The Trinity (33 page)

“And the good thing about your natural religion is that there is no guilt. Surely common sense does prevail—you shall not kill your brother, say, or sleep with his wife. But other than that, well, I shall reveal to you further. Is any of this sinking in?”

“Yes,” says Chris, “I think so. But can I ask you, if you hate Christianity so much, why are you a priest?”

“A bit hypocritical of me, isn’t it? Yes it is, yes it is. Well, first of all, this is all I know, and I have a lot of training and time invested in it. I am not exactly employable in any other occupation, at least not one that could provide me with any sort of living. And most importantly, there is a certain amount of privilege being a priest. I can meet people such as yourself, and I can typically do no wrong. My actions are seldom questioned. Even the harshest of policemen tremble in front of a priest. Villains tremble before a priest. So, in order to do what I must do, I need to hide behind the collar of the clergy. In due time, if all goes well, the collar will no longer be necessary. Are you interested?”

“I think so.” And Chris is somewhat interested. A religion that is not too bureaucratic does have a certain appeal. And if someone as nice as Father Crowley is a part of it, then it can’t be all bad.

“Excellent. I knew you would be, but first, I must get to the bad news. As you know, growing up in Detroit, there is an assault of the white race going on in America, and, unfortunately, it is spreading throughout the world. This is done by the Jews. Our mortal enemy.”

Chris looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Just as it isn’t natural for you to have a religion other than what is innate, it is not natural for the races to live and work amongst each other. I have never been to Detroit, but I can only assume that the suburb where you lived was virtually all Caucasian, and the city is all black?”

“Yes.”

“And tell me, can you tell me if there is a neighborhood or suburb where the races meet, where they live side by side, where they live in harmony? Can you?”

“No,” answers Chris, and he now knows where Brad has learned his point of view. He originally thought Brad was capable of his own thinking and forming his own values based on his life experiences. He now realizes that it isn’t true; Brad has learned much from the priest.

“Same way in Omaha,” says Brad. “Niggers stay on their own side of town, and if a white kid like me moves in, let me tell ya, it ain’t cool.”

Crowley acknowledges Hinckley. “See, the voice of experience. It is against your instinct to co-exist. Brad can tell you, it doesn’t work, and seldom do you see it. I will grant you, and I’ve noticed it since I’ve been in the military, there is a rash of mixed marriages going on. The reason is simple. Whoever the white party is in a mixed relation has had one of two things happen: the person of the lesser race has put them under some sort of spell, or there is some sort of possession, evil or demonic, if you will, and surely, their souls will perish. Have you ever been attracted to a black woman?”

“No,” Chris says, starting to feel slightly swayed by the priest.    

“Exactly. You probably wouldn’t even look at one twice, and, naturally, a black girl wouldn’t give you a second glance, either.”

Chris nods his head, thinking that no girl will probably ever give him a second look.

“Well then, are you now willing to proceed down the path to everlasting inner peace and a fulfillment that can’t be extended by any other belief, religion, or way of life?”

Life has had no better offers, so Chris thinks for a moment, a little uneasy about the xenophobic views of the priest. But no other hands of masculine or paternal friendship have been extended to him. Karen is a lukewarm companion that he happens to work with, and though he does find her beautiful and intelligent, he doesn’t think he has a shot in hell of ever forming a relationship with her, at least not the kind he desires.

He nods. “Sure, why not?”

“No, no,” says the priest, “there can be no equivocation on your part. You either want it or you don’t. If you don’t, that’s fine, may the gods bless you and lead you their way at another point in your life, but if you accept, I can only tell you that I will guide you like a son.”

This last statement makes Chris’s heart tremble. His father has never even called him “son”. In fact, he barely uttered his name in Chris’s recent memory.

“Okay,” he says. “I want it. I want in. What do I have to do?”

“There is a bit of initiation. Brad here has gone through it. A harmless prank, really, no different than what you might expect in a college fraternity or something like that. Grab your coats and take some beers. We’re going on a trip.”

Quickly and with some confusion, they don their jackets, as does the priest, grabbing his leather coat from the back of a kitchen chair. He stands on the couch and rips down the map of Aberdeen, studies it, and haphazardly folds it and places it in his pocket.

Each of them stumbles as they walk out of the warm house and through the front door into the cold night. It is still early, not quite 10 p.m., and the sky is as clear as Chris has ever seen it since he’s been in Scotland. The black and cloudless night is filled with a multitude of stars, so thick and clear that the outline of the Milky Way, a thick white ring, can be seen arching across the sky.

The priest opens his Austin Allegro and looks at Brad and points at the back seat. Brad frowns and climbs in the back, his oversized body very cramped and uncomfortable as he squeezes himself behind the pushed-up driver’s seat. He sits amongst a pile of debris, paper and wrappers and food containers. The priest has never bothered cleaning out the car since he purchased it.

Chris climbs in the front and slowly the car starts as Crowley pulls the manual choke and then returns it to the running position as the car begins to idle smoothly. He wipes the inside of the windshield with his sleeve; their breath has already cast a fog upon the glass.

Quickly he drives away, causing the tires to spin on the gravel driveway as he accelerates towards the main road out to the A92.

Something suddenly comes to Chris as he stares out the passenger window, searching the now empty and black fields that during the day contain sheep and farmhouses and trees, interrupted by the occasional side road leading towards another village.

