Crimes of the Father

by Thomas Keneally

  She had an opening to ask him what he did for a living, for she still couldn’t guess and she was certain he didn’t own pubs. She had a feeling the answer would be at least mildly interesting, but she resisted saying anything because it would allow him the right of a question in return.

  The morning beamed down on her windscreen and she put on her sunglasses.

  “Ah,” he said, “Sydney light.”

  “Isn’t it just like Canadian light?” she asked.

  “The light there on a bright cold day, twenty below freezing—it’s big honest light, too. The rays doubled up by reflections off the snow. So it’s like Sydney light but without the inconvenience of snow.”

  She said, “The Canadians must appreciate you telling them that. I don’t think.”

  He laughed. A low, short laugh. He was looking out of the window and drinking in what he could see of the suburbs and their shops and pubs, just like a returned, easily satisfied patriot. She took an exit and he was on familiar ground and could guide her.

  “I don’t know what number it is,” he told her. “It’s a big sandstone place.”

  They rolled along suburban streets and he watched schoolboys in cricket-style hats, brown shirts and shorts, and the little girls in their checked uniforms. At last he pointed to a nineteenth-century mansion that stood behind a reclusive, high-shrubbed, high-treed garden. She could see the Celtic cross at the apex of the facade and a smaller metal version above the front door. Convents sported such icons. So did monasteries. She felt a pulse of revulsion. The poisoned cross still boasting of its triumph over the suburb. Atop a smug garden and a smug antipodean sandstone mansion.

  She punched the meter off and jabbed the button that released the boot.

  “That’s fine. Father, Brother, whichever you are. The trip’s on me. Don’t forget your bag.” It would have been good to end it there and maintain functional, cold politeness. But she couldn’t. “Just get out, will you?” she told him.

  He was mystified. “No,” he said earnestly, “the freeloading days for priests are gone. And they gave me taxi money especially for the airport.”

  He pushed a fifty-dollar note towards her but she would not take it. She sat stiffly and clung to the wheel. He tucked the note into a recess between the two seats.

  “I insist,” he murmured.

  Eyes fixed ahead, she said, with a deliberately chosen profanity, “Just fuck off, will you? Just get your bag and go.”

  She could see out of the corner of her eye that he was examining her face, as she fixed her gaze blankly on a couple of young mothers and their children across the street. She knew he was skimming through a number of options in his head—the job of a supposed general practitioner of the soul. Meanwhile, she both wanted him to react to her so she could unleash truer insults and passionately wanted him to vanish to save her the grief.

  He said simply as he opened the door, “Just let me get my bag. And . . . I’m sorry I made you angry.”

  * * *

  IT HAPPENED that Docherty knew well how ambiguous the Celtic cross, once the symbol of one of the most oppressed peoples in Europe, could be for the damaged. One of the purposes of his journey was to warn Australian clergy of this enlarging rage now loose in the world. If nobody listened, he believed such rage would grow to fill the sky. This woman was clearly one of those damaged in the shadow of that sign. And no Southern Baptist, no Marxist, hated the sight of the Celtic cross with the intimate hostility that he could tell was in her. For he had encountered this before. Symptoms of unutterable harm. She had achieved equilibrium, he understood, driving her cab, but perhaps to her own surprise her effort of calm had been disrupted by getting too close to the gate of a suburban monastery.

  Quickly, he took one of his professional cards from his pocket, wrote his Sydney contacts on it, and dropped it through the window onto the passenger seat. Then he fetched his bags from the angrily sprung trunk and made for the gate without looking back.

  2

  * * *

  The Case of Sarah Fagan, Victim

  Early 1970s

  SARAH DID a remarkably sedate U-turn and set off for the city. She was not fit to drive, and she ignored the hopeful commuters in Drummoyne and Rozelle who held out their arms to her. If she could make it to the Regent Hotel, she could wait in the long queue there and compose herself.

