Finton Moon (49 page)

A few weeks after the accident, on an unusually hot day, Finton was reaching for a Dreamsicle at Sellars' store when he heard a familiar voice.

“What's up, Moon?” He looked up from the freezer and saw Bernard Crowley peering down at him. While it looked like Bernard, his skin was pale, he was thinner, and he leaned on a cane. The image was startling.

“Hey, Bernard… Slim… how've you been?”

“Few stitches here and there. Nothin' serious.” Grimacing as he spoke, Bernard rubbed his right thigh. “Taking a few pain pills. But I'm on the mend.”

“That's good,” said Finton. “Glad to hear it.” He started to move towards the counter. “Well, my ice cream's gonna melt if I don't get checked in.”

“Yeah, it's hot all right.” Bernard limped alongside him, using his cane, and Finton couldn't help feeling sorry for him. As Finton paid for his ice cream, Bernard kept talking. “You know, I was only trying to scare you that night.”

“Forget it.”

“I mean, I wasn't trying to run you over. I'm not that kinda guy.”

Finton ripped the wrapper from his Dreamsicle and took a small bite. Immediately, the pain shot to his forehead. Brain freeze. “I don't care anymore. If you're trying to apologize, fine, I accept. But I don't buy what you're saying. You could've killed us, and you knew it.”

Bernard hung his head, then forced himself to look into Finton's eyes. “It was stupid. I don't know what came over me. I saw you and her together, and I went nuts. There's not much more I can say.”

“Just leave Alicia alone. She's had it hard enough.” Finton took another bite; it didn't hurt so much this time. “Not because I told you to—because that's what she wants. Hell, Bernard, you're bigger than me, always will be.” He grinned sheepishly. “Although I'm pretty sure I could take you now.”

“I'd beat you to a pulp with my cane.” Bernard raised the metal stick in a feigned show of aggression. But he was grinning, which Finton took as a healthy sign. “I thinks the world of Alicia,” Bernard said. “But I'll leave her alone.”

Finton was stunned. “Really?”

“Really.” Bernard nodded and extended a hand for Finton to shake. As Finton reciprocated, he noticed a red and raw five-inch scar; it looked as if Bernard had narrowly missed severing an artery on his right arm. Slightly unnerved, he shook the proffered hand and said, “See ya 'round.”

The chittering of robins, sparrows and jays heralded a new dawn, waking Finton and drawing him forward into a world of promise. Their songs and sounds were harbingers of a life to come, rumours of a past that had died. He smiled to recall that the day before, a letter had arrived with good news.

When the rooster crowed again, he snapped fully awake. Clancy was coming around, but Homer lay in the top bunk, presumably asleep, harder to read.

A woodpecker perched on the windowsill, pecking away like a jackhammer. When Finton stirred, the bird lifted its head and peered through the glass. They read each other's thoughts until Finton's gaze flickered and the woodpecker flitted away. Further afield, the crows were calling-and-answering while a soaring seagull cried out its misery. Underlying the cacophony were the peeping of a peppy chickadee and the nearby trilling of a joyous redbreast.

When he could no longer bear to lay still, Finton slipped out of bed and padded down the hall in his underwear. He crept outside and wandered to the far side of the house where the birds had congregated. He sat beneath the bedroom window, back against the wall, watching and listening, feeling as if they were singing for him—the universe in tune with his rising optimism.

For a long time, he sat there, pondering the magnificence of what lay before him.

Long before he arrived at any conclusions, he went back inside and got dressed. From beneath his mattress, he pulled a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. With the package tucked under his arm, he crept outside once again and meandered down the lane while birds in the branches of trees all around performed their orchestral tune, and the aged rooster cracked the air with its third raucous call. By now, the whole house would be waking up. But he was long gone from its oppressive gloom.

