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