He offered Finton a blessing and further penance of ten Our Fathers. The boy hurried out of the confessional, tripped in the threshold, and swore under his breath as he ran out of the church. The whole way, he felt the eyes of his fellow confessors on him, and he wondered how many of their souls were stained as black as his own.
The hardest part about Confirmation was choosing a name. He’d been given one at birth, but he was too young then to know the difference. Now that he was older and about to become one of Christ’s soldiers, he was old enough to pick out a name that suited him. Finally, the chance for individuation had come.
Secretly, Finton feared excommunication more than anything else. His mother and grandmother were always telling him stories about people who were excommunicated, the idea being that if he didn’t stay on his best behaviour, banishment from the church would be his ultimate fate. “Fidel Castro was excommunicated and so was that baseball player that married Marilyn Monroe.” They would tell him tale after tale of people being excised from the church for not going to mass, for questioning the Pope’s infallibility, and for embarrassing the Holy Mother Church in some way. Finton didn’t want to be like Castro—“The In-Fidel,” Nanny Moon called him—so he felt the pressure to do everything right. Picking the right name was paramount because the bishop himself was going to be there to hand out the sacrament.
“Have you come up with a name yet?” His mother was ironing his new white shirt. Confirmation was tomorrow, Palm Sunday, and he was getting anxious.
“I thought about John or James or something like that.”
“Those are nice names.”
“But I was thinking Scout.”
He noticed his mother’s ironing became more methodical as if she was pressing down on the shirt hard enough to make an imprint of the iron in the material. The iron hissed, sputtered, and made bloated sounds, as she pushed it across the white landscape of the shirt. “Is that a saint’s name?”
“I like it.”
“Surely God, Finton, there’s another name you like.”
“I like Scout.”
“How about James? He was Jesus’ brother.”
“It’s all right. But Scout is better.”
“Jesus, Finton, you might as well call yourself Judas and write a big scarlet J on your forehead. The bishop won’t allow it.”
Nanny Moon, who’d been sitting with her eyes closed, opened them and watched Elsie perform her ironing duties. “The name should be appropriate for a soldier of Christ,” she said. “But it should also be a Christian name.”
“How about Arthur, then?” He knew how it was spelled, but they all pronounced it Arder.
There was silence as the two adults looked at each other. “Is there a Saint Arder?” Nanny Moon asked, looking mystified.
“There’s a King Arder.”
“Go ask your father what he thinks,” his mother said at last.
His father was watching Hee-Haw, and the fat girl with the big breasts was just popping up out of the cornstalks when Finton asked his question. Tom lit a Camel and blew a smoke ring. Finton wondered if Lulu’s parents were proud of her for being on Hee-Haw.
“Arder?”
“Or Scout. Either one.”
“As a Confirmation name?”
Finton nodded. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Jesus, b’y, you’re gettin’ up there. Next thing, you’ll be old enough to get a job and help out around here.”
The thought pleased Finton and made him puff out his chest a little. Maybe this Confirmation thing wasn’t so bad after all.
“If I were you…”
Finton waited, watching as his father sucked another draw of smoke, opened his mouth to a perfect “O” shape, and blew the white smoke into the air.
“You should be called… Thomas.”
He felt proud that his father would bestow him with his own name. Finton went back into the living room with the news, and Elsie nodded as she kept ironing. Nanny Moon had opened her Bible and rested her glasses on the tip of her nose while she looked up names for Finton.
“Thomas,” he repeated, but they didn’t appear to hear him. At length, Nanny Moon spoke as if under her breath, though she never took her gaze from the Bible. “Do you know the story of the doubting Thomas?”
“No.”
“Well, you should. Thomas was the one that doubted Jesus’ resurrection—had to be shown proof before he’d believe it. That’s hardly good Catholic faith now, is it?”
“Not really,” he said, beginning to feel uneasy.
“Some say he was Judas’s twin.” Beads of sweat were rolling down Elsie’s forehead and dripping onto the shirt she was ironing. “And he was also the only apostle to witness Mary’s ascendance into heaven.”
