Fit Month for Dying (17 page)

“Not a peep. Maybe they surmised that's what George O'Connell was coming in about. Anyway, they just kept trying to convince me Haley is a saint. They said he had been one of their most promising seminarians, an archdiocesan seminarian at that. When I asked what that meant, they said he had been incardinated for the archdiocese of St. John's so they could depend on him staying in the parish. And they were delighted to get him because of the priest shortage. Apparently he went to All Hallows in Dublin for his education, training or whatever. And he did a stint at St. Augustine's — I believe that's in Ontario. They said he was active in the archdiocesan vocational recruiting, and on and on and on.”

“I'm surprised they didn't say he had discovered the Shroud of Turin,” I say. This lifts the tension and Greg smiles, then adds, “Oh yes, something else. They told me that when Haley came to the parish his religious superiors at the seminary said they were certain he was in peaceful possession of his sexuality and that he was prepared to sustain the commitment to chastity and celibacy.”

“So much for the perceptiveness of his religious superiors.”

“That's what I was thinking. I wanted to say, Bullshit! Monsignors, I bet everyone in the seminary with him knew he had a thing for young boys! But I thought I'd better keep a little respect.”

At the supper table Greg relates to Brendan the result of his meeting at the palace — or at least he relates a laundered version of it. He even uses the word
father
when he speaks about Tom Haley, and I know he does this by way of an apology. If the meeting with the monsignors has done nothing else, it has made Greg understand why Brendan can say that Tom Haley isn't all bad.

“There'll be no court case,” he says. “And Father Haley will be sent to a treatment centre somewhere on the Mainland.”

Brendan's whole body sags in relief. He begins to eat his macaroni and cheese, which he had been merely pushing around on his plate. The tension has started to leave my shoulders as well.

“That makes you happy, eh?” Greg says, taking stock of Brendan's relief.

“Yeah.” Brendan detects the bite in his words. He keeps his eyes on his plate and returns to rearranging his macaroni and cheese. He squirms around in his seat.

“It should have been taken to court,” Greg says, as if an argument to the contrary is already in progress. “Haley is getting off too easily. And his victims need to see him punished. Healing won't begin for them until their abuse is acknowledged.”

“Not me,” Brendan mutters. “I don't want to be acknowledged. Whatever that means. I just want to forget about it.”

Greg's nostrils flatten out at the base. His jaw clenches. I can almost hear him counting to ten before he asks, “You mean you don't mind that he is getting off as free as a bird?”

Brendan flinches, sensing a trap. “No. Yes. Maybe. I dunno.”

“What do you mean ‘No, yes, maybe, dunno?' Surely the answer is yes! Why would you want to let him off the hook totally? He's worse than...he's...” Greg's ready vocabulary offers no suitable noun or adjective to describe Haley.

“Because he bought us pizzas.” Brendan doesn't look up from his plate. “And he helps Willie Farrell with his math. And he makes sandwiches and gives them to bums on the park benches. I've gone with him many times. And he always makes sure to give them juice because, he says, alcohol dehydrates the body and drunks need lots of fluids.”

Greg remains silent for a long time. When he speaks his words are turgid with anger and frustration. “For the love of heaven, Brendan, you're making him out to be St. Francis of Assisi instead of Chester the Molester. I just don't understand you, my son. I'd want to see him strung up naked down on Water Street. I'd want...”

“May I be excused?” Brendan gives me a beseeching look. “Please, may I?”

I look at Greg, hoping he will be the one to release him. When he keeps a stony silence, I say, “He has a report he has to finish for school tomorrow. He should get at it right away.”

Brendan waits for no further permission. As he scrambles out of his chair, Greg, angry at being thwarted, impotently throws out more words. “I guess I'm not you though. Am I? Because if I had been you, I certainly wouldn't have hung around with that pervert once I knew what he was like. And for the life of me I can't figure out why you did, either.”

Brendan rushes from the kitchen and heads for his bedroom. Aghast, I, too, jump up, but I don't leave the room.

“What's gotten into you?” I charge. “Do you know what you just said? That you're ashamed of him. That he's a disgrace to you. You insinuated that he must have encouraged Tom Haley. You might just as well have said that he's as much to blame as Tom Haley is. No wonder he couldn't come and tell you what was going on. No wonder...”

Greg almost tips over his chair in his need to get to Brendan.

“Brendan!” he calls out as he runs up the stairs. “Brendan! I'm sorry! I didn't mean that...I'm sorry!”

I hurry after him, feeling, as usual, that I have to be the mediator. Halfway up the stairs I turn back, not understanding why but knowing only that I have to get away from both of them. I cannot help one without hurting the other. I am suddenly bone weary from this living nightmare. I feel as if I'm climbing a sandhill, and each time I dig my foot into the face of the hill, I succeed only in dislodging a shower of pebbles. No matter how hard I try, I can make no progress. Filled with a sense of futility, I go back to the kitchen and round up my purse and car keys and the coat I had on when I went to the café to talk to Greg. As I back the car out of the driveway, I have no destination in mind. I simply want to be away from the house.

For a while I drive aimlessly, first going up to Signal Hill in the hope that the brisk, salty air will blow my mind free of Greg's angry words and Brendan's stumbling, hurt ones. But when I get there, I don't even slow down, just circle around for a few minutes and then come back down into the city. I drive down Water Street, back up to Elizabeth Avenue, down Confederation Drive, and from there up and down streets, noticing neither street names nor house numbers.

Without conscious thought, I find myself heading towards St. Sebastian Church. Our parish church! Father Tom Haley's church! When I get there, I cruise past it once, twice, three times. Each time I slow down almost to a stop and stare at the darkening evening and beyond the dark to the lighted rectory adjacent to the church. Father Haley's car is parked out front. On the fourth pass-by, I brake to a stop and pull into the driveway to park beside the green Toyota that on so many occasions had pulled into our own driveway to pick up Brendan.

