Call Me Masterson

‘Well, I trust your judgment so I’ll trust the boat too,’ said Masterson.  She’s probably lifted you through numerous commotions in the past.’

‘Indeed.  She’s fought many a rough sea in her history.  You know, Dolores has been in the family for years.’

‘Really?  It’s good to know she’s a loyal creature.  But tell me: why the name Dolores Costello?  If, as you say, she’s a family boat, why not Dolores Littlewood then?’

‘My folks named her together.  My Da named her Dolores.  And my Ma added the Costello part.  After a famous film star.  My Ma loved the films when she was alive.’

‘Dolores Costello.  I don’t know her.  What films was she in?’

‘Have you seen a film called The Magnificent Ambersons?’

‘No.’

‘Nor myself.  I haven’t watched many films, to be honest.  But in this one, I gather Dolores Costello plays the mother.  And apparently she has this brat of a son in it.’

‘Oh?  Do you think she was trying to tell you something – your mother?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘That you’re a brat of a son?’

Littlewood had never known a priest to be so candid and plain-speaking.  Usually there would be some tease waiting somewhere in a comment like that, but he couldn’t locate even a little playfulness in Masterson.  The wolf priest had an imperious demeanour which made him socially ungraceful, and which was the reason why he was by himself now staring out to sea and not sharing dinner with the other two.  Although the captain didn’t wholly favour the thought of having another moany old hippo onboard, besides himself, there was something about the sting in Masterson’s presence he could relate to, and which he had to admit he found appealing.

‘You’ve some neck on you, Father.’

‘Enough with the Father.  Call me Masterson.’

‘You’ve some neck on you, Masterson.  I’d say your sermons are a barrel of laughs.’

‘I avoid them.  Too much of the histrionics.  That pulpit brings out the pretender in us all.  It’s a great thing to be a spokesman for God, but once you’re in that pulpit, well, you’re at liberty to shout any kind of feculence you want.’

‘So what do you do when you’re in the pulpit then?  If not sermons?’

 ‘I read the football scores.  It provokes a range of emotions and ideas and enhances prayer.’

 ‘You’re a revolutionary then, I take it to be.  I’d say those other two don’t know what to make of you at all.’

Masterson turned his head towards the open sea again and, rubbing his beard regally, said, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter what they make of me.  Nothing really matters anymore.’ 

There was a sudden downpour as the rain pushed to make a name for itself and the ocean rippled and a shadow of cloud fell over the town.  Littlewood went down to the sleeping quarters, a tight little space at the back of the main cabin containing four bunk beds, just the right number for the head count.  He hated these beds.  It was the only part of Dolores he had no love for.  He preferred to sleep on the floor where he could spread out.  But this was not always safe when at sea – the waves care little for your comforts.  That being said, he tended not to sleep a great deal when on a long journey anyway.  At any moment, the boat was exposed, so his blood was forever high, and his sniffer always on.  He had adapted to stealing short naps here and there when the wind settled, or when he had sufficient faith in another crew member to take over.  With these priests though, sleep might not get to him regularly.  Time would tell if any of them or all were up to the task of being shipmate.  They were definitely a funny bunch.  Funny.  Ah, he’d leave it all up to God.  And Dolores.  So he climbed onto the top right bunk and shut his eyes and before sleep took hold he watched with serenity a tiny light glowing far off in the darkness, his faith still alive in the muffled vision, out there beyond the fading.