Bishop's Man Read online

  “He had a handsaw.”

  “A saw?”

  “Go figure.”

  The bishop was expecting me at seven. I decided to walk. The town was quiet. On Monday nights the students usually stay in because they’re broke or hungover or both. Bored waiters stood outside the silent pub, the smoke from their cigarettes curling like fog around them in the still October air.

  “Winter’s not far off,” I remark, walking by.

  Once, the reply would have been swift and respectful. Yes, Father. Hand raised quickly to the cap. You can feel the snow in the air already. Good evening to yourself, Father. Now they stare. They’re just suspicious. Burly boys in baseball caps, arms folded. We are a fallen species. Strange men in black, stunted by the burden of our secrets. I smile. What if they knew the whole story?

  I try to remember all the times I’ve made that walk through town to see my bishop. Past the looming cathedral, the bowling alley, the pub. Past what was, in my student days, a restaurant called the Brigadoon. We had rules back then. Lights out at eleven. Up and out in time for Mass at seven. No alcohol or women in the rooms. Virtue was the essence of the status quo. Virtue was the norm, they taught us.

  Times have changed.

  I fumble for the rosary in the pocket of my overcoat. The mindless recitation always helps subdue anxiety.

  The first sorrowful mystery. The agony in the garden. The smooth, small beads are soothing on the fingertips.

  The bishop’s palace is set back from Main Street, among dark chestnut trees. I don’t know why they call it the palace. It’s just a house, large to be sure, and elegant. The designation “palace” probably had more to do with the authority of the old man inside than the architecture.

  He met me at the door. I anticipated the welcoming aromas of cooking, but the place seemed clean and empty, vaguely like the cathedral on St. Ninian Street.

  “I forgot,” he said. “Herself had the day off. I’m hopeless in the kitchen. You didn’t eat, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m starved. You order up a pizza. It’ll be on me. You’d have a dram?”

  “I would,” I said, “if you coaxed me.”

  “Help yourself. I’m on the phone. There’s a takeout menu on my desk.”

  He disappeared again and I headed for the sideboard in his study, where the whiskies were lined up in crystal decanters. I poured a drink. Picked up the phone, heard someone talking far away, quickly opened up another line and dialed the local takeout. Then sat down to wait. Our Saviour, hanging on the large crucifix above the desk, was staring down at me. He seemed to be saying: You again? What now? I wish I knew. I could hear the bishop’s voice faintly in another room. He was speaking loudly. But then I heard what seemed to be a laugh.

  I’m sure he wasn’t that informal for everybody. I had special status because of my unusual history. My adult life, I suppose, could be measured in the spaces between my visits to that little office. How many years since I first sat there, a student, earnest in the throes of my vocation, oozing piety and purpose? I can see him now, sitting serenely beneath that crucifix.

  “I think I want to be a priest,” I told him, heart pounding.

  He listened quietly, but in the manner of one who already knew far more than I was telling him. He was smiling, but the eyes were not encouraging. “Why would you want to be a priest?”

  I wasn’t ready for the question. I assumed the Church was like any wartime army, always looking for recruits.

  “I might need time to think before I answer,” I said carefully.

  “Good. Take all the time you need. The answer is important. It could one day save your soul.”

  He never asked again, which is just as well, for even now I’m not sure what I’d say.

  My eyes drifted back to the crucifix. The Saviour’s face exhibits a kind of weariness that I can easily relate to. When all is said and done, I thought, I don’t really have the stomach for this anymore. Disciplining wayward priests and drunken students.

  The door opened suddenly. I want to say he “swept” into the room. You could imagine the swish of vestments, medieval dust rising around sandals. He was wearing running shoes, cords and a cardigan. His silver hair was disorderly. He went straight to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff drink. The bishop grew up in a place called Malignant Cove and clearly loves the reaction this disclosure always gets. You laugh as though you haven’t heard it a hundred times before.

  “You were in Port Hood for the weekend.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Mullins called out of the blue.”

  He was pouring generously. “Coincidentally, I was just on the phone about a matter indirectly concerning Port Hood. And you.”

  I was trying to imagine what it was.

  “You remember Father Bell . . . the notorious Brendan Bell?”

  “Yes,” I said warily, thinking to myself, So that’s what this is all about. Brendan Bell. What now?

  “One of your former clients,” he said.

  “I remember.”

  Bell was supposed to be the last of them—“the last station on our via dolorosa,” was how he phrased it. The bishop actually promised. This should be the last of it, he’d said. Maybe that’s why I recall that particular encounter with such clarity.

