Free Finton Moon by Gerard Collins

nightgown that reached her ankles, she knelt on the rough carpet, leaning forward, hands clasped and elbows resting upon the mahogany coffee table, whose spindly legs buckled slightly.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œDon’t stop the rosary, Finton.” Elsie Moon spoke in a rising, barely controlled voice. What’s wrong with her? he wondered. Couldn’t she hear the person at the door? A gust of wind slammed the house and made it groan. A burst of light fractured the darkness, and thunder rumbled a sermon. Finton sputtered, “The Lord is with thee,” but the pounding on the door punctuated each syllable. “Blessed—art—thou—amongst—”
    â€œTom!” came the shout from outside, like a plea for refuge.
    He looked at his father, who finally stood up in his white undershirt and underwear, trudged in his wool socks out to the kitchen, across the linoleum, and grabbed the doorknob. “Keep going,” he commanded Finton, who forgot about “women” and started on the next “Hail Mary.”
    â€œHey!” he was shouted down by Clancy. Nanny Moon and Elsie raised their voices: “Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now—”
    He heard rushed mumbling, his father swearing, and the door crunching shut. “And at the hour of our death, Amen.”
    â€œElsie.” Tom leaned against the doorway, one hand on the door frame as if to support his entire weight.
    The praying paused. Elsie Moon glared at her husband. “Come finish the rosary.”
    â€œMorgan’s here.”
    â€œTell her to come in and say the rosary.”
    â€œYou can say it yourself,” said Tom. “I got to go.”
    â€œIt’s always something with that woman,” said Elsie. “She can bloody well wait. Now, kneel down and finish the rosary.”
    Tom glared daggers at her, then rushed to the bedroom.
    With a glance towards Morgan, Elsie resumed the rosary, the slowest one Finton had ever heard, the words ridiculous and yet terrifying. He shuddered when she recited, “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen,” because he realized they were praying for souls already lost.
    Meanwhile, Morgan stood in the kitchen, jean jacket drenched, blonde hair rain-dyed brown, head bowed and dripping onto the linoleum. With her face hidden, she appeared small and distant, yet somehow sturdy and rational. Not speaking, she simply just stood there waiting, a nightmarish vision.
    Tom emerged fully dressed and paused only long enough to don his shoes and grab his coat. “Come on,” he said and seized Morgan by the elbow to lead her out.
    Minutes later, the rosary done, Finton blessed himself and leaped to his feet.
    â€œWhere are you goin’?” His mother’s eyes narrowed and her lips clenched.
    â€œMiss Bridie’s. I wanna see.”
    â€œGet to bed, Finton.”
    But, if only for that moment, he was more his father’s son than his mother’s. He raced out the front door in his bare feet and brown corduroys. His mother unsuccessfully grabbed for his arm, but she managed to block Clancy and Homer from following.
    The rain lashed his face and the wind pulled him forward, down the dark lane. When he reached the river, lightning torched the sky behind Miss Bridie’s house.
    He saw his father’s black shadow on the Battenhatch front porch, timorously pushing open the brand new, glistening door.
    Finton veered the corner of the lane. No pause, no punctuation—skipping steps. He leaped onto the front porch and, with a soft thud, landed inside.
    In the blackness that swallowed him, a sour stench brought tears to his eyes. His head pounded in unison with the beating of his heart.
    He could make out his father’s silhouette—a black ghost kneeling beside the motionless body of a woman.
    He wanted to ask if she was dead, but felt he shouldn’t speak. Inwardly he prayed a Hail Mary, closed