Louise Erdrich - The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse

“Hide?”

“The birth certificate, of course. Father Damien, I know about it. You are, or would be, but of course you won’t …”

“What?”

“My father-in-law. If only… I mean, if only I could have her.”

“My dear son…”

“Yes! I saw your name on Lulu’s birth certificate. You are Lulu’s father. I know now, should have grasped before, from your words, how deeply you loved her mother, Fleur. I understand. To my great sorrow, no, joy, I truly and fervently know what it is to become undone by a woman. I shall keep your secret, as I know you’ll keep mine.”

And then, to Agnes’s astonishment, the stolid and nerveless man on the other side of the screen began to weep into his hands.

BINGO NIGHT

Father Jude was engaged in what was perhaps the greatest moral struggle over a bingo game conducted in the history of the Church. But of course, it wasn’t that alone, at all. Most things on the reservation, he was beginning to find, either connected with or came down to Lulu. Bingo was no different, especially when it concerned an invitation to accompany her to the Sweetheart Bingo Bash, with games commencing at midday and running through the night. Special prizes. Honeymoon trips. Weekend getaways in Grand Forks. Champagne suppers up in Winnipeg. A year’s worth of chocolates.

How was he supposed to define himself free of wishing now that he had a wish? How ignore the sleepless reality of the struggle in his thoughts? How configure his embarrassment? How not say a word? And accept that he was human, therefore ridiculous?

Playing bingo, she said, raising her eyebrows and sliding her eyes obliquely away, was just one of her many failings. She was sorry, but what was the harm in it after all? She never lost more than she could afford to lose or won so much that it made her act better than her friends, and if she did happen to win a lot, she spread it around with a generous hand. What was the problem, then, and did Father Jude think it was simply in the nature of gambling? If so, shouldn’t he try playing for himself and seeing how childish the game really was — just a diversion, really, like playing Monopoly, only in a vast roomful of people?

“No, I cannot go with you,” said the priest, for perhaps the tenth time.

As always, she smiled a particular smile he had come to think of as her neutral gear. She smiled that way when she was buying time. When her brain was clicking forward with a new argument.

“It’s probably better that you not go.” She said this easily, which caused his heart to catch in a stabbing and painful stitch he breathed deeply to loosen. He wanted to reach forward and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, though her hair was perfect. He wanted to lay his face against her neck, brush the curve of her throat. Instead, he pressed his fingers to his lips to contain the words that would expose his longing. Women her age were not supposed to have slim waists and smiles so joyous. And her radiant laugh! She was laughing at him, mocking his last ditch attempt at self-control.

“You want to,” she held a finger up to him. “I know. I can tell.”

Wanting was not the problem. Not going with her was the problem. In desperation, Father Jude went to ask Father Damien what he should do, and to try to elicit counsel that would shore up his resolve not to venture to the Bingo Palace, or anywhere, with Lulu.

“I’m no help,” said Father Damien, “I won’t tell you what to do. You wouldn’t listen if I did.”

“I’m not asking you to dissuade me,” said Father Jude, gathering his pride. “I suppose, anyway, it’s not a place a priest should likely venture.”

“I venture.”

“Do you go with her too?”

“Of course,” said Father Damien. “The years between us have shrunk away. Since I retired from my active role in the Church to write my reports, Lulu has been kind enough to relieve my solitude with occasional trips to the Bingo Palace. There, we sit among friends, enjoying the workings of chance as we sip on cold drinks. We listen to the gossip, the bragging over grandchildren and lamenting of the actions of grown sons and daughters. She listens and I smile. She does not judge and I need not absolve, for after all these years my forgiveness is taken for granted.”

Father Jude nodded, flexed his hands, sighed wearily. “I should just go to bed and forget about this. But I know I won’t. I’ll end up going with her and going to the devil.”

He said the last extravagantly and earned a disapproving frown from Damien. “She is good,” said the old priest, “one day you will understand this. She is goodness itself.”

Three hours passed in which he thought she’d forgotten all about him. Then she came back and asked him again, just to make sure, and she brushed against him when she did this and he said, in that instant, yes he would. He got into her car. As soon as he did so, he realized that he’d never let a woman drive him anywhere before. He should have seen it coming, then, as he rode along in the sun-struck, dark, red seat in unaccustomed passivity. He’d never been so alone with a woman, except in the anonymity of the confessional. And now that it was just the two of them in so small a space, he wanted to drive forever. And then they were at the Bingo Palace.

“I’ll stake you,” she said, purchasing a bingo package. They sat down together at a long table with ashtrays in front of a big-screen TV on a stage. Not long, and the numbers rolled off the announcer’s lips. On B-10, Father Jude’s mouth went dry. His glasses fogged on G-40, and by the time they’d cleared and he saw the possibilities his lips were buzzing, numb, and he dabbed delicately on the square O-63.

“Someone else bingoed.” She tore off the flimsy sheet of numbers and tossed it away. Then she asked him what she’d got him here to ask him, solo and in her power: “What are you doing with Father Damien?”

The implication being, What are you doing to him.

“Interviewing him,” said Father Jude.

“He looks tired.” Lulu dabbed smoothly, marking a number he’d missed. “But he also looks”—and here she stamped his paper just a bit harder—“stronger. He actually looks stronger and healthier than I’ve seen him in quite a while. So whatever you’re interviewing him about…”

“Church business.”

“Seems he likes to talk about Church business then. What kind of business?”

Somehow, the way she asked, conversationally and distractedly, as though she had a perfect right to ask and know, left him undefended. He told her. Horrified later, he couldn’t remember the exact words and all that went with them, but he did know he’d treated her like a confidante and colleague. Not just telling but discussing the implications of what was to become of whatever findings he made, and even worrying about the difficulty of establishing a literal or factual truth when there were opposing versions of Leopolda’s life and story, when the life — as opposed to the evidence of miraculous interventions — did not add up.

“Should I be telling you all of this?” he asked at one point.

“Why not?” she asked calmly.

He couldn’t think of a reason, and then he couldn’t think of anything. He was looking at her helplessly. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve got it bad,” she said, diagnosing his fever like a compassionate doctor.

He mumbled agreement and the great burden of his feeling pressed up all around him in a buzz of noise. Saying it lifted away the burden of strangeness. Relieved, he smiled at her, and then she was staring straight into his eyes, with an easy, knowing sympathy that made his blood hum in his ears.

LEOPOLDA’S PASSION