Finton Moon (47 page)

Now there was nothing to do but wait.

In the months that followed his “resurrection,” Finton tried to remain interested in Darwin life. During the short, cold days of winter, he renewed his dedication to books. Most Saturdays, he went to the library where he curled up in an armchair by the window. His companions were Faulkner, Stoker, Shelley, and a new guy named Stephen King, whose
Carrie
had become one of his favourites.

All of these authors were suggested to him by a teacher—a lanky, young Christian Brother named Murphy Regan—who saw “a creative spark” in the lad and wanted to encourage him. He convinced Finton to enter a short story contest sponsored by the school board authority, and when he got second prize, he couldn't wait to tell Brother Regan, who told him, “You're a natural, and I'm sure there's more where that came from. Just keep going.” Buoyed by his one success, Brother Regan tried to interest Finton in school council, the photography club, or any of the school's sports teams. None of that mattered to Finton, but in late March, he became curious about cross-country running and showed up for tryouts. He discovered that he wasn't the fastest, but had by far the most endurance. He sprained his ankle along the way, but it didn't cost him much time. He still finished first. Already done, he waited over a minute for his nearest competitor to emerge from the fog and cross the finish line. By that time, he'd already decided to quit the team. The trial itself was enough. Sometimes a trial is necessary for clearing the air, moving forward, healing the wounds.

Sometimes, if he cut himself—by paper or the jagged edge of an opened can—he watched the blood flow for a few seconds, just to reassure himself that he was normal. Then he would kiss the wound and press his hands together and, always, within moments, the bleeding would stop. Likewise, a bruise would heal or a sprain would dissipate.

As he kept more to himself, people had stopped asking him to heal their ailments, and he gave them no reason to start up again. His father didn't dig many graves over the winter. The parish invoked a new policy that January, saying they would have to store all bodies until the spring because the ground was too hard for digging. Tom got unemployment insurance, but Elsie got a raise and an increase in her hours at the liquor store, making more money per hour than either of them had ever seen.

They didn't talk about events of the previous fall—Miss Bridie's passing, or her deathbed revelations. These matters had been discussed and now they were buried, like Miss Bridie herself. Sawyer Moon, likewise, had become a memory, his death a mystery enshrouded by the days that passed, the way a lost bike can be plastered by falling leaves, and then covered up by the snows of winter. No one missed Sawyer, and if someone had done away with him, there was likely a good reason that might never be known.

If he had any thoughts about digging deeper into his father's involvement, they were banished for good when, one evening in May he overheard Tom say to Elsie, “Meself and Phonse are goin' for a few beer—ya know, it gets pretty dreary without a friend or two.” That evening, his father was in the best mood Finton had seen since before Sawyer's disappearance. It was as if springtime had come for Tom Moon, and when Tom was happy, the Moons were happy.

Elsie had found salvation in her job. She didn't drink, but she hoped her good Lord and saviour would see her new occupation as a necessity, for the sake of her family's survival. Even Nanny Moon and Tom had new respect for her. Her mother-in-law cooked supper on evenings when Elsie worked until five o'clock, and would clean up afterwards, with help from the two youngest boys. Elsie complained, of course, about the difficulty of going to work, but Finton could tell she secretly enjoyed the money it brought and the sense of purpose she'd gained.

The entire family was getting along better than ever, but, if anyone noticed Finton's increased detachment, no one mentioned it. Occasionally, Tom shook his head and said, “That boy always was a lone wolf.” But nobody seemed to worry about him or, if they did, they kept it to themselves for fear of raising the spectres of the past. Their mistake was in assuming that he never thought about his origins or the lies he'd been told to cover it up. As the weeks accumulated, he simply became more disconnected, since nothing could change the way he felt. Simply put, he had never belonged here. It wasn't a matter of blood ties, neglect, or even cruelty, but an innate sense of his own difference.