As I walk up to the rectory door, I fleetingly wonder whether driving by the church has been totally accidental or whether some part of my tormented mind planned it with precision and purpose. However, at this point it no longer matters. All I know is that I have a compelling need to confront the person who has been the source of terrible conflict in my family, the person who is responsible for the scourging of my son. Hesitating only a moment, I ring his doorbell.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Crawley, pulls open the door and stands in the vestibule wiping her hands on her apron, which bears the signs of jam making. Partridgeberry jam, judging from the smell reaching me from the kitchen. I ask to see Father Haley.

“Have you an appointment?” she asks, wiping her hands up and down her aproned sides, first to clean them, then to smooth out the wrinkles she has made while swiping upward and downward along the flowered cotton.

“No. Sorry,” I say, and smile apologetically. “No appointment. But I'll only take up a few minutes of his time.”

“He's too busy now. Could you come back in the morning? You see, he's been at the palace most of the day, and now he's gone into his study to prepare a homily for a funeral Mass in the morning. He asked me not to disturb him except if he got an emergency phone call from one of the hospitals.”

She expects me to begin a retreat, but I hold firm. “No, I must see him
now
.”

My calm insistence annoys her, and she says with a nip in her voice. “Father don't like people coming in off the street unless in an emergency. He's tired and busy and don't need to be disturbed.” She scrutinizes me and recognition dawns. “Haven't I seen you on the TV? You're
that woman Member
. In the House.”

I extend my hand. “I'm Tess Corrigan. Tess Corrigan Slade, and my son, Brendan Slade, comes here sometimes for the Altar Servers' Association meetings.”

“Oh yes, indeed,” she says brightly, the nippiness gone from her voice. “Brendan Slade. A nice young man. Polite.” She nervously brushes her hands down along her apron again, still ironing out the imaginary wrinkles. “I'll go speak to Father,” she says. “Maybe he'll be able to spare a minute.”

She leaves me standing in the vestibule while she hurries away, tiptoeing down the hall so her leather shoes won't click-clack on the hardwood floor. I'm certain that “Father” will know the reason for my visit because he
had
spent the day at the palace, probably called there the minute Greg left.

In just a few minutes, Mrs. Crawley comes tiptoeing back to me, smiling a sort of mission-accomplished smile. She says deferentially, “Father will see you now.” Fleetingly, I wonder whether the deference is for Father or for
that woman Member
. Either way, of course, it's of no consequence. She points towards the priest's study.

My rubber-soled shoes muffle my footsteps, so even though he is expecting me, I catch him unawares. His chair is turned towards the window, and he is staring out at the rectory's well-cared-for lawn, which in the light from the window is now a soft black green.

“Good evening.” I speak louder than necessary, partly because I feel clumsy leaving off the reverential “Father” at the end of my greeting and partly because I'm embarrassed at taking him off guard. Startled, he swivels his chair around to face me. He is wearing a black suit, complete with Roman collar, a change from the pullover sweater he usually wore whenever he came for Brendan. In the bright light of his desk lamp, I can see beads of perspiration on his forehead and around his hairline. His glasses have slipped down his nose. Embarrassed himself, he fumbles with his hands — pushes his glasses into place, touches his collar, gropes for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. He looks like a man about to face his mortal enemy.

He clumsily stands up and nods toward the leather chair where he wishes me to sit, and then he glances at the open door behind me. Caught in a Hobson's choice of whether to break the unwritten rule of never being closeted with a lone female or chance having Mrs. Crawley overhear a conversation that may become heated and loud, he comes around his desk, walks to the door and eases it shut. It slides across my mind that he may have done this very same thing when the altar boys met with him. My stomach somersaults at the thought.

When he sits back down, he steeples his elbows on his desk, places his interlocked hands underneath his chin and looks towards me, although not at me. Spare, gangly, clean-shaven and fresh from being reprimanded by his superiors, he doesn't look much older than Brendan.

Just as I am wondering how I should open the conversation, he says, “The palace called after your husband's visit. I was in to see them this afternoon. I just got back. It looks like I'll be leaving here.”

“So they're at least going to take some action.” I strive for a corrosive tone on the off-chance that he might try to arouse my pity by telling me he is losing his parish. I also want to squelch any notion my heart may be harbouring of equating him with Dennis. “You destroyed Brendan and God knows how many other mothers' sons. The least they can do is get you out of here.”

“Yes, I know that.” He speaks so matter-of-factly I might just as easily be telling him his front steps need repainting.

I am not sure what I expected from him when I decided to call on him, but it definitely wasn't this calm acceptance, this detached passivity. Perhaps I hoped he would beg or plead. Or accuse. Or deny. Or that he would rage at Greg for going to the palace. Or even at Brendan for tattling. I have a battery of fighting words at the ready, but his submissiveness disarms me. I take a moment to regroup, unbutton my suit jacket, place my purse on the floor. When I straighten up, I speak the first thought that comes to my mind.

“Have you any idea of the extent of human destruction you have caused? Have you any idea of the heartache that you have handed out?” I feel a surge of Greg's anger, a swell of his frustration. With painful clarity it strikes me that Greg has been right all along. Nothing can ever be enough to undo what he has done. No matter what answer Tom Haley will give me, it will not be enough. And no matter what punishment his superiors hand out to him, it will not be enough. And no matter what we do to him, even tearing him limb from limb, as Greg has threatened, will not be enough. Canonical censure will not be enough. Public disgrace will not be enough. Nothing will ever be enough to give Brendan back his innocence. Nothing will ever be enough to allow our lives to return to where they were before George O'Connell's visit last night.