The Main

When Martin was a young priest on the Main, he had known LaPointe’s wife. He was her confessor; he was with her when she died. And later, after the funeral, he happened upon LaPointe, standing in the empty church. It was after midnight, and the big uniformed cop stood alone in the middle of the center aisle. He was sobbing. Not from grief; from fury. God had taken from him the only thing he loved, and after only a year of marriage. More urbane men might have lost their faith in God; but not LaPointe. He was fresh from downriver, and his Trifluvian belief was too fundamental, too natural. God was a palpable being to him, the flesh-and-blood man on the cross. He still believed in God. And he hated His guts! In his agony he shouted out in the echoing church, “You son of a bitch! Rotten son of a bitch!”

Father Martin didn’t dare approach the young policeman. It chilled him to realize that LaPointe wanted God to appear in the flesh so he could smash His face with his fists.

After that night, LaPointe never came to church again. And over the years that followed, the priest saw him only in passing on the Main, until they happened to come together in the card games with David and Moishe. Because LaPointe never mentioned his wife, Father Martin didn’t dare to.

That was how LaPointe handled it. One great howl of sacrilegious rage; then silence and pain. He did not grieve for Lucille, because to grieve was to accept the fact of her death. There were a muddled, vertiginous few months after the funeral, then work began to absorb his energy, and the Main his ragged affection. Emotional scar tissue built up around the wound, preventing it from hurting. Preventing it, also, from healing.

“How come you never married, Claude?” David asks. “Maybe with all the nafka on the streets you never needed a woman of your own. Right?”

LaPointe shrugs and drinks down his wine.

“Not that there would be many working the street in this pig weather,” David continues. “Have you ever seen the snow hold off so long? Have you ever seen such ugly weather? Jesus Christ! Forgive me, Father, but I always swear in Catholic so if God overhears, He won’t understand what I’m saying. Anyway, what’s so bad about swearing? Is it a crime?”

“No,” Father Martin says quietly. “It’s a sin.”

Moishe glances up. “Yes, Martin. I like that distinction.” He presses his palms together and touches his lips with his forefingers. “I don’t know how many times I have considered this difference between crime and sin. I am sure that sin is worse than crime. But I’ve never been able to put my finger exactly on the difference.”

“Oh boy,” David says, rising and looking under a shelf for the schnapps bottle. “I should have problems that trivial.”

“For instance,” Moishe continues, ignoring David, “to throw an old woman out of her apartment because she cannot pay her rent is not a crime. But surely it is a sin. On the other hand, to steal a loaf of bread from a rich baker to feed your starving family is obviously a crime. But is it a sin?”

David has returned with half a bottle of schnapps and is pouring it around into the empty wine glasses. “Let me pose the central question here,” he insists. “Who cares?”

Father Martin flutters his fingers above his glass. “Just a little, thank you, David. Take this case, Moishe. Let us say your man with the starving family breaks into a grocery store and steals only the mushrooms, the caviar, the expensive delicacies. What do you have? Sin or crime?”

Moishe laughs. “What we have then is a priest with a subtle mind, my friend.”

“Who ever heard of such a thing?” David demands. “Tell me, Claude. You’re the expert on crime here. Who breaks into a grocery store and steals the mushrooms and the caviar only?”

“It happens,” LaPointe says. “Not exactly that, maybe. But things like that.”

“Who does it?” Moishe asks, pouring out more schnapps for himself. “And why?”

“Well…” LaPointe sniffs and rubs his cheek with his palm. He’d really rather be the listener, and this is a hard one to explain. “Well, let’s say a man has gone hungry often. And let’s say it doesn’t look like things are going to change. He’s hungry now, and he’ll be hungry again tomorrow, or next week. That man might break into a grocery and steal the best foods to have a big gorge—even if he doesn’t like the taste of mushrooms. Because… I can’t explain… because it will be something to remember. You know what I mean? Like the way people who can’t keep up with their debts go out and splurge for Christmas. What’s the difference? They’re going to be in debt all their lives. Why not have something to remember?”

Moishe nods reflectively. “I see exactly what you mean, Claude. And such a robbery is a crime.” He turns to Father Martin. “But a sin?”

Father Martin frowns and looks down. He isn’t sure. “Ye-e-s. Yes, I think it’s a sin. It’s perfectly understandable. You could sympathize with the man. But it’s a sin. There is nothing remarkable about a sin being understandable, forgivable.”

David is passing the bottle around again, but Martin puts his hand firmly over his glass. “No, thank you. I’m afraid it’s time for me to go. I suppose the world will have to wait until next Monday for us to sort out the difference between sin and crime.”

“No, wait. Wait.” Moishe prevents him from rising with a gesture. He has drunk his schnapps quickly, and his eyes are shiny. “I think we should pursue this while it’s on our minds. I have a way to approach the problem practically. Let’s each of us say what he considers to be the greatest sin or the greatest crime.”

“That’s easy,” David says. “The greatest crime in the world is for four alter kockers to talk philosophy when they could be playing cards. And the greatest sin is to bid when you have nothing in your hand but a lousy marriage.”

“Come on, now. Be serious.” Moishe takes up the almost empty schnapps bottle and shares it equally around, attempting to anchor his friends to the table with fresh drinks. He turns to the priest. “Martin? What in your view is the greatest sin?”

“Hm-m-m.” Father Martin blinks as he considers this. “Despair, I suppose.”

Moishe nods quickly. He is excited by the intellectual possibilities of the problem. “Despair. Yes. That’s a good one. Clearly a sin, but no kind of crime at all. Despair. A seed sin. A sin that supports other sins. Yes. Very good.”

David gulps down his drink and declares, “I’ll tell you the greatest crime!”

“Are you going to be serious?” Moishe asks. “Your playing the letz nobody needs.”

“But I am serious. Listen. The only crime is theft. Theft! Do you realize that a man spends more time in prison for grand larceny than for manslaughter? And what is murder to us but the theft of a man’s life? We punish it seriously only because it’s a theft that no one can make restitution for. And rape? Nothing but the theft of something a woman can use to make her living with, like prostitutes… and wives. It’s all theft! All we really worry about is our possessions, and all our laws are devoted to protecting our property. When the thief is bold and obvious, we make a law against him and send someone like Claude here to arrest him. But when the thief is more cowardly and subtle—a landlord, maybe, or a used-car salesman—we can’t make laws against him. After all, the men in Ottawa are the landlords and the used-car salesmen! We can’t threaten them with the law, so we tell them that what they are doing is sinful. We say that God is watching and will punish them. The law is a club brandished in the fist. Religion is a club held behind the back. There! Now tell me, is that talking serious or what?”

“It’s talking serious,” Moishe admits. “But it’s also talking shallow. However, for you it’s not a bad try.”

“Forget it, then!” David says, peeved. “What’s the use of all this talk anyway? It helps the world vi a toyten bankes.”

Moishe turns to LaPointe. “Claude?”

LaPointe shakes his head. “Leave me out of this. I don’t know anything about sin.”

“Ah!” David says. “The man who has known no sin! Dull life.”

“Well, crime then,” Moishe pursues. “What’s the greatest crime?”

LaPointe shrugs.

“Murder?” Father Martin suggests.

“No, not murder. Murder is seldom…” LaPointe searches for a word and ends up with a silly-sounding one. “Murder is seldom criminal. I mean… the murderer is not usually a criminal—not a professional. He’s usually a scared kid pulling a holdup with a cheap gun. Or a drunk who comes home and finds his wife in bed with someone. Sometimes a maniac. But not often a real criminal, if you see what I mean. What about