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.”
“It’s not much of a burn, as far as burns go. It’ll heal on its own in good time. But I thought, since Finton has these powers, why not ask? Give the boy a chance.”
“I can’t,” said Finton, stuffing his clasped hands between his legs.
“Please, Finton.” Father Power stood up, his hands folded as if in prayer at his waist. “You’d be doing your church—and me—a great service.”
“No,” said Finton. “I can’t. I don’t know why, but I think I lost it.”
“Can you at least try?” The priest sighed heavily, furrowing his brow. “I’m not saying I believe, but—”
“You don’t understand.” Finton pushed himself away from the table and let himself down from his chair. He slipped in a spot of something on the floor and had to grip the table with both hands; the entire table shuddered and clanked. One candle went out, sending white smoke wafting upward. “I can’t do it.”
“That’s all right.” Tom cocked his head and winked. “You’d do it if you could, right?” He turned to the priest and gave a quick wink. “You have to understand, Father—I never really believed he could do anything special. Everything he did can be explained. You said so yourself: Miss Bridie was never dead. I’d venture to bet the young Connelly one was gettin’ better on her own. And I never saw anyone really get healed.” Tom pulled a cigarette from his pants pocket and stuffed it between his lips. “I don’t think there’s anything to it.”
“Fine,” said Finton, suddenly feeling challenged by his father’s doubtfulness. “I’ll try.”
The priest immediately stuck out his arm, holding back his sleeve, while Tom gave him another sly wink. “What do I have to do?” Father Power asked.
“Nothin’,” said Finton. He grasped the priest’s wrist and took a deep breath. “This might hurt when I put my hand on the blister, okay?”
Father Power held his breath and nodded quickly. “Just get it over with.”
Quickly, but gently, Finton placed his palm over the burned area and closed his eyes. He heard a gasp as the priest shuddered and swore, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
But Finton wasn’t feeling anything. In his mind, he tried to reach for the Planet of Solitude. Tried to envision himself leaving the earth. Conjured an image of a white apple tree, but it wasn’t the same one. He even tried praying a “Hail Mary” out loud. But when he opened his eyes, Father Power still winced in pain, eyes shut, looking as if he were about to pass out.
“You can open your eyes, Father.”
All three of them gazed at the wound, which was just as angry and raw as before, perhaps even more so. “It didn’t work,” said Finton. “I don’t know why.”
“It’s fine,” said the bishop, shaking visibly as he rolled up his sleeve. “I’ll just have Millie put something on it. “Go with God, my son.”
Father Power saw them to the door. “Your grandmother once told me that you were hoping to join the priesthood someday.” He gazed into Finton’s eyes. “You’d make a fine priest.”
“Thank you,” said Finton. He considered admitting his recent doubts, but didn’t see the point of making things worse. They were standing in the open doorway now, the chill of the night enveloping them all. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
“It’s unfortunate.” The priest rubbed his arms and began to close the door. With a touch to the father’s shoulder, he said, “But at least now we know. Of course, if your circumstance changes, please apprise me. I’ll tell the bishop what had happened, and that’ll be that. No miracles for Darwin. At least not tonight.”
“You go ahead, Finton. I wanted to talk to Father Power for a minute.” Tom gave him a nod, and Finton did as he was told. Sitting in the car, he watched the two men converse, their figures illuminated by the light above the door. Considering his father wasn’t religious, he wondered what Tom could possibly have to say to a priest. It might be a confession of some sort, but somehow he doubted it.
By the time his father said goodnight to Father Power and got in the car, Finton forgot all about it. He was simply relieved that the show was over.
On the Run
For Mary, the road to wellness was long and fraught with setbacks. Shortly after her Confirmation, she relapsed and became too weak to get out of bed. At the request of Mary’s mother, Finton went to see her again.
She was awake, but barely and, in fact, she hardly seemed to know he was present. He didn’t perform any special ritual, just sat and talked to her. He told her about school, that Dolly and Skeet seemed to be getting along, and that he was a little worried about Bernard Crowley. She didn’t offer much of a response, just nodded once in a while and tried to smile. He considered telling her about Morgan. Not that Morgan could replace you, he would have said. But he decided it wouldn’t help much to go blabbing to the girl he loved about his sexual encounter with another woman. Instead, he said, “I brought this great book,” and he opened his copy of Harper Lee’s novel and read from the beginning. Before he’d finished the chapter, she’d fallen asleep.
