Finton Moon (10 page)

In bed that night, Finton couldn't take his eyes off the picture of Jesus exposing his bleeding heart, looking so weak and tired. “Mom!” he called out. “Mom!”

Elsie Moon came running as fast as she could. “What is it, b'y?”

“Nudding,” Finton said, regretting that there was nothing his mother could do to save him. “I was just wonderin' about something.”

She sat down on the bed, one hand shutting the flaps of her tattered robe.

“Do the devil got stronger powers than Jesus?” he asked.

“Of course not. Everyone knows Jesus is stronger than the devil.”

“But why is Jesus stronger than the devil?”

“'Cause Jesus is the son of God, that's why.”

“Then what's the devil?”

“He's NOT the son of God. He's just someone who thought he knew better than God, and one day challenged God, and God kicked him out of heaven and he landed on Earth.”

Finton frowned. “Why would God send the devil down to Earth with us? I thought he was s'posed to be in hell where the bad people goes.”

“He is, Finton. Now will ya stop asking so many questions.”

“I can't go to sleep with Jesus lookin' at me like that.”

“Jesus is there to protect you.”

“But he can't protect me if he's lookin' so tired with his heart hangin' out all over himself. Jus' look.” He pointed at the picture, and his mother regarded it for a long time.

“You just have to trust in Him, Finton.”

“Even though He don't look like He could lift a pail o' water to save Hisself?”

“Looks are deceiving. Put your faith in Jesus, and He'll never let ya down. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good boy.” She reached for the light switch.

“Don't!”

“Don't be so cowardly, Finton. I thought you were big now.”

“I am. But the devil is bigger, I'spose.”

With a withering smile, she flicked off the light, leaving him in the dark, where he waited half the night for the devil to steal to his window, crawl in through the cracks and take him away from his family.

The next morning when the rooster crowed, he wondered if his father had come home last night. Finton had been awake until four a.m., listening for a sign of Tom's return. Life in Darwin had changed, as if a long, wide shadow had been cast upon all their houses from some horrible monster that had come from the sky.

Dreams of the Lost

(1972)

For a long time, nothing seemed any different. Mary remained distant, though Finton sometimes went out of his way to wish her a good morning or say “See ya!” at the end of a school day. Skeet kept getting into trouble, with or without Finton at his side. Someone broke into the snack bar one Sunday night, and all they took was a carton of cigarettes, a box of Crispy Crunch bars and another of red licorice. The RCMP had parked outside of the Stuckey house Monday morning and stayed a long time. Furthermore, Skeet didn't show up at school that day or the next, but, for a week afterwards, he seemed to have an endless supply of cigarettes and red licorice, which he willingly shared.

Tom went to Taylor's Garage every weekday, and spent most weekends working on cars, drinking beer, napping occasionally, and going for drives on Sunday afternoons. Finton didn't go along for the tour anymore. He'd begun craving his independence and was more likely to walk five miles than to ask his parents for a ride.

Elsie spent her days scrubbing floors, washing clothes, baking bread, and keeping the house tidy. She always seemed tired and yet never took a day off. Finton would observe her relentless cleaning from some corner of the house or the yard, wondering how she found the energy. Most times, though, he just wondered why.

Nanny Moon continued her vigilance over the family, usually from the rocking chair in the kitchen, reading her Bible and commenting with sage disapproval on the state of the world. Sometimes she could be heard after supper, kneeling at her bedside, imploring the Lord to forgive her family's sins. After surviving Grade Eleven, Clancy had enrolled in a mechanics course at the trades school, but Nanny Moon still treated him like an impudent child and, once in a while, ordered him to be respectful to his mother, much as she'd recently warned him about his need to root for the “Godless Russians” when they played Team Canada. She would also advise Homer, who likewise struggled in school, to wash his hands before eating or to say his prayers before bed.

