Trust (4 page)

‘Unsettled … disruptive to …’ Blah, blah, blah.

‘You don’t understand,’ Angie said. ‘I’m a working single mum, I’m doing my best. Trying to make ends meet and pay a mortgage. I
try
to get Finn here on time.’ Her bottom lip began to quiver. ‘When I got the message to come straight away for an urgent meeting, I thought this was something really serious. But if I’m not at work, I don’t get paid.’

The other two exchanged a quick look. ‘We appreciate you coming in so promptly, of course,’ said the principal. ‘And there
is
something more serious than punctuality at issue, Angie. Finn has been fighting.’

‘In fact,’ his teacher put in, ‘he’s
attacked
another child.’

Angie flinched from the word. ‘He just gets upset sometimes, he —’

The principal leaned forward ‘He tried to strangle another boy.’

‘
What?
No!’

‘Yes. A soloist in the school choir, very nice boy. If the lad’s friends hadn’t been so quick, Finn might have really —’

‘No, he didn’t
mean
to.’

‘Finn admits that he attacked him,’ said the principal grimly. ‘And why? Because Lucas was
singing
.’

Angie drove home in shocked silence, Finn in the back seat with his arms crossed tight and face scrunched down toward his chest, refusing to say a word. He stomped straight into his room and didn’t emerge till she called him – begged him – to come and have dinner.

She cleared plate-sized spaces amid the drifts of detritus covering the kitchen table and put down their fish fingers and mashed potatoes. The two of them, alone again, like forlorn survivors of a shipwreck, in this big house.
How am I going to pay the mortgage this month?
Over a fortnight since the latest sharers (as Angie preferred to call her succession of tenants) had left. And those latest children, too, had fought with Finn.

Watching TV afterward, sitting side by side on the shabby old couch with its many stains and old burn holes hidden under throws, Angie’s mind turned uneasily toward a truly sinister possibility.
The enemy within
, she thought. At Faith Rise they didn’t talk about ‘the Devil’: Pastor Tim referred to him as
the enemy
. The enemy we must be prepared to do battle with at any moment. The enemy who could insinuate his way into your life, your mind, yes, into your
soul
.

No, no! Surely simple jealousy could explain what Finn had done. In a way, she hoped so, because otherwise …

Is the enemy within my son?
Angie asked herself, gazing at him as he sat solemnly sucking his thumb and watching what was supposed to be a comedy, judging by the raucous canned laughter, though he never cracked a smile.
Is he there now, inside my own darling little boy?

As though sensing her scrutiny, Finn darted a swift sideways glance at her and jerked his thumb from his mouth, tucking it tight inside his folded hand as though it might get away.

‘Finnie,
why
did you try to hurt that boy?’ she burst out. ‘Please tell me, sweetie.’

Finn shook his head fiercely. ‘No!’

‘Is it because he has such a nice voice? Do you wish you could sing like that too?’

‘No, I don’t!’ Finn shouted, his face contorted. He clapped both hands over his ears. ‘I don’t don’t
don’t
!’

Angie tried to hug him. ‘Finn,
please
! Let Mummy —’

Finn hit her arms away. ‘Nobody! No!’ he yelled. Throwing the rug aside, he ran from the room and while Angie was still getting to her feet his bedroom door slammed so hard the house shook. His wild defiant shouts: was this the enemy, flaunting his power over her boy? Frightened by the thought, she hurried down the cluttered hallway and pushed the door open, to see Finn kneeling amid the usual muddle of clothes and toys in his room. For a fleeting moment she saw a picture of utter innocence, the little boy in his pyjamas praying, but then with a lurch of dismay, she saw that he was pulling apart one of his most treasured toys: Robo-Boy, a fearsome-looking plastic warrior who stood guard by his bedside every night. What could make a child destroy his own beloved toy? Even as she came toward him, he succeeded in wrenching one arm off and threw it at the wall, then flung himself forward in a passion on to his unmade bed.

Angie tried to pull his flailing body onto her lap; he kicked and struggled but she persisted. ‘Jesus
loves
you, Finnie,’ she cried above his yells. ‘He loves you and he loves Mummy too and he will never stop loving us, never ever.’
Please, dear Lord
, she prayed,
help me, guide me. I don’t know what to do, I’m so alone.

