In God's House (26 page)

“What a phrase! Benevolent diocese!”

“Right. A priest who has had a string of drunk-driving problems or other alcohol issues is dried out in a treatment center and shipped to a benevolent diocese. It’s the same with a priest who has impregnated a parishioner and has to find a new home. Men with all kinds of afflictions, addictions and flaws find a new home in a benevolent diocese.”

“A benevolent diocese? And this extends to harboring criminal child abusers?”

“Right. And your wife is right. Father Dubois is far from the only one here. I don’t know what that guy Jackson and
The Courier
will ultimately uncover, but your wife is right. What did your wife call it?”

“Kate called it a nest – a nest of perverted priests.”

“She’s right. I have knowledge of others like Dubois. There are fifteen I am aware of, and another ten I suspect. I think somewhere over 10 per cent of our priests are either sexually abusing teenagers or little children. I can’t bear to think about it. I feel so powerless sometimes.”

“Do you have their files? The fifteen?”

She nodded. “When you need those files, I’ll give them to you. Eat your pizza, Ren. It’s getting cold.”

During dinner we talked about the history of Thiberville and the surrounding settlements, a place founded by my ancestors that she knew a whole lot more about than I did.

She went to the French doors leading to the balcony and struggled with the shutter latch that was too tall for her tiny, taut, runner’s stature. I went over to help her. As I unlatched the hardware our bodies touched. She looked up at me with the clearest dark eyes I had ever seen. With my right hand, I smoothed away a wayward lock of her sweaty hair. Then I quickly withdrew. “Sorry.” The moment was awkward and I did not know how we were going to get out of it.

She laughed hard. “It’s okay. I’m not going to break if you touch me.”

She walked me to my car, carrying the Dubois file under her arm. She handed the file to me and said, “Good luck. And, hey, call me if you have to use the file. Give me some warning – ya know, to pack up and get outtahere.”

I nodded. “This has to be the worst diocese in the country,” I said.

Julie was standing under a streetlight, momentarily lost in a serious thought. I waited for her to speak. She shrugged. “It’s all so secretive, Ren. It would not surprise me if every diocese in the world is exactly like this one. But I cannot imagine anyone would ever know that.”

I saw Julie again on Christmas Eve. Kate was skiing with the children in Breckenridge, Colorado, and my dad was visiting my sister in Florida.

I had been frozen out by all of the Church lawyers and the diocese. I only talked about Dubois and the growing number of
priest scandals with Julie, who had become a phone friend. Over the previous two weeks we had talked on the phone nearly every night. She was my only window into the workings of the diocese. And she was honest.

I knew Julie had stopped attending Mass. One night on the phone she made a reference to “our Church”.

I said, “It’s not my Church anymore.”

Julie said, “I don’t know if I’ve quit the Church, but I’ve quit going to church.”

Knowing she would be home on that freezing Christmas Eve, I brought a new bicycle to the porch of her apartment building. A big bow was tied to the handlebars. I rang the doorbell, raced around the house to the alley where my car was parked, and drove away. Two blocks later, my car phone rang.

“How did Santa know I needed a new bike? You can’t be far away. Come back. I’ll fix us some breakfast.”

When I was settled in her small living room, she handed me a wrapped package. “Yeah, I had this gift for you. I just didn’t know if I should give you something.”

I pulled the wrapper off. It was a book on the life of Saint Ignatius Loyola.

“You might be surprised by this man’s life,” she said.

“Thanks. I’ll read it.”

“Okay. Now, that’s the good part. The bad part is I lied. I don’t have any breakfast. I have one egg, a few suspect pieces of bread. I have leftover pizza from last night. I can heat it.”

“Julie, dear, do you eat anything besides pizza?”

“Sure. Apples.”

Jon Bendel was whispering into the phone.

“You gotta speak up, Jon,” I said. “It’s your phone or my car phone. I can’t hear.”

He coughed. “Let me get to another phone. I’ll call you back in a minute.”

I was on my way to Coteau. Kate had invited me for dinner with the kids. I always felt good when driving toward Coteau.

Bendel rang again. Still speaking in low tones, he said, “Look, I have my hands full over here at the chancery trying to prepare the bishop for his deposition. It could take all night the way it’s going. I really need your help.”

“In preparing the bishop?”