The further he strolled away from Moon's Lane, the lighter he became, the ebb-and-flow pain he'd endured for so long had finally receded to a low-level ache with which he could function. In a vain attempt to reconcile his pursuits and intentions over the past few months, he mulled over the faces and names he associated with certain moments. Most days had begun with the lethargic sense that his life was a lie, that his parents were imposters, that his family was not a family but a row of beads collected on a piece of fragile twine and named for something presumed to be holy. For many months, he'd endured high school, did his homework, attended mass dutifully—yes, sir—no, sir—kneel down, stand up—thank you, ma'am—bless me, father, for I have sinned. In no way did he invite scrutiny into the darkness of his heart. He ate his supper, said hardly a word, never caused trouble, talked to no one, didn't fit in.

Then he'd opened himself up—he went to the prom because Alicia asked him to, and then a version of hell broke loose right in front of him. For nearly two weeks, the questioning stares persisted. While he'd told no one of what he'd done for Bernard Crowley, the expectation of magic seemed ever present. The certainty that he would never have a moment's peace—the very concern that he would never have a life within the smothering confines of Darwin, Newfoundland—had become inescapable. It stared at him every time he looked into a mirror, or when he looked into the face of a friend or stranger that provided a mirror to his thoughts. The faces all said, “Get out while you can!” even while they, themselves, remained imprisoned by their fear of the unknown, their love of the familiar, or their natural acceptance of the
status quo
.

He went to see Skeet, and they hung out by the tall, swaying conifers at the far end of his parents' property. Skeet smoked, and Finton rubbed his eyes as he told his comrade of his plan to escape. “It's been good,” he said. “You've been a real friend.”

Skeet shrugged and said, “Ditto, buddy. Well, you come back now and then, all right? Remember where you was made.”

He was just about to get up when Skeet said, “If you're goin' for sure, I got something to say.” Finton assured him this was his last chance to make any dire confessions. He'd meant it jokingly, but Skeet turned serious. “I can't bring myself to say it out loud or say exactly what.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “But I been carrying around an awfully big secret for a really long time.”

“Don't torture yourself,” said Finton. “I know what you're gonna say.”

“You do?” Skeet appeared gobsmacked. “How?”

“After that night, you changed—at least for a while. You came back to yourself after a bit, but I could tell—somethin' was wrong. But I got to admit, no one's got a poker face like Skeet Stuckey.”

Skeet hung his head. “I couldn't tell anyone. I didn't want to go to jail.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No,” said Skeet. “We had a fight. I struck him on the side of his head.” To demonstrate, he leaned over and placed his powerful fist against Finton's temple. Finton could see how the copper ring on Skeet's middle finger could do some damage. “I mean, he was drunk as a skunk. So it was pretty easy. He said some stuff—mouthin' off about Dolly. ‘Nice tits on that young one,' he said. I told him to go home and sleep it off, but he kept at it. I finally got mad enough, and I clocked the old bugger. He fell down, but then he got up and he staggered off. But I gotta say he didn't look too good.” Skeet scratched his head as if piecing it all together for the first time. And maybe he was, since he'd likely never mentioned it to anyone else, including Dolly. He'd been just shy of thirteen at the time—big for his age, but little more than a scared kid. Until now, there was no one he could tell. Finton was glad to give him the chance, especially since Skeet had looked out for him since they were kids. “I didn't think I killed him,” Skeet said, “but I didn't want to go to jail either. When they accused your father, I felt bad, but I figured it would go away after a while… and it did.”

“It's okay, Skeet. It was a long time ago—and he had it comin'.”

Skeet nodded. “I know. But I don't forget stuff.”

“Why did you have to tell Mary about the crush I had on her?”

He hung his head and shook it slowly. “Two reasons,” he said. “One, I had to say something. I got myself crossed up—thought I wanted to tell somebody about Sawyer but I chickened out. Two…” He looked up and squinted. “I actually thought I'd be doin' you a favour.”

Finton thought of a couple of things he could say. That it didn't work out to be a favour. That things between him and Mary had never been the same after that. That, in some ways, Skeet had set him free from a lifetime of adoring someone he could never have. Perhaps he would never have left Darwin if he'd retained some hope, however illogical, that Mary would someday love him. “Maybe you did,” he said.