  The first time I met him, Bell was sitting exactly where I was sitting at that moment. It was in the winter, 1990. He made quite an impression, an Anglo-Irish Newfoundlander, a little shorter than I am, but most people are. Dark brown hair pulled back tightly into a tiny knob-like ponytail, a brilliant smile that seemed genuine, and nothing whatsoever in his manner that might reveal the miserable circumstances that sent him to us. But I soon found out that he was in a spot of trouble. The bishop of St. John’s was asking for a tiny favour.

  I suggested Mullins in Port Hood.

  “You’ll like Port Hood,” I said. “But they won’t put up with any bullshit there.”

  Bell smiled at me and nodded. “I hear you loud and clear.”

  “You probably knew he was in Toronto,” the bishop said, now sniffing at his drink.

  “That’s where he was heading after Port Hood,” I said.

  “Your Brendan has applied for laicization. That was Toronto on the line just now. Wondering if we’d put a word in. He wants to be fast-tracked.”

  “What’s his rush?” I asked.

  “He says he’s in love.”

  “In love with what?”

  “He says he’s getting married.”

  “Married? Brendan?”

  The bishop nodded, a tight smile causing the corners of his mouth to twitch.

  “Marrying a woman?” I said, incredulous.

  “That’s what they do, though you never know, up there in Toronto.”

  “So what will you do?” I asked.

  “I said I’d help. Brendan married—good for the optics, don’t you think?”

  The pizza arrived and we moved to the kitchen. The bishop was carrying our glasses and a fresh bottle of Balvenie. He arranged two places at the table, tore sheets from a roll of paper towel.

  “You’ve been ordained, what, now? Twenty-five years, I think.” He was speaking with his mouth full.

  “Approximately.”

  “Are you planning anything . . . some little do to mark the special anniversary?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose,” he said, chewing thoughtfully, “you have no family to speak of. I suppose it would be different if you were in a parish.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You must sometimes wonder why you’ve never had a parish of your own.”

  I shrugged. “You’ve told me more than once. I think you used to call it my ‘asymmetrical’ family history.”

  “You were a curate once.”

  “Assistant.”

  “Well, never mind that. I sent you down to Central America. In 1975, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those were the days, when I had manpower to s
pare.” He shook his head and studied me for a moment.

  “But it wasn’t exactly a ‘manpower’ decision, was it?” I thought he’d ignore the comment.

  “You went through a hard patch, true enough,” he said. “But it defined your special gifts. I’m loath to quote Nietzsche . . . but . . . you know what I mean. You’re a strong man. A survivor. I always knew that.”

  I nodded uncomfortably.

  “I consider that period a little . . . hiccup . . . in an otherwise exemplary priesthood.” He sipped the drink, reflecting, I assumed, upon my exemplary service. “Ministry takes many forms. Tegucigalpa revealed yours. The Lord’s methods aren’t always obvious to us mortals.”

  “I suppose,” I said, attempting a wry smile.

  I had three drinks in and more than half the pizza was already gone when he got around to what I was really there for. He said he wanted me, after all these years, to take over a parish. A little place. Nothing too strenuous.

  “Me?”

  “Time to settle down,” he said. “I figure you’re ready for some new challenges. What would you think of Creignish?”

  “Creignish,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I can’t see it. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do there. And I’m perfectly happy at the university.”

  But I knew his mind was made up. He had that sorrowful look he sometimes gets when exercising God’s authority.

  “Having priests semi-employed at the university became a luxury we can’t afford a long, long time ago. There’s no shortage of lay professors and administrators. Look around you.”

  “But the Catholic character of the university? People from all over send their kids here for what they expect to be a Catholic education.”

  “We’re more concerned about the Catholic character of the countryside, the solid places like Port Hood and Creignish. Malignant Cove.”

  I knew I was supposed to laugh. “But—”

  He raised an apostolic hand for silence, then stood and paced the room. “Look,” he said finally. “I regard you as a clone of myself. So I’m going to be frank.” He took the bottle, splashed both our glasses. “I thought certain . . . matters . . . were all behind us. But there have been developments.”

  “Developments?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself about just yet. But next year could be tough. Big time.”

  Instantly, half a dozen names and faces flashed before my eyes.

  “Not Brendan Bell?”

  “No, no, no,” he said impatiently. “That’s old history. We seem to be entering phase two now. The lawyers are getting into the act. I’d like to get you out of the line of fire.”

  “What line of fire?”

  “I just want you out of the way. You never know what lawyers might come up with. I think Creignish is perfect. Off the beaten track.”

  We sat in silence for a full minute, the old house creaking around us.