“No. I’d not wish that on anyone. Monsignor Moroux tells me this Monsignor Gaudet down in Bayou Saint John is resistant to the idea of attending the depositions at Chaisson’s office tomorrow, actually refusing to testify. I can’t get down there. I’ve had Monsignor Moroux call him to tell him to expect you this evening at seven o’clock.”

“For what?”

“Standard preparation for a deposition. Explain what will take place in the depositions tomorrow.”

“He’s not my client. He’s your client.”

“Please do this. I think this monsignor just needs to understand, needs to have the legal process of a deposition explained to him. It can’t be that difficult.”

My line went dead.

After Bendel hung up, I pulled into a parking lot fenced with crushed beer cans. A tin sign advertised the long, rickety shack as being “Razor Leblanc’s Bar, Barbershop, Pool Emporium, Grocery Store & Marrying Parlor”.

The phone was still in my hand. I was torn between calling Bendel back to cancel on Monsignor Gaudet or calling Kate to cancel on dinner with her and the children.

I hadn’t spoken to Bendel, or any of the other Church lawyers, in weeks. Now he was offering me the chance to talk to one of the priests who had supervised Dubois. It might be the only such chance I would ever have.

The lady who responded to the doorbell at the rectory wore a stiff, starched uniform that made a slight cracking noise when she moved. The house smelled like The Palms, where my father lived. It was of that same vintage, built of the same materials and closed up for as many years. As I followed the lady down a long hall, I heard music. The maid carefully opened the carved wooden French doors to the monsignor’s study. The sound of opera filled the room.

Monsignor Phillip Jules Gaudet was seated in a wingback chair, wearing a black cassock with large pearl buttons. He had a long red scarf draped around his neck. He raised the index finger of his right hand to his lips, signaling me to remain silent, and motioned with the downturned palm of his left hand for me to take a seat. The record ended. For a moment the needle bounced on the vinyl, making a scratching sound, while the man in black seemed to swoon in reverie, eyes closed. When he stood and turned off the stereo, a clock began to chime seven.

“Ah, the hour is now seven, the hour you were expected. My timing was perfect. You were more than punctual. This is an unusual trait in the era we live in.”

He was not going to shake my hand. “Do you have legal papers or something for me?”

“No. I was asked to help prepare you for your deposition tomorrow.”

“Oh, that? Well, I am not going to do that. I was in that lawyer Chaisson’s office one time back in September. I am not going to subject myself to that man’s questions. I spoke with Mother an hour ago. We agree I should not have my name involved in such tawdry business. But I have prepared table for both of us now. Normally, I have table at six thirty. Tonight I made an exception to extend hospitality to you.”

It took a moment for me to realize that what the monsignor was calling “table” was what the rest of us called dinner.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Monsignor, we do have work to do.”

The monsignor became very agitated. In a petulant tone, he said, “Table. I will have table. I always have table.” His outburst could not have been more childlike if he had stomped his feet.

When we were seated in the dining room, Monsignor Gaudet folded his hands carefully and prayed in Latin. The prayer lasted an interminably long time. When he finished praying, he crossed himself, reached for a small bell and shook it. The lady in the stiff white uniform appeared with finger bowls and napkins that were as starched as the clothes she wore. The monsignor rang the little bell for each course. The sherbet served to cleanse our palates was the only thing that had any flavor. Table took exactly one hour.

What we talked about at table was his mother. I heard about her illnesses and ailments, and learned that since he had been a priest his mother had faithfully attended his Sunday-morning Mass every week.

“My mother lives in Cathedral Parish in Thiberville. By all rights I should be rector of the cathedral. Then my dear old mother could see me every day. Instead, I am exiled to this inglorious outpost.”

Once we were back in the room with leaded glass windows that he referred to as his library, I realized the shelves were filled with music albums, all operas.

“What is it you want to discuss?”

I decided not to talk about the deposition he had informed me he would not attend. I would save that for later. There were other things I needed to know about my client.

“Monsignor, Father Francis Dubois was assigned to this parish as your assistant—”

He cut me off. “They now call them associates, not assistants. But I would never have associated with this man by choice. Nor was he of any real assistance. The man could not relate to anyone older than ten. He is a pederast, pure and simple.”

“Did you know this about him when he lived in this rectory? That he was, as you say, a pederast?”

“Young man, every priest in this diocese knows Father Dubois is a pederast.”

“Yes. That’s true today. That is not the question. The question is: did you know Dubois was a pederast when he lived in this rectory?”