When Finton left him, Skeet was making one of the barn cats chase its own tail around in a circle. “You'll be all right,” he told Skeet, but in a low voice as he was walking away, so that his former best friend likely couldn't hear. He had no trouble imagining Skeet growing old in Darwin, settling for what he'd started with, getting into trouble, managing a gas station, and married to a big-chested woman like Dolly with an infinite string of youngsters following her to mass every Sunday morning while Skeet sneaked off to the tavern for a beer.

Mary Connelly was sitting on the front steps of the old red schoolhouse.

It never ceased to startle him how decrepit and sad the small building appeared, with its boarded windows and flaking paint, dried and neglected in the brutal Newfoundland weather. It was as if the front of the school was the face of a person who, day after day and year after year, had faced the tireless gale and finally regressed into a slouching, scarred version of its younger self. But the abandoned building didn't radiate resignation; with its flecks of red paint flapping like skin tags on its grey, wood siding, it appeared ready to rise up from its slumber and fulfill some long-delayed destiny.

He'd seen Mary from a distance and, for a while, denied it was even her. And yet, as he came closer, there she was—in a close-fitting pink t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. He hardly saw her anymore—not since prom night—and it startled him to realize how much she'd grown up. When had Mary sprouted breasts? He hadn't said so at the prom, but he liked her short hair. But when had her legs gotten so long and beautiful? They were thin, however, like Mary herself.

“Nice day,” he said, squinting against the sun.

“Sure is.” She smiled. It was a beautiful, freckled smile with slightly crooked teeth. “What are you doin' today?” She was playing haphazardly with a blade of grass, like emerald-jade velvet snaking around her fingers. Only once did her glance go towards the rectangular package in his hands.

“I'm leaving Darwin.”

She cocked her head as if trying to assess his truthfulness. “Going on a trip?”

“Going for good.”

For a moment, she fell blank and seemed lost in thought, but then her grin returned. “No, you're not. You knows you're never leaving Darwin, Finton Moon. You're a part of this place.”

“Well, I am.”

“I said you're not. I knows yer not.”

It was his turn to look at her—
really
notice the apprehension in her eyes, the insecurity in her playing with a blade of grass. In acknowledging the tremble in her voice, he realized he didn't know where her fear was coming from. She'd never loved him, so why should she care that he was going away?

“Well, I guess I'll just have to show you,” he said.

She stiffened her spine and sat upright, fingers still toying with the sliver of grass. The warm July breeze swept between them and kicked dust into their faces. When she swept an errant strand of hair from her eyes, pushing it behind her smallish ears, he thought she was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

“See you around, Mary.”

“Yeah,” she said. “See you—I mean—Finton?”

“Yeah?”

She stood up and approached him quickly, almost as if afraid of losing her nerve. With a firm hug and a sincere kiss on the cheek, she said, “Thank you.”

He didn't need to ask what for. Sure, he could have explained it to her—why he'd sat, unacknowledged, at her side for so long. But he could never say everything, and so he said nothing, just nodded and turned away.

Alicia was working in her parents' kitchen and saw him coming. She met him on the front step, propping the door ajar with her hip and wearing tattered, brown oven mitts. She squinted against the sun, compelled to raise a gloved hand to shield her eyes; most of her injuries, he noticed, had healed quite well, with only some scars to remind them both of that awful night. When he announced he was leaving, she simply said, “I know.”

“I brought you a present.” He handed her the package he'd been carrying, and she slowly removed the oven mitts, clamped them together and tucked them under her arm. When she'd ripped away the brown paper, she laughed. “
Great Expectations
?”

“You can finish reading those last fifty pages,” he said. “Or just read it again and keep the ending a mystery.”

She opened the front cover and, with a slight tremour in her voice, read what he'd inscribed: “To my friend, Alicia.”

“You should come with me,” he said.

“You're nuts, b'y. What would I do somewhere else—especially with someone who doesn't want a girlfriend?”

“The important thing is to get away, isn't it?”