It was a rare occasion when she needed to admonish the youngest Moon, who was always respectful and said his prayers nightly. Once in a while, though, he would express an opinion that gave Nanny Moon concern. In Catechism class one day, the teacher had told them the story in Matthew's gospel in which Jesus had said, “Don't be like the hypocrites who love to stand in the synagogues and on the street corners so that they will be seen by people.” When the teacher asked what the parable meant, Finton raised his hand and said, “That we shouldn't go to mass or pray where people can see us.” The teacher tut-tutted and told him the Bible would never say that. “But what's the point?” Finton asked. “We should just pray to ourselves and not show off. Shouldn't we?” The teacher explained that he should do both, but Finton insisted: being seen as holy wasn't all that important, at least not to God. When he repeated the incident at the supper table that evening, Nanny Moon looked at Elsie and said, “You're gonna have trouble with that one, and we all knows why.” The words stung, and Finton continued to argue the point, but there was no getting around the fact that his mother and grandmother wanted him to go to mass, regardless of what the Bible appeared to say.

While Finton remained a small, freckled boy with a crescent-shaped scar under his left eye, the other two boys were growing up fast. Their increasing maturity was too quick for Finton because it seemed he would never catch up. At seventeen, Clancy bought his first car—a red 1963 Galaxy that mostly sat in disrepair in the front yard while he played at fixing it up. But mostly the eldest boy used it as a place to sit with girls at night and listen to the Top Ten. Homer often said, “The only working part on that car is the radio.” But that was enough for Clancy, since his three great loves were cars, girls, and music, his favourite bands being KISS and Black Sabbath.

Homer, on the other hand, had taken to building houses with a local contractor. The homesteader of the family, he wanted everyone to be together on Saturday nights, preferably watching hockey and munching homemade popcorn. Except for Finton, everyone in the house was a Toronto Maple Leafs fan and, while the youngest Moon's allegiance to an American team was irksome, Homer truly only cared that the family did something as a unit. He was a good-looking fifteenyear-old who'd already had a string of girlfriends, each of whom was a bit on the hard side and intimidating to Finton. Recently, though, Homer had taken to his bedroom a lot, where he would play his Rush and Trooper records so loud that everyone else in the house had to shout to be heard. When their father stomped into the bedroom and bellowed, “Turn it down!” Homer would comply, but gradually unleash the volume as the evening went on. As the bass and drums thrummed in his head, Finton figured something was wrong with his older brother.

At twelve, Finton struggled to maintain a sense of self-assurance among this testosterone-heavy bunch. His individuality wasn't in question, since people knew him as “the strange one” of the hilltopdwelling Moons. He was the one who spent most of his time with his nose between the pages of a book or wandering around solo, showing little interest in girls or people in general. When he wasn't in school or in church, he often found himself alone, either on the shore or in the woods, or sometimes lying in a tree branch watching the world go by. He barely slept at night for worrying about his teams, preferring instead to lie awake listening to Bruins or Expos games through the earplug on his transistor radio. When he did sleep, he dreamed about things he wished would leave him alone—of yellow-eyed wolves chasing him through a predawn forest, of hormonal girls who ran after him, begging a kiss, and various townspeople who wanted to hug him. In order to escape their clutches, the dreams always ended in some sort of falling.

Sundays, he attended mass at 9 a.m., even though other members of the family chose to go Saturday night or later on Sunday. Nine o'clock was when Mary Connelly and her family went to mass, and Finton would sit somewhere behind her. He rarely allowed himself to peek in Mary's direction, as he preferred to dole out such moments as rewards for his self-restraint. The best view he had of her delicate, small frame was when everyone was either rising, sitting down, or starting to kneel. She would turn her head as she tugged the hem of her skirt to keep it from getting tangled, giving him a sacred few seconds to gaze at her with longing. His admiration for Mary was a secret, however, for he would be mortified if anyone knew he went to mass just to see her dressed up.

