Too Close to the Falls (42 page)

I took a sip of my drink, which was godawful. Is this what William Powell and Myrna Loy had so much fun drinking in the
Thin Man
movies? It tasted like Varsol and vinegar mixed together,
but in a minute mine was gone and he'd only taken a sip. I was thirsty.

“My stomach is burning. Christ, I'm burning inside and out.” As I said this, I ran my tongue over my swollen lips. I decided to take a walk on the wild side and confess: “I've never had
straight
alcohol before.”

He smiled that incredible smile and said, “Well, this will be your first. Now you'll always remember me because you'll always remember your first glass of wine.” If he thought the wine was what I would remember about tonight he was wrong. He lifted his glass and made a toast. “I'll be the first man to give you wine and you'll be the first woman to help me out of a situation that could have been disastrous for me.” I didn't want to talk about that “situation.” Anyway, it was true I had helped him out of it, but I'd also put him in it.

Drinking was interesting. I didn't feel the need to defend myself, plan the next attack, or get out any of my usual artillery. I stopped planning ahead. This must be what's known as
relaxing
, I thought. I have no idea how long we sat there. I would always remember it as one of those seconds or moments or hours that can't be improved upon.

The Rod broke into this reverie. “I want to talk about what's going to happen to you.”

“When?” What was he talking about?

“When you grow up.”

“You mean will I stay in the Church?” I had enough of being laughed at for one day and decided to play my cards closer to my chest. I would lay low and let him do the talking.

He leaned toward me; the candle cast a red dancing shadow on
his face. “That, certainly, but what will become of you as a woman.”

Woman.
The word hung heavy; even the coloured lights, wine, and the rainbow couldn't lift it. Miranda was right. We weren't too young. Miranda was
always
right. I came smack up against it and it hurt. I wasn't a student on an outing with her teacher who was a priest, I was a woman out with a man. Why was I in another city with a priest, a man twice my age? God, everything was falling apart. Every single thing I thought of saying brought attention to the facts of the situation — to the
fact
that he was a man and I was a woman. That time when we shared ideas seemed so long ago and so wonderful, so uncomplicated, so innocent. The difference between us, the feelings I had, the sort of burning in my lungs, and the jumping around I felt in my legs were overwhelming me. I couldn't think of anything to say that didn't somehow refer to my feelings. Maybe it was the wine. I sure as hell hoped so. I looked up and thought he looked overwhelmingly handsome.

He leaned over as if he wanted to declare something, hesitated for a long moment, and finally said, “Actually I followed you in the car today, and waited for Miranda to leave. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I poured more wine all by myself; it was starting to taste better. Maybe I was thirsty. Besides, it went well with smoking.

He forged ahead, didn't seem to notice that I wasn't myself. “You're at a crucial time of your life. You're different from the other girls. You must know that.” I
had
always felt different, but I figured that was my
problem
. He continued: “The choices aren't between Miranda and Linda Low. There is a whole other world out there where all your energy and questioning is normal.” He was getting enthused now, in the way I saw him in class, and it
didn't make me nervous. “I don't think of you as a doubting Thomas, a woman of little faith — rather, you are an empiricist. The questions you've asked about ideas and causes are the same questions Hume asked, for God's sake.”

“Who's Hume?”

“A philosopher. Actually, a British empiricist.”

“Oh.”

“If you stay here you'll just spin your wheels and eventually sink into the muck.”

“What muck?”

“Small-town life. This provincial Catholic school that's grooming Catholic mothers.” He paused and leaned back in his chair and drew on his cigarette. “It's a beautiful calling, however, it's not the only one. You don't
have
to fit it.” He looked as though he was searching for words and finally said, “If you don't fit the Linda Low model, you don't have to be Miranda.” What did he have against Miranda? He resumed, “I want to call your mother.”

“She'll have a busy line!” This struck me as funny and I laughed my head off. The wine had begun to take hold and I had more or less decided to let the evening unfold.

“I want to tell her to have you change schools. There's a school near Buffalo that is not a Catholic school, but I believe it is one that is far more suited to your needs. Small-town schools are not for everyone. In fact, if you're not cut from the same bolt as the others, your spirit can be broken, and I can see that you are teetering on the edge.”

I hadn't said anything, but he must have been able to tell by my expression that this was not the welcome news he'd hoped it would be. My universe was well-ordered in Lewiston which was
my whole world. I knew everyone in the town and they knew me. At the same time as I had these feelings of trepidation, I also
had
to acknowledge that the security of Lewiston had become confining, even stultifying. Actually, it had never been the same since Roy had left. It had become smaller.

Sensing my feelings, he forged ahead. I could tell by his voice that his confidence had been bolstered by the drinks. “You're smart, and you're surrounded by girls like Miranda who will marry, as her older sister and cousin did.” He hesitated and added, “Under duress.”

“Casting aspersions is a sin, as is your uncharitable behaviour,” I said, smugly leaning on my catechism. It came in handy when I was threatened, and I wanted to keep the topic off the situation. Miranda was my friend and I felt that I should defend her. Sure she made me mad, but I didn't feel like letting everyone stomp all over her with army boots. There was no way she was as pathetic as her loser older sister and cousin. One shotgun wedding was bad enough, but two was, as my mother said, “upsetting for all concerned.” Dolores said that bad blood ran in families and what did the Doyle women expect when they ran around with the likes of those brainless Rafferty boys who lived down by the river. She said, “Mrs. Doyle should have kept her eye on those girls. They've been boy-crazy since their first communions — the last time they'll ever rightfully wear white. Sleep with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

“It's a fact,” The Rod said.

“Can only
facts
be sins? What about fantasies, or intentions, or . . .”

