Finton Moon (52 page)

It had always been like this, really. There never had been any reason for hope. Being born to a woman who could barely take care of herself, let alone an infant, what chance did he have in life? He understood why he'd been taken. No one ever spoke about the past, a policy he never understood because the bygone days were no more threatening nor darker than the present. Nanny Moon had once said to him, “Give up all hope of a better past.” At the time, her words made sense. But, despite her intentions to the contrary, there was something defeatist about them—the notion that there was a part of your life—essentially, the entire mass of moments and conditions that comprised your existence—that was beyond healing. In his deepest moments, he rejected the idea, clinging to the belief that somehow he would find a way to rectify the past, to at least reconcile it within his own mind and be at peace with his own history, with the history of his people and, thus, prepare himself for a better future.

Without peace with the past, there could be no hope for future contentment—which made the present a battleground for Finton Moon. That was the last thought he had before his foot slipped into a water-filled pothole and he wrenched his already-injured ankle. Screeching in anguish, he dropped to the pavement, clasping his foot.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Fucking ow! Ow! Ow!” he cried out as he rubbed the injured spot. His words fell dead on the asphalt and gravel, for no sound could carry far in such indomitable fog. All noises were close as if emanating from just beyond his body. He cursed the road, the Department of Highways—
what kind of godforsaken place has potholes in the middle of a highway?
—and he cursed an apocalypse on God himself. He cursed his mother and father and Bridie Battenhatch. Most of all, he cursed the rain.

A few tears rolled down his face, but that was all. He tried standing up, but the pain was too sharp and, more out of frustration than physical necessity, he again fell on his arse, plop down in the pothole full of dark water.

This time he didn't curse, only hung his head to his knees, which he wrapped his arms around and pulled tight to his chest. He was just about to launch into a round of Hail Marys when, from somewhere nearby, he heard the unmistakable whir of rubber on wet pavement as a slowing vehicle rolled towards him. He didn't bother lifting his head, for he couldn't handle the vicious cycle of hope and despair.

But he could swear this car was slowing down as it came closer. The pothole in which he sat was suddenly awash with light. The tires ceased rolling, the engine rumbling like some massive beast in suspension. Finton wondered what greater misery was about to descend. He wasn't exactly prepared to fight, but he supposed he would, if forced.

“Hello again.”

A familiar voice.

Moments later, he sat in the front seat of a police cruiser across from Kieran Dredge, staring into the fog and drizzle.

“Not a fit day for a walk,” the constable said.

“So I found out.”

Kieran laughed. It was a warm, genuine laugh—a sound not necessarily intended to make the youth feel at ease, but it had exactly that effect.

“Your family's probably worried sick about you.”

Here it comes
, he thought.

“Where are you headed?” Kieran asked. The wipers scraped rhythmically, every few seconds, until their sound became a wordless song that cut right to Finton's heart.

“I'd rather not say.”

“You should tell someone where you're going.” Kieran paused thoughtfully. “You could tell me.”

Finton maintained a steady gaze on the hidden horizon. Shapes in the mist drifted before his eyes like white watercolour paintings. In the all-consuming blankness, he saw nothing and everything. He saw his past and his future—the people he knew and those upon whom he had yet to lay eyes. But mostly he saw himself—a past barely gone, a future unwritten. “No, thanks.” He sniffled as water rivered down his face and plopped onto the seat.

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Because I'm not sure who to trust anymore.”

“Fair enough.” Kieran sighed. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

Again, he thought,
Here it comes—the old “you remind me of me” speech.

“Didn't get along with my family. Thought nobody understood me. Man, I hated this place. Hated intensely. I couldn't wait to get away and go someplace better.”

“Did you find it?” Finton was skeptical about where this “talk” was leading, but he played along, hoping his sociability would score him a ride for a few miles.

“What I found was, there is no place better. There are only other places.”

“I don't believe that—some places have gotta be better than this shithole.”