“Thank you for coming,” Sylvia said when he was leaving.
He didn’t tell her he could no longer heal, didn’t want to explain. Finton was used to feeling different, but his power to heal people was the only thing that made him feel special. His one gift had left him on Confirmation Day and now that it was gone, it was highly possible it might never return, especially since he didn’t know where it came from.
“You’re welcome,” he said, feeling sadder than he’d ever been. “I hope Mary can come back to school soon.”
“I don’t know about that.” Sylvia shook her head. “There’s times I’m not sure anything can help her, except maybe time.”
“Hear about what happened at Bilch’s last night?” Skeet stared down the orange metal hoop and lined up his next shot. Ever since his father had installed a hoop onto the Stuckeys’ garage door, basketball had become the latest fad. Now and then, a bunch of the neighbourhood boys assembled for a game, but most evenings throughout the spring and summer it was just the two friends, bouncing the ball on the hardpacked earth and shooting twenty-ones. It was a simple game of follow-the-leader—when one player made a shot, the other one had to follow with a shot from the same location.
Finton found himself in the position of following. “Heard about it?” He laughed bitterly. “I’ll probably never hear the end of it.”
“I was there,” said Skeet, who delivered his shot, the ball boinging off the rim and falling to the dirt. “We were all playin’ pool—a bunch of us, including your brother. I was just rackin’ for another game and in she comes, sir, like the friggin’ wrath of God. Says, ‘I’ll give ya smokin’! I’ll give ya girls ’n goddamn pool!’” Skeet wagged his finger and put his hands on his hips as he acted out the infamous scene. “‘Get yer arse home out of this den of iniquity!’ she said.” Skeet pretended to grab Finton’s collar and he was dragging him out a make-believe door. “Friggin’ priceless. I’ll never forget it.”
“Neither will Homer,” Finton said.
“What did he have to say about it?”
“Not much, b’y. Homer keeps that stuff to himself. He don’t let on to anyone, but I’d say he’s embarrassed.”
Skeet laughed. “Well, he should be. If my mother did that, I wouldn’t show meself anywhere again.”
“Wasn’t his fault.” Finton picked up the ball, arced his arm, and swept the ball into the hoop. “Mom just don’t like him going to Bilch’s.”
“It’s still pretty funny.” Skeet spat on the ground, lunged for the ball, grabbed it and faked a layup. He was a little scrawnier these days, but had recover
ed well from his illness. And he was still bigger than Finton by far. “You know, you still haven’t told me what you did to me that time when I was sick.”
“You said you weren’t all that sick.”
“Well, I lied. What did you do to me?”
“Nothing. I just… I don’t know, okay? Just leave it alone.”
“What about what you did with Mary—was that nothing too? And Miss Bridie?”
“I can’t explain it, Skeet. I just can’t. I laid my hands on you and just imagined you getting better.”
It wasn’t the first time his friend had asked for particulars about those incidents. Furthermore, it had been two weeks since dinner at the priest’s house, and Finton still hadn’t divulged any meaningful details. But he didn’t know how to explain either the healings or the fact that he couldn’t do them anymore. Furthermore, to divulge that the priest had asked for a demonstration would feel like a small betrayal since Father Power had asked him not to.
And yet, despite the lack of details from the source himself, many in Darwin viewed Finton as a celebrity. He wasn’t even sure why, or when, his life had changed so dramatically, but he’d come a long ways from when no one wanted to sit with him on the bus. Perhaps Sylvia Connelly’s praise of him had softened some hearts. As well, Skeet had told Dolly about his quick recovery from “certain death,” thanks at least in part to an afternoon visitor—and confiding in Dolly was the surest way to spread news.
One day Finton got on the bus, and Albino Al and Dolly immediately squeezed in beside him, while a few more gathered around. Initially, he was flattered, but when the scene was replayed over and over, he grew tired of the constant attention. At school, as well, lots of people desired some favour, blessing or a simple touch, but even those who asked for nothing retained the right to gossip about him—or so he’d heard from Skeet, Dolly and sometimes one of his brothers. Most kids had grown accustomed to his extraordinary facility for healing, and some had begun shadowing him around the school grounds, hoping to catch proof of his supernatural talents. He’d come to think of them as akin to those pesky little birds that perch on the arses of rhinos and chew on their scabs. According to Marlin Perkins on Wild Kingdom, they were called “oxpickers,” a name that bore a certain ring of truth.
Finton Moon Page 21
