Finton Moon (28 page)

Father Power had mentioned to Bishop Connor about the boy who was rumoured to heal the sick and make the lame walk. “If so many people are talking about it,” the bishop had said, “it's time for you to have a talk with him.” The priest asked Elsie if it would be all right for Finton to join him for supper that evening.

“I'll go with him,” Tom said. “One of us has to.”

Nanny Moon had argued until her face was a faint shade of purple that it was her right to go with Finton because she was the most churchgoing of the Moons, as well as the oldest. But Tom had countered that he was the boy's father and that was that.

“Well, Jesus
did
go among the sinners,” Nanny Moon mused and reluctantly agreed, but she still spent the rest of the afternoon sulking.

Meanwhile, Finton couldn't guess why he'd been invited, but he was suspicious it had something to do with the Confirmation debacle.

“I don't know what to wear,” he said, his foot still soaking.

“Father Power won't care as long as you're clean.” His father lit a cigarette, puffed and squinted. “Are your underwear good?”

“These are the only pants I got and they're all bloody.” Finton then proclaimed what everyone had been waiting for: “I'm not going.”

“But the parish priest is expecting you!” Nanny Moon scowled. “You wouldn't put off supper with the Lord if he asked.”

Finton stood up in the pan of water, sloshing it enough that it threatened to overspill its plastic sides. “He's not the Lord. He's only a priest.”

“Jesus have mercy on your soul.” Nanny Moon blessed herself furiously. “You used to be such a good boy.” She glanced at Elsie and murmured, barely loud enough for Finton to hear. “I expect that's his other side comin' out.”

“That'll be enough o' that kind of talk,” Elsie scolded as she urged him to lift his foot out of the pan and into the towel she held forth. He slipped, but his mother caught him and patted his foot and his leg dry one at a time. “Finton, you're just gonna have to wear the pants you got on.”

“I could wear my jeans,” he said hopefully.

Even as she murmured the “Our Father,” Nanny Moon's eyes bulged as if she might have a stroke, although she constantly amazed Finton with her skill at upholding her part in a conversation while praying. “Jesus didn't wear jeans when he gave the Sermon on the Mount. Or when he turned the money-lenders out of the temple.”

“No,” said Tom. “He probably wore the same ratty, old robe he always wore. No shoes either.”

“No shoes, no shirt, no service,” Clancy laughed from behind his father.

“You're all going to hell.” Nanny Moon shook her head sorrowfully, still counting her beads.

“I'll just wear these,” Finton announced, unrolling the hem of the pants he was wearing. He winced as he pulled the cloth down over his injured leg, wondering why, indeed, he hadn't been able to heal himself.

As they cruised along in silence, Finton found himself thinking about the morning and afternoon he'd had—a strange confirmation, followed by his first taste of sex. His body still thrummed with the memory of his orgasm, an ejaculation that had taken just a few seconds. They didn't have to wait long for his second coming either, or even his third. Each time, Morgan had looked as if she was both doing him a favour and devouring his soul. Only now in the quiet of the car, alongside his father, could he recall the details, and the more he thought about it, the prouder he was. He had been so scared, both during and after, but now he wanted to scream to the whole world that he'd lost his virginity.

“Doin' okay there?” Tom asked.

“Yup.”

“Don't be too nervous now. He's only a man.”

Finton was relieved that his father couldn't read his mind. “So why did you want to come with me?”

“Be serious, b'y.” Tom smiled mischievously. “Sending you down there with religious people, with either your mother or Nanny Moon to protect ya? That'd be like sending the wolves to guard the lambs from the lions.”

As Finton pondered what his father meant, Tom turned on the car radio, and “Superstition” blared at them. They both reached for the volume knob, but Tom smiled and relented as Finton turned it up. The same song was still playing when they pulled into the driveway. The evening was darkening, so the lights were turned on in the priest's house, which had been built adjacent to the church, down a long, straight driveway a couple of hundred yards from the beach. The huge white building was three times the size of the Moon bungalow, with an extra story and a massive foundation. It was a spectacular sight, rising up from the rocks with the mountains as a backdrop and the ocean practically bordering the front yard. The priest's door boasted a brass doorbell—a feature lacking from most other houses in Darwin. Finton had seen them only on TV.

