My Secret History Read Free Page A

him.
    As I pulled my surplice over my head I heard the sighs of Father Furty still digesting the wine. He was at the sideboard, among the vestments, in his suspenders, leaning on his elbows and belching softly.
    Then he staggered back and sat down and sighed again—more satisfied gasps—and said, “Don’t go, sonny.”
    I was trying to think how to get my Mossberg out of the sacristy.
    Father Furty was still smiling, though his eyes were not quite focused on me. He looked very tired, sitting there with his hands on his knees. Then he grunted and started to get up.
    “I’m going to need a hand,” he said. “Now put that gun down and point me in the right direction.” He was mumbling so softly he was hardly moving his lips. “Funerals are no fun,” he said.

2.
    Father Furty limped beside me, steadying himself by holding on to my shoulder with his right hand and sort of paddling with his left hand. I kept my mouth shut; I was his cane. His face was redder and it was as swollen as it had been when he had knelt in the sacristy and prayed for the conversion of Russia. I had set off worrying about my Mossberg in the cassock locker, and about meeting Tina—I was already late; and worrying too about everything Chicky had said, the sex talk. But Father Furty’s big soft hand was holding down my worry and calming me—we were helping each other out of the sacristy.
    Instead of going to the rectory which was only fifty feet away, we passed it, cut behind the church and down the parking lot, crossed Fulton—he was still limping: where were we going?—and headed towards a blue bungalow. It was called Holy Name House. I had never seen anyone enter or leave it, and I did not think it had any connection with Saint Ray’s.
    “Easy does it,” Father Furty said. “We’re almost there.”
    He seemed to be saying it to encourage me, because I was slowing down. Did he want me to follow him in? He was rather feeble, and I was sure there was something wrong with him. I did not imagine him to be drunk—after all, he had only downed one cruet of wine and less than half a bottle in the sacristy. It was not enough. No, he was sick—I was sure of that.
    An “alkie” was a different kind of person altogether—the kind of crazy stinking bum that slept on Boston Common and mumbled as you passed by and always had a bottle in his hand. But even staggering and breathing hard, Father Furty had a look of understanding and authority—and I had the sense that he was both funny and friendly. He had seen my Mossberg and only smiled!
    The porch of Holy Name House was screened-in and breezy but the interior of the house was very hot. The shades had been pulled down to cut the glaring sun, but the shadows looked just as hot as the bright patches. The day darkness of the house made it seem like a hospital ward, smelling of rubber tiles and clean paint and decaying flowers.
    “This is where I’m staying,” Father Furty said in an announcing way that I was sure he meant as a joke. “I can’t exactly say I live here. Pretty spartan, eh?”
    It was different from his mass voice, the one that had intoned the Pater Noster, and I liked it much better.
    He had begun to slow down, though he was still leaning hard on my shoulder. And moving more carefully, he looked into each room as he passed it, poking the door open with his free hand and putting his head in.
    “I guess we’re going to be all right.”
    The house was empty, and the bright light of the summer day outside glaring through cracks in the Venetian blinds only made it seem stranger and more deserted. I was not at all afraid to be alone here with him; I was actually glad that he had chosen me to help him home—I had never been here! And I was so absorbed in this task that I had forgotten my anxiety about meeting Tina and picking up my Mossberg.
    Father Furty groaned.
    “I could call a doctor,” I said.
    “What do doctors know about flat feet?” he said, staggering a little more.
    We