Gradually Finn’s struggles ceased, and he quieted. She drew him closer. ‘I know you didn’t mean to, baby,’ she murmured.

‘If my daddy was here,’ he said, so faintly she could hardly hear him, ‘he would fix things.’

Her throat tightened. ‘I know, my darling,’ she said. ‘He would. But Daddy’s in heaven now with Jesus, isn’t he? He’s helping God to watch over us and keep us safe.’

Finn gave a huge exhausted yawn. The storm had passed. ‘Tell me about Daddy,’ he said, and she lay down next to him. With her son curled into the curve of her body, Angie looked up toward the ceiling. The fluorescent stick-on stars she’d put up there had lost most of their glow, but still lent a dim intimation of night sky. ‘Your daddy was born in a beautiful green country called Ireland,’ she began, as she always did, and stroked Finn’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. ‘He came from far away on the other side of the world because God wanted him to be here and meet your mummy.’

Finn’s hand rested on the inside of her shoulder, his fingertips patting a gentle rhythm on her collarbone as, in a soft and dreamy voice, she told the story of his daddy, Davey O’Reilly. Finn had no real memory of the father who’d died before he was two years old, and Angie found an unassailable solace in the romantic vision she’d created. No longer the awkward young guy she’d met, the self-taught handyman-carpenter who could recite reams of Irish poetry but struggled to read a newspaper, who worked hard but smoked way too much dope, Davey O’Reilly had become an heroic figure who could do anything, ‘the best man in the whole world’.

‘And he looked just like me, didn’t he?’ asked Finn.

‘That’s right. Your daddy had beautiful brown hair, just like you, and he had a lovely big smile like you do too. All the time when he was busy working on this house, making it nice, he was always smiling. ’Cause he was waiting for somebody special, wasn’t he?’ she prompted.

‘His princess!’ said Finn. ‘And then one day, he saw her, walking down the street.’

She told again the beautiful fairytale of their meeting, of love at first sight. And it was true. Angie had never felt really loved till she met Davey, not in all those jangled years of drifting around Australia, Asia, Europe, trying to fill the emptiness inside her with drugs and lovers, and then more drugs, and more lovers. All those restless adventures; all those men she’d slept with, trading her body for a hit of smack, a bed for the night, a lift across a border – but most of all, for a few hours’ relief from the dreadful loneliness that was her most faithful companion.

She was nearing the end of the story now. ‘And he said, “Angie, my princess, let’s get married”… and she said …’ She paused, to let Finn deliver the punchline.

‘
Yes!
And then they had a bay-bee!’

‘That’s right!’ She cuddled him close. ‘And
you
were that baby, our own darling Finnie-boy.’ Her voice was sweet and warm. ‘And we were so happy, Mummy and Daddy and our little baby boy.’

Finn sighed contentedly, and soon his breath acquired the level rhythms of sleep. Still Angie lay there looking up at the dim fluorescent constellation overhead, thinking about how the fairy story had ended. She’d thought she could stay clean forever, but she had fallen back – ‘Just a taste!’ – and dragged her Davey down too.

She had heard Finn say to others what she’d taught him:
My daddy died in a accident; he got elec-ta-cuted
. Finn didn’t know that was a lie, so he wasn’t sinning. God knew the truth, God had
always
known the truth, but he’d forgiven her because she had come to him and opened her heart, accepting Jesus as her saviour. Almighty God, who kept watch over every fallen sparrow, had been watching over her, too, and waiting.

Easing herself up from Finn’s bed, Angie kissed his sleeping cheek and drew the blanket up to cover him. The night had cooled. She wandered slowly down the hallway of the rambling, run-down house.

In the lounge room, she turned the TV off and sorted through a pile of scratched CDs till she found one of Davey’s favourites:
Harp of Erin
. Looking at the picture of him on the wall, the dear little pencil sketch Susanna had made back when everything was hopeful, she saw it was hanging crooked, and the glass covered in dust. She took it down, wiped it tenderly with the sleeve of her cardigan, and hung it straight again. She and Davey had been so happy here; she would never give this place up.

