Bishop's Man (26 page)

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Authors: Linden Macintyre

BOOK: Bishop's Man
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Lost innocence.
I remember years ago, on hot Sundays in July or August, how the dry trees would crackle, filling the Sabbath afternoon with the aroma of burned sap. John and his father would rescue us if Sandy happened to be in a decent mood, load Effie and me into the car with them and drive us to the beach in Troy.
Traigh
actually works better, the more I think of it. Effie would argue that everything sounds better in Gaelic.
Mo run geal dileas,
for example. “My faithful fair sweetheart.” Try it:
Morune-gall jeelus.
It leaves a sweetness on the tongue.
The Mountie’s car was gone and so the sweet face of the woman back in town returned, restored the tension of the moment. She seemed sad, standing there, arms folded over her chest, head atilt. But there was a faint smile. No hard feelings obvious. She has lost none of the sweetness of her younger years. It has, in fact, been much enriched by sadness. Sorrow and warmth equal sweetness. Innocence. Lost. What was I feeling then? Guilt? Contrition? What’s the difference? Alfonso would say that true contrition needs an action of some kind; otherwise it’s only guilt, a shallow sentiment.
Traigh.
Why not? Try.
On Troy Beach, doomed Sandy Gillis would sit grinning in the broiling sun, a beer bottle balanced on a stone, scratching the snow-white skin above his elbows, or as far back on his shoulders as he could reach, revealing the damp hair matted in his armpits, as we floundered around in the water. The missing part of his head would be more conspicuous in the summer. The white, hollowed patch of skin looked like a burn scar after flesh melts and stretches and heals all puckered, but I know it was from a bullet in the war.
Whack.
Tore off a section of the skull. Altered the brain chemistry to darken the memory of what went just before. Nothing but shadows where the war had been until just before the end of his life. They say that what you don’t know won’t hurt you. What he didn’t know probably saved him until the night my father decided to enlighten him, to throw the switch, expose the darkened part of memory, reveal their crime. Or was it only sin? Or just stupidity?
“What they do in wars isn’t really murder,” I suggested many years ago, the first time John and I could talk about our fathers’ homicidal history.
“Doesn’t it depend on circumstances?” John replied. “What about civilians? What about killing civilians?”
“You’re right. It would depend on circumstances.”
More recently, John informed me that, in his personal experience, suicides grow calm, even ecstatic once the dread diminishes. It’s all about control, he said. And he described how, just before the end, his father’s anger disappeared, replaced by an odd stillness that John later saw as resignation. It was the closest Sandy ever came to grace, the way John sees it now.
“It has an upside, suicide,” John said, smiling faintly. “You shouldn’t be surprised that the young guy from Hawthorne called about the boat just before he did away with himself. The boat would be his way of touching base, without raising an alarm. He was already gone by then … in his own head, at least. Time doesn’t matter anymore by then. A blessing, in a way.”
Perhaps. It’s like morality. Depends on whom you ask.
What did Father Roddie say? Violent death is sometimes justifiable. Some situations … situational. He had a dark sense of humour.
 
Someone told me long ago that Troy Beach had been completely stripped of sand and gravel. They used it all for the causeway and the foundations of the industry the causeway brought. For every benefit there is a cost. There is a causeway. The causeway created a harbour. There are jobs and wages because of it. And leisure time, for sitting scratching in the sun. But there’s hardly anywhere to sit anymore. That’s the way it goes. Last summer local people were complaining about a powerful stink around here, like raw sewage, coming from somewhere nearby. Coming from the shore. Everybody suspicious of the industry that came after the causeway, that brought their prosperity, liberated them from anxiety. Wanting me to make a fuss. Get involved. Make a stink about the stink.
Maybe, I said.
Driving by the place we used to call Sleepy Hollow, I noted the water pipe sticking out of an embankment at the roadside, water pouring. I felt a sudden thirst, checked the rear-view mirror for the Mountie, still couldn’t see him. For as long as I can remember, water has gushed out of that pipe without fail. People would drive miles during a dry summer with barrels and buckets. Late, after a wild night, you’d stop there. Drink, splash the face, breathe the moist, clean air, refreshed. It’s still there, sparkling pure. At least for now. Sand and gravel gone, but we still have the water.
I inhale deeply, searching for the phantom sewage smell, indignation gnawing on the memory.
Driving up the hill by where an elderly couple once lived, a brother and sister called Jack and Annie Troy, I take another furtive glance behind. Their name was really MacDonald. Around here they name people after the places rather than vice versa. There’s a whole family called the Miramachis, but they’re actually MacDonalds too. Unrelated. Maybe the policeman stopped at the convenience store. Or the water pipe.
 
