “You don’t know me.”
“I know principles. It’s not about what harm you received, but what decency you can do for someone else.”
He beckoned me inside. In the lounge, there sat Danny rotting before the television, still.
“You and Danny both want to live good lives, but it doesn’t take anything momentous to make the change. Choose to have a life with purpose,” Padre said. “That’s it.”
