Читать книгу Passiontide - Brian E. Pearson - Страница 8

Chapter One

Father David reached out in the dark and groped for the stop button on the clock radio. Dan the Traffic Man was already sounding pretty excited this morning, warning commuters away from a fog-bound tie-up on the Don Valley Parkway. But this was all Father David cared to know about Dan, the invisible man with the chainsaw voice whose only usefulness to the Corcoran household was in cutting through its last minutes of sleep. Father David found the button and gave it a slap, stopping the Traffic Man before he had time to suggest an alternate route.

Father David heard Beverley stirring beside him. Once again, she would be starting the day before he would, though this was a new pattern for them. Ordinarily, he was the one who was up first, making his way downstairs in the dark to his study for morning prayers. But not since their summer vacation had ended a few weeks ago. He had returned from their holidays feeling tired and out of sorts. He had begun clinging to these dying moments of repose, as if it were the end of the day, not the beginning.

He rolled over, bunching his pillow under his head, and tried to go back to sleep. But he could hear Beverley in the bathroom, and found himself following her movements in his mind as she robed and padded down the stairs to the kitchen. He listened as she ran the water for the coffee, opened the fridge, and began mixing up some juice, the wire whisk tinkling on the sides of the glass pitcher. Soon she would come back upstairs to look in on Paul and Catherine, their teenaged children, to make sure they were awake. By then he would have used up this brief period of grace, and the day would come for him.

So he pushed himself out of bed, propelled only by a sense of duty, which nevertheless was strong in him. When all else failed, duty could always be counted on to take him by the shoulders and shove him forward, like his mother used to do when she would guide him purposefully out the door to go play with the other children on the street.

Settling himself heavily onto his prayer stool, Father David muttered his way through his morning prayers. A strict twenty minutes later, he rose, showered and shaved, then joined Beverley in the kitchen. She brought him a mug of coffee and he sat at the table, glancing through the morning paper, until Paul and Catherine presented themselves in the doorway, their coats on, their backpacks slung over their shoulders. Rising mechanically, Father David laid down the paper, kissed Beverley on the cheek, and headed out to drive his children to school.

Arriving a little later at the church, he unlocked the front door and made his way down the long hallway to his office, flipping lights on as he went. He slumped into the chair behind his desk and dialled a code on the phone, then hit the hands-free button, leaned back, and waited for the messages; there were none. So he got up, prepared the communion set, and headed off to the first appointment of the day, the monthly Anglican communion service at the Westview Nursing Home.

As he drove along, an old tune formed in his head, a hymn so familiar that he paid no attention to the words as they flowed soundlessly by, like the neat suburban bungalows of his neighbourhood streets and boulevards:

When I survey the wondrous crosson which the Prince of Glory died,my richest gain I count hut loss,and pour contempt on all my pride.

By the time Father David arrived at the Westview, the early-morning fog had lifted and the sun was breaking through, warm and promising. He sat in his car for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts, preparing himself for what he knew lay ahead: the dark cluster of sad greeters parked just inside the front door, a ghoulish gallery of hollow eyes searching every new visitor for … what? Escape and rescue? News from the homeland?

He reached down into his emotional reserves, a storehouse filled through almost twenty years of ministry, and found again that delicate mix of pastoral concern and personal charm that allowed him to saunter along the hallway, lined with creeping wheelchairs and outstretched arms, past the nursing station, greeting anyone who chanced to make eye contact with a forced cheeriness. “Good morning!” he called out. “Hello there!” It didn’t matter to him that most of the residents did not — or could not — respond. In his black suit and Roman collar he imagined he was to them a sign of hope and consolation.

“Hi everyone,” he called out as he entered the Fireside Room. There was no fireside. There was no fire place! But there were seven or eight residents gathered in the small sitting room, some slouched in chairs or on couches, others parked at odd angles in wheelchairs, brought in hastily and left there by volunteers. These were the bright ones, and some returned his greeting.

“Hello, Father!” It was Arnold, short and balding. As one of only a handful of men in a sea of widows, he seemed valiantly to be trying to hold up his half of the universe by acting as genial host and general bon vivant.

“Hi, Arnold,” Father David said. “How are you today?”

“Can’t complain,” he said. “No one listens to me anyway, when I do.” Father David forced a smile for this joke that Arnold had told dozens of times. It had become a ritual, their little dance of greeting.

“It’s Sylvia’s birthday today,” a volunteer announced as she wheeled another resident into place.

“Really!” Father David replied with exaggerated interest. “How old are you, Sylvia? May we ask?”

Sylvia’s arms were tied onto the armrests of her wheelchair, her thin body propped upright by pillows at either hip. Her bent back forced her head to bow forward, and it bobbed slightly to the rhythm of her faint pulse. But she looked up at the sound of her name, uncomprehending.

“How old are you today, Sylvia?” the volunteer shouted into her ear.

Sylvia looked around. She could hear the sound all right, but couldn’t make out where it was coming from. The room looked on without expression as Father David knelt on one knee in front of her, slipping a hand beneath hers, placing his other hand gently on top. “Happy birthday, Sylvia!” he said, looking intently at her. Her head reared back, her eyes widening to take him in. Father David smiled and patted her hand.

He rose and walked over to a small table in the middle of the room where he began unpacking the communion set. It consisted of everything you would find on the altar on a Sunday morning, but in miniature: a small square linen corporal, two tiny candlesticks, and a silver chalice and paten, like toy accessories for Minister Barbie.

Father David lit the candles and began handing out the orders of service. Most of the assembled congregation, he knew, would not be able to read or follow along, but it was his way of making everyone feel included.

Mrs. Sollemby had now arrived and was getting organized at the piano. She was a volunteer who played for hymn sings and church services as needed, though with no discernible joy in doing so. She wore the countenance of someone fulfilling some sort of obligation, paying a debt perhaps, or atoning for a sin. So she never greeted anyone. She just sat down at the piano, got out her dog-eared hymnal, placed it on the music ledge, rested her hands in her lap, and waited.

Father David greeted her anyway, as he always did, in the hearing of the small assembly, thanking her for coming. She acknowledged him with a slight nod of the head, poised to hear what service would be required of her this day.

“I thought, this being a glorious September day,” Father David addressed the room, “we might sing, ‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’” He looked around the room. “How does that sound?”

His question was greeted by a few nods. “Oh, that’s one of my favourites!” someone spoke up.

“All right then,” Father David said, encouraged. “We’ll just sing the first two verses from your hymn sheets. Got those handy? It’s on the second page.”

He did a quick tour of the room, helping people find the spot, turning the page where it was needed. A volunteer who had stayed for the service worked the end of the room closest to the door, pressing song sheets open on trays or on laps. “Ready?” he asked finally. “Okay, Mrs. Sollemby.”

It was no surprise that his was the only voice heard singing. He had a strong voice, and he tried to restrain himself so as not to overwhelm the room. But, predictably, the hymn became a solo anyway. There was no real expectation that anyone else would sing along.

Father David had prepared a little homily for the service. He used as his text a passage from the gospel of John. “‘I am the good shepherd,’” Father David read aloud, “‘I know my own, and my own know me … I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly’” Father David closed his Bible and looked out at his frail congregation, some of whom had already fallen asleep. “I came that they may have life,” he repeated, “and have it abundantly.”

