The Golden Boy, page 22
“Just point and shoot,” the gun clerk told her. “It’s easy.”
“Really,” she said.
The Church of the Good Thief in Portsmouth Bay was dedicated to Saint Dismas, the patron saint of condemned men, criminals, thieves, funeral directors, and gravediggers. There were fanciful legends about him in an apocryphal gospel called the Gospel of Childhood. Written in Arabic, the story tells of two thieves, Dismas and Gestas, who attacked the Holy Family on their flight from Nazareth to Egypt. But instead of taking what little they had or killing them outright for not having enough, Dismas intervened.
“We should let them go,” he said, but Gestas disagreed. So Dismas reached into the folds of his robe and, from his own purse of ill-earned gains, gave Gestas forty drachmas to sweeten the bitterness of mercy.
But this was only a legend, a prequel really, to the story that came later, the story of three men crucified together on a hillside.
And one of the criminals who were hanged there was hurling abuse at Him, saying, “Are You not the Christ? Save Yourself and us!”
But the other answered, and rebuking him said, “Do you not even fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we are receiving what we deserve for our deeds but this man has done nothing wrong.”
And he was saying, “Jesus, remember me when You come in Your Kingdom!”
And He said to him, “Truly I say to you, today you shall be with me in Paradise.”
Clearly, Gestas said the wrong thing. He expected action from gods nailed to crosses and when it didn’t come, he hurled abuse instead of comfort. And if it seemed unfair to judge a whole life on a few final words spat out under torture, it would not be enough to undermine the message that the last part of a man’s life would always matter more than the first part. But not everyone would see it that way.
Stafford’s departure from the Catholic Church had been marked by the cataclysmic understanding that he, like Gestas, saw no value in divinity if it came with so little power. Stafford had survived the loss of a father and a friend, but the death of his son stripped him of faith in one clean sweep. He could no longer accept judgment that involved the punishment of an innocent, and he could not forgive the Catholic Church for its insistence that sin lay within the walls of a garden.
He experienced no sense of loss, no surge of guilt when he abandoned his faith, nor any particular relief. He came, rather, to the simple realization that he had been duped. Duped by weak men and bad ones, and even by good men from time to time, but duped nonetheless. So he could not understand now, stumbling up the steps of the Church of the Good Thief, why he was so determined to open the doors of a Catholic church and make his way inside. And he could not understand later why he told the caretaker instead of the priest what he had done on the night that Bobby Shepherd died.
“Father Joe?” the caretaker said. “Oh, my word, no, sir, I’m not the father. I’m just the caretaker here. Father’s over at KP saying Mass. He’s at the prison all day.”
“The prison?”
“Well, it’s his feast day, isn’t it? Truth be told, not until the end of the month but the Father’s got a trip planned after Easter so he’s moved things up a bit.”
“Whose feast day?”
“You just passed right underneath him coming inside here. Saint Dismas, isn’t it? The good thief! What the church is named for.”
“He’s at the prison.”
“He is.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, if I’m not the father, I’m not the archbishop neither, am I? I don’t decide who does this and who does that.”
The Church of the Good Thief in Portsmouth Bay was built in 1892 out of limestone blocks quarried by prisoners at the Kingston Penitentiary. The prisoners were paid twenty-five cents a day, but in addition to quarrying the limestone into blocks that met the approval of the young Irish architect overseeing the project, they were charged with the task of carrying them, block by block, to the site of the new church. It would take two years to build and cost more than fourteen thousand dollars, but everyone knew it would have cost a great deal more had free men quarried the limestone, which may or may not have influenced the archbishop’s decision to consecrate the new church to Saint Dismas, the patron saint of criminals. It was an unusual move, and for many years the Church of the Good Thief was the only church in the world named for Saint Dismas. And to further strengthen the link between the parish and the prisoners who built it, the archbishop declared that whoever served as pastor to the free citizens of Portsmouth should also serve as prison chaplain to the men at the Kingston Penitentiary. In time, the task of serving both communities would prove too much for a single priest and the archbishop’s orders would be revoked. There would, however, always be a relationship of some sort between the priests who served the parish and the priests who served the prison, and it was not unusual for the shepherd of one flock to assist with the ministry of another.
“Lent’s a busy time for the Father. You might want to make an appointment at the parish office. That’s how they like it done now. Are you all right, mister? Mister?”
“Of course I am,” Stafford said, but he must have looked odd or perhaps moved clumsily, because the little man in front of him with the nervous eyes suddenly stepped forward and took hold of his arm.
“Whoa, there. Steady, mister. You’re going all queer in the face. Here, sit down—sit down before you fall down. I’ll get you a glass of water. You just stay put, all right? Maybe put your head down or something.”