“So you would think. But when you get away, you actually miss it—the ocean, the land, the fog… and the people.” He laughed bitterly. “I didn't miss them for the longest time. I missed my little sister. My mother. But that's about it.”

“Did you get along with your family?”

That made him smile. “Let's just say we have different ideas on things.”

“I know what ya mean,” Finton said. “My family doesn't get me either.”

“Anyway, I'm not saying I didn't love the city life, the girls, all the things to do. It was pretty great. But no matter how bad things were back here, this was home—a place you're always connected to, always affects you, for better or worse.”

“I'm thinking mostly for worse.”

“Maybe,” said Kieran. “Just don't go writing people off.”

“There's some pretty bad people here—you should know that better than anyone.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. But it's not just here. They're everywhere. And the good ones are here too, just the same as anywhere else.”

“So you're saying I shouldn't go anywhere.”

“No. I'm saying, don't go havin' any great expectations.”

Finton found his choice of words funny. “Do you read?”

“Yeah, I read. I read that one in school—Dickens, right? But I mostly read non-fiction. Biographies and articles. Sports stuff.”

“Like Clancy.”

“Yeah, I know Clancy. I was a few grades ahead of him in school. Good guy.”

Finton found himself tingling with pride to hear his brother's name mentioned in such a positive manner. “He's good at cars and stuff.”

“I know—he replaced a belt in my old Gremlin a while ago—before I sold it to that Stuckey friend o' yours.”

“Listen,” said Finton as he drew a deep breath. “Tell Alicia she needs to get out.” As he steeled his nerve, a car went by, honking like a migratory goose before it disappeared into the white wall.

Kieran smiled. “She's a big girl. She'll make up her own mind.”

“I just thought maybe you could convince her.”

“She's still a bit young for that.” Kieran nodded, his lips knotted thoughtfully. “So are you for that matter.”

“I'm old enough,” he said, unwilling to explain himself any more than that.

“I'll drive you down the road a ways, if you like.”

“That would be great.”

“But I'll ask you one more time—would you rather go back home?”

Finton considered it. He wished the weather was better. Hell, he wished a lot of things were better. He wished there was an easier way and a better way. But this was the best thing for now. “Onward,” he said; within half an hour, they were rolling across the Avalon.

The ferry to Nova Scotia was bigger, brighter, and bluer than he'd imagined. He didn't tell Kieran his destination, but since he said it wasn't St. John's, the constable turned right at the Argentia access road. Somehow, he'd known. When he dropped Finton off at the ferry terminal, he wished him luck and advised him to contact his family once he got where he was going. He told Kieran, “Have a good life.” Then he changed into dry clothes and tossed his old ones into the washroom trashcan. Only his sneakers were still soaked through, and they squished and squeaked with every step he took.

The boat ride went quickly—they'd left port in the evening and arrived in North Sydney a mere fourteen hours later. For sixteen years, hardly anything had changed. But in just under half a day, Finton had practically entered a new country.

Nova Scotia was vast and yet similar to the place he'd left, the only apparent difference being the sunshine. While the land behind seemed perpetually bathed in fog and snow, Nova Scotia was bright and fairly warm. The ferry ramp, the dock, the goldenrod-striped pavement, and the perky conifers that bordered the government property were all tinted golden, lending the expedition a touch of grandeur. He felt as if he were in a movie—all the people just actors, saying tired lines.

The sight, as he left the station, of a red and white flag with the maple leaf rippling against the powder blue sky made him stop and stare, wondering if this was what it felt like to belong to something bigger. The moment was fleeting, however, and he started walking alongside a narrow road that would eventually lead to the highway. Cars and trucks whizzed by him, same as before, all going some place. They might even be going to the same place as him. But he didn't stick out his thumb. He simply trusted.

It was a long time before one of them pulled over, and when he ran to the waiting car and opened the door, there was a young woman with long, dark hair and soft, brown eyes, asking where he was going.

“The Annapolis Valley.”

