Finton Moon (36 page)

It didn't sound so bad to Finton, being able to stay inside all day without anyone telling him what to do. But his father had looked so sad, it made him think that adulthood was a prison sentence from which there was no bail or parole. Kind of like it was for Nanny Moon. And his mother too. It must be hard to grow old, knowing you can never be young again. They all seemed so serious, sad, and angry. He decided he would never grow up in that way. Sure, he couldn't wait to leave Darwin, but he'd never take life so seriously that he only believed in the bad stuff.

He ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. There was no one around, so he ran for the woods. When he reached a dense part of the forest, he slowed to a walk, barely breathing hard, feeling more alive and scared than he had in a long time. The shadows from the trees were deep and cool. He felt as if he should be able to slip right into them and slide into a secret world beneath the earth.

The best he could do was climb a tree and lie down in its branches. So that's what he did.

In early August, he heard on the radio that the circus was coming to Darwin, a rare event that his mother agreed would be a welcome distraction for him. But she warned he would have to earn his own money for admission and cotton candy, as she simply had no extra. He resented her response, since he hadn't asked for anything, and yet she'd found it necessary to curtail his expectations.

Despite his desire to maintain a distance from girls, Finton found himself more immersed that summer in a world where females held sway over all his senses. They were all he could think about—How's Mary? Who's Morgan with tonight? Did Alicia tell Bernard Crowley to take a long walk on a short pier? For the most part, though, girls seemed unconcerned with him. Maybe it was because his father was suspected of killing a man. No one said it to him outright, but the signs were all there. Tom's work at the garage completely evaporated, and he wasn't able to find a job anywhere. Jobs had never been plentiful in Darwin, and Tom had never worked in the fishery, carpentry, or anything else except mechanics and driving trucks. He had some unemployment insurance coming in, but that too would dry up before Christmas.

Regardless of who his father was, girls had never exactly thrown themselves at Finton's feet. Alicia had always liked him, and Morgan was always there for him, but neither female represented his ideal romance. Only Mary did. But now he adored her from what seemed like a much greater distance, making her all the more attractive.

On Friday nights he would go alone to movies just to feel like he was a part of something. Darwin was growing, with a new mall in the works and a new cinema showing movies like
Earthquake
and
Towering Inferno
.
Earthquake
was supposed to have “sensurround” technology that made you move in your seat when Los Angeles was being destroyed, but the seats in Darwin stayed disappointingly still; plus, he couldn't help thinking of Charlton Heston as Moses, saying, “Let my people go!” Finton stood outside the cinema before showtime and watched the good-looking high school girls goofing around with their good-looking boyfriends, and he wished it could be him with the girl. Once, he saw Alicia with Bernard, and they exchanged awkward greetings, then went inside, where they sat many rows apart on opposite sides of the theatre.

He walked past Mary's house every day, hoping she'd be out front, sipping tea or watering the garden. Occasionally, he saw her, sitting on the step, but he never stopped in. If she saw him and waved, he would wave back and hurry his step. But he was in no particular rush to repeat that hurtful conversation. He wondered if he—or Skeet, really—had ruined things for good.

As the days stretched into weeks, and summer slipped past, Finton began to give up on romance and adventure, except for in his novels. He didn't talk anymore about his intention to be a writer because they always made fun of him when he announced plans for a future. And yet he could feel the difference within him, like that moment when Dorothy awakened to find herself transported to the world of Oz—lately, he saw the world in Technicolor as he strove for new and better ways of expressing his burgeoning understanding of all that surrounded him. In early summer,
Tom Swift
,
Robin Hood
, and
King Arthur
had been his daily companions; through July and into August, they'd been succeeded by Tom Sawyer, Holden Caulfield, and, finally, Jay Gatsby —each more real and inspiring than any person he'd ever known. He wrote a couple of stories of his own, but grew frustrated with the feeling that his ability to express himself was stunted by his lack of knowledge about the world. The books were helpful, his imagination vast. But he craved intimacy with faraway places; he yearned for big cities and the English countryside, experiences like those of the characters in novels. But these desires, too, he kept locked inside himself, hidden from those who would not understand them.

