younger
Tomasine was merely the beginning of a long distortion whose end was the bent
and unhappy old woman Father Pennant had met on his first day as St. Maryâs rector.
     Tomasineâs funeral took place of an afternoon. Light came through the stained-glass
portraits of Zenobius and Zeno. The church smelled of the floral perfume one of
the mourners wore. Mass was said into the silence of late afternoon in a small
town, most of whose inhabitants worked elsewhere. When the service was over,
Father Pennant walked from the church with three old women, one of whom
matter-of-factly said
     â Poor Tomasine. She had a soft spot for priests, you know.
     â I thought we were a disappointment to her, said Father Pennant.
     â Oh, not at all, said the old woman. Father Fowler was the only man she ever
loved. Do you know what âcarrying a torchâ means, young man? Well, she carried a torch for that man, poor dear.
     âDid Father Fowler know?
     â Of course he knew. He loved her too. He joined the priesthood after she married
Bill Humble.
     â I donât understand, said Father Pennant. Why did she marry Mr. Humble if she loved
Father Fowler?
     â Weâll never know, said the old woman. They were quite strange, those two.
     Startled by sunlight as they left the church, the old woman gripped Father
Pennantâs arm and went carefully down the steps, all thought of Tomasine and Father
Fowler gone as she tried to keep herself from falling. Her companions held on
to the railings and cautiously stepped down, as if stepping into uncertain
waters.
     At the end of the day, after Tomasine had been buried, Father Pennant asked
Lowther what he knew about Mrs. Humble and Father Fowler.
     â Nothing, answered Lowther.
     â Did they love each other?
     â I really donât think so, Father. In all the years I worked for him, I never heard Father
Fowler mention her more than a handful of times.
     â Well, Tomasineâs friends were convinced â¦
     â I think Tomasine was convinced too. But she was an odd woman. No offence to the
dead. She never had a kind word for Father Fowler.
     â You know, Iâm not sure she had a kind word for you either.
     â Yes, I know. But sheâs not alone there. Not many people trust me.
     â Iâm very sorry to hear it.
     â No, no. Theyâre right. I havenât always been the best of men.
     It wasnât clear to Father Pennant what type of man Lowther wished to be or what type of
man Lowther would have called âgood.â Lowtherâs dislike for his own younger self seemed to be the point. He had been born in
Petrolia in 1949, his parentsâ only child. His father, a bitter and angry man, died when Lowther was twelve.
After that, Lowther had become the man of the house, spoiled by a mother who
doted on him. By the time he was fourteen, he was, he said, good for nothing.
He lied, stole, drank and did things of which he was now deeply ashamed.
     He would almost certainly have lost his soul, but that he was intelligent and
sensitive despite himself. The cruel things he did began to seem tiresome,
mindless and insignificant. So, at twenty, he moved to Sarnia and, for no
particular reason save that he saw a help-wanted ad in the Observer , found work as a private investigator. His work as an investigator was what
earned him his bad reputation. He was good â that is, ruthless â at the workâs many stations: skip tracing, process serving, testing the fidelity of husbands
and wives.
Tomasine was merely the beginning of a long distortion whose end was the bent
and unhappy old woman Father Pennant had met on his first day as St. Maryâs rector.
     Tomasineâs funeral took place of an afternoon. Light came through the stained-glass
portraits of Zenobius and Zeno. The church smelled of the floral perfume one of
the mourners wore. Mass was said into the silence of late afternoon in a small
town, most of whose inhabitants worked elsewhere. When the service was over,
Father Pennant walked from the church with three old women, one of whom
matter-of-factly said
     â Poor Tomasine. She had a soft spot for priests, you know.
     â I thought we were a disappointment to her, said Father Pennant.
     â Oh, not at all, said the old woman. Father Fowler was the only man she ever
loved. Do you know what âcarrying a torchâ means, young man? Well, she carried a torch for that man, poor dear.
     âDid Father Fowler know?
     â Of course he knew. He loved her too. He joined the priesthood after she married
Bill Humble.
     â I donât understand, said Father Pennant. Why did she marry Mr. Humble if she loved
Father Fowler?
     â Weâll never know, said the old woman. They were quite strange, those two.
     Startled by sunlight as they left the church, the old woman gripped Father
Pennantâs arm and went carefully down the steps, all thought of Tomasine and Father
Fowler gone as she tried to keep herself from falling. Her companions held on
to the railings and cautiously stepped down, as if stepping into uncertain
waters.
     At the end of the day, after Tomasine had been buried, Father Pennant asked
Lowther what he knew about Mrs. Humble and Father Fowler.
     â Nothing, answered Lowther.
     â Did they love each other?
     â I really donât think so, Father. In all the years I worked for him, I never heard Father
Fowler mention her more than a handful of times.
     â Well, Tomasineâs friends were convinced â¦
     â I think Tomasine was convinced too. But she was an odd woman. No offence to the
dead. She never had a kind word for Father Fowler.
     â You know, Iâm not sure she had a kind word for you either.
     â Yes, I know. But sheâs not alone there. Not many people trust me.
     â Iâm very sorry to hear it.
     â No, no. Theyâre right. I havenât always been the best of men.
     It wasnât clear to Father Pennant what type of man Lowther wished to be or what type of
man Lowther would have called âgood.â Lowtherâs dislike for his own younger self seemed to be the point. He had been born in
Petrolia in 1949, his parentsâ only child. His father, a bitter and angry man, died when Lowther was twelve.
After that, Lowther had become the man of the house, spoiled by a mother who
doted on him. By the time he was fourteen, he was, he said, good for nothing.
He lied, stole, drank and did things of which he was now deeply ashamed.
     He would almost certainly have lost his soul, but that he was intelligent and
sensitive despite himself. The cruel things he did began to seem tiresome,
mindless and insignificant. So, at twenty, he moved to Sarnia and, for no
particular reason save that he saw a help-wanted ad in the Observer , found work as a private investigator. His work as an investigator was what
earned him his bad reputation. He was good â that is, ruthless â at the workâs many stations: skip tracing, process serving, testing the fidelity of husbands
and wives.
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