bad time to come.’
‘Yeah, well, she picked a bad time to die.’
He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, figuring
this is best, and I figure he’s right. I stay at the line of police tape, trying to make eye contact with anybody who will tell me anything, but there’s too much going on for that to happen. The officer keeps looking at me like I’m a shoplifter. I feel his eyes on my back the entire way as I walk to my car. He’s probably
wondering if I’m for real.
The cemetery grounds are like a golf course, separated into
many sections divided up by hedges and trees and bushes. The
main road through it branches off to these different areas, and one of the bigger branches leads to the Catholic church, which sits left of the cemetery, back some forty metres from the road.
A belt of trees forms a horseshoe barrier around its sides and back, so that if you’re at the lake or even in other parts of the cemetery you might not even know it was there. This is the church that
once held a ceremony for my dead little girl, but more recently gave me somewhere to serve the priest with an exhumation order for Henry Martins.
I park as close as I can to the huge oak doors that could pass entry to a fairytale giant and I walk up the stone steps. The wooden door on the right swings open easily and noiselessly. Inside the church the temperature seems to drop another degree with every step I take. Most of the lighting is coming from candles, with a few overhead lights dimly illuminating the chapel. There are dozens of pews, all of them empty except for one at the very front where a man is staring ahead, lost in thought, seemingly unaware or uncaring of my presence.
I walk down the aisle, letting my fingertips tap the pew backs along the way. Left and right are tapestries of Jesus and stained glass windows of Jesus and paintings of Jesus. Somewhere around here there’s probably a gift shop with coffee cups with a smiling Jesus. At the head of the church behind the altar is a large wooden crucifix with a large wooden Jesus carved onto it. Jesus doesn’t seem to care that he’s hanging on a slight angle, or that he’s being promoted so heavily.
Before I reach the end of the aisle one of the boards beneath
me creaks, and the priest turns suddenly. He steps out from the pew and smiles at me, but after a few seconds the smile falters, and I realise how hard it must be for him to maintain his composure under the strain not just of this day but of every day. Priests don’t see the same violence that cops do, but they sure as hell hear about it — and worse. They’re the ones trying to pick up the pieces of a broken family looking to blame more than just the man or the disease that took away their loved ones.
Father Stewart Julian, a man in his mid to late fifties who has been here for as long as I can remember, offers me his hand. He has a notepad in his other hand that he hasn’t written a thing on, and a newspaper folded on the pew where he was sitting. His soft face, grey hair and black eyebrows give him a kind look, but at the moment he looks tired. Still, I figure in his day, if Father Julian hadn’t become a priest, he would’ve had women all over him.
Awful day, Theo,’ he says, shaking his head, proving just how
awful the day really is. ‘Just awful.’ His voice is low and easy to listen to. ‘It’s been long and it’s already late. You wouldn’t believe how many hours I’ve had to spend talking to police. Or to families of those who have loved ones buried here. They keep calling, Theo, scared that their mothers and fathers and sons and daughters are being desecrated. The calls finally stopped an hour ago, and since then I’ve been looking for a distraction.’ He waves the notepad a little. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asks, and picks up the newspaper.
‘Seen what?’ I ask, pretty sure that the distraction was a
hundred miles away, because that’s where Father Julian seemed to be
‘Yeah, well, she picked a bad time to die.’
He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, figuring
this is best, and I figure he’s right. I stay at the line of police tape, trying to make eye contact with anybody who will tell me anything, but there’s too much going on for that to happen. The officer keeps looking at me like I’m a shoplifter. I feel his eyes on my back the entire way as I walk to my car. He’s probably
wondering if I’m for real.
The cemetery grounds are like a golf course, separated into
many sections divided up by hedges and trees and bushes. The
main road through it branches off to these different areas, and one of the bigger branches leads to the Catholic church, which sits left of the cemetery, back some forty metres from the road.
A belt of trees forms a horseshoe barrier around its sides and back, so that if you’re at the lake or even in other parts of the cemetery you might not even know it was there. This is the church that
once held a ceremony for my dead little girl, but more recently gave me somewhere to serve the priest with an exhumation order for Henry Martins.
I park as close as I can to the huge oak doors that could pass entry to a fairytale giant and I walk up the stone steps. The wooden door on the right swings open easily and noiselessly. Inside the church the temperature seems to drop another degree with every step I take. Most of the lighting is coming from candles, with a few overhead lights dimly illuminating the chapel. There are dozens of pews, all of them empty except for one at the very front where a man is staring ahead, lost in thought, seemingly unaware or uncaring of my presence.
I walk down the aisle, letting my fingertips tap the pew backs along the way. Left and right are tapestries of Jesus and stained glass windows of Jesus and paintings of Jesus. Somewhere around here there’s probably a gift shop with coffee cups with a smiling Jesus. At the head of the church behind the altar is a large wooden crucifix with a large wooden Jesus carved onto it. Jesus doesn’t seem to care that he’s hanging on a slight angle, or that he’s being promoted so heavily.
Before I reach the end of the aisle one of the boards beneath
me creaks, and the priest turns suddenly. He steps out from the pew and smiles at me, but after a few seconds the smile falters, and I realise how hard it must be for him to maintain his composure under the strain not just of this day but of every day. Priests don’t see the same violence that cops do, but they sure as hell hear about it — and worse. They’re the ones trying to pick up the pieces of a broken family looking to blame more than just the man or the disease that took away their loved ones.
Father Stewart Julian, a man in his mid to late fifties who has been here for as long as I can remember, offers me his hand. He has a notepad in his other hand that he hasn’t written a thing on, and a newspaper folded on the pew where he was sitting. His soft face, grey hair and black eyebrows give him a kind look, but at the moment he looks tired. Still, I figure in his day, if Father Julian hadn’t become a priest, he would’ve had women all over him.
Awful day, Theo,’ he says, shaking his head, proving just how
awful the day really is. ‘Just awful.’ His voice is low and easy to listen to. ‘It’s been long and it’s already late. You wouldn’t believe how many hours I’ve had to spend talking to police. Or to families of those who have loved ones buried here. They keep calling, Theo, scared that their mothers and fathers and sons and daughters are being desecrated. The calls finally stopped an hour ago, and since then I’ve been looking for a distraction.’ He waves the notepad a little. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asks, and picks up the newspaper.
‘Seen what?’ I ask, pretty sure that the distraction was a
hundred miles away, because that’s where Father Julian seemed to be
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