“God wants us to have life,” he began, “and not only life, but abundant life. Some days we may not feel very lively. We may feel sick, or tired, or sick and tired. We may look around us and think, ‘This doesn’t feel very much like abundant life. Who are the people who need me? What is the purpose of my life?’ We may even find ourselves wondering, ‘What’s the point of it all? What good am I doing here?’”

Someone was snoring, long breathy sighs punctuated by sudden pig-like snorts. Father David carried on.

“But Jesus came that we may have life,” he said, “and have it abundantly. This life is his gift to us. It is not something we can conjure up or create by ourselves. Even in the midst of sickness and sadness, Jesus gives us the precious gift of life. Suddenly the clouds part, and the sunlight fills the room, and we feel once again the gift of sunshine. Or a loved one comes to call, and we remember that we are known and loved by others. And even on the dreariest of days we can always recall in our hearts the many blessings God has given us. This is one of the special gifts of ageing: that we can rummage back through a lifetime of memories, giving thanks to God for all he has done for us through the years.”

Arnold’s head had fallen to his chest. Father David decided he’d better bring things round to their snappy conclusion.

“So when Jesus says he has come that they may have life, he is talking about us. We are his sheep, we who accept his love and walk in his ways. We are the ones called to abundant life in Christ. This is his gift. Thanks be to God.”

He looked out over his little flock. A deathly silence had descended upon the room, a silence borne less of rapt attention than of sound slumber. He cleared his throat loudly and moved on to the communion part of the service.

He took hold of the bread and wine which had been blessed and reserved for this purpose at last Sunday’s service. “The gifts of God for the people of God,” he said, and he elevated the chalice and paten. Not expecting any response, he said it himself: “Thanks be to God!”

He stepped forward and began moving around the circle of worshippers, pressing a wafer onto open palms, reminding the communicants to raise the bread to their mouths and eat it. When he got to Sylvia, she looked up at him blankly. “The Body of Christ,” he said. Her hands could not rise from the armrests; so he placed a wafer on her lower lip, hoping she would be able to do the rest herself.

He picked up the tiny chalice and went around the circle again, offering the wine to each one in turn, raising the chalice to parched lips, repeating the words, “The Blood of Christ.” Each time he wiped the rim with a small linen purificator, though in terms of hygiene this seemed a futile gesture, some communicants losing more to the chalice in drool than they were receiving in wine.

When he got to Sylvia, the wafer he had given her was still protruding from her mouth, stuck now to her top lip. He reached to remove it, but her lips were dry and it would not pull away. He did not want to rip it off like an adhesive bandage, so he simply offered her the chalice, reasoning that the wafer, softened by the wine, would come loose. She could then take it in along with the wine. He had reasoned correctly. The wafer was freed from her lip. But now it came to rest in the chalice, floating on the surface of the wine.

There were still several more communicants. He couldn’t very well offer them a chalice with someone else’s wafer floating in front of their eyes. So he tipped the chalice slightly, stranding the wafer on one side, dipped his finger in and brought it out, placing it on his own tongue. It stuck to the roof of his mouth like a wad of paper as he completed the circuit, offering the chalice to each of the remaining communicants.

Returning to the table, he said the final blessing, thanked everyone for coming, and began packing up the communion kit. This meant consuming whatever wine remained in the chalice, including, of course, whatever else had been added to it in the course of communion. Unlike some of his less assiduous colleagues, he would not simply dump out the wine, perhaps pouring it down the sink. This was no way to deal with the blood of Christ! It was consecrated to be consumed, not mingled with the dish water. The only dignified solution was to pour it directly into the ground; but he didn’t have that option here. So he raised the chalice to his lips and, closing his eyes, drank down its contents.

As he was packing up, Sylvia spoke up. “Is it my birthday?” she asked.

Father David looked up. “Why, yes it is, Sylvia.”

“How old am I?” she asked, squinting up at him.

Father David looked at the volunteer by the door, who shrugged. “I don’t know, Sylvia,” he said. “I don’t know.” He looked down at her for a moment. “But you take care.”

He made his way out of the room, striding swiftly down the dark hallway, past the nursing station, down the long row of wheelchairs and searching eyes, toward the light radiating from the front doors. Emerging into the bright sunlight, he shielded his eyes as he searched for the place where he had parked the car. He reached it, got in, placed the communion kit on the passenger seat, and let out a deep sigh. As he turned the key the acrid taste of Sylvia’s communion wafer lingered on his tongue.

. . .

Father David’s next appointment was clericus. Most of his Anglican colleagues in the deanery were able to refer to this monthly meeting of the clergy without resorting to Latin. In fact, most simply called it a “deanery meeting.” But for Father David, clericus — the Latin term for clergy — was a reminder of the long and dignified tradition to which they belonged: they were priests in the church of God, a high calling indeed. Using the Latin helped raise their sights, he thought, or it ought to have, if only the rest of them would look beyond whatever new and passing fad was supposed to save the church this week.

Since moving to the suburbs, Father David had been disappointed to discover that, even though his clergy neighbours were now no more than ten minutes away in any direction, he felt more alone here than ever he had in his relatively isolated country parish. The truth was, he rarely saw his neighbours; and when he did, he usually regretted it.

It was like that old joke he had heard a thousand times at church gatherings. “Clergy are like manure,” some jolly speaker would chortle into a microphone, anticipating the room’s riotous approval of this naughty little irreverence; “spread out, they can do a little good.” Har, har, har. But brought together in one place, Father David conceded now — in a heap, as it were — well, it was sometimes just about enough to make him gag.

It felt to him as if his colleagues here were all locked in some sort of race with one another, perhaps a three-legged race, some of them improbably bound together through theological disposition, others through ecclesiastical rank. Jockeying for position, they bumped up against one another, each cleric reporting that he or she was “encouraged” by developments in their parish, or “hopeful” about some new innovative program.

On the surface, it appeared that no one could be doing better, that each parish was healthy and growing — an interpretation easily contradicted by the statistics. What was worse, they spoke earnestly of being “brothers and sisters.” If that were true, Father David thought, it was only according to the worst and most dysfunctional associations one might have with the word “family.”

This month’s meeting was being held at St. Mark’s, a neighbouring parish, whose rector, Barbara, was also the regional dean. When Father David arrived, a handwritten notice taped to the door informed him that the meeting would take place in the youth room downstairs. This was not a good sign.

There was a perfectly good board room off the church hall, Father David knew. It was well lit and functional, and they could sit like professionals around a table. The youth room, by contrast, was a dark tomb in the basement, lit indirectly through one high barred window. The view through that window, the only visual relief offered by the room, disclosed the cracked concrete walls of a window well and whatever dry leaves and candy wrappers had fallen there, rising up on windy days to swirl about frantically, if pathetically, round and round in the enclosed space.

Throughout the room, on various end tables and coffee tables, were scattered low-lit occasional lamps, including one glowing red lava lamp that was always in motion, appearing to Father David to be radioactive. The chairs and couches were mismatched rec room cast-offs, brown corduroy and blue velour predominating, most resting squarely on the floor, their legs having been removed. The carpet was orange shag. Father David frowned. This meant it would be a “Caring and Sharing” day.

Father David had arrived early, as was his custom. Barbara was just inside the door of the youth room, checking on the coffee pot. “Hi, David,” she said, turning and taking him in at a glance, as if scanning for surface cracks. “How are you?”

