07.10.09
Friday Fiction
Welcome to FRIDAY FICTION. Our hostess today is Cat at http://catrinabradley.blogspot.com/ so be sure to visit for more great reads.
PRIOR KNOWLEDGE
Part Four
Homicide is not the normal fare in a small town. Certainly no one had ever died in a confessional before, though some old timers had vague remembrances of an old woman who’d had a heart attack while bearing her soul to her priest.
Across the river from the town, in the Sunnyside Villa, the seniors gathered in the common room to discuss the uncommon events in uncharacteristically hushed tones. Downtown, at Bonnie’s Bakery, in Floyd’s Drug Store, and every other meeting place, the conversation was livelier. Everyone had an opinion.
The bakery was the meeting place for anyone over 50. Quarters were cramped, though there were almost always empty tables on the second floor of the storefront. However, only visitors went up there. The locals preferred to be downstairs where the gossip was as fresh as the tea biscuits and coffee.
“It was the Coronel in the pantry with a candlestick,” quipped one of Bonnie’s patrons while diving into his homemade date square peeking out from under a mound of ice cream.
“Fred, don’t be silly,” rebuked his wife. “This is serious. We could all be murdered in our beds. My goodness, I don’t know what this world is coming to when decent people can’t even confess their sins without getting killed.”
There was a snort from a corner table. “Decent? Is that what you call what them guys were up to?”
“Maybe it was God’s judgment on the shrink’s particular sin?” commented another.
“I don’t think God uses a .45,” came a voice from the doorway.
Heads turned. It was Mayor Schneider.
“The medical examiner says that’s what it was. Furthermore, the doc wasn’t killed in the confessional. Someone dragged his body there. Don’t go spreadin’ rumours around town.”
“Too late,” came another quip from the irrepressible Fred.
Schneider wearily dropped into the first empty chair. Bonnie appeared from nowhere with a steaming bowl of freshly made minestrone soup which she carefully placed in front of the mayor. On the tray was a freshly made tea biscuit—Bonnie’s specialty—and a mug of Jamaican coffee, also freshly brewed. It was Mayor Schneider’s usual.
Those present pressed the mayor for more information.
“Can’t tell you any more even if I knew any more. It’s an ongoing investigation,” he said.
“Loose lips sink ships,” quoted Fred, at which point his long-suffering wife lifted her eyes to heaven in a silent plea, and pulled him out the door.
************
Most Saturdays founds lots of people walking themselves and their dogs through the woods beside McNeil House, and along the public road that led up to the retreat centre. On this Saturday, there seemed to be a big city traffic jam on all the paths that went anywhere near the crime scene. Detective Diggans posted a policeman to keep the curious at a safe distance. If he had been alive, Paul Bergeron would have been storming up the walkway to the centre full of righteous indignation at having his privacy disturbed. People probably thought that his partner, the elusive, almost invisible, Lance, would be sighted. But there was no sign of the younger man, not even through the binoculars scanning the house. It was quite amazing how many new bird-watchers had been born overnight.
Those who insisted on camping out were rewarded by the sight of Father Murphy slowly making his way, just before noon, up the driveway to McNeil House. It seemed like forever before the door opened. There the luck of the watchers ran out. Lance Harriston, it was assumed, was only a shadowy figure who quickly vanished as the priest entered the house and the door was firmly closed behind him.
“You’re the first local to come in here other than the workmen, the housekeeper and the police,” remarked the younger man as he indicated a seat on the couch.
“Now, that’s a fact,” replied Murphy. He smiled. “Though I understand the workmen and housekeeper were from Pikesburg. Mayor Schneider will be quite green with envy.”
“Can I offer you something? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be lovely indeed.”
Lance left the room, leaving the priest an opportunity to look around.
Catherine would be impressed, he thought. The good doctor might have been a poor neighbour, but he surely had mighty fine taste.
Father Murphy was not a worldly man, but he knew fine, and expensive, furnishings when he came across them. An elegant country home, he mused. Pity the man will never enjoy it.
Lance returned carrying a silver tray resplendent with a silver coffee service. As he put the tray on the coffee table, the doorbell rang. Lance excused himself. Murphy heard voices. He turned his head toward the door as Harriston entered with another young man right behind him.
It was the local Baptist pastor, Mike Reardon.
“Michael, my boy, how have you been? Pity we meet again on such a sorry occasion.”
The two men shook hands. Lance looked from one to the other. There was an odd expression on his face.
Like a deer caught in the headlights?
Mike mentally chastised himself for such a thought, but the irony of such a man standing between a Catholic priest and a Baptist pastor did not escape him.
He must wonder if we planned this pinscher movement.
“I don’t mean to interrupt anything…” he began.
“Not at all, lad, not at all,” came back the almost jovial reply from the priest.
Lance hurriedly retrieved another demitasse for the coffee. Mike struggled to hold on to the tiny, delicate cup though he noticed that the priest seemed quite at home with fine china, even down to the extension of his little pinkie as he drank.
.
“Lance, I…we… just wanted to extend our condolences to you. I…we’re…sure this has been a terrible shock. If there is anything I…we…can do, please let me…us…know.” Mike was beginning to feel a little like a deer himself under the benign gaze of the old man.
“Yes, indeed, my boy. Mike’s quite right. If there is anything at all we can do to help, why, I’m only a few steps away and I’d not doubt that Mike’ll make himself available at any moment.”
Lance carefully set his cup down on the tray, his delicate fingers tracing, for just an instant, the thin gold band around its edge. He looked up, turning first to the old man, and then gazing directly into the eyes of the younger man.
“Thank you both. Yes, it’s been a terrible shock. I appreciate you taking the time to come by and express your concern. I’ll certainly keep both your offers in mind.”
He paused. His words had sounded automatic, rehearsed, even to himself.
“I…I don’t know what arrangements should be made just yet. The police may take awhile to release Paul’s…body. And, well, his ex-wife may have something to say about what happens next.”
“She knows?”
“Yes, apparently Detective Diggins had someone from the police department in the city go to her home and give her the news.”