Millie, the middle-aged housekeeper with her hair in a bun, answered the door and greeted them warmly before leading them into the parlour where the priest was watching television in denim jeans, powder-blue short sleeves, and a thin white collar. The casualness was startling, like seeing his mother in her underwear.

Father Power rose quickly and extended his hand to Tom, who shook it heartily despite being surprised by the gesture.
Nanny Moon would be proud
, Finton thought.

Father Power asked what they thought of the cold weather they were having.

“Makes me want to go someplace warm,” Tom said and cleared his throat.

Finton squinted as he assessed the priest's face, not seeing much in the way of lines or wrinkles. “How long have you been a priest?”

Father Power's cheeks reddened as he looked helplessly to Tom. “He's an inquisitive little fellow, isn't he? Does he get that from you?”

“Oh, I'd say so, Father. He's always asking questions, that one. We just tell him to be polite and mind his own business, but he just keeps on asking. Might have to lock him up one of these days just to shut him up.”

The priest laughed again, with genuine enjoyment shining in his eyes. Finton thought he appeared rather lonely and was suddenly glad he had agreed to come for supper. “I hear you've had your own experience with prison,” Father Power said.

“Just a bit.” Tom seemed suddenly deflated. “It was all a big mistake.”

“Yes,” said the priest. “No doubt, it was.” He nodded towards Finton. “Meanwhile, I wouldn't worry too much about the boy's curious nature. I'm sure he'll grow out of it—you know, with the proper instruction.”

Tom ran an agitated hand through his hair. “He's all right. Just a bit, what was it you said?
Inquisitive.
”

Millie appeared from the kitchen to announce that the cook had finished preparing supper. To Finton's relief, as they followed her to the dining room, no one had mentioned the bloodstains on his pants or inquired about his underwear. Father Power sat at the head of the table, while Tom assumed the seat on the priest's left, and Finton sat on his right.

Even with the gigantic table, oversized chairs, and a hutch full of dishes on display with rich, colorful patterns, the dining room easily could have accommodated another set of furniture of about the same size. The towering white candlesticks rose up like miniature skyscrapers from the enormous candelabra in the centre of the table, and the heads of the fresh-cut jonquils loomed over the table like floating faces. Gazing into one such flower, Finton half expected it to talk to him while he dined. There was more cutlery than he'd ever seen, each piece plated in silver and larger than Finton could comfortably grasp. Three silver vases filled with small, simple flowers sat beside a different bottle of red or white wine.

After Millie and a pretty, young redhead who appeared to be her assistant, brought the meal out on silver trays, everyone filled their own plate. But no one spoke, perhaps out of discomfort because they were strangers to each other, or maybe from a sense of awe. There was enough food to feed a Peruvian village: steaming potatoes and assorted colours of vegetables, a gravy boats with a long-handled ladle, a turkey and a ham, as well as stuffing and peas pudding. On a subconscious level, Finton was plotting how to bag some of it up to bring home to his perpetually hungry brothers.

“I hurt my leg today,” Finton said as he chewed on a thick slice of ham. The mere mention of that incident reminded him of his time with Morgan earlier that day, and he felt his cheeks burning. He hoped no one else could see his embarrassment, but the yellow-faced jonquil seemed to be staring at him.

Father Power peered questioningly at Finton, causing the boy to stop eating and put down his fork. “I was thinking my young guest would honour us with grace.”

Finton hadn't realized all eyes had turned to him until Tom cleared his throat. “Finton?” Startled, the boy looked up. “Father Power asked if you'd like to say grace.”

“No, thanks.”

“Finton.”

