Finton Moon (12 page)

“What do
you
want?” She did not demand so much as inquire disinterestedly.

Barely able to breathe, Finton spoke sporadically, in short sentences. “Don't know if you know me.” She stared at him. “Finton Moon,” he said.

He looked past her uncertainly and into the dark house.

“Tom's boy.” When she spoke, it was the same futile sound like deadened air an accordion makes when it squeezes shut without fingers holding down the buttons. Her words came heavy and slow. “He's a good man, that Tom.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you like him or your mudder?”

Finton chose the answer he knew would gain him entry. “Mostly father.” He felt guilty about having to choose, so he added, “I got Mom's height.”

She appraised him up and down, then turned and hobbled back into the house. “Yer mudder haven't had an easy—” she breathed with difficulty, holding onto her side where he knew she'd been stabbed “—life.” She sat at the kitchen table. Assuming he was expected to follow, Finton reluctantly closed the door and took a seat.

The table was large, pure Newfoundland pine, painted chocolate brown to match the chairs. A steaming, brown teapot sat in the middle of the table. There were two cups and saucers, as well as two plates, and everything seemed coated in a layer of fine dust. She reached for the pot and poured for them both. “Drop o' tea—good for what ails ya.”

He thanked her even as he watched the leaves floating at the top. He asked for milk and sugar, but she laughed and said she liked it black. “It'll clear ya out better.”

Finton didn't really think he needed to be cleared out and certainly didn't crave anything that would perform that task.

“Why'd you come?” she asked after she'd poured the tea.

Finton shrugged, unable to find the words to explain that everything seemed crazy and that he had seen her in a dream last night.

She blinked as if refocusing and, in that moment, he became absolutely enthralled with her eyes, how much lovelier they were than the rest of her. “I was expecting you.” Taking advantage of the long silence, he lifted the cup to his face. When he saw all the unsavoury green things floating around in it, he pretended it was too hot.

“Do you know what happened to Sawyer?” he asked.

While she slurped from her tea, he looked around for signs of both humanity and monstrosity. His gaze lit upon a recently dusted object that was set in the middle of a white doily atop a chocolate brown hutch with glass doors: a black-and-white picture in a plain wooden frame. In an old-fashioned, knee-length dress that looked to be her Sunday best, her light hair coiffed to be nearly glamorous, the face of the slim, but sturdy, young woman in the photo shone with the splendour of innocence. Glancing from the woman before him to the one in the picture, he satisfied himself that they were one and the same. Due to the ravages of time and neglect, they didn't look much alike, but there was enough similarity in the length of hair, those dark eyes that even then were slightly troubled, and a thin, pointed nose that Finton was certain of the relationship between past and present. The only difference was that the eyes of the younger woman were even more full of life, the nose not so prominent, and the hair, while untamable, had been subjected to an attempt at styling.

“'Course I do.” As he listened to the wheezing of the house, he realized there was no clock ticking. Nor was Miss Bridie wearing a watch or any jewelry, except for a silver chain that disappeared down the front of her dress. Her eyes had followed his, and she fished it out for him to see. “It's a little crucifix.” She displayed it for only a couple of seconds before returning it to its safe place. “Gordie gave me that when he brung me here. Same year he left me here, just meself and Morgan.”

Finton watched a black fly—unnatural for this time of year—climb out of his tea and onto a tea leaf. Empathy tugged at him, but he wasn't about to rescue it or drink the tea. “I never knew you had a husband.”

“Not me husband, b'y. Almost, but not quite.” Her eyes flickered with emotion, which she seemed anxious to smother. “Drink yer tea like a good boy.”

Finton watched the fly still trying to conquer the leaf, which kept floating away from the drowning insect. “I'm not allowed to drink tea.” Unable to stand the guilt any longer, he finally reached into the cup and used his index finger to push the leaf towards the fly, allowing the tiny beast to save itself.

Miss Bridie sighed. “Wasteful child. What grade are ya in?”

“Eight.” Despite himself, he couldn't help letting his eyes wander over to the picture beside her. Bridie, he decided, had been an attractive young woman. But his brain had difficulty bridging the gap between Beautiful Young Bridie and Plain Old Bridie. It was as if they were two different people with a common ancestry.

