The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse (48 page)

“Thank you,” said Agnes, confused and unnerved.

“Don’t you want to know how I found out?”

“Yes.” Agnes’s voice was very faint.

“I found the papers,” said Jude, “while doing research on our subject. Of course, I looked up the birth certificate of Lulu, as I looked up everything about her in the church files. You didn’t bother to hide it very well.”

“Hide?”

“The birth certificate, of course. Father Damien, I
know
about it. You are, or would be, but of course you
won’t
. . .”

“What?”

“My father-in-law. If only . . . I mean, if only I could have her.”

“My dear son . . .”

“Yes! I saw your name on Lulu’s birth certificate.
You are Lulu’s father.
I know now, should have grasped before, from your words, how deeply you loved her mother, Fleur. I understand. To my great sorrow, no, joy, I truly and fervently know what it is to become undone by a woman. I shall keep your secret, as I know you’ll keep mine.”

And then, to Agnes’s astonishment, the stolid and nerveless man on the other side of the screen began to weep into his hands.

BINGO NIGHT

Father Jude was engaged in what was perhaps the greatest moral struggle over a bingo game conducted in the history of the Church. But of course, it wasn’t that alone, at all. Most things on the reservation, he was beginning to find, either connected with or came down to Lulu. Bingo was no different, especially when it concerned an invitation to accompany her to the Sweetheart Bingo Bash, with games commencing at midday and running through the night. Special prizes. Honeymoon trips. Weekend getaways in Grand Forks. Champagne suppers up in Winnipeg. A year’s worth of chocolates.

How was he supposed to define himself free of wishing now that he had a wish? How ignore the sleepless reality of the struggle in his thoughts? How configure his embarrassment? How not say a word? And accept that he was human, therefore ridiculous?

Playing bingo, she said, raising her eyebrows and sliding her eyes obliquely away, was just one of her many failings. She was sorry, but what was the harm in it after all? She never lost more than she could afford to lose or won so much that it made her act better than her friends, and if she did happen to win a lot, she spread it around with a generous hand. What was the problem, then, and did Father Jude think it was simply in the nature of gambling? If so, shouldn’t he try playing for himself and seeing how childish the game really was—just a diversion, really, like playing Monopoly, only in a vast roomful of people?

“No, I cannot go with you,” said the priest, for perhaps the tenth time.

As always, she smiled a particular smile he had come to think of as her neutral gear. She smiled that way when she was buying time. When her brain was clicking forward with a new argument.

“It’s probably better that you not go.” She said this easily, which caused his heart to catch in a stabbing and painful stitch he breathed deeply to loosen. He wanted to reach forward and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, though her hair was perfect. He wanted to lay his face against her neck, brush the curve of her throat. Instead, he pressed his fingers to his lips to contain the words that would expose his longing. Women her age were not supposed to have slim waists and smiles so joyous. And her radiant laugh! She was laughing at him, mocking his last ditch attempt at self-control.

“You want to,” she held a finger up to him. “I know. I can tell.”

Wanting was not the problem. Not going with her was the problem. In desperation, Father Jude went to ask Father Damien what he should do, and to try to elicit counsel that would shore up his resolve not to venture to the Bingo Palace, or anywhere, with Lulu.

“I’m no help,” said Father Damien, “I won’t tell you what to do. You wouldn’t listen if I did.”

“I’m not asking you to dissuade me,” said Father Jude, gathering his pride. “I suppose, anyway, it’s not a place a priest should likely venture.”

“I venture.”

“Do you go with her too?”

“Of course,” said Father Damien. “The years between us have shrunk away. Since I retired from my active role in the Church to write my reports, Lulu has been kind enough to relieve my solitude with occasional trips to the Bingo Palace. There, we sit among friends, enjoying the workings of chance as we sip on cold drinks. We listen to the gossip, the bragging over grandchildren and lamenting of the actions of grown sons and daughters. She listens and I smile. She does not judge and I need not absolve, for after all these years my forgiveness is taken for granted.”

