Too much happiness_ stories - Alice Munro [92]
“She asks me—I have a note from her here—she wants to see Father Hofstrader.”
“Is she a member of this parish?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if she is a Catholic or not. She is from here. From Guelph. She is a friend I have not seen for a long time.”
“When did you talk with her?”
I had to explain that I hadn’t talked with her, she had been asleep, but she had left the note for me.
“But you don’t know if she is a Catholic?”
He had a cracked sore at the corner of his mouth. It must have been painful for him to talk.
“I think she is, but her husband isn’t and he doesn’t know she is. She doesn’t want him to know.”
I said this in the hope of making things clearer, even though I didn’t know for sure if it was true. I had an idea that this priest might shortly lose interest altogether. “Father Hofstrader must have known all this,” I said.
“You didn’t speak with her?”
I said that she had been under medication but that this was not the case all the time and I was sure she would have periods of lucidity. This too I stressed because I thought it necessary.
“If she wishes to make a confession, you know, there are priests available at Princess Margaret’s.”
I could not think of what else to say. I got out the note, smoothed the paper, and handed it to him. I saw that the handwriting was not as good as I had thought. It was legible only in comparison with the letters on the envelope.
He made a troubled face.
“Who is this C.?”
“Her husband.” I was worried that he might ask for the husband’s name, to get in touch with him, but instead he asked for Charlene’s. This woman’s name, he said.
“Charlene Sullivan.” It was a wonder that I even remembered the surname. And I was reassured for a moment, because it was a name that sounded Catholic. Of course that meant that it was the husband who could be Catholic. But the priest might conclude that the husband had lapsed, and that would surely make Charlene’s secrecy more understandable, her message more urgent.
“Why does she need Father Hofstrader?”
“I think perhaps it’s something special.”
“All confessions are special.”
He made a move to get up, but I stayed where I was. He sat down again.
“Father Hofstrader is on vacation but he is not out of town. I could phone and ask him about this. If you insist.”
“Yes. Please.”
“I do not like to bother him. He has not been well.”
I said that if he was not well enough to drive himself to Toronto I could drive him.
“We can take care of his transportation if necessary.”
He looked around and did not see what he wanted, unclipped a pen from his pocket, and then decided that the blank side of the note would do to write on.
“If you’ll just make sure I’ve got the name. Charlotte—”
“Charlene.”
Was I not tempted, during all this palaver? Not once? You’d think that I might break open, be wise to break open, glimpsing that vast though tricky forgiveness. But no. It’s not for me. What’s done is done. Flocks of angels, tears of blood, not withstanding.
I sat in the car without thinking to turn the motor on, though it was freezing cold by now. I didn’t know what to do next. That is, I knew what I could do. Find my way to the highway and join the bright everlasting flow of cars towards Toronto. Or find a place to stay overnight, if I did not think I had the strength to drive. Most places would provide you with a toothbrush, or direct you to a machine where you could get one. I knew what was necessary and possible but it was beyond my strength, for the moment, to do it.
The motorboats on the lake were supposed to stay a good distance out from the shore. And especially from our camping area, so that the waves they raised would not disturb our swimming. But on that last morning, that Sunday morning, a couple of them started a race and circled close in—not as close as the raft, of course, but close enough to raise waves. The raft was tossed around and Pauline’s voice was lifted in a cry of reproach and dismay. The boats made far too much noise for their drivers to hear her, and anyway they had set a big wave rolling towards