“But it’s my father’s name,” Finton protested. “Nanny Moon, you gave it to him.”
“That’ll be enough backtalk, laddie-o.” The old woman burrowed deeper into her Bible, her mouth clamped shut. Elsie rolled her eyes towards the heavens as if to say there was nothing she could do.
As far as Finton was concerned, the decision had been made. On the form the teacher had given him, he wrote: “Thomas.” Choosing it had been harder than picking out a Halloween costume, but he liked it enough to take it for the rest of his life.
The next morning, he got dressed in his Confirmation suit, feeling fluttery in his stomach, and went to the bathroom to run a wet comb through his hair. Normally, when it was in need of cutting, it was curly and looked like a wasps’ nest, but it was better behaved when he wet it down and pressed his hand against it for several minutes. By the time it dried, however, it would spring right back up again like a freshly risen bun.
He was nervous about meeting the bishop, whom his father always referred to as “His Holiness, Arch the Bishop.” Finton had strong memories of being five years old, and Arch the Bishop had come to Darwin to administer Confirmations. Finton and Tom had to stand at the back of the church, so far away from the altar and surrounded by so many taller people that Finton couldn’t even see the famous bishop. During Holy Communion, his father lifted him up high so he could see. The bishop was wearing a high, golden hat and red vestments; with a sceptre in his left hand, he resembled a king. Finton was very impressed and realized that Arch the Bishop was not only very holy, but also rich, famous, and powerful. The thought of meeting him was terrifying.
The Confirmation ceremony was structured and simple. The “celebrant” and his “sponsor” would sit side-by-side in a pew with all the other celebrants and sponsors; the families sat behind them, no doubt gazing on in wonder. Nanny Moon, Elsie, and Tom sat back there; Morgan Battenhatch was Finton’s sponsor, and so they sat together.
His grandmother disapproved of the boy’s choice of sponsor. “Another one dancin’ with the devil,” Nanny Moon said. “That girl’s after doin’ some terrible things.” But, to Elsie and Tom, despite Morgan’s spiritual failings, the choice seemed appropriate. After all, when he was a baby Finton had nearly ruined Morgan’s Confirmation Day because they had to take him to the hospital. “Besides,” Elsie said, “it’s Finton’s choice.” Furthermore, Morgan had been mending her ways lately and had moved back in with her mother. They even seemed to be getting along. Finton had a fondness for his all-time favourite babysitter, and he’d never forgotten her many kindnesses when he was a child. It was time, he said, to let bygones be bygones, and Morgan would be his sponsor. If his parents even considered arguing the matter, they did so in private.
“It’s going to be okay,” Morgan assured him. “If the bishop gives you a hard time, we’ll beat the hell out of him.”
Finton felt queasy about the idea of committing violence on Arch the Bishop. As if sensing his uneasiness, Morgan squeezed his hand. “Just kidding,” she said.
She looked unusually pretty that morning. Where she found a dress at such a late stage, he had no idea, for he had only asked her the day before if she would be his sponsor, and he was certain she didn’t own a dres
s already. It was a red, strapless number that showed a hint of cleavage. Looking at her made him blush, so Finton gazed straight ahead at the throne upon the altar to which the bishop would soon ascend.
Regardless of her reputation, Finton was glad Morgan was there, especially since he felt every eye in the place looking at him as he proceeded down the aisle, towards his destiny. She was an anchor in his chaotic world, plus she was smart and rebellious. The fact that she had once set fire to her mother’s house—and another time stabbed her—to voice her frustration only made him admire her more, even if she did frighten him a little.
