perked me up.
Bobby and his wife were expecting their son home for the holidays. He was in his senior year at university, Bobby said proudly. I vaguely remembered a quiet loner named O’Brian wandering around the campus, or hanging by himself on pub nights when I’d stroll through the melee just to calm things down. Then: Maybe he’ll be coming to see you, Bobby warned. Maybe a little heart-to-heart about things. He’s trying to decide what to do after this.
“Send him along,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
December 15 the weather forecast, as usual, was imprecise. Only five centimetres, they predicted. Starting around noon. Coming back from town, I saw the first beads of moisture on the windshield. The leaden sky hung low over the breathless bay. The wind whispered as I was carrying the groceries and booze and newspapers from the car to the house, sending a sudden chill deep into my bones. Brace yourself, it said.
Dropping the bags in the kitchen, I glanced at the telephone answering machine and with a surprising twinge of anxiety noted that nobody had called while I was gone. I should be grateful, I told myself. But I couldn’t get rid of an odd empty feeling, looking at that unblinking light.
By mid-afternoon, the hill above the house was disappearing behind hurtling waves of snow. A storm gives purpose to my idleness, I thought. Or justifies the lack of purpose. Maybe I should be thinking about a club for retired people. The place is full of pensioners, ever since the mill started cutting down the workforce by handing out redundancy packages. Too many able-bodied people with nothing to do but talk, or think of mischief. I can relate to that. Forget about the youngsters.
Stella, who works with troubled youngsters in the school system, concurred. She’d been showing up at Mass just frequently enough to make some informed observations about what she called the “demographics” of the Sunday mornings here. “Your core constituency is middle-aged or older,” she told me. “So work with that.”
According to the grapevine, people liked my homilies, which were short and down-to-earth, but were saying that I was remote and unsociable. Other priests would barge into their kitchens, looking for lunch or entertainment shamelessly. Their way of keeping in touch with the flock, she said. Nuisances, in my opinion, but she assured me people love the spontaneity of the unexpected visit. They mean it when they say just drop in. Gone are the days when the arrival of the priest meant trouble—sickness, death, marital distress, demands for money. I should get out more.
“You must know how to play cards,” she said. “Auction forty-five, cribbage. If not, I’ll teach you. I’m a killer at crib.”
Stella, since I’d become involved with her relatives in Hawthorne, had become a regular drop-in at the glebe house.
“People don’t seem to need much from a priest,” I offered once.
“You’d be surprised.” There was mischief in the way she raised her left eyebrow.
I distracted her by asking if she’d seen her nephew Danny lately, and the smile vanished. “That’s a whole other story.”
I waited for elaboration.
All she said was: “By the way … don’t make any plans for Christmas Day … after everything.”
“What’s up?”
“Just keep it open.”
The darkness thickened outside. Large, ragged snowflakes swirled just beyond the window, streaking tracers flashing past the street light at the end of the driveway. An invisible snow-plough roared past. The electricity failed in the middle of the early evening news.
Sextus had warned me about the winter. It’s the one big test, he said. I reminded him that I’d spent more winters here than he had, but he pointed out that a winter living alone in an old house would introduce me to a kind of isolation that would challenge whatever survival assets I thought I had. Maybe even my faith. I assumed he was joking.
Bobby and his wife were expecting their son home for the holidays. He was in his senior year at university, Bobby said proudly. I vaguely remembered a quiet loner named O’Brian wandering around the campus, or hanging by himself on pub nights when I’d stroll through the melee just to calm things down. Then: Maybe he’ll be coming to see you, Bobby warned. Maybe a little heart-to-heart about things. He’s trying to decide what to do after this.
“Send him along,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
December 15 the weather forecast, as usual, was imprecise. Only five centimetres, they predicted. Starting around noon. Coming back from town, I saw the first beads of moisture on the windshield. The leaden sky hung low over the breathless bay. The wind whispered as I was carrying the groceries and booze and newspapers from the car to the house, sending a sudden chill deep into my bones. Brace yourself, it said.
Dropping the bags in the kitchen, I glanced at the telephone answering machine and with a surprising twinge of anxiety noted that nobody had called while I was gone. I should be grateful, I told myself. But I couldn’t get rid of an odd empty feeling, looking at that unblinking light.
By mid-afternoon, the hill above the house was disappearing behind hurtling waves of snow. A storm gives purpose to my idleness, I thought. Or justifies the lack of purpose. Maybe I should be thinking about a club for retired people. The place is full of pensioners, ever since the mill started cutting down the workforce by handing out redundancy packages. Too many able-bodied people with nothing to do but talk, or think of mischief. I can relate to that. Forget about the youngsters.
Stella, who works with troubled youngsters in the school system, concurred. She’d been showing up at Mass just frequently enough to make some informed observations about what she called the “demographics” of the Sunday mornings here. “Your core constituency is middle-aged or older,” she told me. “So work with that.”
According to the grapevine, people liked my homilies, which were short and down-to-earth, but were saying that I was remote and unsociable. Other priests would barge into their kitchens, looking for lunch or entertainment shamelessly. Their way of keeping in touch with the flock, she said. Nuisances, in my opinion, but she assured me people love the spontaneity of the unexpected visit. They mean it when they say just drop in. Gone are the days when the arrival of the priest meant trouble—sickness, death, marital distress, demands for money. I should get out more.
“You must know how to play cards,” she said. “Auction forty-five, cribbage. If not, I’ll teach you. I’m a killer at crib.”
Stella, since I’d become involved with her relatives in Hawthorne, had become a regular drop-in at the glebe house.
“People don’t seem to need much from a priest,” I offered once.
“You’d be surprised.” There was mischief in the way she raised her left eyebrow.
I distracted her by asking if she’d seen her nephew Danny lately, and the smile vanished. “That’s a whole other story.”
I waited for elaboration.
All she said was: “By the way … don’t make any plans for Christmas Day … after everything.”
“What’s up?”
“Just keep it open.”
The darkness thickened outside. Large, ragged snowflakes swirled just beyond the window, streaking tracers flashing past the street light at the end of the driveway. An invisible snow-plough roared past. The electricity failed in the middle of the early evening news.
Sextus had warned me about the winter. It’s the one big test, he said. I reminded him that I’d spent more winters here than he had, but he pointed out that a winter living alone in an old house would introduce me to a kind of isolation that would challenge whatever survival assets I thought I had. Maybe even my faith. I assumed he was joking.
Similar Books
