With barely a mumbling farewell, Finton took his books and ran home. The farther he got from the schoolyard, the more convinced he was that the priest was right—that Miss Bridie had not been dead. He could accept a great deal of punishment, but the thought of spending eternity doing the devil’s dirty work in the dark was enough to pretty much assure him he’d been wrong about the whole thing. It was all just a bad dream, he had decided, just as he was passing by the Battenhatch estate.
For the first time ever, he didn’t run past, but stood at the unlatched gate, and tried peering in through the window, piecing together that night in his mind. But the windows were dark. The bloodstain on the front door had been whitewashed away. He couldn’t feel or see the resurrection, could barely even recall the particulars. Therefore, it didn’t happen. And so there was no need for him to wind up in hell. But as he sauntered up Moon’s Lane, he wished he could talk it over with Miss Bridie.
“It’s the God’s honest truth,” Tom was saying as the boy walked in. “Phonse Dredge says he saw him, plain as day.”
“Who, Dad?” Finton had entered the kitchen in time to see his father banging the table with his fist, making the glass sugar bowl spill some of its grainy, white contents onto the brown Formica. Clancy and Homer sat at the table while their mother stood at her usual spot by the kitchen sink, a wet dishrag in her hands, bubbles foaming and hissing in the dish-filled water behind her. Nanny Moon sat in the living room, tucked mostly out of sight, rocking back and forth, going “tut-tut-tut” whenever Tom swore, and knitting something on brown yarn the colour of a dirty dog.
The boy caught his father and mother exchanging glances. “Tell me,” he said.
“Well,” Tom said in between sips of beer. “Me buddy Phonse Dredge was on duty last night down at the watch shack for the department o’ highways. Right at midnight, the lights went out. Black as pitch. But Phonse had his big flashlight. Figuring that someone was up to mischief, he turned it on and went out to search—they don’t like people sneaking into the yard, see.
“Phonse was a few feet away from the shack when he heard a noise behind him, like shuffling feet. Then a soft chuckle, like someone was playing a good joke on him. ‘Who the hell is out there?’ Phonse shouted out. But he couldn’t see no one. Phonse is a pretty big guy, ya know, and he’s not afraid o’ much.” Tom rubbed his hand over his face, shook his head, and scratched his nape as if bewildered.
“But Phonse told me that he was shakin’ all over. ‘I just knew something was wrong, Tom, b’y,’ he said. ‘Like every time I turned me back, someone was starin’ right at me and gettin’ ready to grab me.’ He said, ‘I was so frightened that I went back to the shed—there’s glass all around so I can see outside and still be seen from outside too—and tried to call Cin.’ But the phone at the house just kept ringing.
“Then, Phonse says, ‘All of a sudden, I saw something comin’ outta the woods.’ It was so bright he couldn’t see a thing.”
“What was it?” Finton asked, his whole body tense and his eyes wide.
“Tom, yer frightenin’ the poor youngsters to death. Tell me later.”
“No, Mom. I wants to hear what Phonse saw. Was it a UFO?”
Tom shook his head. “Worse. Way worse. It was the most awful thing you can imagine coming out of the woods.”
“Dracula!” Finton’s eyes grew wide.
“Jesus, Tom—go on and tell it then.”
“Well, the bright light came closer and closer out of the black woods. And Phonse started to see a little bit of it. And it started to look like a man, but he was covered in orange and red flames on all sides.”
“Sure the woods woulda caught on fire.” Clancy squinted and grimaced.
Tom paused, scratched his head. “P’raps they did. Anyway, the figure came closer and closer, and just a few feet away Phonse could see him, clear as anything—two big horns sticking out of his forehead!” Tom showed them, using his two index fingers as horns on his head. “And a long, pointed tail nearly touching the ground betwixt his legs, and two cloven hoofs like a goat. Phonse knows ’cause he grew up with goats.”
This fact sounded stranger to Finton than all the rest. “He grew up with goats?”
Tom grimaced. “His father had goats.”
“Oh.” Even though that was the answer he’d expected, Finton was disappointed, as it would make a great story to know somebody whose siblings were goats.
“Anyway, Phonse realized he was lookin’ Satan himself right in the face.”
“The devil, Tom?” Elsie’s face turned pale as she covered her mouth with her hands. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Amen.” She blessed herself three times, faster than Finton had ever seen her do it before. It was the devil, after all. “Did he say anything?”
Tom shrugged. “Phonse never said. Phonse could hardly talk. He’s off tonight—called in sick and said he don’t know if he can go back.”