She did everything so intensely. She was one tough cookie, a former nurse whose main contribution to that profession had been to serve as the union representative. Her piercing blue eyes must have struck terror into the hearts of hospital administrators, Father David imagined, that penetrating gaze boring straight through whatever defence or resolve they had plucked up in preparation for her arrival. No doubt she got what she came for every time. Then maybe she got tired of winning, tired of making grown men cower, and maybe that is why she went back to school to become a priest. Only now, he was certain, it must be worse, with cowering clergy on every side.

He looked away, surveying the room for a chair that promised the least discomfort. “Fine,” he said at last, without commitment. “How are you?”

“We’ve got this new youth worker, really neat young woman, really qualified, and she’s just doing amazing things with the youth group. She’s planning an inner city exposure trip. It’s scaring the hell out of them, but I think it’ll be a real eye-opener.”

“Hm,” Father David replied.

He had chosen his chair, a hard-back wooden stacking chair. Randomly he reached for a book from the nearby bookshelves and turned it over in his hand. It was called, When the Church is Revolting. From what he could tell by the cover, it was some sort of call to arms, a challenge to the church to become more revolutionary, to overturn the tables of the moneychangers, to harangue the power brokers. It offered strategies for church-based social change, and you could send away for a booklet of Peace and Justice Songs for use in inter-generational worship. He placed the book back on the shelf and sat down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting.

Barbara was still looking at him: It appeared she was preparing to say something, but at that moment two more clergy walked through the door.

One was Bob, fifty-ish and bear-like, with a greying beard. He gave Barbara a hug. They had known each other in seminary. If he was afraid of her you couldn’t see it, though his affectionate greeting might just be a calculated defence. The other was Charles, the new young incumbent of the Chinese congregation, who slipped nervously past them both to settle himself quickly into a plush armchair in the corner. No one would be able to hug him from there. He smiled formally at Father David, who nodded politely in return.

The rest arrived in small clumps, milling awkwardly in the doorway, pouring themselves coffee as they exchanged greetings with one another. They lingered there as long as they could, until a new clump arrived, forcing them deeper into the room. They had no choice then but to commit themselves to one of the chairs or couches and lower themselves into the dark folds of overstuffed upholstery, knowing they would not be getting up again without a graceless struggle. There they sat like captive chimpanzees, leaning forward, trying not to be swallowed whole, their arms dangling in front of them. Still, their faces were set to convey a positive attitude as they cast furtive glances around the room.

Today would be a day for “Caring and Sharing,” Barbara announced when they were all settled. It would be a chance to check in with one another, she explained (though everyone already knew exactly what it meant), and she hoped they would all be open to do that. The bishop himself had commended the process, she said; he had even recommended it to some of the other deaneries.

It was interesting, Father David thought, that for someone who regarded herself as a renegade, someone who routinely and publicly bit the head off any authority figure who got in her way, Dean Barbara so frequently drew upon her closer association with the bishop to lend weight and credibility to her own plans. If anyone didn’t like the thought of opening up to one another in their “caring and sharing,” they had to contend not only with Barbara, which would have been enough, but also with the bishop.

So they began to go around the circle, answering her Question for the Day, which was, on this occasion, “What gives you life in your ministry?” Barbara offered to go first herself, to break the ice.

“For me,” she said with practised eloquence, “it’s seeing Christ through the brokenness.”

Yes, of course, Father David thought. She would have prepared for this. Whatever she did, she always made sure she was the cleverest, the one with the most profound insight, the one who was wisest. It was certain, for instance, that no one would prove wiser than she was today, and that, if they tried, they could expect her — lovingly, of course — to point out some flaw in their reasoning, or some inconsistency with their actual lived experience. No doubt about it, she was a master at spiritual one-upmanship! Or was that now one-up-personship?

As Barbara went on to describe in heart-rending detail a recent pastoral conversation with someone who had been abused as a child, Father David’s mind wandered. He surveyed the room. If haberdashery were any measure of their professionalism, they were certainly a motley crew. Father David’s was the only black clerical shirt among them; he was the only one in black, period. Barbara wore a white clerical shirt with a Roman collar, the kind fitted for women, with darts sewn into the sides. There were only two other clerical shirts in the room — Charles, the Chinese priest, in gray, and Brewster in, of all things, a casual short-sleeved brown shirt with a plastic tabbed collar.

Now what was the sense in that, Father David wondered. What was the point of wearing clerical garb at all if it took on a fashion palate of stylish colours and tones? If it was brown today — which, of course, was already yesterday’s colour — then why not pink tomorrow, or green, or why not Hawaiian with pictures of palm trees and surging waves? It was a dangerous United Church influence, he thought, shaking his head, like wearing a stole to match the carpet rather than the liturgical season; it diluted the notion of priesthood.

The point of being a priest at all was that the personality did not interfere with the transmission of God’s grace. While priests brought distinctive personalities and distinctive gifts to their ministry, theirs was a ministry of function, not of personal charisma, like the Pentecostals. Any priest should be interchangeable with any other. Unless, of course, they began to pander to passing fads and personal fashion statements. Then, for all the dignity they imparted to the role, they might just as well go to work in plaid shirts and bib overalls.

Which was pretty much what bear-hug Bob was wearing, Father David realized, gazing round the room. With his blue jeans, his casual shoes, and his checked shirt open at the neck, just what was he trying to be? A hip woodsman? An ageing hippy? Father David was sure that counselling sessions with “Father Bob” would be an enlightening business, not to say entertaining. Did he darken the room and light a few candles? Did he burn incense or ring little bells? Did he make young couples — who only wanted to get married — join hands with him and sing a chanted mantra before getting down to business? He could not stifle a small grin at the thought.

“David, is there something funny about any of this?”

He looked up, startled. Barbara was bearing down on him from across the room. “No, of course not,” he answered. “I was thinking about something else. Sorry.”

A charged silence hung in the air. Father David took in the group with a glance. No one was making eye contact. Only Barbara was looking at him, looking directly at him.

“Well,” she said, breaking the spell. “I think that’s all I want to share. David, perhaps you’d like to go next.”

“All right,” he said, recovering his composure, “though I thought you wanted us to go round the circle. But sure, I’ll go.” He had to think for a moment what the question was. “What gives life to our ministry? Was that the question?”

“What gives life to your ministry, yes,” Barbara nodded.

“Well, for me, it would be the liturgy. The liturgy gives me life.”

“What is it about the liturgy?” Barbara posed, leaning forward now, trying to sound pastoral, but coming off more like a pissed-off talk show host.

Damn, Father David thought. Why can’t she ever just let something be? He didn’t want to open up to this group. He frowned, but pressed on.

“Well, it’s the dignity of it, the orderliness of it. It’s bigger than the one who happens to be presiding. It’s bigger than all of us. And we get swept up into that — into God, in fact, who is loving and, well, orderly. It’s like, for this brief moment, we get a glimpse of heaven.”

Father David considered the words that were coming out of his mouth. He believed them. He really did love the liturgy, loved leading it, loved standing at the heart of it. The Sunday eucharist was the high point of his week. He would be happy if he could do a eucharist every day, like they used to do at the cathedral when he was an assistant curate there.

“And is that why you like to be called ‘Father’?” Barbara asked him.

Father David felt the zinger rip into his chest, a direct hit. It was such a personal question. He struggled to gain control of his breathing, to appear calm and unruffled. But it was not a fair question. It was not a question at all. It was an attack, a public attack. Every eye in the room was now raised to monitor his response.