His father was barely speaking and kept mostly to himself, even when they watched TV together. Their favourite shows were
Front Page Challenge
and the CBC news, with a particular fondness for American politics. Finton didn't understand the Watergate scandal, nor did he know much about the Middle East, but his father seemed to care, and that was enough. For Tom, observing the faraway trials of others seemed to replace discussion of the trials and tribulations at hand. Finton yearned to offer his father words of comfort, but he was always struck wordless when the need was greatest. Unemployed and suspected of sinister deeds, Tom would just sit there, watching TV, eyes glazed over as if he'd retreated to the darkest recesses of his mind. Or perhaps he possessed his own Planet of Solitude where he went to escape his troubles. But right here on earth, Tom had surrendered his efforts to give up smoking, and the burning cigarette between his fingers was the only indication that the light inside him hadn't expired.

Indeed, the whole family came to avoid the subjects of jobs and police. While it was a rare moment when Elsie would retreat to her bedroom and quietly weep, most days the tension was etched in her face. Neither of his brothers spoke of the troubles, and Finton spent most of his time alone, writing or reading stories, or hiding out in a newly built tree house. And yet, every day began with hope that something thrilling would happen—that maybe Sawyer's killer would be caught or his father would land a job.

One day at the library, Finton came across an article with sundrenched photographs of massive lawns and towering oak trees. There were old, brick buildings with ivy climbing the sides and winding across the eaves. But the one picture that made him sit down in one of those big chairs and gape in wonder was of a happy, young man with a wide grin, holding an apple-filled basket and standing in front of several lush, green trees with boughs that drooped from the weight of ripe, red fruit. The caption was: “Migrant Apple Picker in Wolfville, Nova Scotia.” For the first time in his life, Finton looked at a photograph and said to himself,
I need to go there. There are jobs and trees.
He loved the photo so much he asked the librarian to make a photocopy for him, which he took home and tucked into his copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

Meanwhile, the spectres of Sawyer, Mary, and Morgan—along with his family—were his daily reality. At night, he dreamt of corpses and killers who resembled either his father, Miss Bridie, himself, or Skeet Stuckey. Finton awakened each morning at the crack of dawn to the crow of his grandmother's aged rooster, perched on a boulder outside his window at the crack of dawn. His mother complained about “that Jesus chicken” but Finton loved being startled to begin the day. He would lie awake on the bottom bunk, watching the broad sky over faroff mountains evolve from blue-black emptiness to a bright orange-yellow, casting long, reaching shadows across the deep, green forest. Sparrows and robins sang and whistled, while blue jays screeched and crows cawed. Lying in bed and listening to the potential of the day was the most perfect peace that Finton felt. It was only after he got out of bed that the day, either quickly or slowly, went downhill.

The day of the circus, August ninth, he leaped out of bed even though he'd hardly slept the night before. He killed time that morning by reading
Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks With the Circus
. After dinner, with the circus starting at two o'clock, he was getting ready to walk into town when his father appeared in the bedroom doorway, bleary-eyed from watching television. Something big was happening with President Nixon, but with the circus in town, Finton hadn't paid much attention.

“Where you goin'?” his father asked.

“To the circus.”

“Where'd you get the money for that?”

“I sold beer bottles.”

“Yeah, well, technically, that money is mine.”

Finton was silent, his eyes downcast.

“Hand it over.”

Finton knew why Tom wanted the money. He reached into his pocket and fingered the two five-dollar bills, feeling their gritty texture. He didn't know what possessed him, but he pulled out one bill and presented it to his father. The other bill remained in his pocket, and Finton couldn't help thinking that something had changed between them forever.

“Yer a good boy.” Tom tousled Finton's hair and turned to leave. “You can sneak into the circus, can't you? That's what I used to do when I was your age. Just go to the side of the tent where there's not many people and crawl under the tarp. Piece o' cake.”

Tom went back to watching television while Finton snuck out of the house as quietly as possible, his right hand stuffed into his pocket to keep the bill in place.

