Bishop's Man (50 page)

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Authors: Linden Macintyre

BOOK: Bishop's Man
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There is a primal sound, a soft moaning, not unlike the wind. Standing near the transfixed seagull, I look down. And now there is unwelcome certainty: images that I try to reconcile with the man I’d always thought I was, the priest, advocate of hope and reconciliation.
William was lying near an open hatch, body contorted. One leg was obviously broken. He was trying to move an arm, trying to speak. Blood oozed on a thigh where the flask had broken in his fall. The mouth struggled, but no words emerged, only a gurgling groan. Then one hand fluttered slightly in an unmistakable gesture. A silent motion, signalling for help.
My bloodied hand seeking comfort in a pocket encountered a soft silken fabric there, the confessional stole, symbol of my power to diminish the finality of death and in doing so expunge the fear of it. William’s eyes were fixed on mine, lips struggling to produce a sound until, at last, one faint word escaped.
“Father?”
The wet mouth struggled some more. Again, the single word.
Father.
And then: “Help me, Father …”
I remember staring down at him, a terrible frenzy of revulsion thundering. And then I turned and walked away.
Driving away from the wharf, I thought of Mullins, turned northward. Driving up the long hill near MacDougall’s, I met a car I didn’t recognize, then saw the American behind the wheel. Terrible words of judgment echoed in the memory …
That day, a day of wrath, of wasting, and of misery, a great day, and exceeding bitter. When Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.
I had the power to mitigate the wrath and wasting. I had an obligation to expel the misery. I pulled quickly to the shoulder of the road. Started to turn the car. But I knew it was pointless to go back. We can never go back.
 
Minutes passed like hours. Or were the hours like minutes? Reason rushed back once again when a raucous fire truck roared past, lights flashing. A howling ambulance was close behind.
I turned the car around and followed them toward the shore.
Half a dozen curious spectators were standing at the wharf side, peering down into my boat. There was a kneeling woman, blonde head close to Willie’s ashen face, looking for signs of life. Unnoticed in the commotion, I stepped away. Two firemen disappeared over the side. Another dragged what looked like an oversized ironing board with Velcro straps from the truck and handed it down. Two ambulance attendants had a gurney waiting.
Only the American seemed to notice me. “You’re the priest, aren’t you? MacAskill?”
I just nodded.
“I’m Dave Martin,” he said, holding out a hand. The expression on his face seemed to be saying, Shouldn’t you be down there too?
But he said nothing more, and he turned away.
A police car arrived just as the paramedics were lifting Willie over the side, transferring his still form to the gurney. The Mountie walked over to the group. There was a discussion that I couldn’t hear. Then he turned and stared at me, suddenly remembering. He smiled and walked over.
“That’s your boat?”
“Yes.”
He brought out a notebook and a pen. “You’re looking well,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You know this guy?”
“He’s from Hawthorne,” I said, and spelled it out. “William. Beaton, I think.”
He wrote carefully.
“He lives with his mother.”
“Any idea how this happened?”
“We were talking—”
“When were you talking?”
“Just before.”
“What happened to your hand?”
“I’m not sure. He was drunk. Kind of hysterical. I must have looked away for a moment.”
“Wait here.” He walked to the ambulance and climbed into the back, re-emerging moments later. “What were you talking about?”
“Personal matters,” I said.
The policeman studied me suspiciously. “Personal?”
“I know him. We know people in common. Frankly, it’s all a blank right now. What exactly happened.”
“Have you been drinking, Father?”
“No,” I said, maybe too sharply.
“I had to ask. I’m not implying anything. I hear you’ve been away.”
“Yes.”
“It was a good move. Going away. You missed some excitement. Or, maybe, the lack of it. I think you were talking to MacLeod, that reporter.” He was smiling.
I nodded.
“Messy,” he said, shaking his head.
The ambulance pulled away slowly, the silent coloured lights revolving. Stopped momentarily at the road then turned northward.
“Shouldn’t they be moving faster?” I said.
“There isn’t any point,” the Mountie said.
“We don’t know that,” I said, fighting desperation.
“There’s a doctor here.”
“What doctor?”
“Her,” he said, pointing to the woman who had been crouched over him, looking for signs of life. “He broke his neck in the fall. Where will I be able to find you?”
“You know where,” I replied.
“Okay. I’m going to spend some time here, going over your boat. You have no objection?”
“None,” I said.
“Maybe when we talk … we can … catch up on a few other things.”
“Maybe.”
 
