Finton Moon (17 page)

“What can I do you for you, officers?” He leaned one arm against the stove, standing across from Finton and smelling like beer.

“We're looking for clues regarding Sawyer Moon.” Futterman tightened the grip on his hat as he spun it around in his hands. “Just asking around to all your neighbours.”

“And all over town,” Kieran added.

“Routine, eh?” Tom fished in his pocket for his lighter at the same time that he lifted a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and squeezed a smoke from the package and into his mouth. He had the cigarette lit and a ring of smoke blown across the kitchen before they even had a chance to reply.

“No,” said Futterman. “Nothin' routine about it. A man is dead, and no one seems to know how he got to his final resting place. But everyone knows he was a friend of yours.”

“I'm a popular fella.” Tom squinted like Clint Eastwood in
Dirty Harry
, one of the movies he and Finton had watched on
Academy Performance
last summer. “Got an awful lot o' friends.”

“That's what we hear,” said the younger one.

“Been asking around about me, have ya?”

“We're not jumping to conclusions,” Futterman said. “But we've heard things.”

Kieran coughed and cleared his throat. “Is it true you and Sawyer had an argument on the same night he disappeared?”

Tom's demeanour shifted slightly. He practically became Clint, exuding that same squint and careless swagger in his voice. “Who said that? What lousy prick is talkin' about me behind my back?”

“Can't tell you that,” said Kieran “But is it true?”

“We had a few words.” Tom spit on the stovetop, his spittle performing a little dance on the iron black top. “But it never amounted to much.” Finton observed that his father's lips were wrapped a tad tightly around that cigarette.

Futterman nodded thoughtfully. “What did you argue about?”

Tom reached across the table and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “Just some stuff I heard about 'im. We'll just leave it at that.”

“You know we can't do that, Tom.”

“Look, I heard he was diddlin' some youngsters, okay?” Tom stared ahead at the wall, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“One o' yours?”

Tom hesitated, glanced at Finton, then Homer, and finally just sighed. “He said he never done it. I didn't know what to believe. I shoved him a bit and said if I ever caught him doin' the like, I'd come after him.”

Again, Kieran coughed. “You actually said you'd kill him, didn't you?”

“Sure,” said Tom, “I said it. But that don't mean I'd do it. I only tried to scare him, but that was all. I never had nudding else to do with him after that. Ask anyone.”

“That's the problem,” said Futterman. “There's no one to ask. A few people saw you arguing, and they never saw Sawyer again.”

“So you're accusing me without evidence.”

“If there was more evidence, we wouldn't be allowed to share it, Tom.” Futterman sniffed, glanced at the floor, then met Tom's gaze.

“It could taint the case.” Tom swept a hand through his hair as a cold draught seemed to sift through the kitchen. In fact, to Finton, it felt as if the entire house shuddered. “Case?”

“If there's a trial—you know, after the coroner's report.”

“Sounds like ya know what you're lookin' for. Just haven't found it yet.”

“Not necessarily,” said Kieran.

“But we couldn't tell you anyways.” Futterman scowled as he folded his arms across his sizable chest.

“No, I don't suppose you could.” Sticking one hand in his pocket and gesticulating with the one holding the cigarette, Tom's nervous habits seemed to be getting the better of him.

“I don't feel so good,” Finton said. While everyone was looking at Finton and politely asking if he was okay, he threw up on Kieran's shiny black shoe, causing him to curse mildly and whip out a handkerchief.

“I'll get the mop.” Elsie said as she rushed to the porch.

“I'd better put him to bed.” Tom placed a warm hand, the one still holding the cigarette between its nicotine-stained fingers, at the back of Finton's neck.

While Finton was still marveling at his ability to vomit on command, both the officers and the parents mumbled their most sincere apologies and mutually agreed that now was a good time to end the inquisition. There were other houses to go to, other leads—“or lack thereof,” as Futterman added—to pursue.

When they had finally gone and Finton was tucked into bed, amazed that he now had a fever to go with his vomiting, his mother kissed his forehead while Tom observed from the bedroom doorway. Their eyes met each other's, but silence remained their chosen form of communication. Finton's mind wandered to that Sunday morning when they'd passed Sawyer as he was emerging from the woods.
I'll tell ya about it when we gets there. But not while he's here
, Phonse had said. Finton could only wonder what his father was thinking when he turned his back and left.

Listening to Tom's grim shuffle down the hallway, Finton imagined what it would be like to have a father in prison. He could picture it. Unshaven and scraping a tin cup across the bars, black-and-white stripes on his pajamas, calling out for the warden and yelling, “I was framed! It was the kid, I tell you! Get the kid!”

Finton shut his eyes and listened to the rain pattering on the roof.

Finton Moon Lassos Moon

He had something to give her, but she was rarely alone, and he dreaded the thought of being a spectacle.

Everywhere he went, he thought about Mary. Weekday mornings on the school bus, she sat by the window, five rows down, near the window and next to Dolly. Finton sat behind her, watching her reflection in the glass; sometimes, he'd grip the back of her seat so that a strand of her hair might graze his hands. Saturdays at the library, he kept an eye on the door in case she came in. Sunday mornings, he'd attend the early mass because she would be there. In the evenings, he would pretend to need something at the store just so he could wander past her house, gaze up at her bedroom window and imagine what she was doing—braiding her sister's hair, gossiping about boys, doing homework, or watching TV with her family.

Every day, from his desk in the corner, he would watch her. Mary's desk assumed the centre of the room and, while the teacher addressed the class, she and her crowd would exchange notes and giggles. Sometimes they'd chew gum, then plant it under the desktop behind Mary's, which was occupied by Alicia Dredge.

