Finton Moon (40 page)

On the first day of October, there was a slight change in Tom's usual, quiet demeanour. At the breakfast table, the boys were filled with the exuberance swept in by the cooler days of October. For Finton, it was the turn towards Hallowe'en, the start of the new hockey season with the new divisional alignment, and the Bruins finally getting the chance to redeem themselves for last spring's devastating loss. But he suspected it might be more than hockey that caused his father's anxiety. Elbows on the table, Tom barely touched his food and only sipped his tea once in a while as he tapped his leg nervously. Finton kept expecting Tom to make some grand announcement.

“New hockey season starts today,” Finton said, trying to provoke a discussion.

Tom forced a smile. “Something to look forward to.”

“Leafs got 'er this year,” Homer said. “Stanley Cup this year for sure.”

Finton could only shake his head.

“I can't believe it's October already,” Elsie said as she wrapped her arms around Tom, who stiffened. “I'm not lookin' forward to the winter.”

Tom slurped his tea. “It's been hard, I allow.”

“What are you going to do today?” Finton asked, prompting his father to stand up, sweep his hand through his hair and fold his arms across his chest.

“What are you,
The National Enquirer
?”

“I'm just askin'.”

“If you must know, I'm going huntin'.” A triumphant gleam shone from his eyes. “Job huntin'.”

It had been months since Tom's last contribution to the family coffers. The only steady income, besides Elsie's part-time hours at the liquor store, was Nanny Moon's pension—“God love Joey,” she said every time the old-age pension cheque came in. Clancy had a talent for finding part-time work, but even that kind of labour was scarce lately. Homer assisted a local contractor with the occasional house. Even Finton felt he should find a way to contribute, but he wasn't sure what kind of job he could get with book smarts.

“Can I come with you?” he asked his father. “Maybe they'll give me a job too.”

“You can ride along if you want. Be like old times.”

“You should go to school,” Elsie interjected, looking slightly worried.

“One day isn't gonna kill me.”

“Just for the morning, Else.” Tom gave her a wink. “It'd be good for 'im.”

She relented more easily than Finton expected, but then, she probably sensed that Finton might have a calming influence on her husband.

They took Clancy's Galaxy because, despite Tom's mechanical talents, the Valiant was too old, with “more problems than Buckley's goat,” as Elsie said. In the passenger seat with the window rolled down, cool air on his face, Finton felt like things might finally get back to normal. The sun was shining, the engine rumbled smoothly, they had a quarter tank of gas, and he was riding shotgun for his father. And it had been nearly a couple of months since Futterman had come around to poke at Tom's cage.

Tom turned the radio on and fiddled with the dial. Father and son sang together: “Her eyes they shone like the diamonds—ya'd think she was queen of the land…” Finton didn't even like Irish music, but he tolerated it, and could even enjoy some of it for his father's sake, just as his father had learned to accept that his three sons were maniacs for rock 'n roll. Their common ground was country music; not one of them would pass up the opportunity to sing along with “Your Cheatin' Heart,” “Snakes Crawl at Night,” or “Folsom Prison Blues.”

When the next song came on, Tom turned it up. “This a good one—just listen.”

Finton paid close attention to the lyrics and tapped his foot to the beat. It was obvious why his father liked that song. “One Piece at a Time” told the story of a mechanic who worked at General Motors and wanted to own one of the Cadillacs he worked on. His genius solution was to steal it one part at a time in his lunch box. He took the parts home and assembled his new car in the garage, without it costing him a dime.

“I like it,” Finton said. Tom turned off the radio during the commercials about MUNN insurance, Caul's Funeral Home, and Good Luck margarine.

“Our first stop,” Tom said as the car came to rest in front of Taylor's Garage. “You stay here.”

Although tempted to follow, Finton sat and waited. Within a couple of minutes, Tom came out, got in, and slammed the door. “Well, that's that.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much.” Tom gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. In the open doorway, Pat Taylor cleaned a wrench and stared at the ground. The garage owner seemed sad, which, in turn, saddened Finton. But he didn't have much time to think about it before they pulled in front of Brown's Supermarket.

Tom took a deep breath and exhaled. He glanced into the rear-view mirror.

“I'm coming in this time.”

His father's glance showed clear disapproval. And yet he suddenly changed his mind. “Sure—why not?”

Maybe he thought, as Finton did, that his youngest boy would be his good luck charm. But it didn't work that way, not this time. The manager, a nice, balding man named Donnelly, told him the boss wasn't hiring.

“Give him a call,” said Tom.

Donnelly did call—and Finton gave him credit for trying—but the owner, Mr. Brown, said he didn't have any openings.

“Where to now?” he asked his father as they got back into the car.

“Everywhere.”

They stopped by Jack's Place, but Jack Senior had room for only two full-time bartenders, which he already had, and Jack Junior was now working part-time for free. From there, they drove to the new mall, where Tom hoped he could get a line on something—full or part-time, cashier, security—he didn't care. But no one hired him.

“I'll tell you the truth, Tom.” The superintendent of the school board sat on the corner of his desk while Tom sat in the chair, looking very uncomfortable. “I'd be uneasy hiring you as a school janitor—you'd be around kids all day long. Know what I mean?”

“No.” The stress on Tom's face was palpable. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Well, here's the thing—and you should thank me for being straight with you—there are rumours. And I don't care if they're true or not. I usually don't even listen to gossip. Just hearsay, is all. But, now, how would it look—”

“But he didn't do anything wrong!” Finton blurted.

“How would it look?” asked Tom, hands folded on his lap.