Much later, after the policeman came and left, it is important to remember the exact moment when I realized that my life had ended. The sequence of events is vivid now, preserved in the memory with extraordinary accuracy. I was in my study. There was bronze light falling through the doorway, illuminating a patch of wall. I turned and stared toward the large picture window in the living room. The fog had gone. The sky was a rich blue. It was a new day. I turned back to my desk.
Beside the journals I had stacked there near a cardboard box, I had placed the photograph of my father and his friends, Sandy, Jack … three young men, their transient optimism preserved by the camera for all time. Two soldiers in fresh army uniforms. Jack in his work clothes. And the dead buck draped over the fender of the truck. Only the face of the deer seems to reflect the gravity of where they are, the knowledge of what lay before them. Hunters and hunted. Indistinguishable, in the long run.
The photos and the journals spoke to me of failure. The tragedies that are the product of our inadequacies. One individual, the son of God who was also God, promised redemption from the consequences of our unavoidable failures. It is now so clear. The promise of redemption is another myth.
A peculiar sensation passed through me. And I wondered: Is this what Sandy Gillis felt? And Danny? Is this what the devil tried to tell me on the Niagara Escarpment? That faith and hope are fantasies? Can this be true? My faith is just another culture?
I knew a man who lived and died for faith and justice. And I believe his sacrifice brought hope to faithful people.
Could I ever be that man?
Then I remembered: It is Sunday.
I took a notepad and a pen. Wrote:
No Mass Today.
Walked across the driveway and pinned the note to the door of the church. The air was fresh with the first scents of summer, dampness and new growth and the earth stirring from its sleep. The broad blue bay breathing softly.
I returned to my desk, studied the stack of journals for another moment.
Then I placed them in the box. All, that is, but two. The two Honduran years. There is still one secret I cannot share.
 
Stella called. “I just heard,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You don’t have to say it.” The voice was firm.
“Could you come by?”
“No. I have to go and see Aunt Peggy.”
“Of course.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Just hang on.”
 
Sunday afternoon, the Mountie came again.
“There was a witness,” he said.
“Oh?”
“The witness said she saw him waving his arms around in front of you and kind of staggering. He had a blood alcohol reading of .31. He was bombed. There was some grappling. First she thought it was a fight. You moved so quickly she wasn’t sure if you were trying to steady him … or what. I guess she’s not exactly sure just what she saw.” He studied me for reaction.
I just stared back. “Who was the witness?”
“That doctor. She’s with the guy who owns the boat behind yours. That writer from New York. She was the blonde, declared the guy dead at the scene.”
“And what about her husband … the writer? … Did he know anything?”
“Not a thing. He wasn’t there. But he confirms old Willie was pretty out of it, talking a lot of foolishness earlier on.”
As he prepared to leave, the policeman told me I didn’t have a thing to worry about.
“Maybe you have time for a coffee,” I said.
“All the time in the world.” And he walked back into the room and sat.
I studied the nameplate on his jacket.
Cpl. L. Roberts.
“What does the L stand for?” I asked.
“Leo.”
“I’m guessing you’re a Catholic.”
“Good guess. Though not a very good Catholic.”
“I suppose you know your prayers. The act of contrition.”
“I know that one,” he said, smiling. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
“I had a friend once, a priest, who used to say that the act of contrition was just a bunch of words. Good words, of course. But not an act of anything. He was a big believer in action, my friend.”
“I suppose saying I’m sorry and meaning it is an act of sorts. Speaking as a lapsed Catholic.”
“That’s exactly what I would tell him. But he was stubborn. The only real act of contrition is a deed that involves some kind of sacrifice.”
“That’s pretty extreme,” Leo said, lifting his coffee cup.
“My friend would say contrition is supposed to lead to changed behaviour. And nothing changes without action, sometimes violent action.”
“Pretty radical,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Where’s your friend now? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask.” He smiled.
“It’s a long story,” I said, remembering my father’s favourite evasion.
The box of journals was between us. I hesitated for just a moment. Then I shoved them toward him.
“I don’t think I’ll have any further use for these.”
The bishop phoned moments after he received my letter.
“I’m not buying any of this crap. It’s all stress related. You need a complete sabbatical. Take a year. Go to the Holy Land. Study. We’ll send you to Rome. Or just do nothing for a while.”
I thanked him. Said I’d think about it.
“Anyway, just so you know. I’m tearing this letter into little pieces. It never happened. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I know the whole story. I have my sources. Blessings sometimes come in strange disguises.”
 
Stella walked across the field, came in the back way.
“This is private,” she said. “But you have to know. I’m confident it won’t go anywhere from here.”
I nodded.
Only she and her sister knew about it. “Danny Ban must never know.”
“Willie blamed the boy,” I said.
“The boy was nine, for God’s sake,” she said.
Stella was the first to come to terms with what had happened. She took a professional position, persuaded her sister that it had to be their secret, for Aunt Peggy’s sake.
“I’m sure you understand,” she said. What would have happened to Aunt Peggy if they’d turned Willie in? Even if he avoided prison, Danny Ban would have killed him. So they agreed on silence, for Peggy’s sake. Nobody would ever know, just Stella, Jessie and, of course, young Danny. “This is not uncommon in close families,” she said.

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