“Will Sheila be coming here?” There was something odd in Father Murphy’s question that defied Mike for a moment. Then he realized that the priest had said her name. How did he know Mrs. Bergeron’s name?
Lance did not appear to notice the use the Paul’s ex-wife’s first name. It was the answer to the question that held a degree of terror for him, and had done so since this all had begun to play itself out. What little Paul had said about his ex had been edged with meanness and filled with anger. When the two men had first met, there had only been pain and confusion. Not long after they had moved in McNeil House, deeper and darker feelings had emerged. Meeting Sheila Bergeron would not be pleasant.
“Yes, I’m sure she’ll come,” he said.
The priest fell silent as the image of this woman lingered in the room.
“I don’t know what your beliefs are, Lance, but at times like this, many people seek comfort in God’s promises. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to read some Scripture and pray with you. Would that be all right?”
Mike had pulled a book from the portfolio that he had entered with. He looked across to Father Murphy. The priest sat, still and pensive, on the sofa. The little smile he always sported, remained, though it seemed forced now. The gaze behind the half closed eyes was difficult to read.
Lance was not a religious man. He didn’t feel the need for divine comfort. However, he was not Paul Bergeron. He couldn’t bring himself to be rude and throw these two out, especially when they had extended helping hands, however unnecessary that help was.
He nodded his agreement.
“Father, would you care to do the honours?” Mike extended the hand that held the book.
Murphy appeared to shake himself out of some deep reverie.
“Woolgathering,” he said as he reached out for the book Mike had open. “Certainly, my boy, certainly.” The passage was clearly marked.
The old man cleared his throat and began to read, his voice strangely hesitant:
“Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry for help come to you.
Do not hide your face from me …”*
************
As it happened it was Cathy Sparks who was the first Bayshore resident to meet Sheila Bergeron.
After the shocking early morning phone call that Saturday, the interview with Detective Diggans, the return to the retreat centre to look after whatever could be done with the small army of police underfoot, Cathy had driven the short distance back down the hill to her crooked, little house.
Oblivious to the local gossip, she had answered her mother’s questions as briefly as possible, and had returned to her garden where she spent the day furiously digging along the back hedge.
Now, early on this Sunday morning, she clutched her coffee cup in her hands as she watched Blackball sniff around the freshly worked dirt. Up the street, the bells of the Catholic church began to ring, calling the faithful to the first mass of the day. For such a small town, Bayshore had an abundance of religious communities. Steeples rose above the trees not only from the Catholic church, but the Presbyterian, the United, the Methodist and the Pentecostal. Less ostentatious, or less affluent groups, like the Baptists and the Brethren, settled for their adequate, but architecturally less impressive quarters.
Mrs. Sparks was an infrequent visitor at Knox Presbyterian Church. She preferred a more traditional style. Cathy didn’t care for any of their styles and decided that while all the faithful were performing their Sunday morning rituals, she would go back to Bethel to catch up on what she hadn’t been able to do in the aftermath of Paul Bergeron’s murder.
As she parked her car, she heard another vehicle crunching up the gravel driveway behind her. Cathy turned to look. It was a pearl grey, late model Lincoln. The car stopped beside her. The driver’s door opened, and a pair of well-toned legs emerged, bare and suntanned, ending in carefully manicured feet neatly encased in beige espadrilles. These were followed by the rest of a fashionably but casually dressed woman. It was difficult to tell her age. The clothes were young, but not juvenile: a beige linen skirt which stopped just above the knees, topped by a formfitting dressy tee in geometric designs of black, beige and mauve. The woman’s hair was chestnut, the kind that didn’t come naturally, and fell smoothly to chin level. She was carefully made up and her eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses. The rings, earrings, bracelet, and chain were all gold—genuine if the car said anything about the woman’s financial state.
“Good morning. My name is Sheila Bergeron, and I’m looking for McNeil House.”
And she’s obviously not mourning the loss of her ex, thought Cathy.
“Right over there, Mrs. Bergeron,” indicating the grey stone house behind them. “I’m sorry for your loss. I work here at the centre so if there is anything we can do for you, please just ask. My name’s Cathy.”
The woman had looked away from Cathy, directing her gaze at the house her ex-husband had set up with his lover. Something passed across her face. Disgust? Anger? Anxiety? Determination? Cathy couldn’t tell without seeing Sheila’s eyes.
A sound to her left pulled her focus away from Mrs. Bergeron. The passenger door had opened. A young man stepped out. In juxtaposition with the woman, he was disheveled, the clothes were well-worn, the hair hung in greasy strands. The expression on his face was hard, masking whatever emotion he might be feeling.
“Good, thank you,” said Mrs. Bergeron, as though dismissing an upper servant. She got back into the Lincoln, followed by the youth. They were obviously not going to walk the short distance to the house. The car reversed, swung around, and headed for the driveway to McNeil House. Harriston was about to have company.
Cathy wished she could be that proverbial fly on the wall.
*Psalm 102:1, 2
***************
Stay tuned for the next installment.
07.03.09
Friday Fiction
It’s time for FRIDAY FICTION once more. Our hostess for today is Shirley at: http://shirleymcclay.com/ so come and visit for more good reads.
PRIOR KNOWLEDGE
Part Three
Murder is an unusual event in small towns. Jaded city dwellers pay little attention to one more murder victim but such was not the case in little Bayshore. The town was abuzz. It wasn’t that no one had ever been murdered in town before, but only the old-timers remembered the last time such a heinous crime had been commited. Certainly no one had ever died under suspicious circumstance at the retreat centre. The thoughts of being killed in the confessional could hardly be fathomed.
As it turned out, the police soon reported that Paul Bergeron had not, in fact, died in the confessional.
“Someone moved the body to make it look like he died here,” remarked Detective Sergeant Ross from the local constabulary.
“A statement?” questioned his partner, Jack Diggins.
There wasn’t enough blood pooled in the booth to account for Bergeron’s death inside the chapel. There were no traces of blood leading up to the confessional’s doors.
“So, where’s the original crime scene?” asked Ross.
“And who has a motive?” replied Diggins.
Silly question.
The two policemen set to work to interview Bethel’s staff and guests in their hunt for the brutal killer.
