Bishop's Man (17 page)

Read Bishop's Man Online

Authors: Linden Macintyre

We held back briefly near the door while Willie and his mother got their coats and boots on. On the way out, the old lady paused, took my hand in hers.
“Be sure to come and visit. I was talking to your sister, Effie. She says maybe we’re related. And she said you’ve got lots of
Gaidhlig
…”
I laughed and winked. “We’ll see.”
I felt a sudden weariness. After months of inactivity, the days before Christmas had become endless hours crouched in the confessional, tedious visits to the housebound. Mass Christmas Eve. Mass at midnight. Two masses that morning. I was aware of a great weight. Anxiety and weariness. Or maybe a yearning.
Stella seemed to read my mind. “You really have to go?”
“I really do.”
“Some date you are,” she said, and poked my ribs playfully.
The wine, I thought. It’s the wine that makes her eyes go green like that.
Then young Danny was in front of me, a drink in his hand. “Can I get you something, Father?”
“No. I’m thinking of sneaking away.”
“Hey, it’s just getting started.”
His warmth seemed genuine now, and it occurred to me that this might be his essence, the basis of his friendship with his father.
“I did something the other day,” he said. “I didn’t want to bother you. But there was an old tarp in the barn and I used it to cover the back of your boat. Keep the snow out. Snow is bad for the old wooden boats. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No. Thanks,” I said.
There seemed to be a struggle behind the slightly amused expression on his face, something he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for.
“You’re kind of different,” he said at last, encouraged by his drink. “Not the kind of priest I’m used to.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I said, perhaps too quickly.
“I’m used to Mullins,” he said, and laughed.
“Mullins isn’t so bad,” I said carefully.
“I suppose. Given half a chance he’d be all right.” And he fell silent again, looking at the contents of his glass. “But I don’t think a fellow would be able to talk to Mullins … about things. You know what I mean?”
I waited for more.
“I tried once. To talk to him. It was a big mistake.”
“That’s too bad,” I murmured.
“You, now. I figure a fellow could talk to yourself about anything. Right?”
“I hope so.”
“Maybe one of these days.”
“The door is always open,” I said.
“Okay, then,” he said, suddenly awkward in his manner and movements.
I nodded in the direction of the two musicians, who were chatting quietly, the music finished for the moment. “You’d know those guys pretty well, I suppose.”
He just stared. Then he stood up. “I’m kind of old-fashioned. They’re a bit too modern for me.”
The smile was gone.
 
“Charity,” the bishop said. “I’m wearing holes in the knees of my trousers praying for charity. It’s something I’ve always been short on. I don’t mind admitting it. Intellectually, I know things work out. They go away. They’ll think things through. Thank the Almighty for a second chance. Then they’ll come back to us, prepared to serve … often better priests for the encounter with their weaknesses. Better able to understand the weaknesses of others. Remember Augustine.
“But it’s in here,” he said, pointing toward his bony chest. “It’s in here I have the problem. I have a hard time getting past the dirty details. I have a hard time not judging.”
“Maybe,” I said carefully, “the judgment is legitimate. Condemnation might be called for. If I had my way, we’d hunker down, hold our noses and let the proper authorities handle them.”
The reaction was instantaneous. “The proper …
authorities?
You think the cops and the prosecutors are the proper authorities? Have you seen what’s been going on in other places? The feeding frenzy … all the enemies of Catholicism dropping their phony ecumenical masks, thrilling at the discomfort of the Mother Church. Lay people using every opportunity to play up their own anticlerical agendas at our expense, blathering about celibacy, for God’s sake. As if celibacy is at the root of all perversions. You’ve got to get that thinking out of your head, boy. It’s an ugly world out there. We have to handle this ourselves. Keep the enemy out of it.”
“I don’t disagree. But we can’t forget about … the … other parties. The youngsters.”
“Go ahead and say the word,” he mocked. “‘Victim’? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Call them what you will. I’m seeing damage there.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “They’ll get over it. They’re young. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else. The dope. The cars. The promiscuity. Life is damaging, but never forget the healing power of the Sacraments. The Sacraments mitigate the damage. We can’t let a bunch of misfits and complainers undermine the Sacraments.”
And I’ll admit it now. It made sense to me back then.
Outside, the night was brightened by the pristine snow, a looming moon and flinty stars. The air was sharp and clear but tinged, I noted, by the spicy tang of marijuana. Effie and Sextus were in the car, waiting, engine running.
I stood for a moment, patting my pockets as if searching for keys. Instinctive subterfuge. Then I looked around.
“You’re leaving, Father,” said the fiddle player. You could see the glow of the cigarette in his hand.
“I am,” I said.
Archie was relaxed, but Donald O’Brian actually looked frightened, hanging back in the shadows.
I considered neutralizing the moment with a disarming acknowledgement of the smoke, but decided against it. Too soon for such familiarity, I thought.
I walked toward the car, snow crunching beneath my feet.
Too modern, Danny had said.
I smiled.
 
