Michael Crummey - Sweetland

I never did thank you, the Reverend said, for sending the note after Ruth died.

Sweetland hadn’t been in that room since he happened on the Reverend and Ruthie sneaking out opposite doors of the church, the day he’d towed the Sri Lankan lifeboat into the cove. He’d almost forgotten the event it was that long ago. Or he’d forgotten how it made him feel in the moment. But it struck him fresh, hearing the Reverend speak her name as they stood there — how it didn’t seem a time or location crying out for a quick fuck, with a dead boy under a sheet outside the door.

It meant a lot to me, the Reverend went on, not to hear the news second-hand.

Ruthie asked me to let you know, Sweetland said.

She had a rough time of it.

The last few months was bad. It was a blessing when she give it up.

The Reverend turned off his flashlight and stood still in the black across the room.

Sweetland said, You knew about Clara all along.

Ruth told me she was pregnant.

That’s the reason you left when you did, I imagine.

That’s why I left, he said. And that’s the reason I came back. Clara, he said. And Jesse.

Strange you haven’t said a word to Clara about it, all this time.

I don’t think that’s what Ruth would have wanted.

Sweetland threw his head back and laughed. That’s very Christian of you.

The Reverend cleared his throat again. I was hoping we might have gotten this conversation out of the way years ago.

How many others were there?

How many what?

All them parishes you moved through, Sweetland said. Ruthie wasn’t the only one you dipped your wick into.

Well, the Reverend said. She was better off without me, don’t you think?

Sweetland scrubbed at his temples with the knuckles of both hands and sighed. That’s a job to say, Reverend.

There was a long pause between them, like they’d lost their way in the woods at night and were afraid to take another step forward.

You remember that young one, Sweetland said. The fellow died on the lifeboat we had in here.

I remember him.

I thinks about those fellows now and then, Sweetland said. How they wound up here, of all places.

Wasn’t in their minds when they started out, I’m sure.

What was it you said about it all? In that sermon?

You remember a sermon of mine?

Just the one. It was something about all of us being in the same situation. Lost on the ocean, like.

The Reverend shifted behind the desk. I was always a bit obvious when it came to preaching, he said.

Sweetland scooched his backside up onto the cupboard where the bulletins and mimeograph machine used to be stored, his flashlight trained on the floor between his feet. He flicked it off before he spoke again. I been wanting to ask you, he said. What happened with Jesse last year. You believe he drowned himself?

On purpose, you mean?

Everyone else seems to think as much.

The Reverend flicked his light slowly on and off, on and off. I have no idea, he said.

Hazard a guess for me, then.

Honestly? I don’t think Jesse had it in him.

He was all guts, that youngster.

I don’t think the idea would have occurred to him, is what I mean. He might have made his mother’s life hell for a while with tantrums or going to the bathroom in his clothes or God knows what else. But killing himself? I don’t think so.

It was an accident, then.

You know how literal he was. He saw your boat missing down in the cove, I’d say. Might have thought you’d already left for good.

And what? Headed out to the lighthouse to see if he could spot the boat off of Burnt Head?

Seems about right. And then the fog came in.

He missed the cairns on the path, you think. Fell off the headland out there in the fog.

More than likely.

Sweetland looked up into the darkness. He couldn’t tell if the man believed what he was saying. Or if it made any real difference to think it was true.

The Reverend flicked his light on and off again, on and off, the face of it pressed against his hand so the flesh lit up like a Chinese lantern.

Did Ruth tell you she used to talk to me about Hollis? he said.

Hollis? Sweetland said vaguely, as though he didn’t recognize the name.

Your brother, yes.

No, she never said. Not that I remembers.

She told me Hollis was — what did she call it? He was a bit touched, she said.

He was a strange creature, all right. Moody, like. He’d go weeks at a time and not say a word to a soul. Got right low, sometimes. Spent half the days in bed. Always had his head into his school reader or some other book.

He wanted to leave Sweetland to finish high school, didn’t he?

He talked about it. I imagine he’d have gone over to Burgeo or Fortune or somewhere if Father was still with us. But there was just me and Hollis to go after the fish.

Ruth thought he was sick with something. Physically ill, I mean.

That’s what Mother told her.

She didn’t even know he was at the Waterford in St. John’s those months he was gone. She thought he was doing some kind of schooling.

Well we couldn’t very well tell her that her brother was in the mental, could we? She was just a youngster still.

She knew a lot more than you gave her credit for, the Reverend said. And he stopped there. Waiting to be encouraged, Sweetland knew, but he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction.

That story about Hollis falling across the trawl line, the Reverend said finally, and you cutting it loose to take off the strain. She didn’t believe a word of it.

None of this is any of your goddamn business, is it?

Sorry, the Reverend said. Occupational hazard.

They settled back into silence awhile longer, though there was no leaving things where they sat. Each man trying to wait out the other.

Ruthie never said a word to me about any of this, Sweetland said.

She wasn’t looking to cause trouble, the Reverend said. We were just talking about Hollis and she mentioned the story about the codfish running under the boat and you throwing the engine into reverse. She spent a long time thinking about that fish.

The fish, Sweetland repeated dumbly.

She said she saw you coming in alone and knew something was wrong. Ran down to the stage to meet you. And there was plenty of cod in the boat. But nothing the size you talked about.

This is what she was paying attention to when she heard her brother was drowned, was it?

It was a long time before it came to her, the Reverend said. And she’d probably never have taken note if there weren’t other things about the day that struck her funny. She said Hollis was different that morning. Happy almost. Gave her a hug, told her how much he loved her. Did the same with your mother.

Sweetland was drumming his heels against the wall involuntarily and he made himself stop.

Ruth thought he had it in his mind before he left the house, the Reverend said. To cut the trawl line himself, let the weight take him under.

Jesus fuck, Sweetland whispered.

And you made up some story about a fish because you wanted to spare your mother.

Sweetland nodded in the dark. Set to hammering his heels against the wall again. That would have been the end of the woman, he said, knowing her son killed himself.

It occurred to Sweetland he’d lied to Jesse for the same reason he lied to his mother, to spare the boy knowing the truth about his imaginary friend. He raised his face to the ceiling, fighting the ridiculous sense they were all standing in the darkness beside him, his mother and Ruthie and Hollis. Jesse.

Hollis was suffering, the Reverend said.

I expect he was. I wouldn’t very good to him about it all.

It wasn’t your fault, the Reverend said.

That’s your professional opinion, is it?