“Catholics and Baptists!” muttered Ross. “They’re more likely to be killing each other.” The stocky detective didn’t have much use for religion. Those who practiced it, in his opinion, didn’t seem so much different than anyone else.
The medical examiner determined that the doctor had died sometime between ten o’clock and midnight. The cause of death, at least from the preliminary investigation, was a gunshot wound to the chest. No weapon had been found.
While everything in sight was examined and dusted for prints, the two detectives began the laborious work of taking to potential witnesses.
Father Murphy had been asleep in the gatehouse.
Steve, the caretaker, had been watching television in his attic apartment on the top floor of the main building.
The cook had gone home after feeding all the Baptist pastors a nourishing supper of chicken, salad, mashed potatoes and apple pie. They had offered to wash up in an ecumenical spirit of friendship and cooperation.
Darlene had gone home just before the supper hour, having made sure that everyone was happy and everything was as it should be.
The pastors had met in the lounge until 9:30. They had shared war stories—the spiritual battles of their respective ministries, had listened to the inspiring first chapter of a message from their guest speaker—it would turn out to be his last message since the centre was now a crime scene and Ross and Diggins didn’t want anyone muddling up the place while an active investigation was taking place. Names and addresses duly noted, the Baptists were sent on their way—not exactly rejoicing as they had originally planned. They all claimed that everyone had gone to his respective room sometime before ten o’clock. They all claimed that other than going out into the hall to use the bathrooms, no one had gone downstairs at any time during the night.
Catherine told the police that she had gone to supper with her parents, came home around seven to look after Blackball, had spent some time on the internet, taken a bath and gone to bed early. She was currently between relationships so had done this all alone.
As had everyone else.
And Lance?
Paul Bergeron’s distraught partner, now holed up in McNeil House, told the police that he had been working late in the city. He hadn’t come home until well after eleven. No, he hadn’t seen Paul. The door to the bedroom had been closed when he arrived and, rather than disturb the doctor, Lance had taken a shower and then gone to sleep in one of the guest rooms.
“Did the doctor have any enemies that you were aware of?”
Lance managed to laugh. “Try the whole town.”
Ross tried not to roll his eyes. He was well aware of the local conflict between the new owners of McNeil House and their neighbours in Bayshore.
“Anyone in specific?”
“Well, the mayor for one.”
Diggins dutifully scribbled the information down in his little notebook, though he wasn’t like to forgot the information. He tried to bite back his own prejudices as he asked: “Were you and the doctor having any problems?”
“No.”
“So why didn’t you go into the bedroom when you came home?”
“I told you. I didn’t want to disturb Paul.” The edge in Lance’s voice tainted his words.
“Do you know of any patients who might not have been appreciative of Doctor Bergeron’s advice?”
“No, he didn’t talk about what he did at work, though he did deal with some pretty tough individuals, criminals even.”
“How about his ex-wife?”
“The break-up was messy.”
“Their son?”
“As far as I know he left home ages ago—before the divorce. They never got along.”
By the time the interview was over, the list of possible suspects was long enough to cover the distance from Bayshore to the city. It seemed like lots of people might have reason not to like Paul Bergeron.
“Let’s start with the most obvious,” said Detective Ross as the two men got into their vehicle now parked in the driveway of McNeil House.
“That is …?” asked Diggins.
“Lance.”
“Because …?”
These two have only been in Bayshore for a few months. Their relationship is fairly recent. My wife wants me in her bed no matter how late I come home. Something doesn’t add up.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Good riddance,” remarked Cathy to Darlene after she observed the departure of the law from her vantage point at the window on the second floor of the centre.
“What? The police?”
“No, Doctor Bergeron. I was just asking Father Murphy yesterday if there was anything we could do to get rid of these guys. Looks like it’s taken care of.”
Darlene looked at Cathy with some astonishment.
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” she remarked. “The cops will be thinking you did it.” Darlene paused for a second. “You didn’t, did you?”
Cathy threw the secretary a smoldering look. “I thought about it.”
“I’d be offering to hear your confession if the local constabulary hadn’t sealed off the chapel,” came a voice from the doorway.
Neither woman had noticed the approach of Father Murphy, now standing in the entrance. He bore his usual jovial smile, though his eyes were dark and solemn.
* * * * * * *
In McNeil House, Lance Harriston fingered the silk of his late partner’s bathrobe. With his permission, the police had scoured the house thinking that the murder had been committed there. They had found nothing, though they had removed the sheets from Paul’s bed and taken them away for examination.
Paul’s bed.
Lance let the robe fall where he had found it, left the room, shutting the door behind him. The police had not sealed the bedroom or any of the house off. He was free to stay.
He was free.
(Stay tuned for the next episode.)
06.26.09
Friday Fiction
PRIOR KNOWLEDGE, Part Two
Cathy Sparks usually drove her car to work, even though she only lived a few short blocks away from The Bethel Retreat Centre. When she had returned to Bayshore eight years earlier, she lived with her parents for several months. As big as their house was, it wasn’t big enough for a mature daughter’s return. She and her father were too much alike and Cathy soon went looking for her own place.
Her father was a bit concerned when his daughter settled on an old house down by the river. Everything about the place was crooked. Visitors were warned to watch their step going from the kitchen to the dining room. The existing kitchen had been added to the house as an afterthought, and someone’s calculations had been off during the reconstruction. But Cathy loved it, and had fixed it up with a style that was worthy of a page or two in any magazine. She haunted yard sales, flea markets, and antique stores. Along with the treasures she picked up in those unlikely places, the faux-antiques offered in furniture stores, and some beautiful pieces Cathy had inherited from her grandparents, she had created a tasteful and restful retreat of her own.
It couldn’t be said that Cathy was beautiful, or even good-looking. She was short and dark, with a sharp chin, high cheekbones, and a voice totally out of character with her slightness. But she had about her, a pizzazz that attracted people. Like her name, she had spark. She was strong, opinionated, and often spoke before she thought. Now hovering near 50, Cathy had been in and out of relationships since her late teens. Some were short-lived; others survived for several years. It seemed that she always attracted weak or complacent men. In the end, none of them had been strong enough to earn her lasting respect, or wise enough to learn how to live with her explosive and often moody temperament.
