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