“To a lot of parents, it would look like we hired someone without considering his reputation.”

“That's just—”

“Stupid,” said Finton.

“Go wait in the car.” Tom's fists clenched, but didn't yet leave his lap.

Finton never heard the rest of the conversation. He sat in the car, watching the entrance. When Tom finally emerged, he said nothing about the meeting.

“Next.” He backed the Galaxy up and pulled onto the road, the tires squealing in complaint. “He asked why you weren't in school today. ”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were helping me.”

His father's words suddenly made everything seem hopeful.

Over and over, they stopped at shops and offices, and went in to speak with the respective managers. One said, “Not right now, Tom, b'y. Maybe in time.” A couple of people wished they had work to offer. But, in the end, no one was willing to hire the most gossiped about man in Darwin whose name wasn't Crowley.

“Don't you ever feel like fighting back?” Finton stared out the side window, fists clenched in his lap as the shadows of early afternoon encroached. They were parked in front of the town hall, where his father had just applied for two weeks of work on the garbage truck. It was a long waiting list, they told him, and it wouldn't be until the spring, if at all.

“I feel like fighting everybody.” Tom lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. “In many ways, I feel like I've been doin' that my whole life.”

Finton regarded him doubtfully. “But you're the most popular man in Darwin. Everybody knows you and talks to you—everybody loves you.”

Tom laughed, in spite of himself. “You just keep tellin' yourself that little fairytale. Meanwhile, I needs a job.”

“Why are they punishing you for something you didn't do? They're just being stupid. Bunch o' backwoods hicks.”

“Hey, hold on now. These are our friends and neighbours. This is your place, right here. Don't ever forget it. People can be pricks, but they're still your people.”

Finton was stunned into silence, frustrated with his father's refusal to see Darwin for what it was—just a mean-spirited killer of souls. “They only questioned you,” he said. “They can't prove anything. And you're just looking for a job! I don't think that's too much to ask.” He drove his fist into the dashboard and cried out in pain. The dashboard wasn't even dented.

Tom leaned back his head and laughed. “See where violence gets ya? Don't be a fool, b'y. Change what ya can, and accept the rest—and the rest is just bullshit.”

“You're acting like you don't care.”

“Just the opposite. I care so much that I feel like givin' up.”

“Sometimes I think—”

“What?” Tom narrowed his eyes. “What 'n hell do ya think?”

“I think—I wonder—I mean—for someone who didn't kill anybody, you accept it all too easy.” As soon as he said the words, Finton cringed.

“So, after all this, you still think I did it? Is that it?”

“No. That's not what I—”

“Let me say this once—and I don't intend to repeat it, ever again: he was my friend, and I didn't kill him.”

“But you bought him a drink—and he wasn't supposed to drink.”

“So you're putting me on trial.” Tom thrust his head forward, gazed into Finton's eyes. Never before had Finton been so afraid of his father. “All right. I guess that's the way it'll always be. Yes, I bought him a beer. Big fuckin' deal. He was thirsty. Haven't you ever had a friend so thirsty, craving something so much that he couldn't have, you'd do anything in your power to get it for him, no matter the consequences?”

“No,” said Finton. “I'd do the right thing.”

“Well…” Tom pulled back, giving Finton some breathing room, “maybe that's the difference between us. I'd do the right thing too. But it would be truly the right thing, and not just what somebody told me was right.”

Finton was silent.

“I gave him a beer. He thanked me. That was it.”

“You told the cops you and Sawyer got into a fight.”

“That's my business, not yours or theirs.”

“What was it about?”

“I told the police—that's enough.”

“Fine.” Finton sighed. “I got one more place we can go.”

Finton wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.

Father Power was out for a walk when they arrived at the big, white house. They waited on the front step until he arrived, hands in pockets, dressed for the weather.

He was startled to see them and kept looking at Finton with a sad expression.

“We need to ask you a favour, Father,” said Finton.

“Strange… very strange… but go ahead.”

“My father needs a job.”

“I see.”

Tom stepped forward and said, “I'll take anything, Father,” then blew on his cold hands. Finton was aware of how his father looked with his tired eyes and five o'clock shadow, exuding desperation. His clothes were ragged, his boots worn at the toes, and his hands bare. His shoulders slouched forward like those of a man who'd spent his whole life bent over.

“He's a good worker,” said Finton. “And I thought… you could do something.”

“Funny you should ask,” said Father Power. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

“Here we go,” said Tom, with a roll of his eyes.

“How?” Finton asked.

“You said you were looking for a job. I just happen to have an opening. It's not full-time, mind you. But it is something.”

“Thank you,” Finton said, beaming.

By the time they returned to the car for the last time that day, the sky was pitch black and the street lights had come on. They didn't speak to each other. The radio played “Somebody Done Somebody Wrong,” and Finton gazed at the Laughing Woods as they passed. His fingers were tingling in a way they hadn't in some time, his entire body filled with a familiar warmth, a sense of possibility and promise he'd thought gone for good.

Meanwhile, part-time or not, Tom had become the family's first gravedigger.

News

Supper was in the oven when they burst through the door.

“Dad got a job!” Finton shouted. Everyone was in the living room, watching TV, and wondering aloud why they hadn't heard from the two hunters. The whole family was ecstatic, and Elsie hugged her husband. They chattered excitedly about how good times were finally returning. There was justice in the sudden turn of events, and they all seemed to feel it. After a celebratory supper of chicken and potatoes, all hands, except for Nanny Moon, returned to the living room where Elsie added to the joyous ruckus by putting The McNulty Family on the stereo.