The little caretaker left then, hurrying up the main aisle of the church and out the back, hoping that the man in the expensive overcoat, all weepy and strange, wasn’t too crazy to leave alone for a few minutes. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be letting people into the sanctuary, not when everyone was away, but he’d been caught off guard and he didn’t know what else to do. The doors to the church should have been locked—and they were locked when he was cleaning the floors and wiping down the pews—but he’d gotten so hot with the work that he opened the front doors, hoping to cool himself down a bit but never meaning—never expecting—to let a blubbering lunatic in at the same time. Still, he had to do something, didn’t he, and a few minutes later he returned, carrying a glass of water and a box of animal crackers he found in the choir room.
“Here then,” he said. “Drink this down.”
“Thanks,” Stafford said, and he took the water and drank it.
“How about one of these?” the caretaker said, and he pulled a cookie out of the box and handed it to Stafford.
“Thanks.”
“It’s all I could find,” the caretaker said. “Here, take another one. Take them all.”
So they sat there while Stafford ate animal crackers, and after a while, Stafford asked if he could have another glass of water, and when the caretaker came back with it, Stafford began to talk, and before too long he had told the little man why Bobby Shepherd had gone out across the ice alone that night and why he never came back.
“You’ve got a sad history there, mister,” the caretaker said when Stafford was finished. “And that’s the truth.”
“I know that,” Stafford said. “But I don’t know what to do about it.”
“I don’t know,” the caretaker said. “I don’t have an answer for you. You got a crumb there.”
“What?”
“On your chin there. That’s it.”
“Thanks,” Stafford said, and the caretaker nodded.
“It’s okay.”
Stafford got up. His overcoat was covered in crumbs, and he must have been crying, because his eyes were wet again. He reached into his pockets, hoping to find a Kleenex or something he could wipe his eyes on and blow his nose, but there was nothing.
“I need a handkerchief,” he said. “I’m getting a cold.”
“There’s usually a box of Kleenex up by the organ there,” the caretaker said. “The organ lady’s always wanting one.”
“I haven’t got a handkerchief,” Stafford said. “I never carry one. My father always did. My mother put a clean one out for him every morning on top of the dresser. They had one dresser they shared between them. Three drawers each. Father took the top ones and Mother had the others.”
“I’ll get you a Kleenex,” the caretaker said.
“No, it’s all right,” Stafford said, and he wiped his eyes and his nose on his sleeve instead. “I have to go. I have to get to Napanee.”
“You sure you’re okay, mister?” the caretaker said. “Maybe you can come back later and talk to the Father.”
“No,” Stafford said. “I don’t have time. I guess I’m getting sick. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I thought I’d find my brother.”
“Your brother?” the caretaker said. “Where’s your brother, then?”
“He lives in a boardinghouse somewhere around here,” Stafford answered.
“A boardinghouse,” the caretaker said, and then he looked at Stafford and his fine overcoat.
“My brother’s an ex-con,” Stafford said. “He’s not quite right.”
“Ah,” the caretaker answered, and then he nodded. “We get some of them in here every now and then. You can see it right away. Addled, is he?”
“Yeah,” Stafford said. “He’s addled, all right.”
“Mister,” the caretaker said, “you got some problems.”
Stafford left the church carrying another box of animal crackers and a fistful of Kleenex the caretaker insisted he take with him. His head was aching, and his throat was very sore, and he knew he had done something strange, and it had taken longer than anticipated. At least there would be no time to find Emmett now, he thought, no time for further emotional torture. The little caretaker had been kind to him and for that he was grateful, but the unburdening of his past had not set him free from it. He would have to get to Napanee quickly and then, somehow, he would have to get to Toronto and onto the airplane that would take him home to Agnes and the beautiful house they had built for themselves on Maui. A house built into the hills of Kapalua, a house that overlooked the par-seventy-three Plantation golf course—and the water beyond.
“There’s snow coming,” the caretaker said. “You’ll want to drive carefully.”
“Yes,” Stafford said.
“Look, there he is, mister. Right up on the ledge there,” the caretaker said, and he pointed to a stone statue in the niche over the front doors of the church. “It’s Dismas, isn’t it? Saint Dismas I should be saying. He’s been listening the whole time.”
“What makes you think that?” Stafford said.
“Oh, he’s one of the better ones. Not so holy as some of them others, maybe. Saint Paul and the like,” the caretaker said, and then he rolled his eyes. “Well, I shouldn’t be saying nothing about them here. But for me, mister, I go for Dismas in a pinch. I always feel I’m getting through.”
The caretaker smiled then, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth, stained with church tea and neglect, and then he lifted his arm and waved to Stafford.
“Next time, stay a little longer,” he said. “You can meet the Father.”
Stafford smiled at the little caretaker. “Goodbye,” he said.
“Goodbye,” the caretaker said, and then he dropped his arm, watching the car pull away from the church. “Jesus,” he said.
There was only one person left in the world who knew what Stafford did on the night Bobby died and now there were two. Stafford’s uncle Christy knew because he had been there and he witnessed much of what happened, clearly guessing the rest. But Christy kept the story to himself, and not even Stafford’s mother or Bobby’s parents would ever know why Bobby Shepherd set out alone that night in a March blizzard, walking across the ice that separated Wolfe Island from the Kingston harbor.