“I prefer to be called ‘Father’ because it emphasizes the role, not the person,” he said evenly.

“But you are a person,” Bob joined in from across the room, nodding and smiling encouragingly. The circle of clergy seemed to be closing in, like hyenas crouched on their haunches, holding back for the right moment to leap through the fire and tear him flesh from flesh, bone from bone. How long had they been lying in wait for this moment, he wondered.

Still, Father David kept his head. “I am a person called to play a role,” he answered. “When I preach, it is not my ideas that matter; it is the Gospel. When I give pastoral care, it is not my caring that matters; it is God’s. When I preside at the altar it is not my person that people want to see; it is Christ’s. I don’t apologize for this: it is the role to which we have been called. The clerical collar is not a fashion statement,” he said, being careful not to look over at Brewster. “It’s a sign of office. When I wear my stole, I cross it in front because I am bound, literally bound, by a higher authority than my own personality, than my own likes and dislikes. I am God’s representative through his church. I am, in that moment, the role, not the man.”

Barbara didn’t miss a beat, pushing things farther, upping the ante. “What else gives you life, David?”

But he wasn’t going there again. “That’s it,” he answered, definitively. It might have been taken as, “That’s it, I’ve just told you,” or “That’s it, I’ve had it with these stupid questions.” He didn’t offer to elaborate.

Barbara allowed a brief pause, sat back in her chair, let the moment linger, and then addressed the group, “Okay, then, let’s carry on.” She turned her body away from Father David and toward the priest seated next to her. “What about you, Claire?”

Something burned within Father David now. He was angry. He knew that on these matters he stood alone. No one shared his high notion of priesthood. The younger clergy approached their ministry through an adolescent need to change the world into their likeness. The older ones, especially those who had been ordained as a second career, saw their job simply as being nice people doing nice things for others. None of them had the slightest comprehension of the deep archetypal resonances of their priestly role.

Father David himself had no illusions about the power of the priesthood, and about the heavy burden of responsibility that fell on those who responded to the call, to take it up. But the church, his church, was going off in some other direction. On occasions like this he felt like a fossil, an object of curiosity, perhaps even of scorn. But it only strengthened his resolve.

As the meeting broke up, Bob strode purposefully across the room, his grinning face filled with interpersonal warmth. Father David saw him coming and tried to escape, avoiding his gaze. But Bob reached out and took hold of his shoulder. “Hey David,” he said. “A few of us are going to lunch. Do you want to join us?”

“No, thanks,” Father David replied, shaking him off. “I brought a lunch.”

Bob grew serious, looking at him now with what appeared to be deep pastoral concern. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, fine, thank you,” Father David said. “I’ll see you later.”

He made his way up and out into the noonday sun. With relief he pointed his car toward Holy Cross, his own church, ten minutes away but a million miles from here. The sign on the lawn had his own name painted on it — “Rector: The Reverend David F. Corcoran, BA, MDiv.” — along with the times of the Sunday services. Nowhere did it say anything about “caring and sharing.”

. . .

Back at Holy Cross, Margaret, the church’s secretary, who worked mornings, had already left for the day. He had the church to himself. He went into his office and sat down at his desk, turning on the CBC from the portable radio he kept on the bookshelf. He opened the lunch Beverley had packed. As he sipped through a straw from the little juice box, he tried to put the morning’s meeting behind him.

He was not displeased with what he had said about the role of a priest, though he knew it opened up a chasm between him and the others. But had he trusted them, had he been able to speak the whole truth, what he would have wanted to say was this: It was Beverley who gave him life. She was his wife but also his best friend, the only one who understood — the only one.

If it had been Beverley on the hot seat, she would have given clericus an earful. Father David loved this about her. She didn’t care what people thought. She said and did exactly what she felt. Even Barbara would have been no match for her.

Maybe she should have been the priest, he thought, something that had crossed his mind many times before. She certainly had the training for it, having been for two years a novice in the Anglican Order of St. Cecilia — a nun. She and David had met when he was the assistant curate at the cathedral. He had taken the youth group to the convent for a Christmas retreat. She had been assigned to work with him, supporting him in the daily Bible studies and lending her enthusiastic guitar-playing to their group singing.

Their chemistry was instinctive and immediate. They “fit,” though it took her departure from the order for them to be able finally to articulate it to one another. She did not leave the order for him, but she certainly left because of him. He had opened up in her the hope, and even the possibility, of finding a life-partner. She had done the same for him, and they were drawn to each other like children in a playground, the rest of the noise and laughter dissolving into the background as they bent their heads together, digging with their fingers in the sand.

But she was the plucky one. He himself was reserved, careful, circumspect — traits that had hardened in the mould of his strict upbringing. He had a sister, Paula, almost six years younger than he was. But he had always felt like an only child, caught up far too young in the serious world of his austere father and his quiet diminutive mother. By the time Paula came along it was too late, he was already one of them.

Beverley, on the other hand, was the oldest of five. Hers had been a raucous household, the back door slamming with a constant procession of people in and out, strangers showing up for supper at the last minute (friends of her brothers, mostly). Her mother was unflappable and contributed to the constant commotion by holding down a series of irregular part-time jobs. Her father was prone to falling off the wagon, though he was a happy drunk who filled the house with crude pranks and uproarious laugher. It was a house buoyed by chaotic abandon, every day bringing with it new calamities and fresh adventures. It might have been chosen by a panel of impartial judges as the household least resembling Father David’s.

How Beverley ever got the idea of entering a religious order was a bit of a mystery to those who knew her. But it had more to do with the liveliness of the order than with anything retiring or introverted about Beverley. It was true that she saw it as a place to exercise her growing vocation as a Christian leader. But also, as a plump woman with a flushed complexion and a loud voice, whose chances of marriage seemed slim, Beverley found in the religious life a sense of acceptance and belonging that eluded her in the outside world.

So through her years in the order, Beverley came to know the church well and the peculiar demands of being a “public” Christian, of being a “professional” minister marked by odd dress and unworldly practices. This meant that she not only sympathized with Father David’s world, she knew it, from the inside out, and this made all the difference.

The lunch she had packed him this day was a little sparser than usual, he thought. Sometimes she would throw in a bunch of grapes or a chocolate bar. But today’s lunch was pretty standard fare — a ham sandwich (without the lettuce that kept it moist), an apple, two cookies wrapped in cellophane, and the juice box. Father David reflected in passing that, for quite some time now, his lunches had lacked the little extras he had come to look forward to.

When he had finished, Father David rose and took the communion kit into the sacristy for cleaning. As he ran the tap to get the water hot, he could hear it echoing out in the empty church. The water in the sacristy took forever to warm up; so leaving it to run, he wandered out into the sanctuary to survey his small domain.

Holy Cross was an A-frame building, the sharply slanting ceilings exposing red pine, shellacked to a glossy finish. It had been built in the early sixties, when church attendance was already beginning to wain across the land, but when people were still confident and hopeful, their memories fresh with scenes of crowded pews and overflowing Sunday schools, scenes that had characterized churches all across North America in the heady post-war years. The first swells of the baby-boom generation had raised great expectations.