“Well, that's where I'm going,” she said. “Do you need a lift?”

In her front seat, he felt as if everything was going to be okay. In that moment, who he used to be and the place he'd grown up no longer existed. Maybe in years to come, it would all come back. He might even miss it. But from now on, he was a young man named Finton Moon and that was all. Like a snowball heading downhill, he would accumulate himself as he rolled along.

The pretty woman asked his name, and he told her.

“Where are you from?”

“A whole different place,” he said.

She didn't prod, but when he asked her name, she said, “Clarity.”

She wasn't born with that name and yet somehow she actually had been. She had chosen it, but she'd always known it; she just hadn't known what it was till she said it aloud.

“What's in the Valley you're so worked up to see?”

He'd know it when he saw it, he said.

It was a long drive, but they conversed the whole way, and time passed quickly. He was amazed by how much she knew about everything and how little he knew about anything. But he had opinions, and that counted for something. She'd been home for the weekend, visiting family in Stephenville, but now she was back in university to finish the semester.

“I'm Wiccan,” she said, “which is why I chose my own name.” Then she explained that she was a witch-in-training, a member of a small coven that met at low tide for bonfires on the mud flats of Wolfville every full moon of summer and fall.

When Finton explained he was “born Catholic,” she said, “No one's born Catholic. You were baptized—and you can be baptized again as something else.” He liked the sound of that, the chance at starting over, not as someone else, but as the person he'd always felt that he was. Perhaps, in a way, he already had been baptized—for he still felt a chill from his hours in the rain.

By the time they reached Wolfville and were parting ways, he was already in love with Clarity. She gave him her number and a hug. She kissed his cheek and said, “If you ever need anything, you get in touch. I'm not far away.”

She left him on the steps of the residence hall at Acadia University. After he watched her drive away, he went to the main office to ask for help, which another young woman joyfully provided. He showed her the letter from the registrar's assistant—a girl named Debra—but she said she didn't need it. She just gave him the directions and the key to his room. It was the most precious thing he'd ever held, in a hand that had held many precious things. No one had ever trusted him with a key before.

Because it was still summer, the residence was mostly empty, although there were several students milling around, conversing on their way to someplace else, possibly to class or out for a mid-afternoon coffee or whatever it was students did in their free time. Until now, Finton hadn't even realized there was something called free time—the adult distinction between work and leisure. Up until now, all times had been the same: a seemingly endless stretch of constant anxiety.

It took a few minutes, exploring the hallways, making a couple of wrong turns, but he finally found his room. He knocked on the door, but he knew there'd be no one inside. The girl at the desk had told him he had it all to himself. The charge would be eight dollars each night, and he could stay as many nights as he wanted until September.

Dear Finton:

In response to your letter dated May 14, 1976, I am pleased to inform you that we have dorm rooms available throughout the summer for anyone who wants them. The cost per night is eight dollars. Please let me know the dates you'll be requiring a room. I look forward to hearing from you.

Regards, Debra Huntington

The bed had a pillow and two blankets. The bookshelf was empty. A brown metallic heater was built into the wall, but there were no knobs. With his shoes on, he lay on the bed and clasped his hands on his stomach, feeling the up-and-down motion of his steady breathing. So this was freedom. He had just closed his eyes when he just as quickly opened them and sprang to his feet. He sensed it was time.

The door locked behind him, and he felt in his pocket to make certain he still had the key. Reassured, he retraced his steps and sauntered out the front door, into the warmth of the day. The sunshine on his face was a balm to his soul. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then slowly emitted a life-affirming breath.

Eyes reopened, he chose a direction and followed it. He strolled across the expansive, forested lawn to Main Street, which ran through Wolfville and connected it to townships beyond its borders at both ends. As he navigated the sidewalk past a small cemetery and a large, white theatre, he imagined one could walk for days and never encounter a bank of fog or a moose. You could go on forever without running into an obstacle, and no one would tell you that you were doing anything wrong.