  Her family was back with her. The sight of the Celtic cross so close had done that. Her mother had been a fervent Catholic, her father and brothers merely tribally so. Their belief was like belief in the stars: it did not endow their lives with any further light for all that. Her brothers were loud, her father watchful for wrongs done him, which the world seemed to deliver in daily doses and for which he frequently blamed her mother or her. That part of Sarah’s life was ordinary and predictable. It was everything else that wasn’t.

  Her father and brothers had that awful man-ness. The boys had sympathy for their mother. They mocked their sister’s pretensions routinely. Something in them, or the nature of the household, made them take a sort of glee in the world’s imperfectness, and when it came to imperfectness they had a model in their father.

  He was a former seaman who had gone into the navy when he was barely more than a child and had learned there too much about drinking. Offloaded by various captains, he’d sought a discharge and worked as a bricklayer; and the Fagans would have been comfortable had he done the job properly. But he was let go from sites for failing to lay his daily quota, or to excise the cement from between the bricks with the usual stylishness of brickies. It was a craft he could have mastered had it not been for the boozing.

  Not that any of this made Sarah exceptional. She knew—she could in some cases read the signs—a number of girls in her class who lived in the same uneasy state of emotional excess and occasional dread that marked drinkers’ households. And so, despite having seen wholesome films about families who blithely resolved all crises in a couple of movie reels, she knew, too, that the exchanges between her mother and father were bitter but predictable, offering neither the comforts of homeliness nor any hint of exaltation.

  It seemed to Sarah there were thousands of men and women caught in this joyless net, though at least for nonbelievers there was a chance of escape. She got used to spotting at Mass the families who had emerged from an apogee of alcoholic disorder and were now temporarily gusted along on new hope, on the promises of a repentant father, cowed himself by the dimmest memory of his own paroxysms of mayhem; soon an edged, heated insult, a readjustment, one thrown punch would teach that entire family once more how business was really conducted.

  She hated the squalor of her home. Her parents rented; if he had not been consumed by “that beastly stuff” (her mother’s phrase) they would have owned their house like other people.

  Then there was a supremely humiliating night. The house was quiet and he came home and could be heard shuffling in the hallway as a prelude to . . . what? His dropping into oblivion, his pissing in a sink, or some new invention of booze-maddened disruption. But he remained silent. He came to her bedroom nearly soundlessly. It was his thunderous breathing, not his shoes, that woke her. She understood so much by that time—she knew the Latin vocative of a swag of nouns, and the neatness of Pythagoras; she could recite the Chinese dynasties and debate the causes of the First World War. She was barely conscious when she found his hand on her breast, and when she drew in breath to cry out, he covered her mouth with his other hand. She could smell brick dust on it, beer, a trace of his own excreta, as if he lacked the consciousness to clean himself properly. She could feel the calluses indenting her face. That was how her mother, suddenly standing at the door, caught him, caught her. Her mother roared like thunder and he lifted his hand off his daughter’s breast, though the act could not be reversed and took all the divine music out of Pythagoras.

  Her mother advanced and dragged him upwards by the back of
his shirt.

  “Leave a man alone,” he nearly managed to say.

  He was the lucky one. He would barely remember in the morning. Her mother told Sarah that he didn’t know what he was doing. She quizzed her daughter about whether it had happened before, and when Sarah let out a little negative bleat, her mother hugged her and said it was not her fault and she must protect herself as women did, and the best protection was to tell another woman. Me, said her mother. This exchange excruciated and steeled the young Sarah.

  She began to get to school early and stay as long as she could. She was always ready to run errands for the nuns; she lingered at netball. The joy of knowing things revived in her. Her father had lost her—she did not want his company and he was chastened, and the chastening remained even in his worst bouts: it was profounder than the base needs alcohol stirred in men.

  Much later she realized how nineteenth century her family was: the men the brutes, the women the madonnas, the fathers drinking what they could not afford and taking from that armory of liquor every implement of imaginative malice, unpredictably cutting and maiming edges. Still, getting the kids to tyke, RC, rock-chopper schools, the schools of the ancestors—for some reason that was essential to her father, automatic to him, and to her mother.