The drive home left me edgy. Sitting alone in the back of the car, I was conscious of a feeling not unlike a childish disappointment. Perhaps, I thought, it’s my basic puritanism. People think that I’m straitlaced. Hard line, Effie said.
feb. 20. tonight i touched her face. i couldn’t help it. i just placed my palm along her jawbone. her cheek is soft and warm. but i could tell it bothered her. she removed the hand, but held it briefly. and, god forgive me, i’m not sorry.
I knew there was no possibility of sleep. So I poured a strong drink.
A Christmas Carol
was playing on TV, and I realized that I’d never really watched it all before, so I settled back to see it through. He understood it, I thought. Old Dickens. His insight into Christmas, the unity of past, present and future, the possibility of liberation through generosity.
As Alfonso said repeatedly: the Holy Spirit dwells in all of us, rich and poor alike.
The Ghost of Christmas Past was reminding Scrooge of forgotten happiness when the telephone revived me. It was Effie.
“Just checking in,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, no. Is everything okay?”
“Sure. I just felt a little guilty. I was sharp with you before. Then watching you go into that dark house all alone. I should be staying with you.”
“Come on. I thrive on solitude.”
“Sure. That’s what I used to think.”
There was a long silence. I could hear slow music in the background.
“Did anybody talk to John today?” I asked.
“We tried to call this morning. To see what he was up to. There was no answer.”
“Oh?”
“Sextus thinks there’s a lady somewhere. And I hope so. You’re both alone too much. It isn’t good for you.”
I ignored the loaded comment. And we just sat there, at our opposite ends of the ephemeral connection, wondering where to go next.
Finally, she said for the thousandth time that she wished the Church would wise up and allow people like me to find partners, that nobody should be expected to live in emotional isolation without becoming damaged.
“I don’t think I’m all that damaged … yet,” I said.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I couldn’t help thinking how … natural it seemed, you and Stella arriving there together.”
And, unexpectedly, I wanted to hear more. How did we look, arriving there together? Friends? A couple? A scandal in the making?
“Stella? You always were a bit romantic.”
“Any time you want to talk.”
“We should get some sleep.”
“Okay. I just felt like checking in.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Good night.”
feb. 28. i write this in the spirit of penance and humiliation. away from her i can’t seem to concentrate on anything else.
{9}
A
s I recall it now, those gloomy days just after Christmas 1994 revealed the sinister outlines of returning doubt. Eventually there’s only so much reassurance to be had from Paul to the Corinthians: “He that is without a wife is solicitous for the things that belong to the Lord, how he may please God.” Right. He was saying that if we are undistracted by the needs of women and children, we will be free to spend all our time in homage to the Almighty. And thereby we become a higher form of life. But then the flushed, boozy face of single Willie-what’s-his-name from Hawthorne came back to me. How much of his time has he spent pleasing God? From what I’ve learned, single men like him have been in the forefront of inventing a thousand twisted ways to please themselves. Even single men who have sworn fidelity to our Holy Mother, our apostolic institution. Preying on the vulnerable young is only part of it.
The struggle never ceases … the battle between faith and reason.
 
“Have you never, yourself … ever … strayed?”
The question was delivered with the confidence of the damned. The man had nothing left to lose. In fact I had liberated him from a pathetic, corrosive, delusional sense of personal security. Before I showed up, he’d actually convinced himself that he’d escaped detection. I put a stop to that. The boy is talking, I told him, and I believe him. This isn’t about he-says-you-say. This is about damage control.
His face revealed everything I had to know. He was down, now, to essential instinct. Accuse the accuser, one of their best tactics.
“I’d put money on it. You have your own skeletons,” he said.
“That’s neither here nor there.”
Weak, weak answer. I know it. Pathetic, in a way. But in such circumstances one must not fall into their traps. They want to lure you to a place where there are no certainties and where there are no rules, where struggles are won by nimble creativity.
“You tell me,” he persists. “And never mind the weasel evasions. You tell me with a straight face that you never, not even once, felt the heat of temptation. Man, woman, child, beast … something, somewhere, must have stirred the most natural impulse in
your
frigid being.”
“The point,” I replied, “is that we have made a conscious choice.”
“Aw, come on,” he said, waving an impatient hand.
I bulldozed onward. We were told up front. Explicitly. Choose between the desires of the world and the life of sacrifice and service. Nobody said it would be easy. In fact, we were told it would be hard. You stepped forward … accepted the order …
“But they didn’t tell us how hard,” he said.
I tried to read his expression for awareness of the double meaning. He had the eyes of a poker player. I decided to ignore the remark.
“Anyway,” I said, “the big issue here isn’t canon law. We’re talking about the Criminal Code. You could be in a worse spot than you are, standing here in front of me. Just be thankful I’m not a lawyer or a cop. Worse still … if his father ever got hold of you. You should be bloody grateful.”

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