Free Bishop's Man by Linden Macintyre

drinking problem. That’s the problem with them all, I’m sure.”

    “Father Mullins isn’t exactly a teetotaller. But he has a low tolerance for excess. In anything. Except for sanctity. And golf, of course.”

    The bishop grinned his crooked, boyish smile. “Port Hood is a brilliant idea. Mullins makes the perfect nanny.”

    We both laughed at the image.

    And there wasn’t a ripple all the time that he was there. I visited. I monitored the situation scrupulously. I admit I had an anxious moment when I heard that Bell had started up a youth group. I hinted to Mullins: “Brendan had a drinking problem in Newfoundland. Let’s hope he’s being responsible around the young people.”

    “I’m on the lookout,” Mullins promised. “But I don’t think there’s a thing to worry about. I’ve never seen him with more than a glass or two of wine at a meal. And the kids just love him. He has a marvellous way about him.”

    And that was it, not a hint of misbehaviour.

    Driving back to Creignish that evening, I re-examined young MacKay’s demeanour in my mind. Did I see insinuation in those hazel eyes?

    Maybe I was more unnerved by the expression on his father’s face when I didn’t know the name of my grandmother. It had been a moment of unintended revelation on my part. Not to know your grandma? Around here, most around my age will rattle off four or five generations at the slightest hint of interest. The sloinneadh it’s called. Part of the dying heritage and, to my mind, no huge loss.

    There was a light on in the glebe house when I got home. I had connected a lamp to a timer after Bobby O. said they like to see a sign of life there, like the sanctuary light above the altar. But I did it mostly for myself. Something about darkened houses brings back unwelcome memories.

    “You knew Brendan Bell,” the boy had said.

    Too well, I’d felt like replying. And realized I didn’t have to. Those searching eyes could read my mind.

     
    The bay is flat, endless pewter beneath the rising moon. Hypnotic. I’d acquired the bishop’s liking for Balvenie. I justified the cost by keeping my consumption low. Sitting in the living room, the amber puddle in the crystal glass, the mind revives the flavour of harsh dark rum in coffee cups.

    Maybe it was the rum. Something that induced disclosure. Other than the bishop, Alfonso was the only one who knew why I was in Tegucigalpa. He listened like a child, puzzled, non-judgmental.

    This old priest … was with a boy?

    Yes.

    And you are sure of what you saw?

    I laughed. The bishop had asked the same question. But he was challenging: How do you know what you saw? You admit the room was dark. What are you? A cat?

    I had asked myself that same question, more than once. How could I be sure? I didn’t want it to be true. Father Roddie. Dr. Roddie. My mentor, my guru, the giant intellect who took me seriously. But there was no room for doubt. When I met the boy hurrying toward the door, the truth was written on his face.

    So that’s why you are here. In exile from the truth.

    Yes.

    I remember Alfonso’s bitter laugh.

    And you? I asked.

    He waved a hand dismissively and reached for the rum bottle.

    Same thing, in a funny kind of way, he said. I was trying to do something for innocent people who are getting screwed.

    I sip the Balvenie, fighting the sorrow that always rises when I think of him, which lately seems more frequently.

{5}

    I t was a Friday night, late August I recall, soon after my visit to Hawthorne, when somebody knocked on my door. It was young Danny MacKay, wearing a blazer. I could smell the shaving lotion.

    I asked him to come in.

    “Dad was saying you were thinking about the boat.”

    I laughed. “That’s an overstatement.” I offered him a beer. He waved it off.

    “I was in the area,” he said. “Thought I’d just drop in. The old man was mentioning the boat.”

    He smiled. He had his mother’s eyes, dark and hooded, eyes that