A bubble line kept the ice clear in the winter, and the Wolfe Island Ferry went back and forth between the island and the mainland several times a day, but rarely after dark or when the weather was bad. If you missed the last ferry off the island, you had to wait until morning, unless it was summer and you had a boat of your own. The island itself was a stretch of land, some twenty miles in length, strategically located at the entrance to the St. Lawrence River where it offered Kingston further protection from the open waters of Lake Ontario. From above, it resembled a misshapen pot, its long, crooked handle extending into the river, but to the southwest, where it fronted Lake Ontario, the island broadened into a solid square parcel of land anchored by ferry terminals on three sides. At the far western edge was the little toll ferry to Simcoe Island. To the southeast was the short ferry ride to Cape Vincent and New York State. And on the north shore, a short distance from Marysville—the island’s main village—was the ferry to the government dock in Kingston.
The island had been named, posthumously, for a British general who defeated a French one in a long-standing fight over territory stretching the length of the St. Lawrence River from Quebec City to Kingston and beyond. Cultural memory would not die as easily as the two generals—James Wolfe on the battlefield one day and Louis-Joseph de Montcalm the next—but it was a resounding victory for the British nonetheless, and in 1792, thirty-three years after Wolfe’s death, the island the French called Grande Île was renamed Wolfe Island.
Modern archaeologists would later discover the remains of an ancient burial ground on Wolfe Island, or Ganounkouesnot as the Iroquois called it, but for the most part, the island remained relatively undisturbed until a clan of MacDonalds arrived after the War of 1812 to take it for themselves. More loyalists followed, because the island’s watery bays and green summer fields were beautiful, and by the middle of the next century, Wolfe Island had become an established community with thousands of full-time residents who built churches and schools, village shops, country inns, and dance halls.
And it was to one of these dance halls on Wolfe Island that Stafford and Bobby went on the last night of Bobby’s life when the temperature dropped and the lion returned. They had planned to take the ferry over from Kingston after milking and stay the night because it would be late when the dance ended, and the girl Bobby liked had a cousin on Wolfe Island who said they could stay at his house. They could sleep downstairs in the rumpus room and go home the next day. And if the cousin came home late enough or drunk enough, well then, Stafford could have the whole downstairs to himself, because Bobby would be upstairs. Bobby would be upstairs with her, his new girlfriend. A girl who looked just like him, everyone said. Like he’d found himself a sister instead of a girlfriend, snickered some. A fat girl with red hair and bad skin, thought Stafford.
But on the day of the dance, Stafford changed his mind. He decided instead that he would go to the dance, but only because Bobby wanted him to, and when it was over, he would go home. He didn’t want to spend the night on Wolfe Island, and he didn’t want to sleep alone in the rumpus room downstairs, thinking about what Bobby and his girlfriend might be doing upstairs.
“Can you pick me up, Uncle Christy?” he had asked. “I don’t want to stay over.”
“Sure, I will. I’ll come over on the last ferry and get you.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’ll take the last ferry back and you can pick me up on that side.”
“It’s no trouble, Stafford.”
“You’re spoiling that boy,” his uncle’s wife had complained. “You fuss over him more than your own, Christy.”
“He’s my brother’s son and he’s living under our roof, Angela,” his uncle had said. “That makes him one of my own.” And then he had turned to Stafford and said, “I’ll come for you.”
So Stafford and Bobby left Kingston for Wolfe Island on the six o’clock ferry when there was still light from the sun. It had been warm the week before, but the temperature was dropping that day and new ice was forming alongside the bubble line on either side of the gap that let the ferry pass.
“You sure you don’t want to stay over?” Bobby said again. “Man, it’s cold, isn’t it?”
“No,” Stafford said. “I have to do stuff tomorrow. I can’t stay.”
“It’s up to you, Stafford. But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” Stafford said.
“It’s up to you,” Bobby said again as if he hadn’t heard Stafford. “But if it starts snowing,” he said, smiling, “you might have to.”
Stafford knew that Bobby was happy that night because there was a girl waiting for him at the ferry dock on Wolfe Island and Bobby had three safes in his jacket pocket, which he hoped would get him through the dance and whatever came later. He had shown them to Stafford when they got on the ferry, like he was proud of them, and Stafford had been embarrassed and not known what to say. But Bobby was oblivious to Stafford’s discomfort and confided instead, too readily, too easily, that he and Carrie Ann had done it twice already and it would probably keep happening now that it had started and Bobby wanted to be prepared.
“We don’t want to get married until Carrie Ann finishes school,” he told Stafford.
“Married.”
“Yeah.”
“Bobby, what’s the matter with you? You can’t get married.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Jesus, Bobby. I’ll tell you why not. Because you’re sixteen. How about that for why not? Because Carrie Ann’s in grade ten!”
“So we’ll wait. We’ll get married when she’s finished school. Stafford, what’s the matter with you?”
