Finton Moon (32 page)

“How did it make you feel?”

“I don't know.”

“Don't say that. You do know.”

“It made me feel worse.”

“In what way?”

“Like I gave them something they couldn't handle. That I couldn't even handle myself. I got headaches. Nosebleeds, sometimes. But it wasn't just that. It was something inside me. Not good or bad, just different. And maybe I shouldn't be doing it. Ya know?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I know what you mean.”

“Where did it come from?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe it's better that way.”

He rolled over, kissed her on the lips, and awaited her reaction. He studied her face, so small and perfect, despite the lines he'd never noticed before at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “Why did you pick me?” he asked. His breath lodged in his chest.

“The same reason we all did,” she said.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You'll figure it out.”

“Why can't you help me figure it out?”

“That's not my job,” she said with a sigh.

“What is?”

“Oh, I think we both know,” she said as she traced a line down his chest and towards his pubic hair. He closed his eyes and focused on drawing his next breath. “You need me. I need you. We use each other. We both get what we want.”

“What do you need me for?”

“Will you stop asking so many questions? What's wrong with you today?”

He didn't answer. “What do you need me for, Morgan?”

“Well, if you must know…” She cleared her throat. “I just wanted to see if I could corrupt you.”

“I guess it was pretty easy.”

“Sort of,” she said in a mysterious way, her eyes taking on a troubled look. “But, in some ways, not so easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“More questions?” She sighed dramatically and swept her hair from her face. The creaking of the bedsprings was intimate, comforting. When she realized he wasn't going to relent, she continued. “You're changed since we first did it. But you're still you. You know what I mean?”

He shook his head.

“You're still good,” she said. “You still care about people. That's what I like about you.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Anyway, enough serious talk. Did your parents give you anything for your birthday?”

He lay back on the pillow, gazed up at the ceiling and marveled at the cobwebs that looked like a bride's veil, hanging from the ceiling. “They never do.”

“You mean you've never had a birthday gift?”

“We can't afford it.”

“You mean
they
.
They
can't afford it. You can do whatever you want if you make your own money.”

He didn't speak for a few seconds. The thoughts and questions tossed in his head until, finally, he blurted one out. “Do you love your mother?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I want to know. You seem to get along most of the time.”

“Now we do. But we still fight. Let's just say we called a truce.” She rolled over and leaned her head on one hand, her elbow propped against the pillow. With a finger, she traced the faint scar above his cheek—the one she'd given him when he was a baby on her Confirmation day—and then allowed her hand to wander, absently caressing the promise of chest hair that showed signs of becoming a bumper crop.

“Why did you hate her?”

“Oh,” Morgan laughed bitterly, “where do I begin?”

“Wherever you want.”

“Well, I don't owe you an explanation—or anyone else. But… she was mean to me. In the worst way. She'd call me names. Bitch. Slut. Cunt. Whore. Every time she saw me with a boy.” Morgan's eyes glistened with a faraway look. “She can be pretty spiteful, my dear ol' mother.”

“Enough to make you burn the house down?”

“Oh, that.” Through Morgan's attempted smile, he saw a hint of nervousness. “I was messed up. Partying for days—came home for some peace and all I got was attitude. Same old names. Same old hatred. I brought up something I shouldn't have, and she threw a junk of wood at me. ‘Do it again,' I said. ‘I dare ya!'” Morgan laughed for real this time. “What a pair we were. I tell ya. She threw another one at me head. And another one struck me in the chest. I told her to stop or I'd fuckin' burn her out.”

Finton could barely breathe. Never in his life could he have made up such a thing, and he was reasonably sure Morgan hadn't done so either. On the other hand, he could barely fathom that every word was true. “What made you stab her?” he asked, though he wasn't sure where the courage came from to ask such a question.

The coldness of her smile belied the merriment in her eyes. “That was a fuckup,” she said. “She was bitchin' at me, as usual, for staying out drinking, accusing me of doin' drugs, screwin' around. Here I was,
trying
to get my act together. And there she was, half soused. She wouldn't let up.” Morgan shrugged casually. “The knife was just lyin' there on the table. You wouldn't believe how much I was tempted—how hard I tried not to listen to the voice in me head telling me, ‘Go ahead and stick it in her. Gut her like a trout.'” A flicker of regret appeared in her eyes. “Been best kind ever since. But if I hadn't fought back, I don't think we'd be even talkin' to each other these days, let alone livin' under one roof.” She smiled languidly, seeming to realize Finton hadn't spoken in a while. “What are you thinkin' about?”

“You.” He ran a hand through the shock of blonde hair that hung across her forehead, thinking how beautiful she looked when she wasn't wearing makeup or putting on an act. He found himself wondering if he loved her.
Enough.
That was the word that came to mind. Suddenly, he realized that, yes, he loved her in a certain way. But did he love her
enough
? “I always thought I had it hard, being so different,” he said. “But I've had it easy compared to you.”

He lay back, eyes closed, and enjoyed the warmth of her hand upon his chest, wanting to stay there, doing just that, for the rest of his life. That would be enough.

“You haven't had it easy,” she said. “You and me are the same.”

It was a lie, but he didn't tell her that. She needed it to be true, as much as he needed it to be false. He didn't want to be the same as anyone in Darwin. Acceptance here would also have a cost, and he wasn't willing to pay it.

“Happy birthday,” she said. “You're one step closer.”

“To what?” he asked.

“Everything,” she said sadly.