During the hymns, which the choir and congregation sang together, Finton scanned the pews for familiar faces. He knew a lot of them, although they had come from various schools in the greater Darwin area. Mary Connelly looked ashen and frail in the front row with her adult sponsor. Her hair was clasped in a sky-blue ponytail clip that matched her dress. Being confirmed was probably a big deal to her since he hadn’t seen her in public since she got sick. Next to Mary sat Dolly, gnawing a wad of gum, yet looking very adult in her long, white gloves and white satin dress, with her makeup lending her skin a pinkish glow. Directly behind the two friends, Alicia Dredge sat with her dark hair wrapped in a loose bun and wearing a frilly white dress that she must have borrowed from some relative. Skeet was seated to Finton’s right with his Uncle Curtis, wearing his best white shirt tucked into his best pair of jeans. He was pale, but otherwise healthy. Somewhere behind them were Bernard Crowley and Cocky Munro, who were also getting confirmed, along with the twins, Gerald and Cecil King.
When the time came to be touched by the bishop and transformed into young soldiers of Christ, the children and their sponsors filed side-by-side towards the front of the church, where Arch the Bishop was sitting. One by one, the children knelt before him and the sponsor presented them by their Confirmation names, saying, “Here is James, and he wishes to be confirmed,” or “Here is Cabrina, and she wishes to be confirmed.” Then the bishop asked questions, to which there were set answers, anointed them with oil on their foreheads, then lightly tapped one of their cheeks—a reminder to be brave in spreading the faith—and said they were now confirmed Catholics, “soldiers of Christ.”
When Finton’s turn came, he suddenly found himself standing before the bishop, while Morgan cleared her throat and announced, “This is Thomas. Thomas, this is the bishop.” She paused as if she expected them to shake hands. All went well until the bishop, finished with the skill-testing questions, slapped Finton’s cheek a little too hard, initiating the boy’s backward sprawl into the arms of the girl behind him. People laughed as he lay on the floor in Alicia Dredge’s lap with his head cradled in her slight bosom. Morgan tried hard not to smile as she extended her hand to the boy and pulled him up. “Jesus falls for the second time,” she whispered in his ear.
Finton could barely hear her or anyone else because he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He hadn’t slept last night and had just managed to force down some breakfast, but only because Nanny Moon had insisted he eat the rolled oats she had cooked for him. When he stood up and his knees felt wobbly, he immediately realized he might fall again.
“Are you okay, young man?” He looked up to see the blonde-haired bishop lean forward in his chair and reach towards him with his sceptre. He happened to point it in the very direction in which Finton staggered, and the boy smacked his forehead on the sceptre’s pointed end. Morgan grabbed him by the waist, keeping him from falling again, but she couldn’t keep him from vomiting at the bishop’s feet.
“A gift,” Morgan said as she sidestepped the deposit and escorted Finton to his seat.
Miss Wyseman rushed forward with a roll of toilet paper, but the church carpet was “stained irreparably, like the Shroud of Turin,” as Nanny Moon said later. They tried to leave, but Nanny Moon insisted that he and Morgan had to finish the ceremony; otherwise, the whole thing would be tainted and he would have to be confirmed at another time.
“At a time to be confirmed,” Tom said. But nobody except Morgan cracked a smile.
The change, for Finton, was instantaneous.
“He threw up on the bishop,” Tom announced as soon as they were home. Clancy and Homer begged for details, but Nanny Moon was quick to discourage sideshows on such a big day.
“So how do you feel?” The old woman gazed at him with a strange combination of pride and awe as she brushed back the shock of hair overhanging his bruised forehead.
“Do you feel any different?” his mother asked.
They swapped stories about their Confirmation experiences, each when they’d been at the age of between twelve and fourteen. “Everyone is different,” Nanny Moon said, knitting by the wood stove. “Confirmation is a time for awakening. It’s like the Apostles all gathered in one room at Pentecost—they all started speakin’ in tongues, sure. Couldn’t understand a single word anyone was sayin’ except themselves.” She stopped knitting for a moment and looked up at him. “Their hearts opened up to Jesus.”
Finton didn’t know if his heart would open up to Jesus, but he did feel different. Maybe it was because his heart was already open to the son of God—his stomach certainly had—or perhaps it was because of the tiny mark on his forehead. He told Nanny Moon, his mother, and everyone else who asked that he felt a bit of heartburn, which made them look at him with concern. But really what he felt was more complicated than that. He just didn’t have the words to explain it. In some ways, it was as if something vital inside him had fled, like he’d lost an organ without having surgery.