The last day before the Christmas holidays, the mood bordered on hysteria. Somehow, though, Alicia seemed outside of it all. Mary and her friends were the hub of the commotion as the teachers went through the motions of checking homework, asking questions, and writing on the blackboard. Some students feigned interest as they jotted a few notes and laughed extra hard at the teacher's jokes. But no one forgot, even for a second, that Christmas began at noon. Fourteen days of freedom and fun in the snow.

Finton was worried.

It wouldn't be a normal Christmas, even by Moon standards. There would be extra food, such as apples and oranges, but no pantryful of groceries like other families had. And yet it was a special time because the apples would be five-pointed and the oranges extra large, with a variety of cookies and a bucket of hard candy from the States.

Christmas Eve, his father would get drunk. Partway through putting up the tree, Tom would get angry because the lights wouldn't work, and he would take it out on the tree or yell at Elsie or one of the youngsters, usually Finton. Late evening, he would leave the house in search of someone to get drunk with, Phonse Dredge being the likely candidate, leaving Elsie and the boys to decorate the tree. The two older ones sometimes went out with friends while Finton watched
It's A Wonderful Life
. He'd seen it two Christmas Eves in a row and was in love with Donna Reed, with her dark, smouldering eyes and nurturing ways. His favourite part was when the main character, George, tried to prove his affection—“What is it you want, Mary? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down”—and when she agreed to take it, he said she could swallow it and the moon would dissolve and “moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes and the ends of your hair.” They were the best lines from any movie he'd ever seen.

The excitement was heightened, both in school and at home, by a snowstorm the day before school closed. In winter, Tom could usually get extra work at Taylor's because so many people needed snow tires installed. This year, however, there'd been no such call until this morning. When Pat Taylor asked Tom to come in to work, he turned it down, saying he didn't feel too good. Finton didn't know how much money his father normally made, but without that extra, it would be a hard Christmas.

But Finton had bigger worries. All morning, he'd watched for his moment. In between lessons, Mary chatted excitedly with Dolly or Willow or another girl. The chances for a shy boy to walk up to her and say, “I have a present for you,” then sneak away unnoticed were nil.

Since that day at the library, his love for her had grown. He realized that Mary was popular and friendly: that was part of the attraction. She talked to almost everyone. Every boy—and every girl—wanted to be her favourite and, when he was being honest with himself, he realized they'd barely spoken to each other since that glorious afternoon. He had no reason to think she harboured any feelings for him beyond friendship, and yet here he was with a gift for Mary in his schoolbag, which he gripped with sweaty palms.

All morning, he'd watched both her and the clock as if the three of them had formed an unspoken bond. Finally, the last bell rang and the classroom erupted into whooping and hollering. The chaos was Finton's opportunity.

He noticed some other boys making moves of their own.

Skeet went right up to Dolly, who, despite his recent growth spurt was almost as tall as him, and dangled some mistletoe over her head.

“Merry X-mas, Dolly! Let's me and you put the Christ back in Christmas, eh?” He puckered his lips and lingered for several seconds. But, instead of kissing him, she shoved him away, saying, “Get lost, Stuckey!” as her face turned red. Mary hid her face in her hands. Some of the others laughed on their way out the door. Unfazed, Skeet leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. He thrust the small, blue box into her unsuspecting hands and wished her a Merry Christmas. Then he hoisted his trousers up by the belt and huffed out of the classroom amid scattered cheers.

Dolly announced that she had to make a quick trip to the washroom to fix her lipstick, and Finton recognized his moment.

After Willow was gone, only Finton, Mary, and Alicia remained. He fumbled in his bookbag, snatched the package wrapped in red crepe paper, and strode towards her.

“Mary.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with one finger.

Startled, she looked up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He sensed her looking at the package and so he thrust it towards her. “Merry Christmas. It's not much. But I thought you might like it.”

“But…” Her big, brown eyes glanced from the package to Finton and occasionally flickered towards the window, catching the light in the loveliest way. “…I didn't get anything for you.”

“That's okay.”

She smiled and nodded, the sight of her slightly uneven teeth warming his heart. “Thank you. That's so sweet of you.”

Barely able to feel his legs, he stumbled towards the door.

“Can I open it now?”

He halted and turned, one hand resting on the door frame. “I thought you'd wait till Christmas.”

“
Can't
I open it now?”

“Sure. If you want.”

She smiled and carefully removed the red bow and peeled back one corner of the red tissue paper.

Dolly returned from the bathroom. “What's that? Did he give you a present?” She huddled with Mary as if they were in on a secret. “He did—didn't he?”

While Mary pulled the object from its wrapping, Finton moved closer, his heart pounding. She might adore it. She'd probably loathe it. She'd probably laugh and tell her friends what that stupid Moon boy had done. He imagined himself reaching over and snatching it from her grasp. But as she unwrapped the gift with her tiny fingers, she smiled faintly.

“Thank you, Finton. It's very thoughtful.”

“Wow.” Dolly nodded, obviously impressed. “A jigsaw puzzle.”

“It's Paris,” he explained, hands thrust in his pockets and cheeks blazing. “You said you wanted to go there sometime.”

“I did say that. I really did.” Standing up, Mary leaned in and kissed his cheek. She smelled like roses. He felt ill.

“I gotta go,” Finton said. “Skeet's waiting for me.”

“Speaking of which,” said Mary. “What'd Stuckey get you?”