All of this, plus her casual relationship with religion, made her an unlikely member of the Bethel staff. However, the oblates and the board of directors also knew her to be an intelligent and capable office administrator, as well as a whizz with hammer, screwdriver, and paint bush.
Her love in restoring old things fueled her interest in McNeil House. Now that it seemed like the community Christmas parties she had envisioned being held there, were not going to materialize, Cathy was annoyed. But worse yet was that thought that these men could be so unneighbourly.
Okay, she mused as she parked outside the main entrance of the retreat centre, so they don’t invite us in to see what they’ve done to the place. But the fence, the No Trespassing signs, the threats. It’s all so exaggerated, so over the top, so like a hurricane in a soup bowl.
Cathy glanced over at McNeil House. The place seemed deserted. It was Monday and both the men would be at work in the city.
That such obnoxious people could live in that beautiful, old house, she thought, totally forgetting about the infamy of its first owner. She entered and climbed the stairs to the second floor office, passing the cross and the statue on the Virgin on her way. She had tried to convince the fathers to remove the statues and crosses that relieved the austerity of all the bedrooms in the retreat centre. Her argument had been that many of the people who used the centre were not only not Catholic, but often not even religious. Many came, not to find God, but simply to get away. She had to admit that no one had ever complained about the religious objects and the oblates had politely ignored her suggestion.
Darlene was already hard at work.
“So, what about the group for this coming weekend?” Cathy asked after greeting her co-worker.
“Baptists,” was the reply.
“From town?”
“No, but from the area. They are coming in tonight and leaving Sunday afternoon. Steve will be around to make sure fixtures and plumbing work as advertised and cook has been contracted to make one main meal tonight and tomorrow. These pastors are willing to look after breakfasts and lunches themselves.”
As the two women ironed out all the details for the coming weekend, Cathy’s multi-tasked enabled mind mulled over their neighbours at McNeil House. Abruptly, she said: “Great. Has Father Murphy come in?”
Darlene nodded. The priest lived in the gatehouse, and maintained a small office in the main building. He was a genial old man, living out his last days in useful solitude as spiritual counselor to whichever guest might been needing his advice. Tucked away in the small chapel was a confessional. It was true that few used it, but it was there “in case,” just as he was.
“If anyone calls, I’ll be upstairs with Father Murphy.”
“No problem,” replied Darlene absently, not removing her eyes from her computer screen.
The old man was absorbed in the pages of an even older book when Cathy gently knocked on his door.
“Catherine,” he exclaimed, pleased to see her. “Come in. Come in. Have a seat.” He stood up with old-fashioned courtesy. Catherine Sparks was Father Murphy’s pet project. He genuinely liked her, including her occasional lack of reverence. It was the Irish in him, he supposed.
“And so, what might I be doing for you this fine morning?”
“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how we can get rid of these nasty neighbours,” she said. “That doctor just about ran Steve over in the driveway the other day
“Now, child, you know the deed’s been done; signed, sealed, and delivered. Sure, and the devil himself, couldn’t rewrite what’s written. Besides, we’re supposed to be loving our neighbours, and that’s a fact.” The priest smiled. Knowing Catherine, he expected at least a flash of temper at his remarks. He didn’t have to wait long. She was holding herself in, but her dark eyes glowed with a passion the Father would have liked to have seen directed in a different direction.
“The mayor and the people in this town are being so peachy nice about it. I think we should stage a protest, sign petitions, write our members of Parliament. Something.”
“To be asking what? That the good doctor and his friend sell the property back, or change their attitudes, or change their lifestyle? We can’t evict them. They haven’t done anything wrong, and you can’t arrest people for being obnoxious.” As soon as he pronounced this last statement, Murphy knew where Cathy would take the conversation.
“They haven’t done anything wrong? You, of all people, don’t believe that.”
“I’m speaking in a legal sense, as well you know. And the inquisition is over—we don’t force our beliefs on people anymore. And you can’t be telling me that you’re homophobic, either. You’re more liberal than the government, and that’s a fact. I’d be as pleased as a puppy in a butcher shop if you’d gotten religion overnight, but something tells me that didn’t happen either.”
“Okay, okay,” Cathy conceded. “So I don’t care what they do privately. But I do care that they are so mean-spirited.”
“There is nothing we can do about that but pray, child, and do to them what we’d appreciate them to be doing to us.” Murphy smiled again, sure Cathy didn’t spend much time praying and was more of the temperament to do dirt to them before they did dirt to her.
Cathy sighed. She really didn’t know why she had come up here to Father Murphy’s office anyway. What did she expect him to do? There was no legal way to move these two men. She didn’t believe in miracles. Cathy wasn’t even sure that the concept of God was anything more than a handy place to park what you couldn’t deal with yourself.
Cathy had supper that Friday night with her parents. She left immediately afterward, on call at home because of a diabetic cat that needed constant and regular meals, and a shot of insulin on schedule. Blackball’s illness was a nuisance sometimes. On the plus side, the cat was Cathy’s excuse for leaving places she didn’t really want to be, and avoiding discussions she really didn’t want to have. Her father’s railing at the priests for selling McNeil House to a couple of antisocial homosexuals spoiled the taste of the roast beef. Cathy agreed with him, but never in the world would she say so. She ended up defending the board’s decision. The lemon pie curdled on her tongue.
Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. The light filtered in through the venetian blinds, marching slowly up from the bottom of the bed. Blackball stuck a paw in Cathy’s face. He could tell time as well as anyone.
The phone rang, an unusual event this early on the weekend morning. Cathy answered.
“Yes?” she said with sleep filled voice.
One of the Baptist pastors, wandering around the grounds in the stillness of the early morning, decided to satisfy his curiosity by checking out the inside of the confessional. As he opened the door on the petitioner’s side, a grisly sight greeted him. There, slouched on the bench, was the body of a man: Eyes agape, mouth open as though about to speak, shirt covered in blood.
Doctor Paul Bergeron was “well and goodly dead,” as Father Murphy was heard to say.