“Smallest one, I s'pose.”

“I'm bigger than some people.”

She smiled thinly without showing teeth; he could tell by the unyielding cracks at the corners of her lips that she didn't often smile.

“Gordie wasn't right,” she said. Finton felt as if he was watching one of those Japanese movies where the dialogue is a sentence or two behind the action. The effect was enhanced by the fact that he kept stealing looks at the old photograph, even while she was talking to him. “I'm prob'ly better off without 'im. But dis is not me home. I was practically a girl when he brung me here, then he knocked me up and left me. Drowned.” Her eyes shimmered as she nodded at the painted window. “Went off the road one night down by the fairgrounds. Dark ol' stretch, I tell ya. He was there half the night before someone found him.” Miss Bridie sighed, rubbing her legs as if she were suddenly chilled. “Now here I am, forty-one years old, never married, a crazy daughter, and—”

“Where'd you come from?”

She grew thoughtful for a moment and stared at him, her gaze landing somewhere just beyond him. It was then that he realized what bothered him most about Miss Bridie: even though she was right there with him, she always seemed to be somewhere else.

“My people are from the down the Shore,” she said. “That's where I was when Gordie came puttin' in the road. Mudder told 'im we already had a road, but they said that was only a cow path and the government sent 'im to widen the cow path and make it a real road for cars.” She seemed to resist smiling and clucked her tongue instead. “We didn't have no cars, sure. Didn't know what a car was.”

She talked at length about horses and buggies, and long, long walks through the knee-deep snow until Finton became bored and restless.

Nanny Moon was from the Shore as well and often told similar tales. “Gordie knew I was interested in his truck, so he took me for a ride one morning.” She halted abruptly and sat straight up in her chair. “Drink yer tea, b'y, before it gets cold as the devil's tit.”

Finton heard the smooth hum of a pickup as it zipped along the road in front of the house, but he couldn't see through the painted windows. “Where'd you go?”

She looked straight at him with her luminous eyes.

“A place I'd never been,” she said. “Lotta miles away—too far. I never told me mom. But she found out. And now here I am. Dead boyfriend that woulda been me husband. A daughter in the mental, another took, and a burnt-out home in a place where ever'one thinks I'm a witch.” Finton's eyes grew wide; he nearly lost his breath. Miss Bridie smiled without opening her mouth. “You think I don't know what you and your friends say about me when yer out on that road?”

“I never said nudding, Miss Bridie. Some people did, but I never.”

She stood up and walked over to the stove, muttering mostly to herself. “If they don't like the look of ya, they judges ya not fit, the unchristly sons o' bitches.” Finton watched nervously as she plucked a piece of driftwood from the meagre pile beside the stove and held it over the bright, licking flames that nearly singed her arms. He felt the heat from where he sat and couldn't take his eyes off the flames or the stick.

“I gotta go.”

She chuckled softly. “Good luck in that.”

The door was jammed tight, too large for its frame.

“Ya gotta pull real hard, b'y.”

He did. He tried using both hands, with his feet planted on the wet floor.

She laughed—a throaty, hoarse sound—as if she enjoyed his terror. “Ya'll tell your friends I tried to put you in the stove, I s'pose.” She tossed the wood onto the flames, and orange sparks crackled gleefully upward. She shuffled over to Finton and took his chin in one of her leathery hands. He smelled lye.

“No, ma'am. Promise. But I gotta go now. Mom said for me not to stay long.”

She squeezed his chin, smiled briefly, then released him. “Go on then. Get home.” She took a step back and laughed. “Don't ya wanna hear about yer second cousin Sawyer? Don't ya wanna hear what happened to 'im?”

Again, his eyes grew wide.

“Oh, they didn't tell you that part. Never knew you wuz related, did ya?”

“I don't care.”

“Oh, I think you do.” She stood up straight, hands planted on her hips, no longer paying attention to the knife. “His mother was a Crowley that married a Moon—long time ago. And that Moon's brother was your grandfather Ned. See? So you're not only related to Sawyer, but to the Crowleys too.”