  There was by then a modern phenomenon of middle-class, wine-ingesting women, who’d had the time in suburban nullity to digest the promises and defiance of Betty Friedan’s “Woman: the Fourth Dimension,” which appeared in magazines in the mid-1960s, and to be drawn up into the anger of Greer and assurances that the old model of marriage was done with. They told their husbands to iron their own bloody underwear and shirts, and, while they were at it, to feed the kids. But Sarah’s mother remained the pietà, the suffering monument. She represented for Sarah what marriage was; her father symbolized sex—and both were piteous and despicable.

  Her name was Sarah Fagan. But she intended to change even that. And not through the expedient of marriage.

  * * *

  SARAH WAS fourteen when she ran an errand to the presbytery, with a message from one of the older nuns to the polished young priest who was curate to the parish priest, himself a monsignor. The housekeeper left her waiting at the door and went to get the younger priest. He bounced downstairs buttoning his cassock. His neat brown hair was brushed flat, his cassock impeccably black, no scurf, no tobacco flakes or ashes.

  “You caught me watching television,” he told her with a smile. Some priests looked almost as disheveled as her father, but there was another kind who smelled of soap and some hair preparation or aftershave. Fragrant priests. This man was that kind. And in the presbytery front hall there was none of the dusty, musky smell of the house she lived in, humid with her mother’s unhappiness and her brothers’ imaginings; home, too, of the tropic of shame that she could never again mention to her mother.

  The priest read the note she gave him. He looked up. “Mother Alphonsus says you are very competent,” he told her. “And that you’ve helped them a great deal with their office work. I’ve been asking for someone to help us—running messages, organizing files. I promise it’s not because I’m lazy or watching TV all the time.”

  At that second she loved the Church, the sane face of Mother Alphonsus, the ordered face of this priest. Father Leo Shannon.

  He led her upstairs to a room with a desk, filing cabinets, a picture on the wall of a saint she could not identify, and a settee under the window. The floorboards were varnished but there was a mat spread as neatly as a little lawn. He showed her how the parish filing was done—letters from the archdiocese, the replies, files on parishioners, references for job-seekers, notices of bereavements and of parish social events, as well as bills paid and donations received. I will not look in the Fagan dossier, Sarah decided. In fact, there was an embarrassing question to which she did not want the answer. What did Father Shannon know about her family?

  “I know I can depend on you not to snoop inside the files,” he told her as if he had perceived her thoughts. “They are confidential, and I keep your mother’s file as secret as I wish to keep the others. That’s why I asked Mother Alphonsus for an entirely reliable girl.”

  He further confided to her, “To tell you the truth, the monsignor is so busy on God’s matters, and with golf on Mondays, that he has let the church records slip a little. You are going to help me get them under management.”

  He said that, about the monsignor not having time, with a kindly irony, but again he had taken her into a secret, as he had when he’d confessed to watching television. She was flattered to be confided in.

  As she was alienated from her own household, the presbytery became Sarah’s vision of home. Everything shone; the carpets were vacuumed; the walls were white and sparsely decorated with portraits of recent popes, reproductions of Raphael’s Madonna and child, bright statuary, and photographs of various clergy. She would in time come to see this ecclesiastic decor as sterile, but it seemed to her then to be a space made for devotion and in which good works might flourish. She wanted it because she did not want what was at home: a marriage sacred only in its origins, a venue of unpredictable tears and gestures and of such low exuberance as her brothers’ farting contests.

  Father Shannon and Sarah worked cooperatively. He would give her a letter and tell her which folder to put it in and under what alphabetic listing. Financials—electricity, gas bills, rates—she filed in their own drawer, to be used for the parish’s financial statements by the honorary treasurer. The priest told her she was a fast learner. Passing papers, dressed in his collarless white shirt and black trousers and impeccable shoes, he said like a confession, “I just can’t stand things not being in order.”