Singing “Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road” and “Yellow Submarine” made the trek into town go quickly, although he wished he had a bicycle to make it go even faster. The circus was supposed to have pitched at the ballfield, but when he arrived there was only an empty space and a few people milling around. On the galvanized gate was a cardboard sign; the message, scrawled in orange crayon, read: CIRCUS IS MOVED. The sheer random mystery of the pronouncement induced panic in his heart. He noticed a small gathering of the concerned in a corner of the parking lot. When he joined them, he heard someone say that the circus lacked an operating license for that location and, with a softball game about to begin, they'd been forced to move their tents. As added proof, several players were entering the field, carrying bats, balls, and softball gloves.

“Where's the circus?” Finton asked a dark-headed girl who appeared to be his age.

She turned around, smiling. “Finton!”

He glanced at her muddy shoes and managed to smile back. “Alicia!” Her wide, bright eyes were brilliant accessories to her light brown skin. “Going to the circus?”

“We are.” She pointed out a swarthy man in checkered pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, chatting with some of the younger men. Three young Dredges huddled around him, hanging on every word. “My father's here,” she said. “Is someone with you?” She lowered her gaze, though he sensed it was more out of sorrow than shame.

“I wanted to come alone,” he explained, feeling flushed. She regarded him curiously, almost with the air of a non-believer, but she simply informed him that the circus had moved to a location over by the high school.

“I take it Bernard doesn't like the circus,” he said, almost breathlessly.

“I wouldn't know,” she said with a shrug. “I haven't seen him lately.”

“You broke up?”

“We just went out a few times. No big deal.”

“But I thought—”

“What Bernard wanted you and everyone else to think.” She lowered her voice and leaned in closer. “He got physical a couple of times. Can you believe that? The first time, he said he was sorry and I said okay, but don't do it again.”

“Let me guess…”

“He did it again—or tried to. Haven't seen him since. Don't care if I do.”

“Proper thing,” said Finton, trying to sound confident. “There's no need o' that.”

“I couldn't agree more.” She offered him a ride to the circus, and he declined at first. But she badgered him until he agreed to go with the Dredges in their black Volkswagen with the putt-putt engine that reminded him of an underpowered lawn mower. Finton found himself squashed between three smaller Dredges, who smelled like a mixture of motor oil and sweat, and kept pulling on their sister's hair. Alicia sat up front, looking cool and refined despite their abuse and her hand-me-down clothes. Her father didn't say much, though, and Finton wondered if his inclusion was resented.

Phonse Dredge had aged greatly in a couple of years, his wavy, black hair having turned completely white. “How's your dad?” Phonse asked, his lips tight and twitchy.

“Pretty good. Bit worried about stuff, though.”

“I daresay he's got lots to worry
about
.” Without bothering to explain, Phonse resumed his troubled silence until they'd reached their destination. Finton didn't pay him much attention, though. He'd caught sight of the red circus tent, its big flaps flopping in the heavy wind that swept up from the beach across the road.

“Enjoy the circus, Alicia.”

“You too.” At first, she didn't move away, and he almost felt as if he should stay with her to protect her. But at last she turned to go.

From a safe distance, he watched the five of them buy tickets from a blonde girl sitting at a table and then bustle inside the red tent. Once they were out of sight, he meandered to the less populated side. He sucked in a breath when he saw how the pegs driven into the ground were barely able to restrain the enormous canvas. He was reminded of a large red kite demanding its escape from earth, craving release to the infinite sky. Meanwhile, the impish wind kept flapping the sides of the tent, offering him a space under which to crawl.

He fingered the five-dollar bill in his pocket and reminded himself that he might just be able to afford cotton candy. Checking only once to make sure no one was watching, he bent himself nearly flat, swung his lithe physique inside the tent and, in a dizzying instant, found himself standing at the back of the big top. His senses were gobsmacked by a bejangled elephant giving rides to some children, a yellow-haired clown juggling firesticks for a small crowd, and boredlooking, mangy lions and tigers stuffed into their cages. Most peculiar was an undersized, wire cage with the words inscribed on a wooden plaque: