Then Burke stood up, stretched, and moved towards her, starting to speak in a raspy voice. She looked up at him, startled, and backed away. He stopped and put up his hands in a gesture that said “You have nothing to fear from me.” I couldn’t look at his face. He stood at a respectful distance, then cleared his throat. “We’ll go over to the church. The music’s in the choir loft.”
Her eyes darted to me, and I nodded, pointing a discreet finger in Burke’s direction. Yes, he’s your man. I said: “Why don’t we all go? I’ll call the house and have the kids meet us at the church.”
“You have kids?” she asked, bewildered.
“Angelface here is not a man of the cloth, Miss Robinson,” Burke said, somewhat tartly.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Quite all right. Just give me a second.” He rooted in his bureau, grabbed some clothing and went into the bathroom where we soon heard the sound of the shower.
And at that moment I became aware of a new dimension to my feelings about the case. Images from the past weeks flooded my mind: Brennan on the witness stand, watching helplessly as his life was ripped apart before all the world. The unmasked pain I had seen in his eyes on the day we were to leave the case to the jury, when, all defences down, he asked us not to give up on him. The gaunt shadow that sat across from me in the jailhouse. The choir director bringing
forth from the children the music of the spheres. Father Burke facing the congregation in his white vestments and singing the
Agnus Dei
from the
Mass of the Angels,
the particular favourite of Janeece Tuck, when I knew it took every ounce of strength to keep his composure after his little friend’s death. Images from his early life in New York came to me, some of them unedifying and some of them, in spite of Sandra’s sardonic recitation, endearing. I contemplated what he had given up, the pleasures of the flesh that he enjoyed every bit as much as I did, and the chance to have the comfort of a wife and family.
And I saw him as he had just appeared, an unwashed layabout, convicted of murder. I had witnessed the effect he had on a young musician who had come to him for help, then backed away in fear. What kind of strength did he have to muster, to get up in the morning and face the world? Did he beseech God in prayer every time he had to face a new group of parishioners, students, parents? That cocky self-assurance that I had often found so irritating, was that what was keeping him going now?
I was filled with a sense of outrage that was nearly overwhelming. Throughout this long ordeal, I had experienced, in turn, doubt about his innocence; suspicion of other things he might be up to when I was unable to reach him at night; frustration with him and with myself, and with the inability of all of us to penetrate the secrets of the case; ambition to win the case and solve the mystery behind it; profound sympathy for what he was going through; an appreciation and enjoyment of the friendship developing between us; complicated feelings about that friendship and his place in our lives. Had I told him recently, perhaps more than once, to fuck off? But now, what I was most aware of was the outrage I felt at whoever had done this to him. He wasn’t a saint, he wasn’t an angel; he was a bright, talented, complex, at times exasperating man who was trying to do the right thing. And someone was determined to take it all away from him in the most barbarous way imaginable. Whoever did this was going to be hunted down, taken before a judge, and put away for life. We had all had enough.
I came out of myself and focused again on Lexie, who had nearly flattened herself against the door, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else on the planet. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and picked up the phone to call Maura.
“Hi. Can you ask the kids to walk over to St. Bernadette’s? Not great. He’ll perk up. He’s going to do some music over at the church with a young lady who’s just taken on a children’s choir. Yeah, I’ll tell you later.”
When Burke emerged, scrubbed and shaved, the three of us set off. Nobody spoke till we were outside the church in the sunshine of a mid-October day. Then he began to sing: “Now lady, your mind is mistaken if it sees but a beggar in me. For my name, it is Ronald MacDonald, a chieftain of highest degree.” Lexie looked at him and laughed, and he gave her a rueful smile in return.
“Good to know you’ve learned the local music,” I remarked.
“Well worth learning, wouldn’t you say, Lexie?”
“Oh, yes!” Her apprehension was starting to ease.
We entered the church and Brennan genuflected deeply, making the sign of the cross. Lexie followed suit. The choirmaster unlocked the door to the loft and we went up. “I keep most of our regular music up here, in file cabinets. Some of course we use at the school, but you can look over what we have here. More than enough for your purposes, I’m thinking.” He pushed open the door to the music room. “You’ll be starting in unison, I expect?”