*********************
(Stay tuned for more of PRIOR KNOWLEDGE)
For more Friday Fiction go to: http://candidthought.blogspot.com/
06.19.09
Friday Fiction
Okay, I’m changing gears here (and sites). We are leaving Greenborough Circle for a while to visit another place on the map—Bayshore. This is Part One of PRIOR KNOWLEDGE. Let me know what you think.
PRIOR KNOWLEDGE
Part One
“We’ll move, buy a house in a small town, close enough to commute, but private.”
Paul placed a possessive arm around Lance’s shoulder. The handsome salt-and-pepper hair lent a touch of distinction to the otherwise rough features of his face. The younger man accepted the embrace without hesitation.
“Why? What difference does it make whether we are here or there? Are you ashamed of me,” Lance queried, “of who we are?”
“Of course not,” insisted Paul.”It’s just that we’ll have more time to ourselves away from the city, from the invitations, the activities …”
“And our friends, mutual or otherwise.” Lance was not convinced.
Lance Harriston and Paul Bergeron had met at a bar downtown near Lance’s office at the Ministry of Justice. At first glance, Lance had reminded Paul of a gentle yin version of his own volatile yang son. Michael had written off home and family almost from the instant he had abandoned them for a university as far away as he could get, happy to escape the constant arguments and arctic atmosphere.
Paul, having only recently discovered his predilections, was obviously still uncomfortable, and Lance was quick to offer understanding along with a listening ear. He wondered at the older man’s reticence, considering he was a psychiatrist and might be expected to understand these things. However, as they talked on that first occasion, and over the course of the others that followed, they discovered mutual interests and friends. Paul, 40-ish, and Lance, 27, were bonded by shared pain.
In the end, Lance didn’t have a whole lot to say about the matter of the move. Within a few weeks of meeting the doctor, Lance had moved out of his west side one-bedroom and into Paul’s downtown. The view of the river was spectacular. The furniture, paintings, books and music, modern and sparse, were somewhat impersonal. Paul explained that this place had come furnished; he had left the house and everything in it to his ex-wife. Now in a relationship and ready to move on, he wanted to reflect his new persona in a fresh and more personal setting. As the newcomer, Lance felt he couldn’t do anything else but acquiesce, leaving Paul to move ahead with his plans.
Paul searched the internet, hunting private homes for sale down the valley and within commuting distance of the city. Finally he found what they were looking for. Even Lance, dreading some backwater of a hick town, was impressed.
“This one looks good,” Paul enthused. “…forty-five minutes from the door to the office. Small town, can’t be more than 10,000 people. Nothing but bush on one side of the property, the monastery on the other and a nice view of the river. Old house in need of restoration. Lots of room for creativity.”
Lance nodded agreement. “Close to town, right on the edge really, which makes it convenient.”
His brow creased slightly as Paul replied: “Well, there are lots of shopping malls on the west end. We can pick up what we need before coming home. The local stores probably don’t have much.”
If you are looking for anonymity, it’s going to be hard to find in a small town like Bayshore, Lance thought.
Paul immediately contacted the local agent handling the property. She was suitably, and naturally, enthusiastic.
“Oh yes, McNeil House. It’s a beautiful place with a wonderful view of the river. The oblates are anxious to sell so I’m sure they will be open to any reasonable offer.”
It appeared that the property, along with the house, has been part of the monastery at one point, deeded to the church when its feudal lord, Andrew McNeil, had been run out of town by angry tenants back in the 19th century. The road into McNeil House was shared by the oblates, who now operated the main building as a retreat centre. Religious recruitment had fallen on hard times and the Fathers had been forced to downsize.
“Retreat centre? Does that mean people coming and going constantly, tracking through the property?” demanded Paul of the agent, Corrine Bradley.
“Oh no, Dr. Bergeron. The house only shares the main driveway with Bethel. It’s away from the main building. The centre is small, with infrequent guests who are of the meditative kind. Your privacy will be ensured. There is a caretaker who lives on the property and of course, Father Murphy who lives in the gatehouse. Otherwise there are no close neighbours.”
“And the bush side?”
“It a conservation area. The locals use the trails for walking. But it’s a good distance from the house and shouldn’t be a problem.”
Paul wanted the house. He could handle the neighbours. Lance like it too, but since he wasn’t contributing anything much to the purchase of it, he contributed a corresponding amount to the final decision—not much. They planned to move in during the summer.
The news that McNeil House had been sold raced through the town. The house had begun to look a little shabby. Since it was a historical site of sorts, the community was excited to think that it would now take on new vigor. One hundred and fifty or so years after the infamous McNeil had been ousted, it was easy to think fondly of the stone house overseeing the town in solitary splendor.
Mayor Schneider was thrilled when Corrine, shared the news with him about the sale. She was right behind him in the lineup for coffee at Tim Horton’s early one morning shortly after the papers had been signed.
“They’re gay, you know,” she said. Not that either of the men had mentioned it, but a good real estate agent reads people well. Corrine was good.
“So? Steve, the caretaker at the centre, is too,” responded Charlie Schneider.
Steve Mayhew had always jokingly said that Bayshore had four gay residents, five on weekends. Everyone knew. No one particularly cared. What the citizens of Bayshore wanted were good neighbours, the kind upon which small communities thrive, and what turns them into big communities were neighbours don’t know each other, and don’t want to.
The mayor was happy. Corrine was happy. Paul was happy. And Lance? Well, he had forgotten what happy was the year he turned five. Bayshore reserved its judgment about its new citizens.
Catherine Sparks had worked in the office at the retreat centre since her return to her home town some eight years earlier. She had begun as a volunteer, helping the oblates paint and clean up the centre just before its launch into the entrepreneurial world. She had initiative, verve, and a background in administration. The Fathers liked all those features, asking her to become part of the staff even though she wasn’t Catholic and certainly added a certain irreverence to the place. She took minutes at the board meetings, often sitting with a puzzled look on her face as she furiously made notes of religious language she didn’t understand.
When the office staff heard that McNeil had been sold, they were enthusiastic. Susan, whose talents extended to restoration and decoration, was hoping that the new owner of the old house would lovingly refurbish it.
