Finton Moon (35 page)

Finally, when things calmed down and his mother had retreated to the bedroom to collect herself and cry, Tom came slowly into the living room and sat down on the couch. They watched a skit where Dom Deluise came to the door and Dean answered it, pretending to be drunk. His father even laughed. “I love that Dean,” he said. “He's the king of cool. There's nobody cooler than Deano.”

“I remember the story from when I was born and everybody sang that song.”

“What song was that?”

“‘You're Nobody Till—”'

“‘Somebody Loves You.'” He chuckled as he lit up a cigarette. “Yeah, sure. I remember now. Always loved Dean. Always did.”

“Skeet says Dean is a Negro.” Finton didn't know exactly why he said it, but it was true. Skeet had said it, and now Finton wanted his father's impression of the idea.

“Well, sure, he's got dark skin. But Deano's as white as me or you. Not an ounce of Negro blood in 'im. Where the hell would he get an idea like that?”

Finton shrugged. “He's pretty dark.”

“I s'pose,” Tom nodded, then shifted abruptly as if leading up to what he really wanted to say. “Your mother's not too happy with you.”

“It wasn't my fault.”

“I know. I just wanted to say… I'm proud of you.”

“For what?”

“For standin' up for yourself. Goddamn Crowleys are a no-good bunch. Had my own run-in with Hector Crowley a long time ago, and one of us nearly got killed that night, I tell ya.”

“Why?”

“Don't matter. Let's just say he had a thing for your mother, and my thing was bigger.” Again, Tom laughed, and Finton cracked a smile in spite of himself. “Anyway, I promised yer mother I'd say something. And I mean it—you did good to look after yerself—'cause in the end, you're all you've got. Remember that. No one else is gonna look after you, so ya got to look after yourself.” Tom's eyes flickered towards the TV screen. “Still and all, you don't want to end up like me, you understand?”

“Not really. No.”

“I mean, havin' the cops comin' to the door. Beatin' around. Smokin'. Drinkin'. It's a hard road, Finton.”

“But I don't go that way. I don't smoke or drink.” It was a small lie, but a convenient one, since he'd confined those activities to Miss Bridie's place.

“Well, just don't say I didn't warn ya.”

With that, his father left him alone with Dean Martin jumping on a piano, only to fall on his backside to the floor, singing “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.”

“I'm not allowed to talk to you.” Naked from the waist up, Skeet stood in the doorway and peeked behind. He saw no sign of his parents, so he whispered, “Come on.”

Summer had deepened in the days and nights following the ill-fated evening at Bilch's. The buds on the aspens and maples were plumping, and a few crocuses and dandelions had sprouted on the neighbours' lawns.

Together, they ran across the tree-dotted landscape until they'd reached the edge of the woods. The Stuckeys didn't have money but owned an enormous piece of inherited property with tall, broad-leaved maples and dogwoods. The two boys collapsed in the shade of a dogwood tree sprouting thousands of leaves.

“How's your face?” Skeet asked.

“All right.”

“First time to Bilch's, first fight—nice goin', Moon. Yer old man would be proud.” He laughed and added, “Hell, I'm proud of ya.”

Finton hung his head at the mention of his father.

“How's things with him?” Skeet asked as he lit a homemade cigarette, his hands trembling slightly.

“Jeez, Skeet. You gotta lay off the booze, man.”

“Nothin' I can't handle,” he said. “So the cops still comin' around or what?”

“Not so much—unless you count droppin' me off that night.”

Skeet laughed. “Sorry about that, ol' man. I split as soon as I saw 'im. Thought you'd have enough sense to do the same.”

“I froze, b'y—although maybe I wanted to get caught.”

“Why would you want that?”

“What if they saw me? I'd spend the rest of the summer waiting for them to come get me.” He hung his head. “Bad enough waitin' for them to come take Dad away.”

“Do you think he did it?” Skeet blew a smoke ring in the breeze.

“No,” Finton said, and he plucked a blade of grass, considered tossing it away, but kept it between his fingers instead. “He wouldn't.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I just knows, that's all.”

“Well, the cops think he did it.”

“They don't know anything.”

“I heard he got pretty mad at Sawyer that night.” Skeet sniffed and hawked in rapid succession, making Finton queasy. Fishing a cigarette from behind his ear, Skeet stuck it in his mouth and lit it, all in one motion. “Do you wanna know what I think?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, everyone's sayin' that yer father got Sawyer drunk, then took him into the woods.”

Finton closed his eyes and listened to the breeze whistling through the treetops. “He probably did something. But he didn't kill him.”

“Your old man was about the only one that had the time o' day for Sawyer. I often wondered why, and now I knows.”

“What do you know?”

“That it was all an act, I s'pose. Like, maybe Sawyer had something on 'im.”

Finton shook his head. “I don't see that. Everyone here knows everything.”

Skeet shrugged and took another draw, his whole body shivering, despite the warmth of the afternoon air. “It just all seems pretty strange to me.”

“What about it?”

“Everything about it. Everyone knew Sawyer couldn't drink because of his medication, and your father went and got him drunk.”

“He didn't get him drunk.”

“Were you there?” asked Skeet.

“No, but neither were you.”

“No, I wasn't.” Skeet stared at the ground. “But maybe Sawyer had it coming.”

“Maybe.”

They both fell silent until Finton deliberately changed the subject. “Been to Bilch's since?”

Skeet shook his head, a disgusted grimace on his lips. “Folks won't let me. They only thinks that'll stop me.” He spit on the ground. “You?”

“Don't care if I ever go back.”

“Scared o' Slim Crowley.” Skeet nodded sagely. “I get it.”

