Finton Moon (14 page)

“Do you know her much?” asked Mary.

“Not really,” said Finton. “She never speaks.”

“Well, neither do you—and you're okay.”

He beamed at the sound of her praise. “I think she's just shy.”

“She seems nice.” Mary lowered her voice. “But it's hard to tell when she keeps to herself.”

Finton swallowed hard. He didn't want to discuss Alicia Dredge. He would much rather talk about Mary and things pertaining to Mary, which included himself. “I'm sure she's nice,” he said. “She's the best looking one of the Dredges.”

“No contest there.” Mary laughed. “She
is
pretty.”

“Yeah, she sure is.” He felt his cheeks burn with the sudden realization that he'd been staring and gossiping. But those activities felt natural with Mary.

“Well, I gotta go,” she said, starting away. “It's been nice talking to you.”

“You too. See you Monday at school.”

As he watched Mary walk away, he also observed Alicia and wondered what her business in the library might be. Miss Patterson led her to a stack of books in the farthest corner of the library, behind a long, wooden shelf that comprised one wall of the children's section. She almost ran into Mary, who was taking a seat with her two friends. They exchanged words, but he couldn't say what they were. But as Alicia disappeared around the corner, Mary glanced up and observed her briefly.

Finton tried to sink back into
Great Expectations
. But he found himself reading the same lines repeatedly, gazing out at the raindrops splashing the pavement, and glancing around to see what either Mary or Alicia was doing. Gradually, however, he realized he had the adult section all to himself and shouldn't be so concerned with the activities of those who still inhabited the children's domain.

In his state of distraction, he turned a page of
Great Expectations
and immediately felt its edge slice his finger. He winced and dropped the book to the floor while he held his right index finger. He watched as blood seeped to the thin, white line that separated inside from outside. Blood accumulated around the wound and, eventually, trickled down the sides of his finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked on it, noting the salty, sweet flavour of his blood.

“Cut yourself?” While he wasn't looking, Alicia had entered the adult area.

Cheeks reddening, he pulled the finger from his mouth and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around it. “Yeah. No big deal.” When he unfurled his fingers and observed it again, the blood had stopped flowing and the cut was merely a fresh, white scar. Only the smeared blood on his fingers suggested there'd been an injury at all.

“Looks like a flesh wound,” she said, but before he could answer, she was peering over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his book.

“
Great Expectations
,” he said. “It's pretty good so far.”

“I still haven't read it all,” Alicia said. “I read nearly all of it in one week last summer and then got distracted with fifty pages left. Maybe you can tell me how it ends.”

“Sure.” He forced himself to look up at her and marveled at her large, bright eyes. “It might take me a while, but I'll let you know.”

She was about to walk away, but halted. When she turned around, he was still looking at her, assessing her as a person, both body and spirit—although, to him it meant appreciating both her slender waist and her pleasant personality. Alicia smiled. “I like people who read,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Nobody reads in Darwin.”

“Well,” he swallowed hard, unsure of his response. “We do.”

“Yes,” she said. “We do, don't we?”

After she'd gone, Finton was unable to focus on the book and could barely remember the lines he'd read. As he carried his novel to the counter to be stamped by Miss Patterson, he felt that his life had somehow changed. It wasn't just Alicia, Willow, and Mary, though; it was Charles Dickens, Anus Nine, and D.H. Lawrence. Because of meeting them all in this place, this one afternoon, he knew he'd never look at the world the same way again. As he was getting checked out, he waved at Mary. She nodded to him before returning to her conversation with Willow and Dolly. He saw Alicia in her corner, behind the bookcase, searching among the hardcover books with the olive green covers, and she smiled warmly at him.

Walking home, he stuck his hands in his pockets, supporting the book that he'd tucked under his jacket. He wondered if he could always stop himself from bleeding and how he could apply his skill to stopping the blood flow of others. Despite the fact that he'd always known what he could do, he'd never explored this strange ability to any great degree. Such a talent—and such nonchalance—was simply a part of being Finton Moon.

“Hey brudder!” a voice yelled at him, and he recognized it as Homer's. He glanced up to see his older brother dashing by on his black banana bike, waving and grinning as he left Finton far behind.

The Sunday Dead

“Now don't you tell yer mother where we were.” With a careless hand, Tom wiped the foam from his unshaven chin, making a sound like buttering toast, and clunking the empty brown bottle onto the bar.

Finton struggled to keep up as they strode to the tavern door; the boy's legs were short, and his father walked fast. Even at twelve, it was obvious that Finton's growth was stunted, despite his father being nearly six feet tall. In lowered voices he sometimes overheard, it was often suggested that perhaps a fall on one's head at birth could cause height deficiency. Both of his brothers were strapping young men with strong chests and lean, muscular arms, and they had sprouted up like trees. Finton was a disappointment, not only for his diminutive stature, but because his primary pleasure was reading, and he went to mass without complaining. The damning part was that he wasn't ashamed to be seen carrying a book that was not homework related or going to church early on a Sunday morning. People were beginning to gossip that the youngest Moon was a little strange.

Lately, however, Finton's faith had been wavering. Nanny Moon often chastised Finton's brothers for their poor behaviour and bad grades by holding Finton up as an example—a sacrificial lamb, innocent and obedient. Only vaguely did he sense that something between him and them was lost in such a distinction, and he felt increasingly foolish even going to mass.