It was not an unattractive church, but in the late nineties it certainly felt dated. And Father David had no particular fondness for the populist influences from which this architecture had arisen. He was a stone and vaulted ceiling man, himself, a proponent of classic architecture that gave expression to a God who was somewhat remote, and certainly larger than life. The God of the sixties, it seemed to him, had crash-landed on earth. Jesus came right down off the cross, doffing his robes and crown in exchange for jeans and a T-shirt, and became everyone’s personal buddy “Oh, Jesus, I just want to thank you,” people had prayed in the small breakout groups at the evangelistic conferences Father David had attended as a teen. “I just want to praise you, Jesus.…”

He had never understood, personally, why it was that they just had to thank him, that they just had to praise his name. If they thought that in their heartfelt extemporaneous outbursts they were spurning liturgical prayer, they were wrong. They were merely reinventing it, but badly. If you are going to use a formula to guide your prayers, why not use a formula created by faithful scholars from a former age more devout and learned than our own? In the light of such ditties as “Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning,” is it not somehow more dignified — for both God and us — to sing “Thou whose almighty word, chaos and darkness heard … let there be light”?

He didn’t understand it at all. When he and Beverley had pioneered the requisite “contemporary” services back in his rural parish of St. Jude’s, they had drawn on Catholic resources, songs that quoted scripture and reflected actual theology. Sure, the songs had a swing to them, especially as Beverley led them with gusto on her guitar. But they also had meaning and depth: they were part of the tradition rather than a departure from it.

As he stood alone in the sanctuary now, looking out over the rows of empty pews, an overwhelming sadness began weighing upon him. He really didn’t fit in the new emerging church. He knew this. It tolerated him, with his priestly collar and his old-fashioned views, but that was about all. Even his own congregation. They called him “Father” because he asked them to. They tried to enter into the spirit of his high mass at Christmas and Easter, though inevitably every year someone complained of an allergic reaction to the incense. They accepted his theologically complex sermons and his scholarly Bible studies, believing him to be a bright and competent priest, but failing themselves to have even the faintest idea what he was talking about.

The sad truth was that, after seven years here, Father David’s congregation still had no appreciation of the things he stood for. Which meant that some day, when finally he moved on, a new priest would come along for whom the Eucharist was not central, someone in a green clergy shirt, who would throw the gates open wide to rock music in the choir stalls, dancers in the sanctuary, and pablum in the pulpit. And the people would accept it all without so much as a whimper. They would see it as “refreshing,” as “contemporary — really appealing to the young people.”

Facing down his own forty-fifth birthday, which was approaching in the spring, Father David couldn’t help wondering if he wasn’t well on his way to becoming a walking anachronism — in plain terms, a joke.

The hot water was still running in the sacristy, a steamy mist now escaping through the door. But Father David was rivetted to his place at the chancel step as he considered this startling new image of himself, a pathetic middle-aged priestly figure fading into irrelevancy. He surveyed the stained glass windows that lined the nave, fourteen coloured depictions of the Stations of the Cross, seven on either side of the church, each a memorial to someone who had died, someone who was otherwise completely forgotten by this new generation of worshippers, just as he himself would soon be.

There, closest to the rear doors, was Pilate condemning Jesus to death. The artist had depicted Jesus with a bloody and tortured body, the result of the beatings of the soldiers, but his face was strong, impassive, unrelenting. That same face recurred in each window. Jesus was suffering blows and indignities to his body, but his spirit was strong, resolute, or so Father David had conceived it in his own mind.

Only in the window depicting the crucifixion itself did the artist fail, he thought. There, Jesus’ face grew contorted, pained, calling out to his Father in heaven. It was Father David’s least favourite window, though he knew Jesus’ pain must have been real. But perhaps the artist had given in too much to the idea of Jesus being like us. Where was his unearthly strength in this depiction? Where was his faith? Sure, he had uttered those terrifying words — “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But we hear these words through the victory of the resurrection. All was not lost. It was in the process of being won!

But Father David was not able to pull himself up by these thoughts. He gazed now upon the tortured face of Jesus on the cross, and heard himself whisper aloud something he had never fully considered before: “But to him … in that moment … everything was lost!”

Father David stood still, confounded by this strange and unsettling new thought. What did it mean? Was it true? There, on the cross, was everything really lost?

When the sound of running water returned to his ears, Father David did not know how long he had been standing there. He could not recall his last thought. He turned and saw steam now pouring from the sacristy in great clouds. He had to will his legs to move.

Father David went through the motions of cleaning the communion set. He had written in his daily planner “article for newsletter” as his intended task for the rest of the afternoon. But something had now intervened, and he felt too heavy, too tired, to apply his mind to an inspiring piece that was supposed to be both theologically instructive and spiritually uplifting. Who would read it anyway? Who would care? He wanted just to lie down. So he did something he almost never did in the middle of the day. He went home.

. . .

As he approached the rectory Father David recognized a car in the driveway. It belonged to Jill, an old friend of Beverley’s from the convent days. She often came over in the afternoons to visit with Beverley, sometimes staying on for supper. Father David liked Jill. She battled depression, he knew, and Beverley was a support to her. But she also had a wicked sense of humour. So her presence often signalled some refreshingly irreverent conversation among the three adults around the table after the meal.

It seemed, however, as he entered the house, that no one was home. He called out. A sudden stirring upstairs indicated that someone was there. He could hear floorboards creaking above his head, and footfalls on the carpet.

He went into the kitchen to start the kettle for a cup of tea. Jill rushed down the stairs and swept past him. “Hi, David,” she called out, not looking in. “I gotta go.”

Father David walked to the door. Jill was pulling on her boots. Her hair was tussled and she appeared flushed.

“Is everything all right?” Father David asked.

“Yes, fine,” she said. “But I have to go,” and bolted out the door.

Father David returned to the kitchen in search of the teapot. It was never in the same place twice, Beverley being less concerned than he with order. He found it in the cupboard where they kept the drinking glasses. He then began rooting around for the tea bags, which he knew must be someplace, though not in the stoneware pot on the counter where they were supposed to be. He heard Beverley coming down the stairs.

“The strangest thing happened to me a little earlier,” he began to say. She appeared in the doorway, red-faced and wild-eyed. “Is everything okay?” he asked. “Jill was acting a little weird. Are you okay? What were you doing?”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” she said. “Are you making a cup of tea?”

“Yes,” he said. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said, reaching into the fridge for the milk. “We were just …” her voice trailed off. “So what were you saying? What happened?”

Sitting at the table, he began to tell her about clericus, about how he was attacked by Barbara. He tried to describe his disturbing thoughts later, back at the church. But none of it came out making any sense. And it was clear that Beverley herself was distracted, moving quickly around the room, wiping counters, taking things from the fridge, putting them back again. She was not getting what he was trying to say.

“It’s okay,” he conceded finally. “I’ll figure it out. What time do the kids get home?”

The front door opened almost as the words were leaving his mouth, and Catherine burst in. She was their youngest.

“Mom? I’m home!” she called out from the hallway. They heard the thump of her backpack hitting the floor. As she entered the kitchen she was surprised to see her father. “Hi, Dad. What are you doing home?”

“I came home early today,” he said. “How was your day?”

Catherine was like her mother in so many ways, Father David thought, so full of life. As she foraged for a snack, searching the fridge for some juice, and then the cupboard for some cookies, she kept up a running commentary on the significant details of her day in grade eight, none of which seemed to have anything to do with learning, Father David mused, but everything to do with belonging to a group of friends.