John Gillis, I’ve decided, looks exactly like his father, and I told him so the day he visited, shortly after Danny’s death.
“It’s possible,” he said. “I can’t remember exactly what the old man looked like then. But I’m about the age he was, the day he did it.”
November 22, 1963.
“It was an anniversary we can never forget, eh? Thanks to Kennedy.”
“Do you think you can ever forget something like that, no matter what the date?” I asked.
John was standing by the bookcase, studying the journals. “They look like diaries.”
“We’ve hardly ever talked about it, have we?”
“Maybe once or twice. So, what have you got in here?” He was turning one of the journals, front to back.
“Basically just notes about meetings, decisions. Did you ever keep a journal?”
He laughed. “No. I guess not.”
“Too bad. There are lessons worth remembering in our past.”
“I imagine. I imagine there’s some interesting lessons here.”
“Help yourself,” I said.
He put the journal down, turned away. “Got enough of my own past to keep me going, even if it isn’t written down. Got no room for yours, unless it’s mine as well. But it’s been a while since that, eh? Quite a while since we were family.”
I waited.
“A conscience is an awful curse,” said John. “Guilt can turn into a disease if you’re not careful. That’s the trouble with diaries, at least if you’re honest in them.”
“Do you think that was what killed your father? Conscience? Finding out the details of what happened there, in Holland, just before the end of the war?”
“I suppose it was.”
“So, since it was my father who provided the details … I guess …”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” He seemed to hesitate. “It’s pointless trying to rationalize what we can never know.” Then he said: “You take that business in the hall. When that young MacKay fella took the swing at you, then did himself in. You could cause an awful lot of trouble for yourself connecting dots when you don’t have to.”
“So it was you. You were there.”
“Who did you think it was?”
I didn’t answer.
“I came late. Bobby O. invited me. We worked together at the mill for ages. I saw what happened. You did nothing to provoke it.”
“It’s complicated.”
He shrugged. “You took an awful wallop.”
“It was nothing.”
“I was afraid for the young fellow … I tried to hold him. I was worried what would happen to him after you got up. I remember when we were young.”
Before he left, he said: “My real reason for going to the hall that night was to apologize, sort of.”
“For what?”
“Back there in the winter, when I was on the bender … I got pretty gross. Sorry about that.”
“There was nothing—”
“I’m afraid I’ve got a streak of the old man in me.” Then he headed for the door.
Before he closed it, I said, “Maybe we both do.”
“I doubt that. I used to wonder … do they do something normal in the final seconds, like, say, the act of contrition. And if they did, would it change anything?”
I didn’t even try to answer.
After Danny’s funeral, I saw Stella by her car, head down. When I approached, I realized she was fumbling in her purse, trying to find her car keys. Her eyes were red, cheeks wet.
“Are you okay to drive?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’m okay.”
“I could drive you home,” I said. Her sorrow was infectious. “We can talk.”
She just shook her head. “I’m going to stay with Jessie for a while.”
 
I was passing MacMaster’s when I realized the policeman was behind me again and now he was flashing his lights, indicating that I should pull over.
Only then did I feel the danger.
He leaned close to my open window. “How are you today, sir?”
I knew him from our previous encounters, but I didn’t think he’d recognize me because I was wearing a leather jacket and ball cap. My disguise.
“Could you step out of the car for a minute, Father?”
“Is there something wrong?”
“Just step out of the car, please.”
“What’s this about?”
“Just step out, please,” he said, and stood back, making room.
I shoved the door open abruptly, climbed out. Staggered slightly.
“Would you come with me, please?”
He walked toward his own car, opened the passenger side of the cruiser, with his hand on my elbow. I climbed in, fuming. The dashboard was cluttered with electronic paraphernalia. He got in on the driver’s side. He sat there for a moment, thinking.
“I’m going to drive you home,” he said finally.
“Was my driving
that
bad?”
“I didn’t notice the driving. But you do seem to have had a lot to drink.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“A visit,” I said.
“I stopped you because there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Driving away, leaving my car stranded by the roadside, I was wrestling with the absurdity of the moment. I’ve been taught that the power of the man in uniform is from a lesser place than mine. But now I was under his control. We turned up the glebe house lane. The church towered over us but suddenly seemed to be as impotent as I was.
“What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Father,” he said, “you should know … there is somebody asking questions about young MacKay.”
“That’s strange. Who?”
“A reporter.”
“A reporter? Why would that be news? It was months ago.”
“He seems to be suggesting that the MacKay thing was tied into … other matters.” He was studying me for a reaction.
I shrugged. “I can’t imagine what he’s talking about.”
He continued to study me for a while, measuring. “I thought we could talk about it, but obviously not today. Maybe someday soon, when you’re feeling up to it.”
“Any time at all.”
“By the way,” he said, “did you ever know a priest named Bell? Brendan Bell.”
“I knew a Bell, but he isn’t a priest. At least not anymore.”
He stared, then said, “I hope you’ll remember that I did you a favour today.”
You ask that Bell. And you find out who sent him here, and why. Then you’ll know.
“You didn’t happen to get a name,” I said.
“Name?”
“The reporter.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t write it down.” Then he reached across and handed me his business card.
Cpl. L. Roberts.
“You can reach me any time. Night or day.”

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