  And it was obvious to her, his hunger for orderliness.

  Over time, the monsignor himself asked her to run errands when he was in, to take notes to various parishioners, generally members of his parish council, occupiers of neat brick bungalows, owners of good cars. Men of substance. Or else to the ladies of the sodality who did the altar. But the monsignor was out a lot, and what she did above all was work for Father Shannon.

  In between these tasks, said Father Shannon, she was welcome to attend to her homework. So, within the presbytery, sitting in its dusted chairs, on its polished wood, she did her trigonometry and her French.

  3

  * * *

  Docherty in Sydney

  July 1996

  AFTER FRANK first left Australia in 1972, sent to the Order’s “house,” or monastery, in Ontario, it was seven years before he returned.

  International airfares were high in that decade, and the truth was that eventually he found his mix of priestly work and academia in Canada satisfying. Docherty’s graduate studies at Sydney University had been based around psychology and sociology, so when he found himself close to a good provincial university in a regional town in Ontario, at the desire of both the superior of his Order and of the local bishop he proceeded to his doctorate.

  The other monks in the Order’s house were either indifferent or amused by the expulsion Docherty himself found hard to live with. Occasionally one might say, after too much evening beer, “Come on, Frank. Come clean with us. Did you fall for some Aussie woman?”

  Some Aussie woman. Maureen Breslin. He did not know whether to grieve for her. To rejoice in being separated from her, he thought, would be sinister indeed, because it treated a living, splendid woman as if she were temptation incarnate. In private, he applied meditation and his Gandhi-ist principles to prove to himself that he had not been hard done by. The world was one of forced migrations. Look at the bloody relocations of 1947 across India and Pakistan. And in no sense could this part of Ontario where the house was located be depicted as a bitter land of exile. He came to miss Australia and his mother and the sight of Maureen only with occasional spasms of grief and not, as he had expected, continuously.

  In the 1980s, as the price of
travel fell, he came home twice for visits during the North American summer. On the first of these, he found that his friends the Breslins were of the same mind as him. Willing without embarrassment to make room for the intense attraction he and Maureen Breslin shared, but not wanting to make a meal of analyzing it. North Americans had a tendency to want to analyze mysteries, but Australians pragmatically thought not only that mysteries were beyond analysis, but that analysis would break their ineffable clockwork. He was grateful for this new level of friendship. Critics would say it made a eunuch of him. Well, that came with the job.

  His last visit had been three years before, for which his brother, Declan, paid his plane fare so that Docherty could visit their mother, who was by then living in a retirement village run by the Little Sisters of the Poor and had some weeks earlier broken her hip. The resultant shock had provoked a transient ischemic episode, which mimicked the symptoms of a stroke but whose effects then eased. The paralysis of the left side of her face and body ameliorated after two days, and she was already well recovered by the time Docherty arrived. Her nurses said it had been a sad thing to see her when she was demoralized, and that his visit had elated her.

  Declan Docherty was a lawyer in Melbourne who had become an industrial relations specialist. During Frank’s 1993 visit Declan took his brother to the Melbourne Christmas and Sydney New Year Ashes Tests, and some of the Adelaide Test as well. Cricket did not seem a luxury to Frank, raucous though it might sometimes be and as malicious as the aim of pace bowlers might sometimes seem.

  Everywhere they walked during lunch and adjournments and rain breaks at the Test at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, and in the members’ stand of the Sydney Cricket Ground, Declan was stopped by other lawyers, men from the corporates, and union officials, and he took this frequency of greeting with a calm social grace. Declan was known for having friends on both sides of the fence, and bringing about satisfactory results with his well-paid interventions. A former New South Wales Labor minister confided with vinous breath to Docherty that his brother had a large hand in designing industrial relations systems for sundry businesses, which gave industrial peace for years at a time. It was not a matter of surprise to Docherty—he knew his little brother was clever, flexible of thought, amiable, earnest, learned.