My Secret History by Paul Theroux Read Free Book Online Page A

Thank you, Father.”
    “One more funeral and you’ll have earned yourself a wedding.”
    Ah, that was why he wanted to be thanked—for the wedding that lay ahead, the short happy service, the white roll of cloth down the center aisle, the kiss, the confetti afterwards, the two dollars.
    “And three early masses. Make sure you’re on time. And no sneakers.”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “That’s all. Now pray for forgiveness. Pray for your immortal soul.”
    “I was going to ask a question, Father.”
    He winced again and looked at me with hatred.
Bold as brass
, he was thinking.
Backtalk!
I wanted to apologize and tell him I couldn’t help it.
    He nodded—twitched once—for me to continue.
    “Is Father Feeney a real priest, Father? I heard him speaking on the Common.”
    The Pastor chewed his tongue for a moment, and then said, “Father Feeney received the sacrament of Holy Orders. That can never be taken away, even though he is not a Jesuit anymore, nor a Harvard chaplain. He still celebrates holy mass—it is his sacred duty.”
    “But what about his sermons? I was just wondering.”
    “Only Almighty God knows the answer to that,” the Pastor said, and then he added, “Father Feeney had a very difficult time. He was a brilliant man, and a lot of what he says makes sense,” as if the Pastor knew a little of what Almighty God might say.
    “Thank you, Father.”
    “And did your mother know you were hanging around Boston Common?”
    “No, Father.”
    “Well!” he said triumphantly, and the matter was settled. “Now pray!”
    Yet I was still not satisfied. At the first of my three seven o’clocks I asked Father Furty the same question.
    “Him!” he said, waking up. “Feeney!” And out of the side of his mouth, “He’s a crackpot!”
    It was funny hearing him say this with all his vestments on.
    I said, “I sometimes think I’m a crackpot.”
    “Oh, no. You’re an ace, Andy. I like you. We’re intimate friends.”
    This made me beam eagerly, and perhaps he guessed that I wanted to know more. Yet I was angry with myself for noticing that he had said
innimit
.
    “You fibbed for me. You’re a great altar boy. You’re bashful. And I love the way you told me how much your gun cost you.”
    “Forty dollars?”
    “Fotty dawlas,” he said. He thought I talked funny, too!

5.
    That was the strangest thing about the altar boy roster—all my masses were being said by Father Furty, and they were all early, and I was the only server. I could not explain it, but I was glad about it. It meant that I would be on time for the morning shift at Wright’s Pond, and my afternoons would be free—to shoot bottles at the Sandpits, or to see Tina. And there was the bonus of the funeral. I had not wanted to appear too grateful for fear of seeming too greedy; but I looked forward to another funeral, and finally a wedding.
    All this also meant that I would be seeing Father Furty. I hadbegun to depend on him, not just seeing him but confessing my sins to him. These days I was much more truthful in the confessional and felt better afterwards. I had stopped feeling that I was probably going to Hell, and I sensed that I would most likely end up in Purgatory. The punishment in Purgatory was that you did not see God. It was a punishment I felt I could bear, and in fact on some days I was relieved by the prospect that I would not be seeing God in Purgatory; I had so often felt punished—ashamed and afraid—in the glare of God’s sight.
    This change in my mood I attributed to Father Furty. He made me feel I could face things. I was worthwhile and mature. Sometimes I was funny! He could be stern in the confessional, but he criticized the sin and made me see how it was avoidable. He always left me with hope, and just as he had surprised me by telling me I was his friend, he urged me at confession to pray for him.
    I hoped he was my intimate friend, as he had claimed. He had the sort of good-humored friendliness that sometimes