Although he read more books for enjoyment, Finton put hardly any time into his homework. His grades dropped from A+ to B, still superior to Homer's Ds and Fs. Homer, meanwhile, was desperately trying to finish high school, but he intended to quit school altogether if he didn't pass this year. “No big deal,” Homer said. “It's not like I need Grade Eleven to get a job.”

Still, one evening, when he saw Homer wringing his fists and pulling his hair, Finton sat at the table beside him and said, “Let me help.” Together, they figured things out that, in a classroom setting, had been beyond Homer's comprehension. By the fifteenth of May, when Finton mailed his letters, Homer was scraping by, but nevertheless passing. Finton was earning brownie points with his own Lord and saviour by coming to the aid of the brother who had danced with Mary Connelly.

Clancy and Finton didn't see each other much, as the age difference meant even more as they got older. The oldest Moon boy had a steady girlfriend and spent most of his time at her house. She was a good Darwinian, with a strict Catholic mother, and a household full of girls—she had four sisters. Finton had always thought Clancy could have been something more academic or artistic, for he possessed an intellectual curiosity of sorts. But his brother had succumbed to the subtle rural pressure to accommodate and imitate the known way of life, to reject creative and literary pursuits that didn't involve financial gain as a waste of valuable time. Besides, his love of machinery was so obvious that it was hard to imagine him any happier than he was.

A few days after he'd mailed the letters, Alicia called and asked him to meet her at the old schoolhouse.

“What's up?” he asked. But she wouldn't drop a hint. Twenty minutes later, they sat on the step together, side by side, staring out at the woods. He wondered if her memories were like his—full of bright, vibrant colours, incomprehensible violence, and a lot of running, with swirling moments of beautiful faces with wide, open eyes.

“Listen,” she said, “do you have a date for the prom?”

“I'm not goin'.” He'd made up his mind long ago that it would cost too much for a single night of playing pretend. More importantly, he didn't have anyone to ask.

“Would you go with me?”

“What about Bernard?”

“Oh, he still stalks me. But I'm not goin' to the prom with someone like him.”

“But why me?”

“Because you're the best friend I have,” she said.

Despite his misgivings, there was no good reason, except for Bernard Crowley, to disappoint Alicia. He told her he would love to go, which was only a slight lie. But as the days went on, it felt much like Confirmation, an emotionally useful rite of passage, a signal to the brain that it was time to move forward.

At school, he took part in two official prom rehearsals, in which he practised walking into the gymnasium with Alicia, holding her hand. He actually enjoyed that part, as well as sharing some laughs with his classmates. Skeet and Dolly practised together, while Mary's prom date was an older boy, Pete Lundrigan, who'd graduated the year before, and so she practised walking in with one of the teachers. Bernard, apparently, had declared that if Alicia wouldn't go to the prom with him, he wouldn't go at all.

In early June, Finton bought a brown, polyester suit at the mall for forty dollars. On the fourth of June, he bought a corsage at the flower shop. On the fifth of June, Skeet and Dolly picked him up in Skeet's lime green Gremlin, then stopped for Alicia, and they all arrived at the prom together.

On a sultry June afternoon, there was a church ceremony during which the valedictorian, Mary Connelly, in a long, red strapless dress, praised everyone and thanked their parents, spoke earnestly about having endured and enjoyed their time together, but now it was time to go forth and enjoy all that life had to offer. It was a pretty speech; she meant every word. Finton even felt a little nostalgia to go along with his nerves. That was important to him. Feeling something meant it was right, that he'd gotten something from it, that he'd actually been there.

The dance began at 7:30 p.m., and the decoration theme was “Dreams,” with fluffy clouds made of cardboard painted white and a wishing well swing where graduates, including Finton and Alicia, posed for the official prom photograph. As the graduating students entered the gymnasium, paired off and holding hands, the song on the sound system was Diana Ross's “The Theme From Mahogany (Do You Know Where You're Going To?”). To his surprise, Finton got sucked in by the bittersweet nostalgia. All his life, he'd never felt as if he'd belonged at this school, and now he could almost believe otherwise. These people said such comforting words and played such sweet songs that suggested they'd all experienced the very same things in exactly the same way.