  “You’re going to have to tell me who it is,” I said. “Which one they’re talking about.”

  He reached for my glass, which was still half full. “Let me freshen that.”

  “Look, I’d appreciate just a clue . . . just to know how worried I should be.”

  “It’s none of them and all of them. You can relax.”

  The face and tone were unconvincing. We sat and stared at each other.

  Finally he said, “You’ve been mentioned.”

  “I’ve been mentioned.”

  “You know how it is these days. Everything a conspiracy. Cover-up. You, me. Now we seem to be the bad guys. Whatever happened to trust and respect, never mind the faith?”

  “Mentioned by?”

  “The damned insinuating lawyers.”

  “What are they insinuating?”

  “It’s only speculation about how we handled certain matters. They keep going on about something called ‘vicarious liability.’ Did you ever hear the like of it?” He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, lips puckered. “Vicarious my foot.” Then he sighed and sipped his drink. “You’ve turned out to be my rock. It was as if providence revealed your strengths to me exactly when I needed you. But now it’s time for you to get lost in parish work and pray that this thing blows over without bankrupting us.”

  “But Creignish?”

  “You’ll have no trouble settling in. You’re from around there. They’ll know the kind of man you really are, no matter what they might or might not hear.”

  I stared at him. I thought: He’s dreaming. But argument was futile.

  “For how long?”

  “As long as necessary.”

  At the door, when I was leaving, his mood became enthusiastic. I was going to love parish work, he said. “Especially Creignish. Good old-fashioned people there. You’ll do a bang-up job. You’re going to be a real priest for a change. Anybody comes looking for you, that’s what they’re going to find. God’s shepherd, tending the flock.”

  “When do you want me to go?” I asked.

  “The sooner the better.”

  “I’ll go in the spring,” I said.

  He looked dubious.

  “Unless, of course, the bailiff is on the way already.”

  He didn’t react to my irony, just said, “Suit yourself . . . but keep your head down in the meantime.” Before he shut the door, he said, “I heard about the kid on the roof of the chapel the other night. What are they doing about him?”

  I shrugged and waited.

  “They say he had a saw or something, that he was heading for the cross ...”

  “I’m giving him a break,” I said.

  “Good. You know who his father is.”

  And he shut the door.

  Walking home on that cold October night, I was barely conscious of the town, the small clusters of subdued youngsters straggling along the street. A fine drizzle filtered through the low-beam headlights of a passing pickup truck. A fluorescent light flickered in an office and another window filled with darkness. I felt disoriented. It was his mood. The heartiness was false. Something large has rattled him. He’s sending me away again. Where did this begin?

  And then it is 1968 again and I am on this street, walking full of purpose in the opposite direction, toward the railway station, with a suitcase and a briefcase, the sum of all my secular possessions. Walking tall, bound for a place that I now dare not name for fear of stirring best-forgotten trauma. It is June, an evening sweet with early lilac and the hum of hopeful voices talking politics. June ’68, a renaissance of sorts, at least for me. I was reborn, a priest.

  Oh, yes. He told me that time too that I was going to love the place, the place I dare not mention now, in middle age. And by the way, he said, you’ll be with an old pal of ours.

  “Surely you remember Dr. Roddie . . . your old philosophy guru. He’ll be there with you. He said he’ll keep an eye on you. The two of you can spend the long winter evenings reading the Summa to each other.”

  “Father Roddie?”

  “I knew that you’d be pleased. He’s taking a little sabbatical. Teaching college students burned him out. He could have gone anywhere . . . I offered Rome. But he insisted on helping out in a parish for a while. Isn’t that just typical?”

  The street was almost empty. The drizzle warmed below my eyes, ran like tears beside my nose. Father Roddie. I’d almost forgotten him. A dormant apprehension glowed within me, then, just as swiftly, dimmed. It can’t be Father Roddie this time. He’d be nearly eighty now. I laughed aloud.

  “Father Roddie. Wherever did you get to?”

  A student shuffled by, stopped and turned. “Excuse me?” he said.

  I hurried on.

  The campus was quiet but for the throb of music from the residences. I was near the chapel, so I turned toward the stone steps leading up to its double doors. They were unlocked but yielded with reluctance. I dipped my fingers in the holy water then slid into a pew near the back. The gloom flickered near the altar. Somewhere in the basement audi
torium someone was practising scales on a clarinet. A tuneless wail of notes gave substance to the shadows around me until I felt that I was wrapped in a suffocating shroud, lost in the endless carnage of days since I first embarked upon this journey into ambiguity. It’s ironic when I think of it: the beauty of the priesthood used to be the promise of its certainties.