“At last, someone who will restore that place to its former glory. I wonder if they’ll hold Christmas parties and open it up for the public?” she mused.
The locals was used to walking across the centre’s property, along the bush trails, past the house. Except for the the kids who had set fire to the boat house belonging the oblates, or who occasionally got caught smoking pot down by the river, the townspeople were respectful of all that belonged, or had belonged, to Bethel.
There are few secrets in a town of 10,000. The comings and going of plumbers, electricians and carpenters, was duly noted. Furniture delivery trucks from upscale showrooms were observed, and a moving van excited interest from behind curtained windows.
On one sunny summer afternoon, Mayor Schneider and his wife, Alice, were walking along the bush trail closest to McNeil House. Through the trees they could see the driveway leading up to the front door. An tall, athletic-looking man was out on the lawn watering the flower beds.
“Ah ha, looks like the good doctor has arrived. Maybe we should go over and welcome them to town,” Charlie observed with a certain amount of glee.
“But, dear,” cautioned his wife, “they only just moved in.”
“It’s been two weeks, they must be settled if he’s out watering flowers already. Besides, it’s not like it’s an official visit or anything. Just a friendly hello.”
With that, Schneider made his way through the poplars and maples toward the precisely sculpted lawn and flower beds of McNeil House. He took a respectful circuit around the lawn rather than across it so that he could walk up the driveway.
“Gidday,” he called as he approached. “I’m Charlie Schneider, Welcome to the …”
Paul Bergeron swung around narrowly missing spraying the mayor with the water from his hose.
“Get off my property, and do it fast or I’ll call the police.”
The mayor stopped, frozen in his tracks, water from the hose snaking between his feet as gravity pulled it down the driveway. This was not quite the reception he expected. Thinking that perhaps he had startled the good doctor, he tried again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on the you. The wife and I were …”
“I asked you to get off my property. What part of ‘get off’ don’t you understand?”
This wasn’t going well, though the mayor couldn’t understand why it wasn’t. The man confronting him looked calm enough, but there was steel in his voice.
“I’m Mayor Schneider and I just wanted to …”
“I don’t care if you’re the Pope. Get off my property before I call the police.”
And we know who will get the benefit of the doubt when MY police force shows up, thought the mayor. Nevertheless, Charlie beat a hasty retreat, careful to walk around what he calculated was the property belonging specifically to McNeil House.
Charlie and his wife were totally baffled. Paul Bergeron was furious, unloading on Lance when he returned home from work later that night. He did his best to calm down his partner.
“You said he introduced himself as the mayor? He was just trying to be friendly, right?”
“Nosey, more like. I will not stand for it,” fumed Paul.
The truth was that Paul had not “stood” for anything. As soon as Charlie and Alice Schneider melted into the bush, the psychiatrist had marched up the driveway to the Centre. He stormed into the office, passing the ornate cross gracing the small chapel just inside the entrance and the almost life-size statue of the Virgin Mary on the landing at the top of the first staircase. His boots struck a discordant note as he thumped through the hallway to the door that led into the offices. Darlene Mills, the centre’s bookkeeper and by nature a mouse, was mulling over some reports on her desk. Catherine was off for the day—a lucky break for the good doctor.
“You people will keep trespassers off my property from now on. I don’t want anyone coming near my house and I don’t want to be bothered by these local yokels. Do you understand?”
“But Doctor. It’s not our responsibility to …”
“Do you understand? I don’t want trespassers on my property.”
He turned and retraced his steps again shattering the stillness of the passageway. Darlene heard the door slam shut as Paul steamed through the front entrance.
“He bought the house and property. It’s not our job to monitor his visitors,” railed Catherine the next morning when Darlene shared the events with her.
“I tried to tell him that, but he was really, well, pissed.” She said the last word almost under her breathe as though the stature in the landing might hear her.
“He knows that the driveway is public, as are the walking trails. What’s his problem anyway?”
It wasn’t long before the townspeople had a pretty good idea what Paul Bergeron’s problem was. The postman delivered a formal complaint to the mayor’s office the next day, reproduced on the official letterhead of Dr. Bergeron’s lawyer.
“Homophobic? Persecution? Violation of human rights? What the deuce is this man talking about? I only wanted to welcome him to our community,” pronounced a stunned Mayor Schneider.
The small announcement that appeared that evening in the local paper, bordered in black like a death notice, was the capstone.
Let it be known that McNeil House, its property and environs, is private property. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. The notice was signed by Dr. Paul Bergeron. Less than a week later, a chain link fence was up all around the property. At intervals, No Trespassing signs were posted.
The Conversation Society that maintained the trails through the bush received a letter requesting them to post signs on their side of the fence instructing people to stay off the property. Jacob Beisenthal, the president of the society, shared the letter with Mayor Schneiderl, informing him that there was “no way in h—-” he was going to comply with such a stupid request. Charlie concurred, but in less descriptive words since he was, after all, an elder at First Baptist Church.
News that Bergeron was planning to take the case to the Supreme Court and sue the town, roused the normally placid residents from their normally placid discussions on crops, weather, and the price of gas.
“I hear that doc practically ran Steve over on the road coming out of Bethel—and he’s gay same as the doc!”
“Yup, even had a couple out-of-towners drinking tea in Bonnie’s ask me for directions to the woods the other day. They wanted to see the house. Heard about it way down in Pikesburg.”
“I ain’t in agreement with all this gay stuff, but it ain’t my business how them two fellows live. Don’t know what this here doc is fussing about.”
Steve, sharing with Catherine his close encounter with death on the road to Bethel, had his own theory.
“Man’s not comfortable with himself. Must’ve just come out.”
“Just proves the theory that people become psychiatrists because they are all screwed up themselves. Nobody cares how he lives as long as he’s a good neighbour—and so far, he isn’t anywhere close. The mayor will have to come up with a new award in the spring: “Bad Citizen of the Year.” She tossed back her long, dark hair, and scowled.
If I’d been on the road, instead of Steve …
(Stayed tuned) For other great reads in Friday Fiction, visit: Joanne’s Open Book
06.12.09
The Cat Keeper’s Confession
I thought they were tumors. It’s a good thing I investigated a little more seriously before I took Abby to the vet. I can’t imagine how embarrassed I would have been to discover that the lumps along the lower end of her spine, hidden beneath her top coat, were matted balls of dead hair.