There seemed to be no escaping this horrible moment without some casualty, and so the boy sighed and clasped his hands. “Dear God.” He paused to assemble his thoughts, aware that, except for a cat meowing in some other room, there was no other sound in the entire house. He thought it best to pretend he was addressing an actual being, and so he directed his speech to the invisible puss. “Thank you for this meal and for bringing me and Dad to eat with Father Power. God bless us all. Amen.” He blessed himself and peeked for reassurance at the holy man, who nodded mirthfully. His father, with glistening eyes, had forgotten to unclasp his hands and was gazing blankly at a wall full of paintings and dark furniture.

“So,” Father Power said, clearing his throat. “You've become quite the celebrity.”

“I dunno. I'm just me.” Finton suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable, especially since he could feel fresh blood seeping from beneath the bandage on his leg.

“The rumour these days is that you can heal the sick.” Father Power fixed his eyes on Finton, reminding him of the shady-looking actors he'd seen portraying Judas in those Sunday afternoon religious movies. “There are stories going around about how you helped a boy walk without his crutch, and another girl came to life when she was, for all intents and purposes, dead. And then there's the incident you told me about yourself—Miss Bridie Battenhatch, I believe.”

“But you didn't believe me,” said Finton.

“That's irrelevant now.” The priest chewed slowly, despite an apparent lack of interest in his food. “The point is whether it's true. Do you think you possess this… power?”

The boy squirmed, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “I'm not the one who says it, Father. That's what everyone else says.”

“They're just stories, Father. Hearsay and rumours.” Tom cleared his throat again and unconsciously patted his shirt pocket for a smoke. “Finton never claimed any such thing. They just started comin' around, knockin' on the door and ringin' the phone like there was no tomorrow. Finton fix this, Finton heal that. It's to the point where we don't even go out anymore. People are always asking him to do stuff.”

“So it must be true.” Father Power leaned forward, hands clasped. “You really can heal the sick.”

“I'd rather not talk about it,” said Finton.

“But you should talk about it. Anyone who can do what you do…” The priest paused, his eyes taking on a faraway, serious look. “It must make you very
proud
.”

Finton angled his fork towards the mashed potatoes and dug a hole through them that went all the way down to his plate. “It makes me sad.”

“Sad?”

“Yes. All those people who are sick. Sometimes I can't even give 'em what they need, and it makes me wish I could. But mostly I wish they'd just stop it and go away.”

“But surely you understand what a gift you have.”

“More like a curse. The family never gets a minute's peace. Mom can't even go to the store without being pestered. My friends don't even hang around much no more.” The words felt true, but he sensed that he shouldn't have said them aloud, as an uncomfortable silence entered the room. The flame of one candle quivered as if a breeze had swept in.

“Finton's always been a loner,” Tom said as he fumbled with his breast pocket. “He has friends, but they don't come to the house.”

“You're an unusual sort of boy.” The priest picked up his fork, thoughtfully and methodically. “You have to be very careful about these kinds of things, Finton. Only Jesus can raise the dead and heal the sick. Read your Bible. Or maybe you already did. Perhaps that's how you know these stories. You're obviously quite a good student.”

“I'm not making it up,” said Finton.

The priest smiled. “But I'm sure you can understand why the church would be interested. The bishop wanted me to remind you that there's a penalty for claiming to have the same powers as God.”

“Excommunication?” said Finton, the very word causing a sudden pang in his chest. He glanced at his father, who seemed lost in thought.

“Unless,” said the priest, “you can perhaps show me these miraculous healings. I'd like to see that.”

Father Power pushed his plate aside and nodded to the young redhead to come take it away. “I burned my arm yesterday on the stove.” He blushed deeply as he rolled up the sleeve on his right arm. “I sometimes like to fry up some hash from leftovers if I have the time. Gives the women a break.” He showed them the angry, red scar on his forearm, wincing as the sleeve was pushed all the way up.

“Looks pretty bad,” said Tom.

“The very fact that I'm asking you this isn't to be repeated outside these walls, if you don't mind.” The priest smiled halfheartedly. “It might be construed by some as a bit hedonistic to ask for an act of magic, as it were.”

Tom leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “You could go to a doctor.”