“Yes.”
“Is this a choir for everyone, or will you be holding auditions? Makes a big difference in what music you’ll want to attempt.”
The choir directors got into a groove. A few minutes later I heard a commotion below. My children, I presumed, and went to let them in. Normie was obviously pleased to be in the church again. “Can I run around?”
“You may walk around. Respectfully. And don’t go on the altar. Then come up to the loft. Quietly.” She nodded and started to walk up the centre aisle, one halting step at a time, like a nervous bride in an old-fashioned wedding ceremony.
I hid a smile and motioned for Tommy Douglas to follow me upstairs. Brennan and Lexie were out of sight. Tom had the massive pipe organ to himself. “Cool!” He sat down at the bench. “Can I try it? How do you turn it on?”
Burke came out of the music room and switched on the organ. “Go ahead. Pull out all the stops, as they say.”
“That’s where that expression comes from? Guess I should have known that. But I didn’t know till the other day that ‘getting down to the short strokes’ means...” he stopped, reddened, and looked at me, “... golf.” The three of us laughed. Tommy started to play a tune, as he would on any keyboard. He experimented with a few stops, and enlarged the sound. “You play that a helluva lot better than I do, Mr. Douglas,” said Burke.
Tom looked like a man who had found his calling. In the next instant, he had found the love of his life. Lexie emerged in the light of the late afternoon sun as it streamed through the stained glass windows of the church. Her beauty was unearthly. She smiled at Tom and he gaped. Two men thirty years his senior had recently done no better.
I introduced them, and my son found his voice. “Tell me everything bad about yourself, so I can start getting over you.” Burke shot him a glance of amused appreciation.
Lexie looked at Tom over the tops of her glasses and said: “Why don’t I start with a few sour notes on the organ?”
“You can play this thing?” She nodded and he said “Show me” and slid over to make room for her on the bench. She went right into a Bach fugue and my son was transported.
“Ah. Let’s go below and listen,” the choirmaster suggested.
We met Normie coming up the stairs. “You’re staying downstairs with us,” I commanded.
We listened to Bach until it was time for me and the kids to head home. I sprinted up the stairs to get Tom and practically had to wrestle him off the organist’s bench. He smiled mysteriously when his sister asked who was up there. As we made our way out we heard Burke and Lexie discussing repertoire, then they began to sing together. Tommy had a sudden urge to even up the laces of his sneakers and so he stopped, holding the door open with his bum and listening to every sweet note. All the way home in the car he talked about getting his driver’s licence. To get to Mass no doubt. Out at St. Malachy’s.
I was tied up with other cases until Friday noon. I called Burke to ask whether he’d had any luck with the photos. O’Flaherty had taken the film in, and reported it was blank. I restrained myself from
reacting to the news. Instead I said: “You know, that scene in your room may have been one of the saddest sights I’ve ever witnessed.”
There was no need to ask what I meant. “Oh? You think having dear little girls cringe in fear is depressing in some way, Montague?” He seemed to hesitate, then: “That’s not all. Listen to this.” I heard him rattling papers. “‘Dear Father Burke, I don’t think you killed that girl, but I want you to know it doesn’t matter to me. What’s past is past. What you need now is closure. I feel I have come to know you over the course of this trial and I want you to know I love you like nobody else could ever love you. I would like to come and visit you even if you are in jail and even if you are still a priest.’ Here’s another one: ‘Dear Brennan. If you did it, it’s because she fuckin asked for it, excuse my French. Otherwise you wouldn’t of been prevoked beyond indurence!! I would never do anything to push you over the brink. I know how to please a man, especially you. Take my word for it, believe me!!!, you would be happy with me.’ Blah, blah. I got a similar one from a male. What the hell’s wrong with these people? What did I ever do to bring all this shite down on my head?”
“We’ll get you out from under this, Brennan. I promise you.”