Paul arrived just as Catherine was winding down. He slipped silently into the room before anyone realized he was home. He was in grade ten, a good student, and Father David felt proud of the capable young man he was becoming. He too was full of life, but it was more a rich inner life than a boisterous outer one like Catherine’s. Because he was so often quiet, he would catch his parents off guard with his quick and sudden wit. At the moment, though, his face registered only mild amusement at the unusual scene of the entire family gathered in the kitchen at this odd hour of the afternoon.

The house soon settled into familiar activity as Beverley began preparing supper. Catherine spread her homework on the kitchen table while keeping up a stream-of-consciousness monologue to her mother. Paul took to the driveway to shoot some hoops. Father David, uncertain where he fit in, retired to his study.

He removed his stiff clerical collar and laid it down on the desk. This was the one room in all the world where he felt completely at ease. He leaned back in his desk chair and surveyed the bookshelves that ran the length of the room, his eyes falling on the decrees of ordination and the two university degrees that hung on the opposite wall. He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and brought his hands, prayer-like, to his mouth.

Something was happening today, something just beneath the surface, something important. But he could not quite get a grip on it. His mind drifted back to clericus and to his epiphany of sorts in the church. Just what was the message? That his understanding of priesthood had become irrelevant? That he himself was a dinosaur? And just what did this have to do with Jesus’ tortured face in the crucifixion window? He could not focus his mind enough to wring meaning from any of this. These were questions bubbling up from some deeper place, a dark place with which he was not familiar. He reached to turn on the desk lamp.

Catherine poked her head in the door. “Whatcha doing, Dad?” she asked.

“Just … thinking,” he responded.

“Hmm,” she said, looking mischievous. She entered the room slowly, mysteriously, as if harbouring a secret plan. Then suddenly she lunged forward with both hands and mussed his hair. He tried to grab her arm but she was too quick for him, twirling round and bolting from the room, giggling, the door flying shut behind her. He chuckled at her cheeky impertinence. She was growing up.

Their children were such a blessing to him. Before they were married, he and Beverley had discussed the family they planned to have. She had said she wanted eleven children. He had thought she was joking. He offered a compromise: two. It was as close as they ever got to their first fight. But it never came to that. She had the idea that it was her role as his wife to give in. And he had the idea that it was his role to let her.

Now he wondered what their life would have been like if they had had eleven children! He shook his head. It was simply unimaginable to him — the chaos, the noise, the constant confusion. He could not even imagine having three, their little nest being just big enough as it was, just the right size, and a great source of joy.

He rose, pulled on his sneakers, and went out to join Paul on the driveway.

“You want to play some Twenty-one?” Paul asked him. This was a deliberate accommodation. Father David couldn’t dribble a basketball, couldn’t do a lay-up to save his life. But he could stand in one place and shoot baskets, and Paul knew this. Paul also knew that, still, this was a game his father was bound to lose.

“Sure,” Father David said. “But be kind.”

After supper, when the children had gone, Father David rose to start clearing the table. Beverley addressed him, still seated at her place.

“David?” she began. He stopped short. There was a tremor in her voice that was unfamiliar to him. It was quietly urgent, imploring.

“Do you have anything on tonight?” She was looking down at her plate, which, he realized, had hardly been touched.

“No,” he said, “nothing.”

“Is there anything going on at the church?”

“No,” he said, thinking about it for a moment. “Brownies was last night. AA is tomorrow night. I don’t think the Sunday school teachers meet this week; I think it’s next week. So, no, there’s nothing going on.” He considered leaving it there, but he was growing concerned. “Why?” he asked her.

“I need to talk with you. There’s something you need to know.” For a moment neither of them spoke. Something was wrong — it was plain — but Father David had no idea what it was; nor did he really want to know.

“I’d like to go somewhere,” she continued. “I was thinking of the church. Would that be all right with you?” Beverley said, looking up at him for the first time, fear palpable in her eyes.

They drove over to the church in silence. Father David felt a tightening in his chest, a tell-tale sign that he was distressed. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew he wasn’t going to like it. Why else would she want to meet him like this?

He unlocked the front door and proceeded down the hall toward his office. “No,” she said. “Can we meet in the church instead? I don’t want to feel like you’re counselling me.”

Father David turned on a few lights and opened the doors to the church for her. Beverley chose a pew near the front. She entered it and sat down. Father David, feeling too exposed out by the main aisle, walked around to the side aisle and joined her from the far end of the pew. They sat together, a small distance between them.

“David,” she said finally, turning to him, her eyes brimming with tears, “there’s something I just have to tell you. I hope you’ll hear me out, because this isn’t easy for me.”

The rest of what she had to say came to him in fragments, the words registering in his ears but not in his understanding. She and Jill … not an ongoing thing … it had only happened this once … not sure what it all meant … confusing, upsetting … maybe mid-life crisis or something … it would never happen again … nothing’s changed … everything’s changed … could he forgive her … they could work it out … was he okay … was he okay?

Father David looked at her.

“I know how awful this must be for you to hear this,” she was saying. “But are you all right?” She was looking alarmed. “David?”

He didn’t know. He barely knew who he was, or who she was, sitting there in the semi-darkness. He felt paralyzed. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak.

She reached out to touch him. Involuntarily, his arm shot up to block her.

“David, don’t!” she cried. “Don’t do this! We can work it out!”

He turned away from her and found himself staring into the glass-shard face of Jesus, his twisted body writhing in pain on the cross, backlit by the burning lights of the parking lot.

At this moment, he knew without a doubt, he was losing everything. Everything.

. . .

“No, you’re right,” Bishop Hovey was saying. “I don’t need to know the details. But are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“Yes,” Father David replied evenly.

“Have you considered accessing our Employee Assistance Program? They’re very good, I’m told. And it’s totally discreet. I could get Judy to give you the number.”

“No, I think I’m doing the right thing,” Father David replied.

“I mean, David,” the bishop persisted, “the two of you are going to have to work this out someday, somehow.”

“I know that,” Father David replied.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do, David. But this just doesn’t feel right.”

“Bishop Hovey?” Father David struggled to contain the quivering in his chin as he considered what he was about to say. “I almost hit her,” he said, his voice breaking. He looked away, holding back tears.

“Okay,” Bishop Hovey said. “Okay.” He leaned forward across the coffee table and patted Father David on the knee. “It’ll be okay. You’ll work it out, I’m sure.”

The bishop rose and returned to his desk. “Well, since you called this morning I’ve been able to find a number of interesting possibilities.” He shuffled through some papers on his desk. “The thing is, there’s nothing here, nothing close by. But I think you aren’t looking for something close, are you? So I’ve called Doug Long. He was a classmate of mine. His diocese takes in Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands. He’s been having trouble filling an interim position in a relatively remote part of the Island, up the coast.”

Bishop Hovey found the paper he was looking for and held it up to the light, inspecting it as if it might contain secret writing. “Have you heard of the Pacific Rim National Park? Well, it’s the parish of Tofino and — I don’t know how to pronounce this — Uclueclic? Ucuelic? Apparently they’re the two coastal communities at either end of the park. He thinks he can have the position filled by the spring, but he needs someone to move in and take services till then. It’s six months, David. And it’s the other side of the country. I’m not sure we could do any better, if you really think that’s what you want.”