“Why can't you be more like Finton?” Nanny Moon would ask, glowering at Homer and glancing towards Finton. He would sit on the sofa in his brown corduroys and starched white shirt, buttoned tight to his Adam's apple, and his hands clasped prayerfully on his lap. He didn't mind the pain of the collar; the suffering made him feel good and pure. The pain reassured him he was still breathing, that the moment was worthwhile. As a good Catholic boy, he believed absolutely in the cleansing power of pain. When Finton was at his best, it hurt to be him.

“Finton's gonna be a priest,” Nanny Moon would practically sing. Then she would look at Finton appraisingly. Sometimes he had the feeling that his grandmother disapproved of him, as she always seemed to be castigating him. But she had asked him once at supper what he was going to be when he grew up. Seizing an opportunity to distinguish himself, he had responded with what she most wanted to hear and would gain him the most favour, if not a firm place in either her heart or this family. “Isn't that what you said, Finton? That you'd like to be called to holy orders someday?”

As he got ready to be taken to church by his father that morning, Finton had been queried in the usual way, responding only with a slow nod of his head, as if doubting the exact terms of what he was agreeing to. Orders were orders, and he was not fond of restrictions. Also, he had been experiencing particular misgivings ever since Miss Bridie rose from the dead and Father Power had warned him against believing in what he knew was true. And, just recently, Miss Bridie had threatened to bust his entire world wide open. Today, more than anything—especially since the library was closed—he just wanted to go hunting for Sawyer.

“Priests are good,” said Nanny Moon, though Finton thought she said, “Priests are God,” which is likely what she really meant. It was sort of what Finton believed too. Priests never did anyone harm. They always smiled and blessed your father with a handshake and sent an acknowledging nod towards your mother. When he came to your house for “visitations” your mother scrubbed the floors, told your father to straighten up, and borrowed five dollars from the grocery money to give to the church. Finton liked the idea of being someone who was always treated well, treated others kindly, and would certainly go to heaven. He wanted to be someone his parents would accept and, if possible, respect. Being a priest had its obvious advantages, he thought, even as he chased his father through the tavern after mass.

Because the pub and the church shared the same large parking lot, it was sometimes convenient for his father to visit the bar while the boy attended the sermon —particularly on those occasions when Elsie and the two eldest boys had gone the night before. While Finton preferred the Sunday mass because it coincided with Mary's attendance, the hour-long service also provided an opportunity for Tom to regale his buddies with a joke or two. Mass being over, Finton had entered the tavern in time to hear one of his father's “blaggardly” punch lines, as his wife often called them.

Accepting the signal, Tom finished his Black Horse, wiped his chin and plunked the stubby brown bottle down on the bar. Several of the patrons—including the lone female, a young blonde, who'd been sitting on Tom's knee when the boy came in—cursed and told him not to be so foolish. “Whipped, b'y,” said Phonse Dredge with a wink and a scratch of his bearded chin. “Lettin' the little woman get the best o' ya.”

Tom only nodded. “You knows better than that.” He headed across the floor and pushed open the door, flooding the barroom with daylight and provoking shouts of “Close the goddamn door!” He didn't wait for Finton, for he subscribed to the laws of the jungle which stated that if the boy was meant to go home with him, he would be able to keep up. For the most part, he did keep up. But on those rare occasions when Finton wandered from the herd, no one ever went back for him. “He should at least be smart enough to know where he's fed,” Tom said at such moments, and Elsie would suggest that they at least call the store where they had left him.

“Don't tell your mother,” Tom said, smacking his lips and slamming the car door on the driver's side. When Finton climbed in and the car was started, he quizzed the boy: “Now what was the sermon about—in case she asks?”

Finton sighed and looked out the passenger window at the cold rain that was beginning to plop from the suddenly dark sky. “God and the devil. Your breath smells like beer, Dad.”

“And?”

“And—” a prolonged sigh of boredom ensued as he picked at the discoloured white wool that sprouted from the hole in the blue vinyl car seat “—there's wicked people in the world and the church needs more money to carry out God's word.”

“And what kinds of wicked people?” Tom had not yet started the engine, but was staring ahead through the windshield. Raindrops mixed with snow plopped on the curved glass. People were beginning to scurry to their cars, missals and umbrellas over their heads, collars pulled up and hands clutching their lapels. “It's over.” Turning the key, he brought the engine to life and shifted the gear stick to the red “D,” then blew on his fingers and rubbed them together before he turned the wipers on.

The blade on Finton's side swept across the great plane of glass, like a giant hand wiping out an entire village in one swoop. “Liars and blasphemers and people that don't go to mass.”

His father chuckled softly as he eased the Valiant onto the road. “Lovely, b'y, lovely. You tells a good story, like yours truly.” He reached over and patted Finton's back, giving the boy a queer feeling. “Loves yer old man, don't ya?”

Smelling the yeast and cigarettes on his father's breath, he was tempted to say that God don't love drunks, smokers, and people who skip mass, but he only said, “Yeah.”

“Dad's boy, aren't ya, Finton?”

“Yes.”

“Who's boy are ya?”

“Dad's.” With the Valiant cruising slowly, Finton gazed out the window at all the families—the complete sets which came with father and mother holding hands and four or five children of varying sizes. He often saw families in church that he wished he belonged to. There were days, admittedly, when he wasn't sure at all whose boy he was. That very thought drifted through his mind just before he saw the Connelly clan scampering towards their car. He'd been disappointed at not being seen by Mary this morning, especially after the incident at the library, and now he watched her and her family with fascination and longing.

“Good boy.” With yellow-stained fingers, Tom tousled Finton's dark hair. “And if Mom asks where we were, you say…”