Nights in Purgatory

Could it be my dead wife is my designated guardian angel? Or is she instead a foretaste of Purgatory? And how do you tell the difference?
― Margaret Atwood

How would this look on a resume? Criminal psychologist, working as detective – seminary dropout– Irish Catholic background.

I smile grimly because this kind of cynicism always contains a germ of truth.

My mind continues to play at the game, running out the bitter thread.

Unable to form a relationship with his female partner, even though they’re attracted to each other—still mourning his dead wife who visits him nights.


I snort bitterly, shaking my head, shutting my eyes tightly to ward off picturing her—but that’s the problem in a nutshell. I speak to my wife even though she’s dead.

We talk late at nights and she helps me cope.

I admit; I’m conflicted. I drink too much—maybe that’s the Irish in me. I’m crazy, mixed up —a detective with a background in criminal psychology, a seminary dropout, and ex-altar boy who still reads Latin…

And I still pray for the dead even though I know it’s theologically iffy – and I talk to my wife in purgatory even though I know it’s wrong.

“Ah, Martin—the good ones always cause me problems.”

“That’d be true Father, if I were still one of your seminarians.”

“One of my favourite seminarians,” the old priest chides, “but you’re still my favourite, and probably will be till the day I die.”

I clap his back affectionately as we walk through the Hart House courtyard at the U of T. I deliberately arranged meeting him away from the seminary—on neutral ground, I suppose—can’t concentrate with a flood of memories connected with St. Augustine’s.

Can’t concentrate with a flood of memories connected to my wife.

It’s funny now reflecting on how Father Breton recruited me—not to the priesthood per se, but by conjuring up a mirage—he wooed me with the lure of being a lay theologian.

“You can have the good life, Martin—don’t sell yourself short.”

Don’t know what he saw in me, though I found out later he was the archdiocesan exorcist; okay perhaps, I shouldn’t go there since it raises doubts concerning the wisdom of revealing my spiritual malaise to him at all.

Instinctively, I look to the clouds above us and begin to smile inwardly. What’s he going to do, exorcize me? And then I go somber. Maybe he should.

We eat in the main dining room—it’s reminiscent of a great hall of a castle, illumined by arched stained glass windows and hanging brass chandeliers.

Amid the subdued conversations, punctuated by the banal clinking of silverware on china, the improbability of my nightly visitations is spread out before him to be autopsied.

“It defies logic, Martin, and goes against everything you believe.”

I look at Breton smiling back weakly—I know he’s trying to be gentle with me—but I see clouds of doubt in his normally clear-blue eyes. He must wonder what demons I’m wrestling with, while I wonder if they’re the same ones he solemnly expels with bell, book and candle.

“I don’t think you ‘re oppressed,” he offers, “but perhaps, under a great strain.”

“But Father, isn’t that the perfect doorway for familiar spirits to enter—coming as spirits of light, in the shape of my deepest need?”

He chuckles skeptically, “Is that the plan, Martin—do you want deliverance—do you think that would help expel your dreams?”

I’m shocked at the way he devalues Faith’s visits, calling them ‘dreams’.

But Breton seems unfazed. He’s been staring hard at me, sizing me up, like a fighter in the ring.

“I’m not doing it,” he adds forcefully, “You need to face the fact that life is demanding something of you—whether you can do it or not.”

He says it in his raspy street-wise voice with the slight trace of Brooklyn accent. Then, proud of himself, he beams a toothy smile.

This is my usual cue to cave in and concede defeat— after all he is my mentor, and not just guru to me, but to even the most famous and respected among the academic elite.

Hell, at one time, he was McLuhan’s confidant—next to him, I’m just a Prufrock afraid to disturb the universe

“You know how much I respect you, Father…”

He waves a hand as if to push aside the objection. “Is this where you give your speech about more things in heaven and earth?”

I laugh. “I was heading in that direction.”

He smiles and shakes his head in fond admiration, “You always had a way with words, Martin—could charm the birds from the trees, but I’m warning you, be careful here—this is uncharted territory and no one but you can explore it.”

“So, what are you saying?”

Again, the toothy smile, “What I always tell you—follow your heart.

I will do that, I muse. I will live large—but chances are, I'll still end up in hell.

© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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