you’re a complainer, aren’t you?”
“What?” Mitchell said.
Father Tony was trying to stop laughing, with his hand over his mouth. He shook his head at Mitchell as if to apologize. But Mitchell could tell he was still laughing. Tears were rolling down Tony’s cheeks.
“Have you considered not being such a big baby?” Tony said. “I mean, what, are you going to go to Hell with him? If your father jumped off a bridge into a never-ending fiery pit of suffering, does that mean you have to, too?” Tony tried to catch his breath.
“I love my father,” Mitchell said.
“I have an idea,” Father Tony said. He reached out and helped Mitchell down off the washing machine. “Okay, I know that it’s scary to think your father might burn forever in the bowels of Hell with his skin torn off and all that. But you just have to take your mind off it.” He opened the metal top of the washing machine, and reached out to take Mitchell’s hand. “Here, just put your hand here,” he said.
And then he slammed the metal door down across the boy’s fingers as hard as he could.
Mitchell let out a scream, and pulled his hand back. There was blood all over the hand, and two of the fingers were bent strangely. They were probably broken.
Mitchell screamed again when he saw his fingers, and Tony had to sit down, he was laughing so hard. He couldn’t stop laughing, even long after the kid had run off in terror. That’ll give him something to complain about, Tony thought, and he giggled like a school girl, the ridiculous sound of his own high-pitched giggling only made it worse.
There was blood all over the front of the washing machine, and he knew that this was wrong. He wasn’t acting right. He should be worried about Mitchell and his fingers. Even more than that, he should be worried about Mitchell’s crisis of faith. But he wasn’t. Tony leaned forward and used his fingertip to draw a smiley face in the blood.
CHAPTER SIX
When he had composed himself, Father Tony left the laundry room and went looking for Mitchell. There was a ringing in his ears, but he should probably try to keep it together long enough to find the camper and calm the boy down. Or he could find Mitchell and hit him in the head with a hammer instead. Tony smiled, but then shook his head. No. Focus. He had to find Mitchell and apologize. Calm him down. There was a drop of blood on the floor headed toward the dining room.
Mitchell was sitting at one of the big tables, and a male counsellor, Quinn, was wrapping the bloodied hand in gauze. Tony came into the room quietly, and they didn’t notice him. There were tears streaked down Mitchell’s face, and he was shaking with sobs. Quinn was occupied with wrapping the hand. This was a pretty nice dining room, Father Tony thought, looking around. He liked the way the walls were shaped. How come he had never noticed that before? The way they seemed to curl around the room, like fingers holding him safe in their grip. It felt nice, just standing here. When was the last time he’d let himself just enjoy life like this? There was more to life than preaching God’s word. Didn’t Tony deserve to have fun, too?
“It’s okay,” Quinn had his hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll find someone to drive you to the hospital over in town, and those fingers will be as good as new before you know it.”
Mitchell started to nod, but then saw Tony over Quinn’s shoulder and let out a wail.
Tony hid his smile before Quinn could turn and see. He looked at the counsellor, and they stared at one another for a quiet moment.
“Just stay right here,” Quinn told Mitchell.
“Can I speak to you a moment, sir?” Quinn said.
Tony nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Quinn, right?”
They walked out into the hall.
“What happened to that boy in there? He hurt himself on the Flying Fox?” Tony said.
“He says you did it to him.”
The counsellor was eighteen
“What?” Mitchell said.
Father Tony was trying to stop laughing, with his hand over his mouth. He shook his head at Mitchell as if to apologize. But Mitchell could tell he was still laughing. Tears were rolling down Tony’s cheeks.
“Have you considered not being such a big baby?” Tony said. “I mean, what, are you going to go to Hell with him? If your father jumped off a bridge into a never-ending fiery pit of suffering, does that mean you have to, too?” Tony tried to catch his breath.
“I love my father,” Mitchell said.
“I have an idea,” Father Tony said. He reached out and helped Mitchell down off the washing machine. “Okay, I know that it’s scary to think your father might burn forever in the bowels of Hell with his skin torn off and all that. But you just have to take your mind off it.” He opened the metal top of the washing machine, and reached out to take Mitchell’s hand. “Here, just put your hand here,” he said.
And then he slammed the metal door down across the boy’s fingers as hard as he could.
Mitchell let out a scream, and pulled his hand back. There was blood all over the hand, and two of the fingers were bent strangely. They were probably broken.
Mitchell screamed again when he saw his fingers, and Tony had to sit down, he was laughing so hard. He couldn’t stop laughing, even long after the kid had run off in terror. That’ll give him something to complain about, Tony thought, and he giggled like a school girl, the ridiculous sound of his own high-pitched giggling only made it worse.
There was blood all over the front of the washing machine, and he knew that this was wrong. He wasn’t acting right. He should be worried about Mitchell and his fingers. Even more than that, he should be worried about Mitchell’s crisis of faith. But he wasn’t. Tony leaned forward and used his fingertip to draw a smiley face in the blood.
CHAPTER SIX
When he had composed himself, Father Tony left the laundry room and went looking for Mitchell. There was a ringing in his ears, but he should probably try to keep it together long enough to find the camper and calm the boy down. Or he could find Mitchell and hit him in the head with a hammer instead. Tony smiled, but then shook his head. No. Focus. He had to find Mitchell and apologize. Calm him down. There was a drop of blood on the floor headed toward the dining room.
Mitchell was sitting at one of the big tables, and a male counsellor, Quinn, was wrapping the bloodied hand in gauze. Tony came into the room quietly, and they didn’t notice him. There were tears streaked down Mitchell’s face, and he was shaking with sobs. Quinn was occupied with wrapping the hand. This was a pretty nice dining room, Father Tony thought, looking around. He liked the way the walls were shaped. How come he had never noticed that before? The way they seemed to curl around the room, like fingers holding him safe in their grip. It felt nice, just standing here. When was the last time he’d let himself just enjoy life like this? There was more to life than preaching God’s word. Didn’t Tony deserve to have fun, too?
“It’s okay,” Quinn had his hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll find someone to drive you to the hospital over in town, and those fingers will be as good as new before you know it.”
Mitchell started to nod, but then saw Tony over Quinn’s shoulder and let out a wail.
Tony hid his smile before Quinn could turn and see. He looked at the counsellor, and they stared at one another for a quiet moment.
“Just stay right here,” Quinn told Mitchell.
“Can I speak to you a moment, sir?” Quinn said.
Tony nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Quinn, right?”
They walked out into the hall.
“What happened to that boy in there? He hurt himself on the Flying Fox?” Tony said.
“He says you did it to him.”
The counsellor was eighteen
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