Though they were the same age, Heath looked much older than Lowther. His hair
was brush-cut, which gave him a military demeanour. He was short, about five
foot five, with a belly like a sleeping pup. He smiled at whatever was said or
whatever he himself said. It left the impression Heath could give or take any
news with equanimity. At least, that was Father Pennant's impression, until he realized that Heath's smile was something of a nervous tic, that an alternate indicator of Lambert's thoughts and feelings were his eyes: dark brown, almost unblinking, serious.
It was disconcerting to feel unsure about how to read a man's face, to be unsure if Heath were friendly or slightly hostile. And it was
difficult â or difficult for Father Pennant â not to mistrust him.
     From the outside, Heath's home appeared to be a solid, old-Âfashioned red-brick farmhouse with a few solid, red-brick additions here and
there. Inside, the house was a bewildering number of connected warrens. This
stairway led there and that hallway led somewhere unexpected and on his first
tour through the house Father Pennant thought he'd need a map to find any particular room again. As well, every room seemed to be
in disarray, with books, papers and magazines scattered about. Some of the
rooms were labs of a sort, with cages for white mice or weasels and sand farms
for ants, worms and shrews. The whole place was in a kind of organized chaos,
and Lambert apologized constantly for the state of his home.
     Although Heath Lambert was, clearly, a brilliant man, he was a dull talker. The
longer he spoke about something, the more tiresome that thing became. Lambert
himself took evident pleasure in explaining things at length. So, when Lowther
asked his friend what he had been up to âin the last while,' Lambert went on for an hour describing the minutiae of his latest endeavours:
from trying to discover a natural insect repellent to devising ways to
defoliate and kill sick or infected trees.
     As Lambert spoke, Father Pennant gradually lost interest in the deadly
potential of weeds, herbs and animal by-products. He listened, more and more
distractedly, looking out the living room window at a vast, uncut lawn, beyond
which were the first houses of Oil Springs. The sky through the living room
window was blue behind the cirrus clouds that looked like bloated, white
writing. Inside, the air was a little stale, but from time to time a breeze
would come through one of the windows, bringing with it the scent of grass and
weeds.
     Distracted by the sky and the breezes, Father Pennant was caught off-guard when
Lowther asked him
     â Is that all right?
     â Yes, Father Pennant answered instinctively. Yes, of course.
     So, when they got up to follow Heath, he had no idea what they were going to
see.
     They went up to the second floor, walked along a long hallway, then along
another, and stopped in front of an orange door.
     â Be careful how you step, said Lambert. And please close the door behind you.
     Then all three of them entered a room that was, almost literally, filled with
gypsy moths. The moths covered the floor, ceiling, walls and windows. There
were tables along one wall. On the tables: aquaria. In the aquaria: leaves and
moths. In the centre of the room was a table with a chair, over the back of
which was a yellow sweater. On this table were a number of notebooks. On the
notebooks: gypsy moths.
     Father Pennant was afraid to step anywhere, for fear of crushing the moths.
Heath went about in stockinged feet, shuffling rather than walking. He moved
his feet on the wooden floor without lifting them, trying to push the moths out
of his way.
     â Here it is, Lambert said. I've been working with these critters for years.
     Stunned (and also somewhat alarmed), Father Pennant said
     â I'm sorry. I must have missed something.
What
 have you been doing?
     â Defoliation, said Lambert. Targeted defoliation. You must have drifted, Father.
I'll start from the beginning.
     If Heath was at all inconvenienced by this repetition, he did not show it.
After brushing the moths off a wooden chair, he invited Father Pennant to sit.
Father Pennant sat and, after a few minutes, was covered by moths, some of
which he gently brushed from his neck and forehead as Lambert spoke.
     Having made much money with his slow-release nitrogen fertilizer, Lambert had
gone to the University of Guelph to study biology and psychology, two subjects
that had always interested him. His courses in biology led to specialization in
entomology. His study of insects led him to wonder if there was any
demonstrable insect psychology. He wrote a thesis on âhive-mind neurosis.' And over the years, he devised a number of experiments with insects, moths in
particular. One day, while feeding gypsy moths' larvae, he cut an oak leaf into narrow strips and lay the strips in a pattern.
The gypsy larvae naturally followed the pattern their food made. And following
many experiments, Lambert found, to his own surprise, that after a time, if the
pattern of the leaves was always the same, the moths that emerged from the
larvae had a tendency to fly in the pattern their food had made. That is: if,
every day for a certain period of time, a larva's food was laid out in a circle, the moth it became would, when it was flying,
fly in a circle. With time, he found he could get gypsy moths to fly in circles
or triangles or even more elaborate patterns. Of what practical use was this
insect husbandry? Lambert thought up any number of uses. For instance, he was
almost certain he could train moths to flutter together to make business
insignias or business marks. It seemed to Lambert that his moths might even,
one day, take the place of skywriting or fireworks. Yes, it was too early to
tell if his ideas were workable on a large scale, but he was certain a
generation of moths would come along, a generation trained and bright enough to
flutter in commercial patterns.
     On hearing about Heath Lambert's work, Father Pennant was, to say the least, skeptical. It seemed to him that
Lambert was telling tall tales, though the man's constant smile made it difficult to judge how much he believed what he said.
