Free Finton Moon by Gerard Collins Page A

his eyes and listened to the sound of his father’s voice, a half-whispered, hushed, and reverent tone that the boy found soothing. Tom spoke her name as a statement: “Miss Bridie.” He expected a reply. “Open your eyes now. Yer bleedin’ and we gotta go to the doctor.”
    He’d seen dead people on Gunsmoke , so Finton knew she was gone. But some native authority in his father’s voice inspired an expectation that she would obey.
    A whistle of wind through cracks in the eves pulled Finton’s eyes open. Raindrops plopped from every corner of the ceiling. Puddles on the bare plank floor progressed into small ponds. One dark pool he knew did not leak from above, but from Miss Bridie herself. It seeped from her stomach and spilled over the sides of her thin frame—as if she had laid herself down in a pond of blood.
    He had no idea how long he’d knelt there, watching the two shadows that seemed linked by the darkness between them. In the dark, not speaking, not staring at anyone, Miss Bridie seemed human. He could almost feel sad for her. Could almost love her because of her uncompromising monstrousness. He wished with every fibre of his body and soul that she would not be dead.
    His father raised his voice, more demanding but without fear or questioning. “Miss Bridie.”
    Finton almost believed in her life, so much that he felt his fingers tingling and his hands vibrating. Within moments, his fingers, hands, arms, and chest throbbed so hard that he wondered if he might possibly die from the pain. Obeying some primal instinct, perhaps instilled by the rosary, he found himself squatting beside the body and barely knew how he had gotten there. “Holy Mary Mother of God, Holy Mary Mother of God,” he kept whispering over and over, almost to himself, vaguely aware there was more to the prayer. His knees hovered inches above the black spot in her left side, his bare toes tucked beneath the edges of her dress, bathing in her blood. “Holy Mary Mother of God, Holy Mary Mother of God.” On the kitchen table was the dark shape of a kitchen knife.
    Balancing like a baseball catcher, he spread his hands over Miss Bridie’s wound, her body taut and unyielding. “Holy Mary Mother of God.” He closed his eyes and gently rocked, feeling dizzy and unsure of why he was acting this way, just knowing it was the thing he ought to be doing. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
    â€œFinton,” he heard his father gasp and clear his throat. “That’s enough. Yer mother—she—”
    But the boy discerned only a distant presence as if his father was yards away, calling to him through a funnel. The smell of her sweat filled his nostrils even as he rocked and trembled, hands throbbing, body overheating. He would have to let go soon, but if he could just believe, she might actually come back. Suddenly, the darkness was replaced by a galaxy of light, with a swirl of colourful stars and planets all around. In his mind, or so it seemed, he sat beneath an apple tree that appeared long dead and Miss Bridie lay in his arms. She stared up at him with a face as blank as an unpainted wall.
    â€œOh Tom!” He heard her crackling voice wheeze as if it were the last two words to be squeezed from her lungs. To Finton’s amazement, she sighed and said, “You brought ’im.” He heard her lick her parched lips, heard the sharp rise and fall of her chest. As he opened his eyes, her head turned to the side so that he couldn’t see her face.
    Finton felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. Their eyes met for a flickering moment, and then quickly, self-consciously, disengaged. In his father’s eyes, he had seen both relief and something else. Maybe that other emotion was fear—but of what?
    Sirens filled the house as a wolf ’s howl fills a forest: as if it belonged. The banshee cry of sirens and soothing flash of blood-red lights