“It's just not my kinda place.”

“Well, what is your kinda place?”

“I don't know,” said Finton. “Some place where you don't have to get into a brawl every time you want to go out after dark. And people don't think you're queer because you reads books.”

Skeet laughed, but it was an ugly, judgmental sound. “And where might that be?”

“I don't know,” said Finton. “But it better be surrounded by ocean, have lots of books and lots of trees.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Skeet, “for you.”

“Where would you go?”

“Me? I'd take off and sail around the world in my own boat. A different girl in every harbour. Not come home no more, just go far away.”

Skeet was shaking uncontrollably, as if he were freezing. As he spoke, his yellow-stained fingers fidgeted on his homemade cigarette, and he rarely glanced upward; when he did, he looked away quickly.

“Sounds nice,” Finton said, “for you.”

Picking at a blade of grass, Skeet peeked over at him, but only briefly.

“Yeah, well, we all knows that's not gonna happen.”

“It might. Ya just gotta say you're gonna do it and then just go do it.”

Suddenly, Skeet looked straight at him. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, imbuing himself with an extra measure of toughness, then pulled it out and blew a ring of smoke into Finton's face. “Dreams are for losers, kid. I'm not goin' anywhere.”

Long after he'd watched Skeet strutting half naked back to the house, Finton sat back beneath the tree and listened to the whispering leaves.

To the Moon

(August 1974)

July crept by in a sweltering haze in pursuit of the perfect summer day—swimming in the ocean at the Darwin Day fairgrounds, splashing and bobbing on a sparkling lake while clinging to a gargantuan inner tube, or sipping an Orange Crush and reading a good book in a shady spot. Nights meant sitting on the front step or lying in the meadow, looking up at the stars and wondering, dreaming, scheming grandeur. Finton and Skeet, sometimes with Homer, would camp out overnight in a tent or a newly built tree house. Finton's favourite evening pastime was sitting in Clancy's Galaxy, turning the radio way up and singing along to the Top Ten. Alone or with Skeet or one of his brothers, it didn't matter. The only activity he religiously avoided was going to Bilch's or anywhere else Bernard Crowley might be.

Early in July, he ran into Alicia as they were both getting checked out at Sellars' store. “How's your summer?” she'd asked.

He was about to tell her about the new book he was reading when a voice from behind him said, “Hey, faggot. Does your mommy know you're out by yourself?” Bernard Crowley slipped from behind a shelf. Finton thought,
You need some new material, buddy.
Judging by the corner of a Caramel Log bar sticking out of his pocket, Bernard had been stuffing his jacket with chocolate bars; a glance at Alicia suggested she knew nothing of her boyfriend's illegal activity.

He ignored Bernard's insult. “Fine,” he said, “how about yours?”

Bernard wrapped an arm around Alicia's waist, although she seemed surprised and uncomfortable with the arrangement. “We're just fine, as you can see,” he said.

“You're going together now?” He directed his question at Alicia, as he could barely stand to look at Bernard.

“We've gone out a couple of times,” said Alicia. “You know—hangin' around Bilch's. Both times.”

“Sounds…” he looked at them and wanted to say something appropriate: “strange,” he finished.

“What a thing to say!” Alicia looked slightly wounded and, judging by the partial smile, rather amused.

“Whattya mean
strange
, Moon? You sayin' I'm not good enough for her?”

“I just didn't expect you two to go out… together. That's what I meant.”
Yes
, he thought,
just go with that. No need to provoke.

“Well,” said Alicia. “we've gone out twice, to Bilch's, like I said.”

Finton nodded and paid for his Dreamsicle. He peeled the wrapper off slowly, letting them get a head start. He didn't want to risk having to walk with them.

“See ya,” said Alicia.

“See ya, Alicia.”

“So long, faggot.” Bernard raised his middle finger as he departed.

By the time Finton got home, the police cruiser was just leaving, with Futterman glaring at him as he backed out of the Moon's Lane.

In the living room, his father sat watching the news, hands clasped before him. Nixon again.

“Why are they still coming around?” Finton kept one eye on the television set. Grey-haired men in suits talking into microphones.

Now and then, they showed film of Nixon, gazing into the camera with his dark, scowling eyes. Finton glanced at his father's darting, cobalt eyes and wondered what he was capable of.

“'Cause they thinks I did it.” Tom sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Lots o' people think I got Sawyer drunk, got into a fight with 'im and killed 'im.” His eyes assumed a faraway look, a familiar mixture of fear and hurt.

“Do you think they have enough to ever send you to jail?”

“No.” As Tom averted his gaze towards the window, Finton wondered what he saw through those eyes—if the meadow had looked different these past few months. “I have faith.”

“You mean in God.”

Tom laughed. “In the truth and the decency of certain people. I never done nutting, and that should be enough.”

“Then why don't they leave you alone?”

Tom swept his hands through his bedraggled hair, shaking his head like he was suffering some kind of breakdown. “'Cause they needs to do their job… I s'pose.”

“Then they should go after the real killer.”

“I wish it was that easy.” Tom's eyes misted, causing Finton to be amazed as well as embarrassed. “But things will unfold as they should. Justice will prevail.”

Finton shook his head angrily. “What the hell is justice? I don't see much of it around here.”

“Justice is when the good go free, and the bad get punished. It's as simple as that.”

But Finton wasn't so sure. “Did Sawyer get punished?”

“Some would say so.”

“Would you?”

Tom coughed and stood up, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was trying to give up smoking, so he stuffed them in his pockets as if they were the most useless appendages a man could own. “It's too nice to be stuck indoors,” he said. “You'll get enough of that when you're older.”