“I s’pose not.” Elsie shook her head. “It wouldn’t be me goin’ back there by meself in the middle o’ the night.”
“What made the lights go?” Homer asked.
“The devil,” Tom said, as if he should have seen that fact for himself.
“The devil made the lights go.”
“Well,” Elsie said, “I’m lockin’ the door and saying a novena.”
“Good idea,” Tom said as he stood up and plucked his coat from the back of his chair.
“And where are you goin’?” Elsie asked.
“Down to Jack’s to tell the b’ys that the devil is come to Darwin.”
“Lord God have mercy.” She blessed herself again. “I’m half afraid now to let Finton go out for Hallowe’en.” Hands clasped in front of her, she appeared to fall into a trance. “Do what ya wants to do,” she said. “If the devil is anywhere it’s down at Jack’s. I’m gettin’ down on me knees and praying to Jesus to save us all.”
“That’s a good thing, Else. To each his own saviour.” Tom nudged his youngest son aside and departed, leaving his family praying to keep the devil away.
In bed that night, Finton couldn’t take his eyes off the picture of Jesus exposing his bleeding heart, looking so weak and tired. “Mom!” he called out. “Mom!”
Elsie Moon came running as fast as she could. “What is it, b’y?”
“Nudding,” Finton said, regretting that there was nothing his mother could do to save him. “I was just wonderin’ about something.”
She sat down on the bed, one hand shutting the flaps of her tattered robe.
“Do the devil got stronger powers than Jesus?” he asked.
“Of course not. Everyone knows Jesus is stronger than the devil.”
“But why is Jesus stronger than the devil?”
“’Cause Jesus is the son of God, that’s why.”
“Then what’s the devil?”
“He’s NOT the son of God. He’s just someone who thought he knew better than God, and one day challenged God, and God kicked him out of heaven and he landed on Earth.”
Finton frowned. “Why would God send the devil down to Earth with us? I thought he was s’posed to be in hell where the bad people goes.”
“He is, Finton. Now will ya stop asking so many questions.”
“I can’t go to sleep with Jesus lookin’ at me like that.”
“Jesus is there to protect you.”
“But he can’t protect me if he’s lookin’ so tired with his heart hangin’ out all over himself. Jus’ look.” He pointed at the picture, and his mother regarded it for a long time.
“You just have to trust in Him, Finton.”
“Even though He don’t look like He could lift a pail o’ water to save Hisself?”
“Looks are deceiving. Put your faith in Jesus, and He’ll never let ya down. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good boy.” She reached for the light switch.
“Don’t!”
“Don’t be so cowardly, Finton. I thought you were big now.”
&nbs
p; “I am. But the devil is bigger, I’spose.”
With a withering smile, she flicked off the light, leaving him in the dark, where he waited half the night for the devil to steal to his window, crawl in through the cracks and take him away from his family.
The next morning when the rooster crowed, he wondered if his father had come home last night. Finton had been awake until four a.m., listening for a sign of Tom’s return. Life in Darwin had changed, as if a long, wide shadow had been cast upon all their houses from some horrible monster that had come from the sky.
Dreams of the Lost
(1972)
For a long time, nothing seemed any different. Mary remained distant, though Finton sometimes went out of his way to wish her a good morning or say “See ya!” at the end of a school day. Skeet kept getting into trouble, with or without Finton at his side. Someone broke into the snack bar one Sunday night, and all they took was a carton of cigarettes, a box of Crispy Crunch bars and another of red licorice. The RCMP had parked outside of the Stuckey house Monday morning and stayed a long time. Furthermore, Skeet didn’t show up at school that day or the next, but, for a week afterwards, he seemed to have an endless supply of cigarettes and red licorice, which he willingly shared.
Tom went to Taylor’s Garage every weekday, and spent most weekends working on cars, drinking beer, napping occasionally, and going for drives on Sunday afternoons. Finton didn’t go along for the tour anymore. He’d begun craving his independence and was more likely to walk five miles than to ask his parents for a ride.
Elsie spent her days scrubbing floors, washing clothes, baking bread, and keeping the house tidy. She always seemed tired and yet never took a day off. Finton would observe her relentless cleaning from some corner of the house or the yard, wondering how she found the energy. Most times, though, he just wondered why.