“It does not matter when one came to know this or how one came to know this. I know this man is a pederast. This is my knowledge.”

“And this will be your testimony tomorrow in Thiberville when you give your deposition?”

“Young man, I told you. I am not going to involve myself in these proceedings.”

“Monsignor, perhaps you should read the document the sheriff’s deputy delivered to you. It is not an invitation or a request. It’s a court order. A judge has ordered you to appear at the offices of Kane Chaisson on Caffery Boulevard in Thiberville at ten tomorrow morning.”

“I am not going.”

“If you do not appear, Mr. Chaisson will hold up the proceedings until he has an arrest warrant issued for you.”

The monsignor asked me to please leave the room and said he would send Annette, who I presumed to be the housekeeper-cook, to bring me back to him when he was ready. I welcomed the
chance to go outside and smoke. As I was closing the library door behind me, I heard him dialing the phone.

When Annette came for me, I realized I had been on the porch for nearly twenty minutes. The monsignor was patting perspiration from his forehead with a folded handkerchief when I entered the room. “So, tell me, young man. What exactly happens at these depositions?”

“A deposition is the giving of testimony under oath. All of the lawyers in this case, and that would mean lawyers representing all of the parties who have been sued – Father Dubois, the archdiocese, the diocese, Bishop Reynolds, Monsignor Moroux, Monsignor Belair, and you—”

“What do you mean? I have never been sued by anyone over anything.”

“Monsignor, if you read the paper, the subpoena the deputy brought, you will see the caption of the suit names you as one of the defendants.”

“Who is my lawyer? Don’t I need a lawyer if I have been sued? Mother has property.”

“You are represented as are all of the officials of the diocese by Jonathan Bendel, and there are lawyers representing the many insurance companies who insure the diocese. There is no chance any of your property or your mother’s property will be at risk.”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“All of the lawyers and a court reporter, as well as any parties to the lawsuit, will assemble in a conference room in Mr. Chaisson’s office. No one else will be admitted. It is certain there will be some press people outside of the building, and I want to start by addressing that. Television cameras and still photographers for newspapers will be there. Whatever footage they take will last forever and may be broadcast many times over. What a person does on a television tape or in a still photograph can inadvertently create an impression very different from what the person intends. So it is important not to smile like this is
something you are making light of. Not to frown like you are disapproving. Not to show any reaction or emotion. Not to do anything cute.”

“I have never done anything cute in my entire life.”

“I don’t imagine you have.”

“What happens inside the building?”

“Once the court reporter swears you in, places you under oath, you will be questioned by Mr. Chaisson, who represents a boy called Donny Rachou and his parents. Mr. Chaisson may ask you questions for as long as he wishes and you are compelled by court order to testify truthfully.”

“So, I will tell them Father Dubois is a pederast. Case closed.”

“Monsignor, again I ask you to separate what you know today from what you knew when Dubois lived here. Did you know he was a pederast when he lived in this rectory?”

“You cannot separate and compartmentalize what you know. I know the man is a pederast. Didn’t everyone in the diocese know this from the beginning? And I know he is a cretin as well, but I will not say that part.”

“Please do skip that part.”

“There is another thing…”

“Yes?”

“I become nervous and confused when I am asked to answer questions. I always think I don’t know the answer. I try to avoid anyone who might have a question unless it is a question about our religion, doctrine, faith, sacraments.”

“You will know the answers to all the questions you will hear tomorrow.”

“All I know is this is the Roman Catholic Church and no one in the world, not this Mr. Chaisson or anyone else has the right to ask anything of a Catholic priest.”

“Tomorrow you will be asked questions. No one can stop this.”

“I could make a mess of things.”

This could turn out to be the biggest understatement I ever heard
, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Monsignor, you are going to be
asked if you had problems with Dubois and boys when he lived here. I want to know the truth.”

“I did move him from a ground-floor bedroom to a bedroom on the second floor.”

“Why was that?”

“Little boys were crawling in the window at night. They broke some of the rose bushes Mother and I had transplanted from her garden.”

“Did you ever tell anyone about the little boys crawling in the windows?”

“No. And I certainly am not going to tell Mr. Chaisson tomorrow.”

“You have to tell the truth.”

“This Chaisson fellow sounds like an unjust aggressor against Holy Mother Church. One of the most sacred precepts of the priesthood is to avoid all scandal to the Church. I will not scandalize Holy Mother Church.”