If I wanted to reach him in the next few days, he informed me, I would have to stop by the church. No, he wasn’t embarking on a prayer marathon; he was going to paint the interior. The patch of mismatched colour over the graffiti was a blessing in disguise, Mike O’Flaherty averred. He had been putting off a badly needed paint job because of the cost. Brennan, having tuned him out until now, tuned back in and volunteered to do it himself. Convict labour, he called it. They had commandeered one of the church ladies with a good eye for colour, and the paint had been selected and lugged to the site.
“It will give me something useful to do as I wait out this painful episode in my life,” Burke said. “But if one person says ‘it will be good therapy for you, Brennan,’ I shall fall upon that person from a great height.”
“When do you start?”
“I’m heading there now. But I’ll have to take a break for a while from, say, four to six, because little Lexie Robinson is coming over for some more assistance with her choral music. And by the way, I could use an extra hand with a brush.”
“I know just the lad for you.”
“Thought you might.”
III
Tommy Douglas cleared his Friday after-school schedule, showered, and donned his painting apparel, a sharply creased pair of khaki pants and a handsome Shetland wool sweater. “You can’t wear that for painting, Tommy! It will be ruined in the first five minutes. Get back in there and put on an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt.”
“But that’s what I had on when we met. She’ll think I’m always a slob.”
“She’ll think you’re an idiot if you wear good clothes for a paint job.”
“Really?” I nodded. “Okay.” So he dressed down and we walked over to the job site.
Lexie was already there when we arrived. She and the choirmaster were hard at work in the loft.
“Do you want me to start where you left off, Father?” Tom called loudly.
“Oh, good, Mr. Douglas, you’re here. Why don’t you pop up and we’ll figure out the best way to go about it.” Tom bounded up the stairs, and was greeted — enthusiastically, I thought — by Lexie, who was clad in jeans and a T-shirt. Her glorious hair was tied in a ponytail.
I looked around. Burke had a huge job in front of him. If he had begun painting when we finished our call at noon hour, he was making slow progress. He had done one segment of the south wall in the new creamy paint, several shades lighter than what had been on it for decades, and it was clear it would brighten up the church immeasurably. But the pillars had not been touched yet. And there was all the remaining wall space, as well as the ceiling. Scaffolding was in place for that daunting task.
“Brennan, how many hours did you put in here?”
“Four hours, I suppose it was. Looks grand, doesn’t it?”
“Ever hear of a roller?”
“There’s a roller there someplace. I ended up using a brush because of all that close work around the window and the stations of the cross.”
“You’ll be too old to run for Pope by the time you finish, at the rate you’re going.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll come over and help you. But why not get a whole crew in? Tomorrow’s Saturday. Make a little party out of it. Pizza, treats. Bribe some of the church crowd. Can’t you see Marguerite over here in a pair of overalls and a cap?”
“Why don’t you run over and see if Mike’s there. He’d love to organize them all.”
Did Burke, in the predicament he was in, feel he could not call upon his colleagues to help him fix up their church? “Sure. I’ll check.”
I crossed to the rectory, where O’Flaherty greeted me with a big smile. He walked with me to the church. The idea was put to the gregarious priest and he took it up with enthusiasm. “I’ll get on the blower right away,” he promised.
“And I’ll be the pizza man,” I offered. “Just let me know how many will be here, Mike, and I’ll order them. Some sweets and drinks as well. I can run out and get some more rollers and brushes this evening.”
When we entered the church, Burke was at the wall making small, painstaking brush strokes, wiping the excess off with his hand, and painting again. I jerked my head in his direction. “See what I mean, Mike?”
He got it. “You could use some help, Brennan, my lad. And keep in mind that I bought the paint for the church, not for you to bathe in. You’re a sight.”
Above us, the two young people were playing a duet on the pipe organ. “This goes down much better with music, I have to say,” Brennan told us. “I’ll move my stereo in here for the duration.”
O’Flaherty went off to make his calls and Brennan stood looking after him.
“The oul’ divil! Do you know what he’s been doing?”
“What?”
“He’s been chatting up my sister.”
“The one in Ireland?”
“Right. Maire. And the old sneak never told me about it.”
“Well, they’re both over the age of consent! And he can hardly be compromising her virtue. Or she, his. She’s over three thousand miles away. Seriously, though, how do you know this?”