really needed to talk to someone; but Mrs. Keeling is on temporary leave-she's off having another baby. The Rev. Mr. Larkin is as quick to be gone from a conversation as he is quick with the communion cup; and our priest associate, the Rev. Mr. Foster-although he burns with missionary zeal-is impatient with the fretting of a middle-aged man like myself, who lives in such comfort in the Forest Hill part of town. The Rev. Mr. Foster is all for opening a mission on Jarvis Street-and counseling hookers on the subject of sexually transmitted diseases-and he's up to his neck in volunteer projects for the West Indians on Bathurst Street, the very same people so verbally abused by Deputy Warden Holt; but the Rev. Mr. Foster offers scant sympathy for my worries, which, he says, are only in my mind. I love that 'only'! And that left Canon Mackie to talk to today; Canon Mackie presents a familiar problem. I said, 'Did you read the paper, today's paper-The Globe and Maill It was on the front page.'
'No, I've not had time to read the paper this morning,' Canon Mackie said, 'but let me guess. Was it something about the United States? Something President Reagan said?' He is not exactly condescending, Canon Mackie; he is inexactly condescending.
'There was a nuclear test yesterday-the first U.S. explosion of eighty-seven,' I said. 'It was scheduled for tomorrow, but they moved it up-it was a way to fool the protesters. Naturally, there were planned protests-for tomorrow.'
'Naturally,' said Canon Mackie.
'And the Democrats had scheduled a vote-for today-on a resolution to persuade Reagan to cancel the test,' I told the canon. 'The government even lied about the day the test was going to be. A fine use of the taxpayers' money, eh?'
' 'You're not a taxpayer in the United States-not anymore,'' the canon said.
'The Soviets said they wouldn't test any weapons until the U.S. tested first,' I told the canon. 'Don't you see how deliberately provocative this is? How arrogant ! How unconcerned with any arms agreement-of any kind! Every American should be forced to live outside the United States for a year or two. Americans should be forced to see how ridiculous they appear to the rest of the world! They should listen to someone else's version of themselves-to anyone else's version! Every country knows more about America than Americans know about themselves! And Americans know absolutely nothing about any other country!'
Canon Mackie observed me mildly. I could see it coining; I talk about one thing, and he bends the subject of our conversation back to me.
'I know you were upset about the Vestry elections, John,' he told me. 'No one doubts your devotion to the church, you know.'
Here I am, talking about nuclear war and the usual, self-righteous, American arrogance, and Canon Mackie wants to talk about me.
'Surely you know how much this community respects you, John,' the canon told me. 'But don't you see how your . . . opinions can be disturbing? It's very American-to have opinions as ... strong as your opinions. It's very Canadian to distrust strong opinions.'
'I'm a Canadian,' I said. 'I've been a Canadian for twenty years.'
Canon Mackie is a tall, stooped, bland-faced man, so plainly ugly that his ungainly size is unthreatening-and so plainly decent that even his stubbornness of mind is not generally offensive.
'John, John,' he said to me. 'You're a Canadian citizen, but what are you always talking about? You talk about America more than any American I know! And you're more anti-American than any Canadian I know,' the canon said. 'You're a little . . . well, one-note on the subject, wouldn't you say?'
'No, I wouldn't,' I said.
'John, John,' Canon Mackie said. 'Your anger-that's not very Canadian, either.' The canon knows how to get to me; through my anger.
'No, and it's not very Christian, either,' I admitted. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be sorry!' the canon said cheerfully. 'Try to be a little . . . different!' The man's pauses are almost as irritating as his advice.
'It's the damn Star Wars thing that gets to me,' I tried to tell him. 'The only constraint on the arms race that remains is the nineteen seventy-two Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty between the United States and the Soviet Union. Now Reagan has given the Soviets an open invitation to test nuclear weapons of their own; and if he proceeds with his missiles-in-space plans, he'll give the Soviets an open invitation to junk the treaty of nineteen seventy-two, as well!'
'You have such a head for history,' the canon said. 'How can you remember the dates?'
'Canon Mackie,' I said.