Abby’s my senior cat. Over time it has gotten more difficult for her to wash some parts of her back. She licks and nibbles at what she can, removing everything possible, (the cat hair floating around the apartment attests to her success) but some of the matter stays behind on her lower back. I should be brushing her regularly, but, like the dust in my house, what I don’t see I happily ignore. That was until I felt the lumps and went into a brief panic attack.
Several of the matted hair balls I was able to brush out with a little bit of effort. Happily Abby likes to be brushed. But the biggest lump was immoveable. My only option was to cut it out and that was something Abby was definitely NOT happy about. It took me several snips over several days to finally get the thing looked after. Now she has a bald spot on her backside!
The analogy might be a poor one, and perhaps my guilt at being a poor cat keeper has made me overly sensitive, but I likened this matted hair experience to that famous statement by Cain: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” —Genesis 4:9.
To avoid the risk of sticking our noses in the business of others, we often ignore those little “errors” that we see them make. Heaven forbid we should be busybodies. Is it us who, when those accumulated mistakes become a mass so big they can’t be ignored, cluck our tongues and wonder how anyone could get into such a situation?
If I had been a little more attentive to Abby, “correcting” every day what she couldn’t get at by herself, I could have saved both of us a lot of aggravation in the end.
The truth is, jus as Abby needs me, we humans need each other. There are things in my life that need correcting that I don’t see, or have conveniently ignored. I need someone to care enough to tell me, in loving terms, what’s wrong. I need to do that for others. While I’m not responsible for the decisions others make, I am responsible to watch out for my brothers and sisters before those little things become big things and major, unpleasant, and sometimes painful, surgery is required. I am my brother’s keeper.
Oh, by the way, Abby tries to do for me what I should have been doing for her. She loves to groom my hair. Yuk, but at least she’s looking out for me.
06.05.09
No Light, No Tunnel, No End
(Author’s Note: I wrote the following in one of those dark pits that happens to all of us from time to time. I thought I’d share it because, when I was finished, I felt a whole lot better. Maybe it will be an encouragement to you too.)
I linger in the blackness, seemingly invisible to passersby. My night is cold and lonely, devoid of the warmth of human touch. There is only God, and though He speaks, I do not hear from Him what I desperately want to hear. He begs me to trust His will, but that will lies heavily upon me, like a shroud. His will is solitary. His will is hard. He bids me to be patient, but the fruitless, empty, years pass me by, heaping their rewards on others.
Shared laughter mocks me, as groups of two, three, and four, walk by. Their eyes seem to meet mine, but then slide past unseeing. I follow them, heading toward the open doors ahead that they are passing through. I long to cry out after them: “Look at me. See me. Hear me.” I don’t. They are busy with better, more productive, things. I bless the Lord for all their successes even as I envy them those blessings. Like a swift running current, they flow past my stagnant pool. It seems pointless to call out to them. Even if they saw and heard, there is nothing they can do. My path is beyond their reach. Only God can change the unchangeable.
My present darkness is His will, so I cannot pass through the doors that are open for others. At least I can press up against the windows and watch. The room they have entered is ablaze with light and resounds with music. It is crowded with people, laughing and chatting, making contact, sharing information, planting the seeds of ideas; a mutual admiration society. My aloneness deepens.
I should walk away. Why punish myself by remaining so close, but never close enough? Like the starving child with nose and palms pressed against the bakery window, I still need the crumbs that occasionally are tossed my way, even though they create in me a greater awareness of my deep hunger. So I linger.
How long, O Lord?
God says wait. He is carefully putting all the pieces of my life together. This solitary, shadowy corner is coming together just as He planned. Patience is not my strongest character trait. Sometimes, during the darkest moments of my night, I rail against Him and weep bitter tears. As quickly, I repent of the failure of my frail faith. Trust is, at times, an Everest that defies my best efforts to reach its summit. I know He makes no mistakes. I understand He has reasons—and good ones—for leaving me here. Like Job, I present my case and cry out for God to explain His.
Chattering voices and the chinking of glasses reach my ears. Toasts are being offered in celebration. A persistent voice whispers: “And who celebrates for you?” I push the thought away. I know it will return the next time some small victory comes my way and there is no one to share my happiness.
I shiver. There it is again, that subtle rejection of God’s will and presence. How often I have prayed that He would take away this desire for what isn’t part of His plan for me. He neither takes me from this darkness, nor does He remove my desire to be taken from it. That too is part of the plan.
I am ashamed. I turn back from the lighted window and look out into the darkness. As the Spirit of God adjusts my spiritual night vision, I weep again. The music from inside the room fades, replaced by the hoot of a nearby owl, the chirp of crickets, and the soft rustle of wind through barely visible trees. The air is heavy with the fragrance of lilac and gardenia. A million stars gleam overhead. I missed them in the glare of the light streaming from the windows. There is such beauty in the darkness. My shroud, whose folds hide the arms of God, embraces me. He is always good, and never as good as He is right now. I weep over my sins. Not content with the bounty of my night, I wanted more, even when He has given me so much. Thoughtless and unappreciative, I threw it back at Him.
Someone once said: “Never doubt in the dark what God told you in the light.” Not one promise He has made me has failed. Though they don’t disappear, the voices are muted, overtaken by the sounds of the night. The grass stirs at my feet. God walks here in the dark.
05.30.09
One Hundred Words Or Less
That was the challenge; to write our “before and after coming to know Christ” story in 100 hundred words or less.
Our church just finished a course in personal evangelism based on Bill Hybels’ book: Just Cross The Room. Homework for this week was to write out our testimonies in a brief, coherent, captivating way, so that when God presents us with a few moments to share our personal faith, we are ready.
The group quickly discovered how hard it is to reduce such a journey to 100 words. To complicate matters, it takes 120 words in Spanish to equal 100 words in English. Somehow, Spanish seems to be a richer language than English.
I managed to get my before and after story done in 119 words—and my journey was relatively simple. I felt for those who had come to Christ along more twisted paths as they tried to reduce so much into so little.