In her eyes, there was a truthfulness he saw nowhere else in his world. Sometimes Morgan could be as artful as the most money-starved prostitute. But once in a while, her face possessed the most plainspoken honesty, no price demanded.

It was only a few minutes later that they heard the front door open and shut, followed by the unmistakable sound of Miss Bridie coughing. It was the first time Finton had ever paid serious attention to it, as the coughing, for Miss Bridie, was as constant as her cigarettes or her cups of tea. They were all just a part of her. But the way she seemed to nearly gag with her hacking made him wonder if she was going to be all right.

“She went to the doctor,” Morgan half-whispered, as if she'd read his mind. “She saw blood this morning.”

Trembling, he immediately pulled on his clothes and, as casually as possible, went downstairs. “Heard you come in,” he said. “Me and Morgan were talkin'. She said you went to the doctor.”

“Nothin' to worry about, b'y,” she said, barely glancing up from the table. He noticed she'd already put on the tea. “The bad news is that I'll live.”

Crowley

As he stepped into the close confines of Bilch's snack bar, Finton's first thought was that he didn't belong. It wasn't a sudden realization so much as a remembrance—the recognition of an eternal truth.

It was the beginning of summer, and school was over for the year. The sun was just beginning to set on the streets, hollows, and hills of Darwin. It had been another rough day. Homer had brought home a failed report card, and neither parent had reacted well. Elsie cried briefly; Tom struck Homer on the backside with his hand and sent him to bed without supper. Finton tried to make his brother feel better. “Not everyone's good at school,” he told Homer. “You can build things. I wish I could do that.” Clancy, too, tried to cheer Homer up, but it was no use. The crisis simply needed to run its course.

After supper, when things had calmed down, Finton sat on the front step, still tense, but relieved that the school year was done. Mary never did come back to school, but he hadn't stopped looking for her on the bus. Now, he was relieved to be able to quit waiting. The police rarely came around their door either. Futterman would drop by to ask Tom questions about the Sawyer affair, trying to dig up forgotten information. But it had been weeks since he'd seen either Futterman or Kieran Dredge. Even Skeet was starting to come back to himself, though he was still pretty moody at times.

But none of that mattered now. There were only good days ahead; all he had to do was imagine them. He'd even decided to stop seeing Morgan. It took a few days after his birthday to make up his mind, but it seemed like the best thing. He didn't like being addicted to her, or to anyone else. Besides, he didn't get to see her very often, and he was tired of sneaking around for something he knew was for the short term. He yearned only for the freedom to do whatever he wanted this summer, no strings attached—no one to hurt, and no one to hurt him.

Then, after supper, Skeet came along. He seemed to have forgotten about their argument. Finton could hardly remember what they'd fought about, but he recalled that Skeet was dissatisfied with life in general. But, then, Skeet had a talent for getting over such things, and Finton was skilled at forgiveness. The one thing he couldn't forget, however, was that Skeet had blabbed to Mary about Finton's feelings for her.

They sat together on the Moon's doorstep, musing about the school year and the oncoming summer, favourite girls and comic books, as they gazed out at the meadow and the surrounding woods. Mosquitoes danced before their faces. Chickadees, robins, and sparrows sang. The setting sun cast trees and rocks in a blood orange veil. For the first time in weeks, Finton felt good and free.

“Did you tell Mary I had a thing for her?” he asked.

“She dragged it out of me,” Skeet said. “Besides, someone had to tell her.”

“Me,” Finton said. “I should have told her.”

“Yeah,” said Skeet. “You should have.”

“It wasn't up to you.”

“Sorry.”

Skeet looked sincere enough when he apologized, and so that was the end of it. Finton still felt the dual sting of Skeet's betrayal and Mary's rejection, but there was nothing he could do except swallow the pain, which was preferable to losing two friends over the same incident. He resigned himself to the likelihood that everyone had meant well; but, for some reason, Finton was the one who had gotten hurt.

Skeet suggested they go to Bilch's and play pool, a rite of passage Finton had yet to endure. While he occasionally wondered what went on inside of Bilch's after dark, he would gladly have ended his days in Darwin without ever having known.

“There might be girls,” Skeet had said.

“I don't need girls.”

Skeet had shook his head impatiently. “You're just a scaredy-cat.”

“I don't see any reason to go to Bilch's, that's all.”

“Don't you ever get sick o' being inside your own noggin? There's a world out there, Moon, and you're missin' it all with your nose stuck in a book half the time.”

“You're tellin' me there's a world at Bilch's?” Finton had smiled sarcastically. “I don't think so.”

“There's girls.”

“You said that already.”

“Well, then, lots o' girls—and they're nothing like Mary Connelly.”

“Girls are the last thing I need.”

“Because...”

“Because I plan to leave this shitty town, and I don't want to get some girl knocked up.”

“Jesus, b'y—lighten up. It's only a friggin' game o' pool.”

“Then leave the girls out of it.”

“Fine.” Skeet stood up. “You comin' or not?”

“I don't know.”

“What's wrong now?”

“You know what happened with Homer.”

Skeet laughed roughly. “So it's your mudder you're afraid of.”

“That's not it.” Finton jumped to his feet and stuck his hands into his pockets. He'd kicked at a rock beside the step, but his feet merely scuffed its surface, and the rock had gone nowhere. “She made him look like a tool in front of everyone.”

“I know—I was there.”

Finton sighed and squinted at the sun. “If she did that to me, I'd run away for good.”