Free Bishop's Man by Linden Macintyre Page B

memories. Alfonso and his tragic justice mission. And Jacinta. Where was she now? In the months after I’d returned, I was addicted to the news, anything that might have information on the liberation struggles that had cost my friends so much. And then … the news became unbearable too close to home. Boston. Newfoundland. Too many dirty secrets bubbling below the surface, threatening to ooze out into the glare of media exposure. Too many Brendan Bells.

    I muted the TV and called Sextus. “You aren’t going to believe what I did today.”

    But he was only mildly surprised. “This makes sense. You and a boat.”

    I laughed. “I never had anything to do with a boat in my life.”

    “Oh, I remember when we were kids, you were always around the wharf. Anyway, you need something like that. An escape. If it can’t be some old woman, maybe an old boat will do the trick. At least the boat won’t talk the ear offa you.”

     
    There was a shy knock at seven-thirty. When I opened the door, I recognized immediately a young woman I’d seen in the church each Sunday since I’d arrived. Unusually pious for her age, I’d thought. Her name was Sally. A MacIsaac. She said I knew her father and I agreed, although I didn’t. I still have trouble keeping the names and faces straight.

    “You’re originally from around here, aren’t you?”

    “Yes and no,” I said.

    She laughed. “How can it be both?”

    “It isn’t the same place now. The place I’m from is gone. Buried under all the new stuff.”

    She seemed satisfied by that.

    “So what brings you out on a cold night?” I asked.

    She passed a slim hand through her hair and looked away. “I have a boyfriend. He’s not from the parish. He wants to get married someday.”

    “Okay. When did you have in mind?”

    “Oh. Not for a couple of years,” she said.

    “Okay. So … is your … boyfriend a Catholic?”

    “Oh, yes.”

    “Well then,” I said, “I can’t imagine any big impediment. You know they insist these days on some premarital instruction. I don’t know why. What would I know about marriage?”

    We both laughed.

    “And anyway, a lot can happen in a couple of years.”

    “Sure. That’s why I wanted to talk now.” She was sipping at a cup of tea, fidgeting a bit. I asked her if she wanted more. “No, no,” she said, then stared at me for what seemed like a long time.

    My face was probably showing the confusion that I felt.

    “There’s no doubt in my mind,” she said, and smiled.

    “Okay,” I said, waiting.

    “But sometimes I’m not sure what he’s really thinking … or that I know him well enough for … for a life.”

    “How long have you known him?”

    “Oh. Forever. All through school. But he’s changed in the last couple of years. People say I’m making a mistake.”

    “What people?”

    “My folks. My girlfriends.”

    “I see.”

    “I thought maybe I could get some advice from you. I heard what your job was at the university. Dean or something. Maybe you know guys better than I do.”

    “Everybody changes during their teens,” I said.

    “I never had another boyfriend, so I can only go by him.”

    She seemed embarrassed then, and I knew she was sorry she’d come.

    “Maybe I’m just making too much of it.”

    “Look, any time you want to talk, I’m always here. Even if it’s just to have a cup of tea. Bring him with you sometime.”

    “Yes,” she said, standing. “They say something happened to him. Some bad experience. It affected him.”

    “What kind of experience?”

    “I don’t know. But I thought … maybe he’d talk to somebody like you. Somebody he could trust.”

    “He’d have to make that call.”

    “Yes.”

    “I don’t suppose I know this fellow?” I said.

    “Actually, you do. I think you bought a boat from him today. From his dad, at least.”

     
    For a week I’d drive down to the shore and just stare, until I grew conscious of people watching me.