She's beautiful. I love to watch her sleep—her copper hair spread out on the pillow—her face pink as a child’s.
I’m amazed she married me—she had her pick, but chose me.
Her hair is brighter than any autumn leaf and her freckles endearing, although I can’t tell her that—she’d get embarrassed.
Cyn’s like that.
So, here I sit, on a chill October morning, watching the orange and yellow leaf that fluttered in our apartment window, pale and grow dim, compared with Cyn’s more glorious fire.
“How long have you been up?” she asks, and stretches out lazily, tossing off covers.
“Not long, Cinnamon.” The nickname suits her—brown eyes, freckles and copper hair.
“No coffee?” She frowns.
“Thought we’d go out.”
“Okay,” she smiles. The room lights up—Stupid me—thinking, the sun was out. It’s not, until she gets up.
Later that day I meet with Susan Hargraves—she’s an attorney from a rival firm and is as beautiful as she is brilliantly gifted in law.
Rumor has it she’s about to be named a provincial judge. She’ll probably preside over my defense of a local priest accused of negligent homicide.
We dated back in undergrad, but that’s all behind us now. Now, it’s just professional collegiality—touching base over several related cases, but occasionally, I sense she expects something more.
“So, you love your wife,” Suze smiles.
“Guilty as charged, Your Honor.”
“Hey—they haven’t appointed me yet,” she cautions, probably afraid of invoking some bad karma—Suze is superstitious like that.
We’re out for coffee and Suze is making small talk when I know what’s really on her mind.
I look round the patio and see a vista of red autumn trees.
We’re in the middle of High Park at the Grenadier Restaurant—named after a regiment of British soldiers that supposedly drowned sometime in the 1800’s trying to cross the pond in the middle of winter.
I sometimes think I hear their ghostly voices calling to me.
“Earth to Jake—are you in there?”
She likes to tease me—thinks I’m ‘adorable’—partly because I’m a daydreamer and partly because I’m a poet.
Attorneys are not supposed to be poets—not even poetasters—especially defense attorneys.
“So, how fares the defense of Father Malachi?”
She can’t fool me. She’s pretending interest in spreading orange marmalade on her English crumpet, but I know she’s measuring my response.
“I’m thinking of having Mephistopheles testify—I’d subpoena Lucifer, but he’s outside our jurisdiction.”
Suze frowns as if displeased with her culinary skills. “I hate marmalade—don’t know why I eat it. I also hate religious trials—never know which way they’re going to go.”
“The Cardinal thinks otherwise—hiring a Bay Street law firm—obviously doesn’t want a prolonged, controversial litigation.”
Her eyes narrow. “Negligent homicide—that’s pretty heavy.”
“Not Father Malachi’s fault—had no idea the parents were starving out the demon or that Lisle was off her meds.”
The trial’s drawn international attention—the media comparing it to The Exorcism of Emily Rose.
The Church is being portrayed as backward, relying on a medieval worldview, attributing mental illness to demonic possession.
But I’ve seen the tapes of the exorcism—complete with discarnate voices arguing over the girl’s soul, Apports and Lisle levitating off the bed.
In one frame, devil faces stare in the windows.
Medieval? I don’t think so.