He knew it wasn't true—it had been different for everyone. But the high school committee had done its best to represent the student body and, in a way, they had achieved their mission. None of them really knew where they were going to, what doors would open or close, or what life would offer. But they had each survived high school in their own private, yet inescapably public, way.

Once the hoopla was over, it was a dance like any other, except it was far better than Finton's previous experience. No one grabbed the front of his shirt, and he didn't accidentally strike anyone's nose and make it bleed.

Alicia was beguiling in her simple, green dress and he danced with her most of the night, to fast songs and slow. “Go Your Own Way,” “More Than a Feeling,” “Tonight's the Night,” “Turn the Page,” and “Blinded by the Light.” He danced with Dolly to a couple of fast tunes.

When the first few notes of “The First Cut is the Deepest” played, Finton instinctively looked for Mary. They had barely looked at each other all night, and he couldn't help but feel that, if there would ever be a perfect moment to dance with her, this would be it. He knew where she was, for he'd kept one eye on her all along. Her boyfriend, Pete Lundrigan, was leading her by the hand towards the dance area, so he rushed. “Mary!” he said breathlessly. “Would you like to dance?” Deep down, he suspected she would turn him down. But she smiled brightly and offered her hand. “I'd just about given up on you,” she said.

“Nice dress,” he said.

“Thanks. You look nice too.”

“Thanks,” he said. He suddenly couldn't think of anything else to say. “Oh, I really liked your speech today. Very nice.”

She smiled and thanked him again. “You seem nervous,” she said.

“I'm just having a good time. No nerves for me tonight. One of the best nights of my life.”

“Alicia seems to be enjoying herself too.”

“You think so?” He glanced towards his prom date, who was standing by herself near the punch table, sipping her drink from a plastic glass.

“Yes—and she looks amazing.”

“I'll tell her you said that.” The song was ending way too fast, and he hadn't come close to saying all he wanted to say to her. “I'm glad you're feeling better,” he said.

“Honestly, Finton, I never thought I'd be here tonight.”

“You look amazing. I mean, I know I said that, but you really do. You seem really happy now with Pete too—and I'm glad. I'm just glad for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling sweetly. She laid her head on his shoulder to finish the song, and Finton thought life could get no better, nor sadder, all at once. After that, they barely spoke to each other. There wasn't much more to be said, for it had all been said a long time ago. The emotions of a deeper discussion would have been crippling, so he just kept dancing—the loud music and constant motion being the best method of keeping the darkness at bay.

His head was still buzzing when he and Alicia, as pre-arranged, left before the last song. Everyone else had plans for private parties after the prom. Some guys had procured ill-gotten booze, and more than a few carried rubbers in their wallets. A few girls, according to Alicia, were planning to lose their virginity that night. He assumed she'd lost hers to Bernard, who didn't seem to be the patient type. Finton couldn't help thinking about his own lost innocence to Morgan Battenhatch when he was just twelve. Maybe it was better that way—satisfying his primal needs early, getting them out of the way quickly so they wouldn't land him in trouble. Maybe he owed Morgan gratitude, after all.

They walked home, not holding hands, but laughing wildly and touching each other occasionally when the moment called, or allowed, for it. The moon was waxing, nearly full, and, when it wasn't hiding behind a cloud, it shone upon the ocean and afforded meagre light upon the road where they tread. On rare occasions, a car passed by, headlights blinding them as the two graduates clung to each other to keep from falling.

With some light from the moon, the mood was playful. Prompted by the memory of a song the DJ had played, they sang a few bars of “Only Sixteen” by Dr. Hook, and giggled when they grew conscious of their mutual giddiness.

“You're good for me,” he said. “I feel like I can be myself with you.”

Her eyes glistened when she stopped and stood in front of him, impeding his progress. He laid both her hands on his shoulders. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. I mean… that anyone's ever said to me.”

“I could kiss you,” he said.

“That would be nice,” she said with a smile.