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REVEREND ANDREW MCADAM saw the last of his parishioners out of the Cathedral and walked up the aisle toward a dark-panelled wall. He pressed a small square carved into the wood twice, and a door swung open. The minister winced at the shriek of metal on metal. Making another mental note to oil the hinges, he crossed the narrow corridor and entered a tiny vestibule that gave into his office. McAdam removed his cassock and surplice and hung them up in the tiny closet. Head lowered, lost in thought, he sat behind his desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and his favorite ink pen from a drawer. The new sermon already fermented in his brain, and he wanted to make notes before it floated away. It seemed as if he'd just begun when a soft cough, a rustle and a movement broke his concentration.
“Evan.” The priest directed a surreptitious glance at his desk calendar. His morning was clear of appointments. “Come, take a seat, lad. How can I help?”
“I'm sorry to barge in, Reverend Andrew. I need your advice.” Evan's voice cracked, long pale fingers twisted together.
“My dear boy, what's the matter?” The furrow between McAdam's bushy eyebrows deepened. The young man appeared more troubled than usual.
“It's dad. He's hounding me worse than ever. Threatens to kick me out if I don't straighten out before the end of semester.” Evan's lips tightened. “I could probably manage on my own; quit university, get a job. Crash with friends if I have to.”
“Evan, take a breath. Try to look at the situation objectively. It hasn't come to that yet.”
Eyelids lowered, Evan took several deep breaths. The tension in his hands, jaw and shoulders receded.
“Something's wrong,” the young man continued. “Dad said to never call the work number, just leave a message on his mobile. He calls back in the afternoon.”
“Makes sense, if he's busy at work.”
“It's not that. Mum's freaked. Last week she called the office number from force of habit. Whoever answered the phone said Dad was on a hush-hush special assignment and was working in the field for a couple of weeks. He's never said anything about that to us.”
McAdam rubbed his jaw. The father's work situation was an added burden for Evan. The young man, already distressed by his dad's attitude toward him, now had to deal with his mother's concern as well. The priest could offer nothing but platitudes; wait it out, everything will be fine, your father's problems aren't your burden to bear. He wasn't sure if this advice would help Evan deal with the pressures of his complicated, even toxic family life.
“Evan,” McAdam decided to be brutally frank. “Abuse comes in many guises. Withholding acceptance because you don't conform to someone's views or beliefs is one form of it. What do you say I put you in touch with a specialized social worker trained to deal with family issues? If it means leaving the family home, they'll see you through that as well.” The lad, McAdam concluded, needed more help than a minister of the church could offer.
Evan's chin dipped to his chest, his fingers resumed their manic dance.
“I want to stay with you. You've helped so much.”
“Trust me, son, it's for the best.” The priest hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He mentally slapped himself for resorting to the pat phrase, but it seemed to reassure the lad.
“Okay, Reverend. I'll do what needs to be done. Right now, I'm so confused and worried sick. I've considered ending it.” McAdam's jaw tightened, a shadow of concern crept into his eyes. He steeled himself.
“Evan, when a person is at the end their rope they must trust in God to walk by their side. Let it go. Pour yourself into studies. If the burden is too heavy, ask the Lord to help you shoulder it and he will give you the strength to carry on.”
The young man's balled-up fists relaxed. He glanced up at the ornate carved clock on the wall.
“I should get going. Class in half an hour.” Both men rose and met half way to share an awkward hug.
“Thanks, Rev. You've helped a lot. I know what to do now.”
“Good. You're a bright, strong young man. You'll get through it.”
McAdam saw Evan out and returned to his desk. He stared at the scrawl that was his sermon, and pushed the sheet away. Reaching into the top drawer, he pulled out a plain white envelope with his name neatly printed on it. Someone, and he could guess who, had pinned it to the back door. He'd read the unsigned letter twice since then.
It was clear Evan's father had authored it, fueled by paternal fury. He accused the cleric of unspeakable things and promised retribution for perverting his son. McAdam wanted to consider this an empty threat, but the malevolent tone made his scalp prickle. If Evan's father harboured such vitriol, even more reason his son should seek help from qualified people.
McAdam replaced the letter. He had other priorities for now. Last evening his assistant had called, cried and apologized ten times in as many minutes for not giving notice.
“My dear, the health of a mother reflects on the unborn child. For us, a mere inconvenience, for you, a matter of life and death. Take all the time you need. I'll get the paperwork started. Keep me updated on your condition. As a friend.”
“Thank-you, Reverend Andrew. You're a beautiful person.”
McAdam sighed. Sadly, worker bees were plentiful and disposable these days. Now, he needed to call the diocese, and get the leave of absence paperwork started for Rhonda. Lastly, he'd reach out to his contact at Social Services for Evan. And, lest it slip his mind again, he printed, in capital letters: oil the hinges.
McAdam slouched onto his tail bone, letting his arms hang over the sides of the brown leather chair and blew out a sigh of frustration. He foresaw a tough week.