After the Confirmation dinner—which was actually the same dinner they had every Sunday—Finton opened his Confirmation gift. It was a pair of brown wooden prayer beads. “They came from Peru,” his mother said, a trace of sadness in her voice. Her sister Connie, who was a Presentation Nun and named after Connie Francis who sang “Where the Boys Are,” had gone to Lima “on the Mission” about two years ago and occasionally sent gifts home to the family. Usually, they consisted of local handmade art, like alpaca rugs and seashell ashtrays. “These,” the note said, “were made by one of the local girls who’s a convert to Sister Constance’s mission.”
He stared at the wooden rosary beads in his hands and prayed for the strength to be silent. After a minute in which he must have seemed to choke up with emotion, he finally said, “Amen, Sister Constance,” then retreated to his room to get changed.
Not long after, wearing his everyday pants, sneakers, and homemade Bruins sweatshirt with the hand-drawn logo, he charged through the kitchen and dashed through the front door. When his mother asked where he was going, he pretended not to hear.
Miss Bridie was glad to see him. She opened her front door and ushered him inside. “You’re some boy,” she said with a wink as she poured tea. “Comin’ to see poor ol’ me on the most important day of your life. What a lad.”
“I get sick of questions—Nanny Moon telling me I’ll be in the priesthood soon, mother givin’ me rosary beads from Peru—”
“Rosary beads?”
“To make me pray better.”
She smirked. “Hopin’ for something a bit more expensive, wuz ya?”
Finton shrugged and watched the tea leaves swirling around in his tea. They were still disgusting, but he’d gotten used to them. “It just makes me wonder about things, that’s all.”
She leaned forward, hands cradling her cup, her eyes much kinder and wiser than he’d realized in those years when he’d been afraid of her, and yet they still retained something indefinably dangerous, and just a bit off. “What kind of things?”
Since Christmas, he’d been coming to see her every few weeks or so, and she always seemed pleased to see him. She made tea and talked about everything he wanted to discuss. Usually, it was about school or his parents, about his father’s skirmishes with the law. And, although he always refrained from disclosing too much, today was different. He felt like talking to someone about all his crazy thoughts.
�
�Priests are not allowed to have girlfriends. But I like girls. I’d like to have a girlfriend someday.”
“Priests can have girlfriends.”
“They can?”
“They’re just not allowed to tell anyone.”
“Oh. Well, why does God expect us to pray to Him on our knees? Why do we have to go to Confession? And why does the Bible have to be the truth? What if it was written by some men just telling stories, making it all up as they went?”
“Well, now, you might be on to something.” She rubbed her chin and sat back with her arms folded across her great chest. “You’ve been doing some thinking, I see.”
“I can’t talk to that crowd about stuff like this. Nanny Moon would have me excommunicated.”
“Big deal! I haven’t been inside a church in ages and it haven’t harmed me none.”
“Well…” He hung his head, unsure of how to respond. “I have to go to mass.”
“Why do you have to? What did mass ever do for you?”
He couldn’t tell her the real reason he went, which was to see Mary Connelly all dressed up and sitting in the front pew. Sure, he went for religious reasons, but they weren’t his main goal. “Mass brings us closer to God.” He looked defiant at first, but then hung his head, realizing he’d been caught in a lie. “That’s what Nanny Moon says.”
“Nanny Moon has been brainwashed. And she’s doing the same thing to you.”
“Anyway, I don’t know what to do about any of it. As long as I live in Darwin, this is the way it’s always going to be. Tomorrow will be just like today because that’s the way it always was. Everyone goes to Confession on Saturday, Communion on Sunday, and goes home and sins for the rest o’ the week. Then they do it all over again.”
“You’re a wise man for such a small boy.”
“They’re just hypocrites, that’s all.”
“I know what you should do.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a blue and white package of Rothman’s. “You should try one of these.”
He shook his head solemnly.
Finton Moon Page 19