If Crowley tends to have racist views, no matter what his justification, what was his role in the treachery of Lee Rodgers? Chris shivers. He fears what he has gotten himself into.

He is afraid to ask, but he must. He had asked Brad in the past if he knew about Lee, and Brad had said no, but he was skeptical even then and didn’t enquire any further for fear of having to know the truth. But now he must, as he has made a sort of commitment, willingly, with the priest, as if he has become a part of a family, a bizarre and macabre family more closely knit than the one from his past, who are now scattered from Scotland to Michigan to Arizona or god-only-knows where.

“Umm, Father Crowley?” Chris asks, retrieving his nearly empty packet of cigarettes from the shirt pocket of his best button-down shirt, his Sunday church shirt.

“Yes?” Crowley replies, knowing that he is too drunk to drive but also sensing that the angels from Valhalla, his white angels, are twinkling in the night sky and swirling around the Allegro as it cuts through the evening, speeding north several miles faster than the legal limit. Crowley is not concerned in the least, not worried in the least about the police who heavily patrol this highway, which is the main thoroughfare for Eastern Scotland. He now feels the white lights are elves known as the Alfar, the holy elves who reside in the uppermost part of heaven and who do Odin’s bidding, traveling to Earth to guide him and to protect his chosen ones.

“Well, no offense, but I know that Brad here and Lee Rodgers were friends, and I heard you were with him when he committed suicide. I heard about what he did, and from what you’ve told me tonight, you know, it just seems…”

Crowley is prepared for the question, and he fields it the same way he dealt with the halfhearted inquiries from his commanding officer, from Chaplain Lambert, from the base security department, and the easy questions asked with doubtful eyes from Chief Wilson, the master-at-arms.

“It must appear awkward,” Crowley replies without hesitation, “especially in light of my faith, but I assure you,” and he turns to glare at Hinckley, as this is a topic they didn’t think to address before bringing Chris into their fold, “that Lee acted alone. I wouldn’t condone such careless actions. I knew what he believed, and that in itself wasn’t bad, he just went about it the wrong way. Neither Mr. Hinckley nor I had any idea about what he was up to, but we did have discussions—you understand, discussions only—about the topic of race and the injustice the white man receives in American society, and how that injustice is especially amplified in the military, where there is no natural separation of the races. They are all forced to live together, unlike in the States, where people have instinctively settled amongst their own kind. Lee was a disturbed young man indeed, and what he did in Dundee and his suicide later can be marked as one of the most cowardly acts I’ve ever seen in all my years as a priest. I will agree with the Church on one score; suicide is indeed a most blatant act of selfishness, and a sign of weakness. Our religion tells us that weakness makes us vulnerable to attack, and whatever hardships we face only can make us stronger. Lee was faced with hardship. He had a deep sense of guilt and an even deeper fear of being caught and arrested for murder. He could have been a shining example for our faith and for our race. Instead, he chose to flee, in a most permanent way. Neither Mr. Hinckley nor myself had anything to do with his demise. Brad lost a dear friend, and I lost a potential student of the faith.”

Chris is satisfied, mostly, with Crowley’s answer. He opens a can of beer. He drinks it greedily, as the effects of the alcohol previously consumed are starting to recede, leaving a dull headache in its wake.

“Okay, good. I was kind of wondering, you know, because of some of the things you said tonight and all that stuff he did. It seemed kind of like, you know, you could have been doing things with him. I’m sorry for doubting you, Father.”

“No need for apology. I suspected you may ask about that situation, a situation I wish to discuss no further.” Again he turns to glare at Hinckley in the back seat, who already has a collection of empty tins of beer gathering at his feet. “Leave in the past what belongs to the past. Life moves forward, not backward.”

“Okay,” says Chris.

“I will say this,” Crowley says, scratching his cheek. “Lee did give me an idea for our initiation rite tonight. This I will reveal to you as soon as we arrive in Aberdeen.”

The rest of the drive is silent in the smoking of cigarettes and the drinking of beer while Chris stares at the moon, which hovers full over the ever turbulent North Sea. Chris stares at the sea and wonders about the life on the other side. Crowley stares at the sea and longs to be on the other side, Norway, where he knows there are many adherents to his faith and he could find friendship in between the fjords and the mountains and the infrequent cities.

As Aberdeen approaches and the signs loom indicating the turn-offs for the city center, Crowley retrieves his map from his pocket and unfolds it on top of the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve and causing the cars traveling in parallel lanes to sound their horns, but he is oblivious to their irritation. He is in deep concentration and in frustration hands the map over the seat to Hinckley. “Find me Dee Street, and get us there.”

Hinckley takes the map and flips it over several times, unable to detect in the moonlight and the now present street lamps which way the map should be read.

“Hell, I don’t know,” he says, too intoxicated to focus on the seeming irrational lines of the map. “I don’t know where the hell we’re at now.”

“Chris?” Crowley looks at Chris, and Chris understands that he is looking to him for help. Chris takes the map. He knows they have just entered the southern edge of the city along the A92. The light is better in the front seat than in the back, and the lights from the buildings along the edge of the city provide even more illumination. Chris quickly finds Dee Street. After a quarter of an hour, they cross a bridge over what must be the Dee River and find the street they’re looking for.

Crowley slowly drives down the street. A line of cars forms behind Crowley’s Allegro, and again the sound of horns slices through the night. He is looking for an address, number 74, and all his attention is focused on the numbers on the buildings, which are hard to distinguish, as many of them are only seen in recessed doorways.