Settling on the couch, feet tucked up to one side, Angie gave herself to the yearning music. She’d thought she would never feel lonely again, once she found God and love at Faith Rise; yet, like a rat in winter creeping into a hole, the loneliness was creeping back, and it frightened her. Tears filled her eyes.
Why doesn’t anyone want to stay here? To share this beautiful old house?
All she wanted was to make it into a haven for other single mothers. They were always so pleased to move in, the tired, stressed women struggling to get by on the pension or crummy part-time jobs, with their one or two or sometimes three kids, needy and clinging, or watchful and tough. And then, they always moved on.

She wiped the tears away, gazing despondently at the cardboard boxes stacked in a corner, left by the latest sharer to depart. Would their owner really come and pick them up, as she had promised? Probably not. They hardly ever did.

The harp music ended in a plangent swoon of notes. Angie knew she should get up; she should do the dishes, or the washing, or her overdue taxes, but she felt too weighed down to move. She rested her head on the arm of the couch and let herself be swept away on the current of sorrow.

Were those footsteps on the verandah? She sat up quickly. Most likely the woman who had just moved out. A knock at the front door. Angie snatched up a couple of tissues, blew her nose hard and blotted her eyes. Would her visitor know she’d been crying?
Too bad. No one cares anyway
.

But when Angie opened the front door, she saw not her former tenant, but a slim man in a checked cowboy shirt with pearled press studs, holding an acoustic guitar in his right hand and smiling politely. ‘Gabriel!’ she said, astonished.

He brushed a long curl shyly back from his face, not moving closer. ‘Hello, Angie – I’m glad to find you at home.’ His smile intensified. ‘Pastor Tim’s wife gave me your address, but it was the Lord who told me I should come here tonight.’

‘Oh! I’m — I —’ She was gesturing him in with a sweep of her hand. ‘Please!’

His eyes were such an unusual colour, a lovely pale green that made Angie think of water and glass and other cool things, and also reminded her that her own eyes were hot and probably swollen from crying. She stole a quick look in the mirror: her eyes weren’t too bad, but her hair – like a bird’s nest! Embarrassed, she tugged her fingers quickly though it.

‘Can I get you something?’ she asked. ‘Coffee, tea? Herbal?’

‘I have a song for you, Angie,’ Gabriel said. ‘Something our saviour wants you to hear.’ He was already tuning his guitar, one foot on the rung of a wooden chair, and Angie noticed for the first time that one of his boots was built up much higher than the other. From an accident, she wondered, or had he been born with one leg shorter than the other? She felt a rush of pity.

‘Here you are,’ he said, as though offering her a gift. ‘This is called “Hold On To You”.’ His voice, beautiful, rich with feeling, rose and flowed into every corner of the room.

‘I thought I’d been left alone

Thought I’d no one to call my own

Thought they were just my footprints

Lonely in the sand …’

Angie’s hands clutched each other, fingers intertwined before her breastbone, as she listened so hard the delicate whorls of her inner ears seemed to be tingling.
He knows just what I was thinking. He knows me so well!

Gabriel sang verse, chorus, another verse. Angie felt the words flowing straight into her heart. His eyes were closed; his face wore an expression of rapt absorption she’d only seen before on the faces of men while they were having sex. Or praying, she amended hastily.

His eyes opened and held hers.‘Sing with me, Angie,’ he said.

She gasped. ‘Oh! I can’t!’

‘Yes, you can. I heard you singing at Faith Rise; God has blessed you with a wonderful voice. A gift.’

The words thrilled and won her. Line by line, he led her through the chorus:

‘I will hold on to you

And to your soul, it’s true

Hold, on, to you.

You’ll sit right by my throne

You’ll never be alone

Because I’ll … hold on … to-oo you …’

Tears sat ripely in Angie’s eyes, but these were not the sorrowing tears she’d shed earlier: these were tears of joy.

Gabriel put the guitar aside. ‘I feel the presence of the Lord Jesus, right now, here in this room,’ he declared. Raising his right arm high, palm up, he closed his eyes. ‘Precious Lord …’ Angie bowed her head as he thanked God for his abundant blessings, and asked for his continued guidance. ‘Help us to know and serve your will, guide us on the path that takes us ever closer to you. We praise you, dear Lord, with every note we sing. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ said Angie fervently. Oh, to be filled again with the certain knowledge of divine love! What joy! ‘Jesus, saviour, thank you!’