Father Jude nodded, flexed his hands, sighed wearily. “I should just go to bed and forget about this. But I know I won’t. I’ll end up going with her and going to the devil.”

He said the last extravagantly and earned a disapproving frown from Damien. “She is good,” said the old priest, “one day you will understand this. She is goodness itself.”

Three hours passed in which he thought she’d forgotten all about him. Then she came back and asked him again, just to make sure, and she brushed against him when she did this and he said, in that instant, yes he would. He got into her car. As soon as he did so, he realized that he’d never let a woman drive him anywhere before. He should have seen it coming, then, as he rode along in the sun-struck, dark, red seat in unaccustomed passivity. He’d never been so alone with a woman, except in the anonymity of the confessional. And now that it was just the two of them in so small a space, he wanted to drive forever. And then they were at the Bingo Palace.

“I’ll stake you,” she said, purchasing a bingo package. They sat down together at a long table with ashtrays in front of a big-screen TV on a stage. Not long, and the numbers rolled off the announcer’s lips. On B-10, Father Jude’s mouth went dry. His glasses fogged on G-40, and by the time they’d cleared and he saw the possibilities his lips were buzzing, numb, and he dabbed delicately on the square O-63.

“Someone else bingoed.” She tore off the flimsy sheet of numbers and tossed it away. Then she asked him what she’d got him here to ask him, solo and in her power: “What are you doing with Father Damien?”

The implication being, What are you doing
to
him.

“Interviewing him,” said Father Jude.

“He looks tired.” Lulu dabbed smoothly, marking a number he’d missed. “But he also looks”—and here she stamped his paper just a bit harder—“stronger. He actually looks stronger and healthier than I’ve seen him in quite a while. So whatever you’re interviewing him about . . .”

“Church business.”

“Seems he likes to talk about Church business then. What kind of business?”

Somehow, the way she asked, conversationally and distractedly, as though she had a perfect right to ask and know, left him undefended. He told her. Horrified later, he couldn’t remember the exact words and all that went with them, but he did know he’d treated her like a confidante and colleague. Not just telling but discussing the implications of what was to become of whatever findings he made, and even worrying about the difficulty of establishing a literal or factual truth when there were opposing versions of Leopolda’s life and story, when the life—as opposed to the evidence of miraculous interventions—did not add up.

“Should I be telling you all of this?” he asked at one point.

“Why not?” she asked calmly.

He couldn’t think of a reason, and then he couldn’t think of anything. He was looking at her helplessly. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve got it bad,” she said, diagnosing his fever like a compassionate doctor.

He mumbled agreement and the great burden of his feeling pressed up all around him in a buzz of noise. Saying it lifted away the burden of strangeness. Relieved, he smiled at her, and then she was staring straight into his eyes, with an easy, knowing sympathy that made his blood hum in his ears.

LEOPOLDA’S PASSION

Father Jude Miller had always loved to read about saints—the first and oldest of course somewhat apocryphal, the stories structured to end with ingenious tortures, the saints even in agony making clever retorts to butchers and emperors. As well, he loved the more contemporary saints whose lives obtained of more possibility of emulation—he marveled at their sense of sacrifice and fervor. He found himself dwelling on the symmetry of the saints’ passions, or stories, on their simplicity of line. He was having trouble with passion, from the Latin
pati
, to suffer, defined in the Catholic Dictionary as
a written account of the sufferings and death of one who laid down his life for the faith
. He was persuaded that the God he knew, at least, wanted him to write a passion, a recognition for this very complex person, Leopolda.

Besides that, he wanted to get the whole thing over with, this mission. As soon as possible, he would then leave the priesthood, immediately marry Lulu, get old with her. Wait, they were old already. They would die in each other’s arms, then. He must concentrate. He turned back to the task of describing Leopolda.