It was clear, however, that Heath Lambert, and perhaps Lowther as well, had had
something to do with the gypsy moths he'd seen in the Stephenses' field. In the silence that followed Heath's account of moth advertising, Lowther and Lambert stared at him, as if waiting
for a reaction. They seemed to expect something from him. In fact, Lowther
asked
     â Did you want to say something, Father?
     But what was he meant to say? He felt relief and sadness. He was relieved that
what he had seen in the field was not miraculous. It had not been a sign from
God. He did not have to rethink his role on earth. Yet he was also strangely
disappointed. For a while, there, in the Stephenses' field, he had recovered his awe before the divine. These men may have been
responsible for its recovery, but they were now the cause of its loss.
     He considered telling Lambert he'd seen gypsy moths execute patterns in a field near Barrow, but when he thought
to say so, he felt a strange reticence. Though neither Lambert nor Lowther had
been in the field with him, it was (curiously) as if both knew what he'd been through and were waiting for his testimony. Not wishing to play a game
whose rules he did not understand, Father Pennant said only
     â I hope your experiments are successful, Heath.
     â Why is that, Father?
     â Because I can see you love your work.
     â That I do, said Lambert. Thank you, Father.
Understandably, Father Pennant lost some of the lightness he'd felt during his first weeks in Barrow. His encounter with the gypsy moths â and Heath Lambert â put him off balance. He was now more acutely aware of himself as an outsider.
Still, Barrow had not entirely alienated him. And to commemorate the end of his
second month in town, he went to the bakery, looking for a loaf of the bread
Harrington himself had sold him on his first day.
     Pushing the door to the bakery open, he immediately smelled the kaiser rolls
that had recently come from the oven and were now cooling in a wooden bin. He
took two rolls and then, seeing the bread he wanted on a shelf, he took two of
those as well. To his surprise, the bread too was warm and pliable and smelled
of yeast and walnuts.
     â Good morning, Father Pennant.
     Elizabeth Denny, the bakery's cashier and assistant manager, smiled, took the bread from his hands and put
it in two paper bags.
     â This is wonderful bread, said Father Pennant.
     â Yes, I think so too, said Elizabeth. You're lucky you came when you did, though. There aren't usually any left by now.
     Father Pennant thanked her, then stepped out into the sunny mid-afternoon world
that smelled of dust and gasoline. He had walked half a block or so when he was
stopped by Elizabeth, who tugged lightly on the sleeve of his soutane.
     â Father, she said, I'm sorry to bother you. Do you mind if we talk a little?
     â I don't mind at all, said Father Pennant. What is it?
     â Maybe we could go to Barrow Park, she said. I can sit and eat my lunch there.
     â A good idea. I'll even join you. I don't think I can keep my hands off at least one of these kaiser rolls.
     They walked together to the centre of town where Barrow Park, a circle of grass
some two hundred yards in diameter, stood partially shaded by an imperfect
semicircle of willows. In the centre of Barrow Park was a statue of Richmond
Barrow looking like an Old Testament prophet. He stood, or his bronze double
stood, in formal clothes pointing toward the heavens while staring in the
distance at whatever world it is the bronzed see. In the park there were four
benches disposed around the statue. Elizabeth and Father Pennant chose the one
facing Barrow himself and talked about insignificant things while they ate: a
lamb sandwich, in her case; a still warm kaiser roll, in his.
     When they had finished eating, they talked about the coming Barrow Day. And
then Elizabeth unceremoniously asked
     â Father, do you believe it's possible to love two people at the same time?
     Father Pennant, taken aback, did not know how the question was meant. He had
heard the same rumours as everyone else but he still found the question odd,
coming as it did from a woman who was, as far as he knew, soon to be married.
This was the second time she'd caught him off-guard with a question about love. She had not called the
wedding off, but perhaps she was having doubts about marriage. As gently as
possible, he asked
     â Are you in love with someone other than Robbie?
     Elizabeth laughed: a dry, unconvincing sound.
     â No, she said. I've just been thinking about love lately. I think you know why.
     â Oh, I see, said Father Pennant. Yes. Well, let me think ⦠I don't have a lot of experience but when I was in love there wasn't room for anyone else in my heart. I can't imagine being equally filled with two true loves at the same time. So, my
first answer would be no. I don't think it's possible. What do you think?
     â I don't know, answered Elizabeth. I don't see how you can love more than one person at a time. But then God loves us all
equally, doesn't He?
     â Yes, but the love we feel for each other is different from the love God has for
us. Our love is an echo of divine love. That's what I think, anyway. I don't know. It may be possible for a man to love two women or for a woman to love
two men, but how would this poor person live?
     â Mormons can have more than one wife, can't they?
     â Yes, but most of them choose not to. Too difficult. Still, to answer your
question: maybe a man can feel equal love for two women, but my advice for that
man would be to find the one woman who truly completes him.
     The sun had moved to the west, but it was still almost as bright as noon. The
park's pigeons had more or less camped out before them, walking back and forth,
mindfully unmindful, as if to say âWe're only here taking sun, we want nothing from you,' heads as if pecking at the air, the occasional
rrroo
 sounding as one or two of the birds fluttered their wings and rose before
setting down again. After a while, the weight of the birds' waiting impressed itself on Father Pennant's imagination. He shredded a piece of his remaining kaiser roll and scattered
its morsels in an arc, so all the birds could have a chance at the bread.
     â I don't think you're wrong, Father, said Elizabeth. But what if some people are more gifted than
others at loving? We can't all run as fast as the fastest. Maybe we can't all love as deeply as the deepest either.