FAR WEST Chapter Three

BISHOPS GATE

Maggie Bezzeg strolled along the mulch covered pathways of the gardens as bands of diaphanous light flickered amongst the leaves and branches of the larch trees that protected the space from the dirt and clay roads of the mountain village.  She passed underneath an arched vine trellis out to the cemetery hill that stood as a salient above a series of waterfalls and the city a thousand feet below.

            The Bishop sat underneath a large oak tree on the sallow grass at the far corner of the overcrowded cemetery poorly ensconced by an ancient farmer’s stone wall.  She was watching the falls and the clouds of mist and foam float back in her direction.  She heard nothing above the thunderous cavalcade of the surging water bombarding the hard granite and amethyst stained rocks at the base and the cataracts to which the river flowed down circumloquitously from the village to the lower reservoirs that serviced Cranbury and its pocket county.

            Maggie flanked the meditative Bishop in silence, carefully measuring her breaths and covering her footsteps under the deafening sound as she approached.  The Bishop turned around when she noticed that the shadows had moved.    

            “Ah, Mistress Bezzeg.  What brings you here?”

            “Your gardens are so beautiful, your grace.  This place reminds me of home more than any of the rest of the Vale.  I guess I needed to clear my mind.”

            “You are always welcome here.  I like you Mormons.  It’s so rare to find Christians that actually believe that God is still alive.”

            “I’m afraid that I have not been as saintly as the rest of the LDS.  I had wanted to visit Salt Lake, Nauvoo, and Palmyra, you know make the pilgrimages, but I never got around to it.”

            “No one is perfect, Mistress Bezzeg.”

            “Only the Jews, Bishop Gibbons.”

            She laughed quietly and motioned for Maggie to sit down with her.

            “Yes, I suppose that’s right.  Even those unfortunate enough to live in this detestable city.  It’s never too late to convert and become chosen.” 

            The Bishop turned to look south towards the distant undulating clock tower looming over the select skyscrapers of Kemken, Frost, and Barclays, the turrets of the old Castle Philip and its sprawling graveyard that covered the parade ground and surrounding hills, and the coal black soot escaping from the steam stacks of the public hospital.  The other landmarks of the Vale were enshrouded in the evening darkness and hardly worth mentioning now that they were so readily dismissed by the ecclesiastical master of the official Anglican Church for the Connecticut bishopric. 

            After she cleared the venom from the forethoughts of her mind, she returned to her guest.  “Well, my dear, what did you want to discuss?”

            “I think you know, if you watch television or read the newspapers.”

            “Your husband.”

            “I recall that he was a member of your church when he was a boy.”

            “Yes, yes, I remember Audie.  I taught his confirmation class.  He had me in stitches, funny as hell, and always got himself into meaningless troubles in school.  I suppose these troubles are a little too much even for him.”

            “I cannot but help feel guilty for the indictment.  I had to tell the truth to the Grand Jury and my superiors.”

            “And not your husband?  For him your actions are a betrayal of trust and that is the most intimate trust of wedlock.  I sound like Dr. Phil, don’t I?  Kerry watches both him and Oprah, it rubs off in osmosis.”

            “But the truth, is not that the most important thing?”

            “Well, yes, but only because God commands it.  That’s not exactly the most important compared to the covenant.  Love is the most important thing.  The love of God.  I doubt even that the Prophet says otherwise.”

            “I do love him.”

            “Have you told him this, lately?”

            “He knows how I feel.”

            “Then you should not feel guilty.  If he committed a crime then he committed a crime and should take his punishment.  I am sure he will do the right thing before judgment comes, mum.”

            “I am not so sure.”

            “He was always honest when I knew him.  You can’t make people laugh if it isn’t real.  People don’t really change, some have epiphanies and make amends for their sins, but they usually continue to do the exact same things.  Think about the kind of police work that he has been chosen to do.  Internal Affairs is not for the weak of mind or spirit, only in the movies or if Stephen Bochco is involved.  Sorry for that last reference, but ever since this writers’ strike television has become worse than ever, and I am easily upset.”

            “That is hard to believe, it’s always been awful.  Audie always told me that there are bad people everywhere.  The fact that it is members of the police and county bureaucracy committing these crimes makes it especially vile because they are supposed to be trusted by the public.  If the pigs aren’t brought to slaughter the whole society fails.”

            “That seems to be the jest of it, my dear.  If you can’t trust the police, who can you, trust?  Public safety is about providing society enough stability to develop, grow, and to simply survive.  We want peace for stability not morality.  Morals are my purview and even that is easily corrupted by politics, bad priests, and even the Queen herself.”

            “Are you sure that you are actually a Bishop?”

            “This is a dead-end position for apostates like me, my dear.  Bishop of Cranbury goes nowhere.  I suppose it’s because I have been corrupted by Philosophy and have doubts.  I shouldn’t have married a Professor of it, but alas, we do all sorts of stupid things when we are in love.”

            “Really, what is his specialty?”

            “Spinoza.  He could not have picked anyone more disruptive to organized religions than him, well maybe David Hume.”

            “Where does he teach?”

            “Well, he was right here in town, at Wycliffe, until it bankrupted and the Crown sacked everyone.”

            “That was unfortunate.”

            “You are telling me.  I can’t get him out of the house.  Why do you think I come here every day?” 

            Bishop Gibbons smiled broadly and waited for Maggie to laugh.  She did not laugh but understood her situation completely. 

            Neither of them wanted to be at home with their chosen companions during the day.  On one hand, Kerry could leave the house anytime he wanted to give his wife a break, but Audie on the other hand could not leave his front door.  Maggie was eager for his trial to finally begin.  She wanted her house back and desperately needed the silence that his absence afforded her, at least until he was in prison or no longer the scapegoat for the wholesale corruption that kept the city from drowning in the oblivion of abject poverty and turning into a massive shantytown that would shame its sister cities of La Paz or Quito.