too, and a small priest, his cassock hanging loosely on his skinny frame, was limping down the aisle toward him.
“I decided that you might not be coming in,” said Father Julian. “I decided I would bring you a personal invitation.”
“You recognized me,” Moon said, because he could think of nothing else.
Julian made a deprecatory gesture. “Biggest man in the cathedral,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re the biggest man in Manila.”
Moon laughed. “You exaggerate,” he said.
“How big are you?” Julian said. “Six and a half feet, I’d say. Maybe two hundred sixty pounds.”
“You’re still exaggerating.”
“But not by very much, I think. Anyway, I am happy to see you. I had hoped-” Julian paused, thinking.
“That I’d finish the story?”
“Oh, that. Yes. That would be interesting. But I had hoped, too, that you would tell me something that would jar my mind from its lethargy and I would somehow think of something wise to say to you. And you would say, ‘Yes! Yes! Of course! This dinky little priest is absolutely correct. I should forgive myself for this awful sin of which I am so proud. And then I will allow God to forgive me.”
Father Julian had seated himself in the pew beside Moon, and he looked at him sideways now, grinning.
“We priests sometimes entertain such grand delusions. It is something that happens to us when we receive the Holy Orders, when the bishop ordains us.”
“It happens to all males, I guess,” Moon said. “I used to enjoy some grand delusions.” But when had that been? As a child, of course. But not much after that. He had time enough to think about it because Father Julian seemed to be thinking about it too. At least he wasn’t talking. He sat, head slightly down, smiling slightly, a minuscule nod in agreement with whatever was passing though his mind. Relaxed. It skipped Moon back to post exchange evenings he and Halsey had spent.
“It’s not a seance,” Halsey had said after they’d finished a second beer without a word spoken, “because a seance requires some effort. And some outside interference from a spirit. I’d call it nonverbal communication-the ultimate in intellectual inertia.” And Moon had said, But we don’t communicate, and Halsey had said, “Sure we do. When the First Sarge came in a minute ago you raised an eyebrow. I looked. You smirked. I remembered how he tried to take the wrong gal home last time we were here. I nodded. We communicated.” And Moon had said, Just call it comfortable silence.
And the silence now was comfortable. Father Julian, having heard his quota of sins for the day, seemed to feel no hunger to hear more. Moon was in no hurry to provide them. They talked about why Julian had gone into the seminary, and why he’d returned to it after dropping out. They talked about American journalism, and Manila journalism, and, eventually, about what Moon was doing so far from Durance and the cold, clean air of the Colorado high country.
“That’s odd, don’t you think?” Julian said. “That your brother didn’t tell you he had a daughter? Didn’t he tell your mother either?”
“Maybe he did,” Moon said. The thought had hung at the edge of his consciousness for days, but it was the first time he’d allowed himself to really consider it. “if he did, she didn’t tell me.”
Julian seemed to notice how forlorn that sounded. He looked at Moon, expression sympathetic. “Maybe he thought you would disapprove. Big brother-little brother, you know. The infant born out of wedlock. Woman of a different race. All that. Maybe he told your mother to keep it a secret.”
“Possibly,” Moon said. “Who knows? Maybe she knew all the time. Maybe not telling me was her idea.”
“And why would that be?” Julian said, but he was asking himself more than Moon, and Moon had no comment.
A woman came in through the side door, lit another candle before the alcove altar, and knelt. From somewhere far out in Manila Bay came the sound of a tugboat hooting; from Quezon Boulevard the sound of a siren; from somewhere behind them, someone coughing. Silence.
Julian sighed. Chuckled. “This is going to sound Freudian, I think. What I’m about to say. But is there something between you and your mother? Some rift? Some-some problem?”
“Well, yes,” Moon said.
And as he said it he knew that this was what he had come for: to talk to another human being about how he had brought about the defeat of Victoria Mathias. To make this confession.
“Women have more trouble forgiving, you know. You told me that. Your experience from ten thousand weeks of hearing their confessions. I’ll tell you what I did to my mother.”
Julian held up his hand. “Wait. Think about it for a moment. I
Moon thought about it. “Not exactly,” Moon said. “I don’t want to but I need to.”
Julian nodded.
“I have to go back a ways,” Moon said.
Julian nodded again. “Go back as far as you need,” he said. “Nothing awaits me but an empty room.”
But where to begin? “She was a small woman. Still is, for that matter. But I was thinking of when I was a boy. Little. Very neat. Very pretty. Our house was neat too. We lived in Oklahoma. In Lawton. We owned a little printing shop. My dad was a great big guy, like me. People called him Marty. For Martin. Looking back on it, knowing what I know now, I know he drank too much. Like me. When I was twelve he got sick. Very sick. They put him in the hospital and the doctors decided he had pneumonia. They treated him for that. Turned out they were wrong.” Moon paused, tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “He got sicker and sicker, and finally they discovered he had tuberculosis and it had spread into his spinal column. They called it Pott’s disease, and whatever it was it killed him, and it took a long time doing it.”
Moon stopped. He could never talk about this without feeling a rage building up inside him.
Julian sighed. “Tuberculosis,”, he said. “An old-fashioned disease. They could probably have saved him now. Since about 1960 they have a drug that works.”
“I guess he was a little too early or they were a little too stupid. The TB strewed up the vertebrae in the neck and upper back and caused abscesses and put pressure on the spinal column. We used to go visit him in the hospital, the three of us, and when Mother could finally bring him home he was paralyzed. Almost totally from the neck down. Just a little motion in one arm and hand.”
Moon inhaled a great breath and let it out. Father Julian sat motionless just down the pew, head slightly bent. Moon inhaled the smells of spring in the tropics, and of an old, old church, and sorted through the memories.
“It gave me a chance to understand what love is all about,” he said, and he described the way Victoria Mathias had cared for a husband who had become nothing more than a helpless talking head. How she kept the printing operation going to support them, working nights and Sundays on billing and the books, and, when she wasn’t working, being always with Martin. Taking him out to the park in his wheelchair, reading to him, bathing him. Cleaning him up before the doctor came, shaving him.
“She had to do absolutely everything. As if he were an infant.” Moon paused. He had come to the part he had never told to anyone except Halsey. Not even Ricky. Certainly not Ricky.
“You are describing perfect love,” Julian said. “Unselfish. And perfect tragedy.”
“And now the other half of the tragedy,” Moon said. “My father’s half.”
“Yes,” Julian said. “I was thinking about that.”
“He wanted to die. He wanted to set her free.”
“Yes. I would guess that. So would I.”
“I didn’t guess it. It didn’t even occur to me,” Moon said. “It got so I resented him. Ricky did too, probably. But we never talked about it. I’d think,
“But you never said anything.”
“Of course not,” Moon said. “For God’s sake. No. It didn’t occur to me for a long time that my father was praying for it too.”
“But you figured it out.”
“I didn’t. I wasn’t that smart. Or that kind. I overheard them. Talking.”
Moon paused again. But he knew immediately he was going to tell it all. And he did. He’d come back from the