He interrupted, and spoke in an exasperated tone. “Catherine, there's
nothing
wrong with the
We Willing Workers
for girls who
want to have children before they're twenty, and whose prime concern is making a Catholic home that is a foundation for successful family life. It's the most important thing in the world. It just isn't what
you
need. You have the makings of a logician.”

“If that's the only difference, why didn't you bring Linda Low to dinner?” I couldn't believe I had said that.

“She wears curlers in her hair,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. We both started laughing. His unguarded nature made me feel a little silly. If he was honest, why couldn't I be?

“I'd miss Miranda — everyone who is like me.”

“Miranda isn't like you.” He looked away and drank a big gulp of wine. I'd finished mine. “Please, let me call your mother and suggest it. I won't if you don't want me to.”

“Go ahead, but it doesn't mean I'm going.”

“Great, enough said.”

We drank a little more wine.

“You know that question about fact and fantasy and whether a sin is lodged in both?”

“Yeah, it was two minutes ago.” We both laughed.

“Freud asked the same question.”

“Who's Freud?”

“Not a philosopher, but a famous psychologist. Actually, the first psychiatrist.”

“Maybe I'll meet him and this Hume character at my new school for empiricists,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. It wasn't much, because the wine made sarcasm seem sort of tawdry, bordering on boring.

“He's dead.”

“Then he's probably at Hennepin Hall.” We both laughed in an
easy way, and I had a feeling for the first time in my life, since I'd left Roy and girlhood behind, that a male was sharing something with me. I loved my father, but he was serious and never said anything sarcastic. I felt I needed to be more pure in his presence. He was busy saving lives and he needed to have a good daughter because he was so good. Whenever I said anything like “Father Flanagan is a loser,” he would say, “Now, Cathy, do not judge lest you be judged.” Then he would put his arm around me to let me know that he still loved me, even if I was bad. The Rod was like my dad in that he was good, but he understood how I really
felt
, or maybe it would be more accurate to say
thought
, and he didn't seem bothered by it. In fact, it was a kind of bond for us.

“Father Flanagan isn't as stupid as you think. He's dumb like an old horse trader is dumb.”

“I guess you know a lot of old horse traders — you taught religion at the Ponderosa?”

“I mean he knows plenty without letting on that he knows anything. The person in the deal thinks he fooled the old horse trader and only later when his horse stops dead in its tracks does he realize he's been hoodwinked. Horse traders know more than they let on. . . . Father Flanagan has horse sense and I'm the one who was taken.”

“About what?”

“Life.”

“Life?”

“Yes, life, what the hard parts are. He knew how complacent I was. He knew I thought I had everything down. Really all I had done was study. I wasn't ready to be a missionary by a long shot. I needed to deal with issues of
life
first.”

“What do you mean by
life
? What issues?”

“Well . . . one example was teaching you girls. I was a miserable failure. Sure I knew philosophy, but that doesn't help to spread the word of God, strengthen, or restore the gift of faith. Often philosophy and faith are not mutually supportive. I don't think it has to be that way, but sometimes it is that way. For some people, philosophy fills the void of faith.”

“What does this have to do with failing as our teacher?”

“Linda Low didn't need philosophy. She
had
faith. I used to look at her at morning mass and feel envy. Her face looked so serene and peaceful after communion. For her, the Eucharist really was the body and blood of our Lord. Eventually I withdrew. I began teaching one student — you. Father Flanagan always tried to help the majority, reach out to the needs of the people. You were a minority. He chose to silence you and Miranda and help the thirty other souls that were there. That's the successful missionary — helping the majority in any way he can.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking agitated.

“Look.” I leaned over the table because I really wanted him to hear me, really listen. “First of all, the Linda Lows of this world have heard various versions of the Father Flanagans for years, it won't hurt them to hear something new. Surely God can't object to reasoned faith versus blind faith.”

“That's not the point. Father Flanagan placed both you and Miranda in that class for a reason. He wanted to say to me, ‘You're not ready to be a missionary.' I had to live through this to understand it.”

“What about me? Linda Low already had faith — the year was made a lot better for me. I've read more this year than I've ever read,
I've thought more than I've ever thought. I know I'm not the majority, but I'm someone who's different because of you.” I was embarrassed after I said that. I didn't want any feelings to leak out. I wanted to objectify things a little so I said, “Isn't it better to help one person a lot, even change their life, than to touch thirty a tiny bit?”

“Thank you, Cathy.” That was the first time he hadn't called me Catherine. He reached over and touched my hand. Actually, he only touched the hairs on my hand, it was such a light touch. I looked down. There was a stain on the tablecloth.

“Honeymoon?”

Who the hell said that? I looked up. The black bandleader in a white tux was standing over our table, smiling.

“Yes,” said The Rod.

“We were sayin' so.” He nodded out the French doors at the rest of the band. “Only honeymooners like to have dinner so early.” Both men laughed. “Your bride's like a china doll. She's from heaven, my man.”

“Thank you, I think so too.”

I was frozen in horror.

“What's your song?” he asked.

I looked up blankly, hoping that's what newlyweds did. When it became clear that my brain was completely gone, like one of those heart monitor machines that shows a straight line instead of spikes, The Rod interjected.

“Time after Time.”

“You're on.” When the bandleader left the table I felt my cheeks and they were very hot.

“I'd never have believed you were capable of blushing,” said The Rod.

“We're even, because I never believed you were capable of lying. Lying's a sin, or haven't you heard?”

“Venial, compared to the rest of the evening,” he replied cavalierly, standing up to dance. He held out his hand invitingly. I didn't want to dance. What if I didn't know how? I stood up and realized I would cause a bigger spectacle by refusing. Where he had learned to dance, I had no idea. What did they do in Jesuit seminary, dance with each other?