The Bishop's Man: A Novel Read online

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 spare.” 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 necessa
ry.”

  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 auditorium 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.

  The clarinet faltered. A music student struggling with a hard passage from Rhapsody in Blue. The wind rose outside, tapping at a window.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Hello … are you in there?”

  Tap tap tap.

  “Father Roddie?”

  The door is ajar. I hear a sound. Someone moving.

  Just walk right in, he’d said. The hearing isn’t what it used to be.

  I walked right in.

  An old priest’s sanctuary, drape darkened, sound muffled by reams of books, ancient tomes promising the wisdom of the ages.

  “Father Roddie?”

  He’s at his desk, expression calm and cold. “And what can I do for you.”

  Not a question. A comment.

  “I had a question …”

  “What about?”

  And then I see his visitor, the boy, stricken. Pale with guilt.

  I think I must have slept there in the chapel for a while. It was late when I returned to my room. Then I remembered: Creignish. I had a mental picture of the place, the side of a low mountain of the same name, a few miles from where I grew up. Oh, well.

  My eye moved to a bookshelf, stopped at a black book spine. John Macquarrie / Existentialism. I removed it from the shelf, turned to the neat handwriting on the title page: Tragedy and limitation are part of what it means to be human … Then: Welcome back from your sabbatical. Found this in Boston. Perhaps our paths will cross ere long. RM.

  And then the scrawled signature: Roddie MacVicar. December, 1977.

  I closed the book, and then my eyes. The images were overwhelming.

  “I don’t care what you think you saw.”

  The bishop’s neck is pulsing, a purple swelling throbbing at the centre of his forehead, outraged roseola nose aglow. “I know what I saw.” “You think you know.” “I know.”

  “Our eyes play tricks.”

  “I know.”

  “We know nothing. We believe. We have faith. It is our only source of hope. But that isn’t the point. You had no goddamned business spying.”

  Spying? I just stare.

  “I sent you there to help them out, not to snoop.”

  I turn away from his outrage. Study the crucifix above his desk.

  “You’re talking about a saint,” he says, quiet now, the rage replaced by injury. “A saint. A prince among men. I know him well. I’ve known him since we were students. You should aspire someday to be his equal.”

  The bishop, finally calmed, declared that it was my “asymmetrical upbringing,” my “dysfunctional home life” that was at the root of my deficiencies. It caused me to see the worst in everyone, he said, and to be too inclined to read things in then jump to wrong conclusions. I don’t understand the family dynamic, and until I do, I’ll never be a parish priest. A parish is the ideal family, he said.

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  He waved an impatient hand. “Let’s not get analytical. Let’s just say you need some special on-the-job experience. Which is why we’re thinking of sending you away for a while.”

  We?

  “We’re thinking of somewhere in the Third World, where things are simple and straightforward. A good place for you to experience the richness of family and parish life and the undiluted faith of the common people.”

  The Third World?

  “We happen to have an arrangement with the archdiocese of Tegucigalpa …”

  “When?”

  “They’re expecting you next week.”

  I poured a whisky, sipped it straight. It was Tegucigalpa then, Creignish now. In a way it’s easier this time, I thought. Nothing in my life, since then or yet unlived, could ever be like Tegucigalpa. And this time I’ll have months to make the mental adjustments. And who knows? Things change. By spring we could all be different people.

  I surveyed my tiny room. And if I go, I won’t have much to pack. Mostly books. Some photographs. A frugal wardrobe. One of the advantages of my calling: we travel light.

  {2}

  The sun was slow in ’94. The drift ice from the Gulf of St. Lawrence stayed late, blocking the advance of spring somewhere near Montreal. The wind still cold, the hills around me tawny, splotches of dark evergreens brooding.

  Crossing
the causeway, I felt a sudden need for a toilet and I remembered there was a washroom at the information bureau they installed on the island side of the strait many years ago, just after they finished the link to the mainland. But the place was locked up, awaiting summer and the strangers for whom it and the toilets functioned. I walked around the end of the building and emptied myself there, huddling close to a stone chimney to escape the attention of passing cars and the southeasterly wind.

  Across the strait the rain was blackening the stone on the carved flank of the cape where they had gouged out enough rock for the crossing forty years before. The mauve strait waters flashed silver highlights in the wind. The air was sharp with the smell of sulphur and a salt fish tang. Great plumes of steam fleeing before the chill wind slanted over the pulp mill that has transformed the place.

  At the base of the cape there is now a large pier, and on that day a huge Canada Steamship Lines bulk carrier was tied up there, loading stone. I’m told the rock from the cape makes excellent pavement, that people haul the stone from the cape away for roads in distant places. I once believed it would make the road that would bring all those places here. Or pave the way for me to leave forever.

  1975. november 9. left miami about 3 on taca flight 801. one stop, at san pedro sula. lush countryside, mountains, plantations green as golf courses. banana groves with gushing irrigation pipes and smoke from small fires rising … they call it the third world. but it is like a garden. and it smells like home. smoke and decay. almost familiar.

  A sudden gust of wind dashed my face with a cold, salty spray. I turned toward the car. The causeway forks in three directions at the top: town to the right, Creignish a hard left, and, a few miles up the middle, a non-place called the Long Stretch, where I grew up. A country road, basically. The old home is still there. It is my only connection, apart from memory. Almost the only connection: there is a neighbour, John Gillis, with whom I share a troubled history. The fact that he was briefly married to my sister is only part of it.

  My sister’s name is Effie and she’s all I have by way of family. Effie and her daughter, whose name is Cassandra and who has, in the blur of time, evolved into a young woman. I don’t think I’d recognize her anymore. They live in Toronto.