Everyone thought he attended mass early and often because of his sincere devotion to the teachings of the church. It seemed a foregone conclusion among family members that he would someday become a priest. And, truthfully, Finton didn't mind going to mass. It was quiet there. He liked the singing, particularly on special occasions when a few kids from the high school choir played their instruments and sang hymns in a country and western style. He thought mass should be fun, but it usually wasn't, mostly because he hated being told what to do. The constant sitting, kneeling, and standing on cue, along with the recitations, left him feeling like a trained, and slightly confused, monkey. But it was the only hour of the week when he could watch Mary as she whispered the prayers and sang along with each hymn. The parting of her lips and the quavering of her throat with every note was mesmerizing, and he gladly endured mass just to be in Mary's company. Besides that, his mother insisted on his attendance, and there would be no arguing the point. But, if he were to tell the truth, Finton did not enjoy mass nearly so much as the holy feeling he got from having been there.

One Sunday morning, just past the Darwin fairgrounds, they saw Phonse Dredge, strolling along, dressed as if he were going to church. “Strange to see Phonse walkin',” Tom said, as if to himself. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Looks like you needs a ride, me buddy. Hop in.” Phonse seemed to think nothing of it as he didn't look surprised, just opened the car door and, with a grunt of exertion, climbed into the back seat. “Lovely day,” he said, and so the conversation went—normal, yet strange, considering Phonse had his own car and rarely went to mass.

“Wife's not too happy with me,” he said.

“Did you say where you were goin'?” Tom glanced into the rearview mirror.

“B'y, she knows. I can say what I like, but she always knows.”

As Phonse was speaking, and Finton was wishing they hadn't picked him up, they passed by Bilch's, then a little further on, a pathway on the left where Sawyer Moon was just coming out of the woods, wearing his familiar khaki green Army jacket and baggy, brown trousers. Tom blew his horn and started to slow down. Sawyer raised his hand in greeting, but Phonse said, “Don't you stop for the like o' that.”

“Why?” asked Tom. “What's he after doin' now?” But he kept going and soon the slouching figure had faded from view.

“Oh, if only you knew,” Phonse said as they rounded a bend. “I knows you're friends 'n all, but he's a dirty blaggard, that one.”

Tom peered with narrowed eyes into the rearview mirror and held Phonse's gaze. “Speak plain, b'y.”

“You mean you never heard what he does? Oh, my son, he's vile. He's after the young ones, ya know. Not just the girls, but the boys too.” Phonse fell silent for a moment. “Your own, sure.”

“What are ya talkin' about, Phonse? What about me own?”

“I'll tell ya about it when we gets there. But not while he's here.”

A deep, troubling silence settled over the car, and Tom, in particular, seemed to grip the wheel more tightly and didn't speak again until, a few minutes later, they pulled in front of the church and were parked in their usual spot, halfway between the church and the tavern. “You go on in,” he told Finton, “You knows where I'll be.”

Finton went to mass, but all through the service, even the stunning sight of Mary Connelly in a short, yellow dress couldn't distract him from thinking about Phonse's words and his father's quiet anger in response.

That night, Finton went to bed his usual time. His father had gone out after supper and, while it was past ten o'clock, he hadn't returned. Finton fell asleep quickly and dreamed he saw a man in the woods, encrusted in ice, lying face down in the marsh. His eyes were open and staring, his mouth forming words that Finton couldn't decipher. In the dream, Finton waded through bog that was filled with floating chunks of ice. With every step toward the fallen man, Finton sunk deeper into the marsh, fearing the man would drown if he didn't reach him soon. As he slogged closer and felt the ground give way beneath him, he sank to his neck in frigid water. He gazed, shivering, into the eyes of the man. “You shouldn't run away,” Finton told him, and the man's face dissolved and reformed as Sawyer Moon's. Finton, meanwhile, was sucked deeper into the muck. When he awoke, he was curled in a fetal position, arms clenched around his body, tight to his chest. He'd awakened in the midst of praying a “Hail Mary.”