Father David’s heart was pounding. His parachute was gaining definable features. He had only to take the leap. “Vancouver Island?” he mused to himself. But the alternative was unthinkable. He had not been able to talk to Beverley since their conversation in the church last night. He had not been able to look at her. Eventually she had left. He had spent the night at the church, praying and wrestling with what all these new revelations might mean. But his brain kept short-circuiting. He couldn’t make sense of it. All he could think of was getting away, getting far away. Even now that pull was too strong to resist.

“How would it work?” Father David asked.

“If you could get yourself out there within the next week or so, you could start the first of October. There’s a rectory in Uclueclet, Ucuelit — whatever — that’s partially furnished; you could live there; and Doug would pay you a living allowance of $1,000 a month. We would continue your salary here so that Beverley and the kids would be looked after. I’d have Barbara take your services at Holy Cross this Sunday; she would read a pastoral letter from me, explaining you are on stress leave for six months. They don’t need to know anything else, though it would be a good idea for you to say something to your wardens before you go.”

“Why would it have to be Barbara?” Father David asked.

“She’s your regional dean, David,” the bishop replied. “She can handle it.”

They fell silent for a few moments.

“So?” The bishop was ready to wind up the deal.

“All right,” Father David said.

“I’ll call him back. But you’re to call him yourself when you get there.” He wrote down the number on a piece of paper. The bishop looked across at Father David. “So, you’re sure about this?” the bishop asked again.

Father David nodded.

“Here, then take this.” The bishop went to the closet that held his vestments. He groped far back on the top shelf and brought out a liquor bottle. “This was a gift to me. But I don’t drink scotch. You’re not a drinker either, are you? Well, here. Apparently it’s pretty good. It’s not for the road. It’s for whenever you need it. And, David, at some point I sense you’re going to need it.”

David took the bottle from the bishop. The unadorned black and white label said it was Laphroig, sixteen years old, a single malt whiskey from the Isle of Skye. He had almost no idea what any of that meant.

“Sorry I don’t have a bag or anything for you to take that in,” the bishop said.

“Bishop?” Father David said, rising to his feet.

“David, this once, couldn’t you just call me ‘Jim’?” the bishop said.

“No, I’m sorry,” Father David replied, “I couldn’t. Bishop Hovey — thanks.”

“Okay,” Bishop Hovey said. “Let me know how things go. And don’t worry. I’ll look in on Beverley.”

As Father David left the bishop’s office and made his way through the little maze of secretaries’ workstations in the outer office, he knew he must appear quite a sight. His eyes were red and swollen, his clothes had been slept in, and he gripped in his hand a bottle of whiskey. But this was only one of several hurdles to be faced, he knew, so he had better just plant one foot in front of the other. He left the building without looking up.

The next hurdle was to get himself a car. He and Beverley had only one between them, but it was not thoughtfulness that prompted him to seek out his own transportation; he didn’t want to have to negotiate with her about anything. He just wanted to leave.

So his next appointment was with Harv, his sister Paula’s husband. He was an auto wholesaler, a broker of trade-ins before they got to the used car lots.

“Christ, David,” he said as he rose to meet him at his office, thick and bulky behind his enormous walrus moustache. “You look like hell! What’s going on?”

Father David didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to buy a car. Cheap.

“How cheap?” Harv wanted to know.

“Three thousand dollars?” Father David replied.

“That’s not a lot, David. What’s it for? Is this, like, a second vehicle for Bev? For groceries, running round the city, that sort of thing?”

That was as good an explanation as any, Father David thought; so he nodded. Harv scratched his head but was soon on the phone, turning up an old model Ford Escort wagon. Not a lot of pep, but good for groceries, he said. Did he want to go see it?

No, that would not be necessary, Father David said. He asked when it might be ready, later that day perhaps? That was a stretch, Harv answered. But if they got all the paperwork done now, he could have it by tomorrow.

“You sure you’re okay?” Harv asked as they rose and shook hands.

With those arrangements now completed, Father David had to reconcile himself with returning to the house to pack. He didn’t want to deal with Beverley this being the most formidable hurdle of all. But on the other side lay some promise of relief, some vague liberation, and this next step was necessary. So he drove home, plotting out what he would need to pack.

He made it to the study before Beverley realized he was home. She came and stood in the doorway as he began placing books in a cardboard carton.

“David, can we talk about this?” she said. “We need to talk!”

“No,” he said, without looking up.

“Well, what are you doing? Are you leaving?” she was sounding angry. “Just tell me what you’re doing, David.”

“I’m going away for a while,” he said. From his crouched position he turned his body toward her but still did not look up. “I’m taking an interim ministry somewhere. You’ll get my pay-cheque.”

Beverley was incredulous. “You’re leaving the parish? David, I can’t believe this! You’re leaving?”

“It’s only a leave of absence,” he replied, glancing quickly up at her. “I’m not leaving the parish.”

“Why? Why David?” she pressed him. “You don’t think we can work this out? I don’t believe this!” She stormed out of the room. He could hear her pacing the kitchen, throwing utensils into the sink.

He continued placing books in a second carton, his mind racing. He’d need his twelve-volume biblical commentary, though that would take up a full carton itself. And he’d need some of his church history texts, and also his pastoral theology. His other reference books — The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, Encyclopaedia of Theology, and Bible Atlas — these he’d have to pick up from his office. He could hear Beverley building up a head of steam in the kitchen. She returned to the doorway.

“Well … were you going to tell Paul and Catherine?” she demanded. “Or were you just going to walk out? Is this how we’re going to deal with this? I’m so sorry I said anything to you. I thought we could work this through. I thought maybe we loved each other that much. Well, I guess not! You’re just going to walk away! Great! Just great, David!”

He steeled himself as he rose to his feet, taking up a carton in his arms. He walked past her. He didn’t want to get too close; this could get physical, he thought. Just keep moving, he told himself, placing the carton by the back door. He climbed the stairs to their bedroom, two steps at a time, and began pulling clothes from his dresser drawers. Beverley followed him.

“I told you I was sorry,” she said, growing frantic. “I told you it was a mistake. So what’s changed? What is it we can’t talk about? Have you never made a mistake? I made a mistake, all right? So what’s the problem?”

He turned to face her. Without warning, a legion of pent-up demons released itself, spewing across the room. “IT’S EVERYTHING!” he screamed at her, his face contorting, spittle spraying from his mouth. “IT’S EVERYTHING! IT’S NOT JUST YOU! IT’S EVERYTHING!” He sat back onto the bed, shaking, throwing his face into his hands. “God!” he said, sobbing. “It’s just everything, okay?”

“Okay,” she said carefully, backing slowly out of the doorway. “Okay. But, David, you have to tell us what you’re doing. And you have to talk to the kids.”

He nodded, his face still in his hands.

Paul and Catherine were alarmed before their father said a thing. They had never seen him like this. He had been angry before, and depressed. But this was something else. This was frightening.

Beverly had called the two into the living-room after they arrived home from school. Father David was standing by the fireplace. Beverley said simply that their father had something to tell them. Paul sat down on the couch, his face expressionless. Catherine stood behind him, her hands gripping the back of the couch. Beverley sat leaning forward on a chair between David and their children.

“Some things have happened,” he began. “Your mother and I are going through something, and I have to go away for a little while. Only a few months .…”

“A few months?!” Catherine exclaimed. “Why a few months?”

“I just …” Father David tried to clear his mind. “I just need to go away, okay? I can’t explain it. I’m going to take an interim ministry someplace where I can be alone. I’ve got to work some things out.”