The reasoning behind this exercise is simple; sometimes we only have seconds to speak a word for Christ. Most of us, faced with such a time pressure, stumble and stutter, trying to find the right words. Stressed by our limitations, we hardly think to even call on the Spirit of God to illuminate the darkness of our minds, and untangle our tongues. The moment comes, and is gone, before we get the prayer out. The idea of having something already tucked away in advance that only requires a minute to say, makes pretty good sense.
My challenge to you? Try writing down your “before and after Christ” story in 100 words or less—and don’t forget the Biblical reference. After all, God promises to bless His Word, not ours.
05.25.09
Hairballs
Before 5:30 this morning, a painfully familiar sound penetrated my fog-filled dreams. Retching. I stumbled out of bed. Barely awake, I hunted for the source. Abby, my Calico cat, slunk out of one of the guest bedrooms. I could tell from her embarrassed stance that she was the culpit. Sure enough, in the middle of the bedroom rug lay a huge hairball. Last week, Lou Lou Belle had coughed up her contribution. It had been a while since the last hairball episodes for either of them, and I confess I haven’t been brushing them as often as I should.
There is nothing spiritual about hairballs. Oftentimes there is nothing spiritual about our human tendency to upchuck our accumulated stresses on the nearest human rug. But we do.
“Unloading” can be a healthy exercise. Done correctly, it helps us to relieve the pressure of events and anxieties. Done incorrectly, well, things get a little messy.
I’ve always been a little puzzled by two verses which, one the surface at least, seem to contradict one another. Paul writes in Galatian 6: 2: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” Just a few verses later, he writes: “…each one should carry his own load.” The context here has to do with restoring a fallen brother, the idea being that the sinner is responsible for his own sin, but we have a responsibility in helping him deal with those sins. But the principle also applies in other situations.
When I unload my distress on another person, perhaps there should be an order to the process. First of all, I need to “upchuck” on the Lord, and pour out the hard parts, the anger, bitterness, frustration, on Him—this is the carrying of my own load part. Then when the nasties have been looked after, I can safely go to my human rug and unload on him or her, allowing that person to support me in prayer, to fulfill the law of Christ in loving me, and encouraging me. I have drained the most damaging emotions on the One who can bear them best and have avoided the possibility of damaging another all too fragile human being with my emotional “hairballs.”
I admit, it’s a crazy illustration. I love Abby and Lou. And though their hairballs sometimes turn my stomach, because I love them I clean up the mess and deal gently with their guilt at having done what they really didn’t want to do. Now, isn’t that like God?
05.21.09
Bite Your Tongue
The series of studies on The Lord’s Prayer (Matthew 6) begins in two weeks—and I’m still struggling with the second lesson. Somehow, “Our Father in heaven” was easy to develop. “Hallowed be your name” is causing me some serious self-examination. “Hallow” is a term expressing respect, reverence, veneration, consecration, holding up as holy. It appears in the New Testament only in The Lord’s Prayer, though it is mentioned several times in the Old Testament. There, it refers to the setting apart of objects and people for God’s special use.
It was easy to relate this phrase, “Hallowed by your name” to the command that Moses received in Exodus 20:7 which tells us: “You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name.“
Years ago, we figured out a way to be “hip” and still avoid the direct misuse of God’s name. Like moths circling a flame, we tried to get as close as possible without getting burned, as daring as possible without crossing the line. I guess we thought we were being clever. Was it an attempt to be as close to the world as we could get without actually being in that world? Probably. We invented words like “gee” and “geez.” We came up with “gosh” and “golly.” It was pseudo-swearing.
Here in Venezuela, it is common to hear believers use the terms: “Dios” (God), “O, Dios” (Oh, God), and “Dios mío” (my God) in common conversation. It’s done without thinking. It is excused as being “just a phrase,” meaningless. To our shame, none of us as missionaries have made any serious attempt (to my knowledge) to correct the habit among those within our spheres of influence. We argued that these people were just new believers and that it would take time to deal with all the issues. Somehow we forgot the part about not being held guiltless. Those of us who said nothing are perhaps even more guilty than those who, out of ignorance, said too much.
I think that’s about to change.
To “hallow” God’s name only in prayer, but not in daily practice, is hypocritical. And it’s all too possible that this is the kind of hypocrisy that makes us less than credible witnesses for Christ, particularly in the eyes of those who DO hold God’s name in reverence, but don’t have an personal relationship with Him through faith in Christ.
Isaiah, seeing God’s glory, confessed himself to be a man of “unclean lips” (Isaiah 6:5). He heard the angels’ song: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty” (Isaiah 6:3). What else could he do, but hold his tongue?
A fresh vision of God would be a very good thing right about now.
05.16.09
Singing the Baking Blues
Shortages are an ever-present reality here in Venezuela. We’ve been without margarine (the hard stuff that clogs your arteries with plastic instead of fat) for a year now. So the announcement that the company that makes it will probably never be making it again, wasn’t a surprise. A month or so ago, I used up the last two precious squares that someone had brought into the country on a visit last fall. Since then I’ve been experimenting with substitutes. Of course, everything goes better with butter. However, I’m running out of arms and legs to trade for the stuff.
We still have soft margarine available, but the high water content doesn’t make it a good substitute in some recipes. As I searched my cookbooks, I was amazed to find how few recipes for baked goods use oil.
If it were just me, I could easily live without baking. I’m at the stage in my life where everything parks in the middle of my body, content to retire in solid splendor around my waist. But ministry requires food (I’m sure there is a Bible verse somewhere that supports that), so baking is an essential.
For that reason, I am sending out an appeal to my online friends. Please send me any good recipes you have for sweets that use oil. For a while oil was impossible to get here too, but at the moment we are blessed with a regular supply, but don’t linger with your response—we never know what might be missing the next time we go to the grocery store.
My verse for today reminded me that whatever might be scarce on the store shelves makes absolutely no difference to God’s abundant supply of love, forgiveness, and mercy. None of those clog the arteries—but they certainly fill the heart.
“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior” —Habakkuk 3:17, 18.
