After River by Donna Milner Page A

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    Everyone in our town knew and loved Father Mac: Catholics and Protestants alike. He could often be found sharing a shot or two of Captain Morgan’s rum with the locals in the Atwood Hotel. Mom said sometimes she believed he heard as many confessions from his barstool–where he had patience for even the most inebriated souls–as he did in the confessional. But the most trying test of his patience he himself would joke was his friend and bridge partner, Dr Allen Mumford.
    According to Mom, the relationship between those two men was the most unlikely of friendships. Dr Mumford, the town doctor and a self-proclaimed agnostic, was the polar opposite of the priest. He was a loud, outspoken, and opinionated man. He fought with his bridge partners so much that his wife refused to play with him. Finally, it was only Father Mac who had the patience to be his partner.
    Even though they were both a few years younger than my father, to me they often looked like bickering old men. ‘If you would pay as much attention to your bidding as you do to praying for my immortal soul,’ Dr Mumford would tell the priest during their spirited debates, ‘we might do better at the bridge table.’
    â€˜And if you put half as much thought into your play as you do into your disbelief,’ Father Mac would reply, ‘you might not have need for my prayers.’
    They were a strange sight, those two, hunkered over their chessboard in the park, or at the community centre, arguing theology and the other’s foolish play between moves. They were fierce competitors and not above a wager on their games. Every once in a while, Dr Mumford appeared at Sunday mass. He sat scowling, his arms folded over his chest, in a pew at the back of the church. He grudgingly endured Father Mac’s welcoming of their ‘guest to the fold’ at the end of the service. Then he made his escape, but usually not before some parishioner asked him, ‘Lost another chess game, eh, Doc?’
    One evening a month, Mom and Dad went into town to play bridge with them. And on many Sundays Father Mac joined us for dinner.
    He had no shortage of dinner invitations. Yet, it was our table the priest chose most often to grace. ‘It’s my roast beef and Yorkshirepudding,’ Mom told anyone who questioned his preference. Dad said it was really because they always watched the priest’s favourite television show, Bonanza , after the milking on Sunday nights. ‘I think Father Mac is beginning to believe what people say about his voice sounding just like Lorne Greene’s “voice of doom”,’ Dad teased.
    One Sunday evening, just before I turned six, I stood anxiously in the sunroom doorway. I peered out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of Boyer and Father Mac returning from a walk. Behind me Mom, Dad, Morgan and Carl settled themselves in front of the television. Suddenly I heard Morgan ask, ‘Mom, is Boyer gonna become a priest?’
    A priest? Boyer a priest? I knew very little about priests, but I did know they lived alone and had no family.
    Before Mom could answer, I spun around and blurted, ‘Boyer can’t be a priest, he’s going to marry me.’
    Morgan threw himself against the back of the couch and screeched, ‘Dummy, you can’t marry your brother.’ He jabbed Carl in the ribs. Carl rolled on the couch, holding his side, ‘What a dummy,’ he hooted. ‘Marry your brother!’
    Mom leaned forward in her recliner. ‘Boys,’ she said and shook her head at them. I couldn’t read the expression on her face as she chastised Morgan and Carl. Beside her, Dad sat in his recliner, a stream of blue smoke rising from the cigarette hanging from his lips. He stared straight ahead at the television, as if the conversation and all the commotion my brothers were making was not happening.
    Panicked, I ran to my mother. ‘Is it true?’ I