With some dismay, in the welter of files and note cards in fans and toppling stacks, Father Jude understood that to tell the story as a story was to pull a single thread, only, from the pattern of this woman’s life, leaving the rest—the beautiful and brutal tapestry of contradictions—to persist in the form of a lie.

Still, he tried.

Sister Leopolda of Little No Horse was born in extremely humble circumstances and during a time when accurate birth and death records were not kept, especially for families of wanderers among the Ojibwe, Cree, and
métis
families of the plains frontier. Although only sporadically exposed to the teachings of the Church, her piety was marked from a very young age.

Here, he stopped, shuffling through his papers for examples noted during the brief period, especially, when she had lived in Argus with relatives. She was spared during a tornado that had ripped the town apart. Though she attributed her survival to prayer and to the rigid defense of her virginity, an elderly man who, as a child in that family, had been lifted with her into the roil of air that same day, said otherwise:
She used to cuff me around, slap me, scream, if that’s what you call praying.
Yet there had also been stories of her fervid attendance at Holy Mass. She was unflaggingly pious. Though Father Damien remembered their first encounter in the church as disturbing, others reported a dull metallic glow surrounded her when she was lost in prayer, and the strong, resinous scent of burning pine pitch, not unpleasant, filled the air when she spoke out loud the sincere act of contrition.

She had a great deal to be contrite about, Father Jude thought, so why was she then rewarded with spiritual favors? Not his place to figure out, he told himself, and continued writing.

Many conversions took place as a result of her example of continual prayer. During what others have called her “marathon adorations,” in which she knelt for hours, sometimes whole days, eventually consecutive days, before the Blessed Host, she was in a state of ecstasy almost tangible to those who approached to touch her. Many reported that they were overwhelmed with a poignant sense of peacefulness, or that, holding a hand lightly on her shoulder, they were able to close their eyes and clearly visualize the answers to their problems and follow the progress of their prayers out the stovepipe and over the roof of the church, off the tips of the leaves, dodging the clouds and away into the sky.

Father Jude Miller put down his pen and dropped his head into his hands. True, but others had said she left a black stain like oil where her knees pressed for all of those days. During the time of her longest confinement or trance, the rigid fast that Father Damien had revealed as no visionary journey of the spirit but a dangerous case of lockjaw, he had been told, this from Dympna, that voices were heard behind the closed door of her cell. Voices arguing, low demonic growls, hideous moans. And yet when the door was opened there would be only Leopolda, bones and skin underneath the coverlet, eyes staring through the roof.

She was accepted as a novice at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Little No Horse, and there she proceeded to raise great sums of money for the improved comfort of her sisters by giving missionary talks throughout the region. During these speeches, she would often become inspired to such a degree that others were moved to extreme acts of generosity. When she did return to the convent, she was physically and mentally exhausted, but tried her best to continue her studies in Church history and catechism, and to work toward the improvement of her soul.

He had to note, somewhere, what a trial she was to others and where her piety became terrific and strange. And, too, what to say about the deadly conversion she had effected with Quill, the useless baptisms she’d wrought on the defenseless dead, not to mention her amalgam of ancient practice with Catholic tradition and the skulls she dragged for years behind the Virgin of the Serpents, dragged by way of pierced back and arms, until they pulled free, shredding her. . . .

In an attempt to reconcile the two worlds from which Leopolda drew spiritual sustenance, the young novice mistakenly, but with a fervent heart and pure intentions, attempted to graft new branches onto the tree of Catholic tradition.

Father Jude hummed with approval for his metaphor, imagined the great rooted base of an oak spreading wide and the branches reaching hungrily toward light, one among them boldly colored, beaded entirely, and ribboned. He leaned back into the supports of his wooden chair and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he saw that he was mistaken. The picture shifted. The tree was beaded all the way down to the center of the earth and the branch of his own beliefs, the dogma and history of the Catholic Church not even a branch but a twig not strong enough for a bird to perch on, just a weak and slender shoot. He rubbed his eyes and resumed his place in Leopolda’s story.