“No, I'm not!”

“Yes, b'y. And I'd say you're dyin' to know what the old witch knows. I can tell… and she do know stuff. She really do. And she'll tell ya some more stories that'll break yer perfect little heart if ya'll give her a kiss and a hug.”

Finton couldn't move. He thought he might pee in his pants.

“Come on, b'y. Wha's wrong with ya?” She smacked her lips mischievously.

“Un-unh. Let go o' me.” Finton wriggled free and wrenched the door open with a two-handed tug of the rusty door knob.

Miss Bridie sighed and clamped a hand to her left side—a reminder of the night he wasn't even sure had really happened. “Go on then. Guess ya don't care if he's dead or alive… or how it involves yer father. I knows more about your father than any one of ye, I do. Stuff I'm sure you'd like to know. Stuff about you too, sure.”

Finton wheeled around and peered into her eyes, transfixed by the humanity peeking out from the madness.

“Oh yes,” she said. “There's lots you don't know about folks 'round 'ere. Small places got the biggest secrets.” She ambled to her seat at the table and wrapped her hands around the tea mug. “Yup. Lots to know. Where do people go, you must wonder,” she said, mostly to herself. “And where do everyone come from?” She appeared to lose interest in her captive audience and commenced gazing out the window. “I wasn't always like ya see me today. I used to be good-lookin' once. Yer father thought so. Still do, I s'pose, in spite of it all.” She coughed and stared at the crackling stove, her back turned so that he couldn't see her face.

Finton edged towards the table, maintaining a distance. “What about Dad?”

She glanced sharply towards him, though not right at him. “No kiss nor hug, no information.” She patted her lips with two fingers—the same two that had just been fishing down the front of her dress—and then spread her arms wide to embrace him.

No
, Finton thought.
Nothing is worth that.
But who would know if he kissed the old hag? Surely she wouldn't tell anyone. She had no friends.

“Thinkin', are ya? Well, don't think too long. On second thought, I don't think I'll tell ya anyway. You don't seem like ya wants to know.”

“I do.” Finton scrambled forward, closed his eyes and thrust his lips towards her. He waited. Then he heard her cackle as if she was in on a private joke. Thinking he was safe, he just opened his eyes in time to see her pale cheek press against his lips.
Chalk that was in the freezer for a month.
She set her hands upon his shoulders to draw him in, but he only touched her arms and drew aside to avoid capture. Dizzy, he steadied himself by grasping the back of a chair. “So tell me.”

She smiled. “Tell ya what?”

“About Sawyer and Dad.” His voice trembled. “The secret stuff.”

“Nudding to tell.” She sipped her tea and fell quiet, her lips formed a mocking grin. “Yer a fine kisser, though.”

“Shut up!” he shouted, and he kicked the table, spilling her tea and washing the black fly onto the floor where it struggled to lift off. After a few seconds of broken-hearted wing-flapping, it seemed to solidify and congeal, becoming as one with the sticky liquid that surrounded it.

“Watch yerself,” she said calmly, sitting up straight.

“
You
watch yourself. You tricked me. You're not s'posed to tell lies. My mother told me that.”

“Yer mother, eh?” She sighed patiently and gazed out the window. “You don't wanna know what I know.” She glanced to his left. “Yer too young.”

“Tell me.”

She eyed him suspiciously, looking as if she was withholding much more than she was about to tell. “Sawyer's waitin' for ya.”

“How do you know?” He sat down, feeling dizzy again.

“I just know.”

“But how?”

She paused. “Ever think about a song and then it comes on the radio?”

Finton nodded. “So?”

“That's how I know.” She tapped the centre of her forehead. “Ya don't have to believe me. But it's true.” She looked out the window as if seeing beyond her garden of death and decay. “Face down and cold as the grave.”

“Stop,” said Finton, suddenly standing. “Don't talk about it no more.” Not only did the details remind him of his disturbing vision, but the look on her face was frightening. Her eyes had narrowed into dark slits, her face both hard and inhuman.

“Yer father,” she said, suddenly straightening, shaking her head, and remembering where she was. “Yer father can tell you the rest. Maybe someday.”