“Where?” Catherine demanded, getting shrill.

Father David took a deep breath. “British Columbia,” he said.

Beverley’s jaw dropped. “British Columbia?!” she said. “David!”

Catherine ran over to her mother and broke down, falling at her feet and sobbing into her lap. Paul’s eyes dropped to the carpet.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Father David tried to say “This is nothing you’ve done. I just need to work it out. By myself.”

“But why British Columbia, David?” Beverley asked him.

“Will you be coming back, Dad?” Paul asked, looking directly at his father.

“Of course.” Father David tried to sound firm, but his attempt failed.

Paul got up and left the room. Catherine and her mother were both crying now. “Why is he doing this?” Catherine was asking. “Why?” Beverley held her daughter to her, stroking her hair.

“I’m sorry,” Father David said. “I’ll write. I’ll phone. It’ll be .…” His voice trailed off.

A car horn blew from the driveway. “That’s my ride,” he said. He took a step toward Beverley and Catherine. But Beverley’s eyes narrowed at his approach. Bastard! she mouthed over top of Catherine’s head. So he turned and left.

. . .

The taxi took Father David to his mother’s house, where he would spend the night. This would be the last hurdle. Soon there would be no turning back.

As he lifted his suitcase and his cartons of books from the trunk of the cab, piling them on the curb, he wondered what sort of reception he would receive from his mother. He paid the driver and turned to face the house. She was already standing in the doorway.

He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. She moved back into the house as he made several trips from the curb to the vestibule.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” she asked him, when the last carton was brought in and he had closed the front door.

“Thank you, Mother,” he replied, taking off his coat and wandering into the living-room. He was still feeling shaky from the scene he had left at home, and was not anxious to open the whole subject again. She did not try to start a conversation with him from the kitchen — it had always been a rule in their house not to talk between rooms. But there seemed something deliberate in her leaving him alone while the tea was made.

This had become a familiar house to Father David, though he had never lived in it himself. It was the house she had bought with the insurance money when his father died, twenty years ago. David’s father, Franklin Corcoran, had been a parish priest, and Father David had grown up in a series of draughty rectories. So had his mother, Lucille, whose own father had been a priest, and then a bishop. She had no intention, when the opportunity arose, of cheating herself out of a proper home, this small but stately bungalow set on a winding tree-lined street in Leaside, a pre-war Toronto suburb. She had lived comfortably since Franklin had died of a heart attack, in his study, while preparing his Christmas sermons.

It had been a shock, of course. He had been so vital and alive right up to the moment of his death. But his passing also became a source of liberation for Lucille. After a period of mourning, it seemed that she began to blossom. Her clothing became, if anything, more colourful, more cosmopolitan. She began moving in an active social circle of widows and couples her age, and appeared, over the years, actually to be growing younger.

She attended the local Anglican church, making sandwiches or baking tarts when called upon by the ACW. But she kept her distance, and joined no committees or guilds. Much to Father David’s frustration, she did not have an opinion on the present rector, and seemed to be oblivious to the various tensions and problems with which the parish was known to be plagued. She had managed somehow to rise above it.

If her husband’s death had released her from the role of dutiful rector’s wife, it also gave her a new perspective on her grown children. They were living their own lives now, making their own decisions. She was no longer required to will them through each new phase of their lives. She could now begin willing herself through her own. As she was able, she went on cruises and signed up for courses and attended symphony orchestra concerts.

So when she asked Father David about his plans, she was interested, but not as a mother who felt she had to interfere to set things right. She was interested as one adult to another. As she set the tray on the coffee table before them, she simply wanted to know his plans.

“Well,” Father David began. “I’ve accepted an interim ministry. It’s in British Columbia.” He looked over at her for a reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “Vancouver Island, actually. It’s for six months. I hope we’ll have figured some things out by then.”

“What things, David?” she asked him, handing him his cup of tea.

“Things. I don’t know. Beverley and I seem to be going through something right now, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know, Mother. Everything just seems so confusing.”

“And Beverley?” she asked. “What does she say about this … separation?”

Father David frowned. He put his tea cup down. “It’s not good, Mother. She’s not very happy about it. Neither are Paul and Catherine. They think … they think I’m running away or something.”

“Are you, David?” she asked him. “Are you running away?”

He felt his emotions rising to the surface again. But she did not look away. He struggled to gain control of his cursed quivering chin and to hold back the tears that were welling in his eyes. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. She had her answer.

“You know, David,” she said pensively, “you were always such a serious child. I used to call you my ‘little man.’ You always wanted to know what was expected of you, and then you tried to do just that. You wanted to please everyone. And you got ever so mad if you were playing a game with your friends and they didn’t play by the rules. It used to make me feel sad for you. You seemed such a lonely little boy. Like your father, in some ways.”

She sipped at her tea, placing the cup back on the saucer she held in her hand. “You won’t know this, I suppose,” she said, looking amused. “But since your father died, I have had several suitors.”

Father David looked at her, surprised.

“It’s true,” she said with a smile. “And not just two.”

“They wanted to marry you?” he said.

“Is that so hard to believe?” she asked.

“No. Not at all, really,” he said. “I just never really thought about it.”

Lucille smiled again, nodding slightly. “Well, it’s true. But I didn’t want to get married again. Once was enough. I loved your father. He was good to me and good to you and Paula. There are days I miss him terribly. But I don’t miss being married. I don’t know if you can understand that. While we were married, it would never have occurred to me to leave your father. I was happy, as far as I could tell. And besides, there simply wasn’t the time to think about it. But when he died, I guess I just didn’t want to have to work so hard again.”

Father David thought about this for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But do you want to know what I think? I think this plan of yours is not about you and Beverley. I don’t think it’s about your marriage. I think it’s about you. I might wish you didn’t have to do this — I mean, poor Beverley. And the children .…” She shook her head. “But I don’t suppose at this stage there is any other way.” She looked at him. “So you just do what you have to do.”

Father David was confused by her words. But he raised his eyes to hers. “Thank you, Mother,” he said.

“Well, I’ll get supper started,” she said, rising. As she carried the tray into the kitchen she called over her shoulder, “You should phone your sister. She’s worried about you.”

That night, settling deep into the soft mattress of the single bed in the guest room, Father David slept soundly. And as he slept, he dreamed.

It was the dead of night. Silhouettes of winter trees framed the hillside, their bare branches swaying in a soundless wind. His mother, wearing an apron, stood beneath one of those trees, waiting for him. As he approached he saw that they were in a cemetery, a gothic cemetery with tall monuments surrounded by low wrought iron fences. She watched him as he made his way between the headstones and the fresh mounds of earth. He felt frightened, but her presence strengthened him for what he had to do.

He arrived at an old grave site, unmarked and set with concrete walls deep into the ground, like a large bathtub. He climbed down into it. It was larger than he expected. At one end, where the drain should be, was a small door-like contraption. He had to turn a handle to remove the door. It exposed a deep hole containing a series of similar contraptions. Removing each one in turn, he came finally to a small tin. He reached down, grasped it by a handle on the lid, and hauled it all the way up from the bottom. Peeling back the lid, he saw a moist living substance, like pressed ham. He knew it to be the heart of a great and revered saint. A tiny fork, concealed inside the lid, permitted him to withdraw one squared piece that had been cut the length of the heart. It slid out easily.

Father David awoke with a start. The sun was rising. It was time to leave.