Nanny Moon continued her vigilance over the family, usually from the rocking chair in the kitchen, reading her Bible and commenting with sage disapproval on the state of the world. Sometimes she could be heard after supper, kneeling at her bedside, imploring the Lord to forgive her family’s sins. After surviving Grade Eleven, Clancy had enrolled in a mechanics course at the trades school, but Nanny Moon still treated him like an impudent child and, once in a while, ordered him to be respectful to his mother, much as she’d recently warned him about his need to root for the “Godless Russians” when they played Team Canada. She would also advise Homer, who likewise struggled in school, to wash his hands before eating or to say his prayers before bed.
It was a rare occasion when she needed to admonish the youngest Moon, who was always respectful and said his prayers nightly. Once in a while, though, he would express an opinion that gave Nanny Moon concern. In Catechism class one day, the teacher had told them the story in Matthew’s gospel in which Jesus had said, “Don’t be like the hypocrites who love to stand in the synagogues and on the street corners so that they will be seen by people.” When the teacher asked what the parable meant, Finton raised his hand and said, “That we shouldn’t go to mass or pray where people can see us.” The teacher tut-tutted and told him the Bible would never say that. “But what’s the point?” Finton asked. “We should just pray to ourselves and not show off. Shouldn’t we?” The teacher explained that he should do both, but Finton insisted: being seen as holy wasn’t all that important, at least not to God. When he repeated the incident at the supper table that evening, Nanny Moon looked at Elsie and said, “You’re gonna have trouble with that one, and we all knows why.” The words stung, and Finton continued to argue the point, but there was no getting around the fact that his mother and grandmother wanted him to go to mass, regardless of what the Bible appeared to say.
While Finton remained a small, freckled boy with a crescent-shaped scar under his left eye, the other two boys were growing up fast. Their increasing maturity was too quick for Finton because it seemed he would never catch up. At seventeen, Clancy bought his first car—a red 1963 Galaxy that mostly sat in disrepair in the front yard while he played at fixing it up. But mostly the eldest boy used it as a place to sit with girls at night and listen to the Top Ten. Homer often said, “The only working part on that car is the radio.” But that was enough for Clancy, since his three great loves were cars, girls, and music, his favourite bands being KISS and Black Sabbath.
Homer, on the other hand, had taken to building houses with a local contractor. The homesteader of the family, he wanted everyone to be together on Saturday nights, preferably watching hockey and munching homemade popcorn. Except for Finton, everyone in the house was a Toronto Maple Leafs fan and, while the youngest Moon’s allegiance to an American team was irksome, Homer truly only cared that the family did something as a unit. He was a good-looking fifteenyear-old who’d already had a string of girlfriends, each of whom was a bit on the hard side and intimidating to Finton. Recently, though, Homer had taken to his bedroom a lot, where he would play his Rush and Trooper records so loud that everyone else in the house had to shout to be heard. When their father stomped into the bedroom and bellowed, “Turn it down!” Homer would comply, but gradually unleash the volume as the evening went on. As the bass and drums thrummed in his head, Finton figured something was wrong with his older brother.
At twelve, Finton struggled to maintain a sense of self-assurance among this testosterone-heavy bunch. His individuality wasn’t in question, since people knew him as “the strange one” of the hilltopdwelling Moons. He was the one who spent most of his time with his nose between the pages of a book or wandering around solo, showing little interest in girls or people in general. When he wasn’t in school or in church, he often found himself alone, either on the shore or in the woods, or sometimes lying in a tree branch watching the world go by. He barely slept at night for worrying about his teams, preferring instead to lie awake listening to Bruins or Expos games through the earplug on his transistor radio. When he did sleep, he dreamed about things he wished would leave him alone—of yellow-eyed wolves chasing him through a predawn forest, of hormonal girls who ran after him, begging a kiss, and various townspeople who wanted to hug him. In order to escape their clutches, the dreams always ended in some sort of falling.
Sundays, he attended mass at 9 a.m., even though other members of the family chose to go Saturday night or later on Sunday. Nine o’clock was when Mary Connelly and her family went to mass, and Finton would sit somewhere behind her. He rarely allowed himself to peek in Mary’s direction, as he preferred to dole out such moments as rewards for his self-restraint. The best view he had of her delicate, small frame was when everyone was either rising, sitting down, or starting to kneel. She would turn her head as she tugged the hem of her skirt to keep it from getting tangled, giving him a sacred few seconds to gaze at her with longing. His admiration for Mary was a secret, however, for he would be mortified if anyone knew he went to mass just to see her dressed up.
Everyone thought he attended mass early and often because of his sincere devotion to the teachings of the church. It seemed a foregone conclusion among family members that he would someday become a priest. And, truthfully, Finton didn’t mind going to mass. It was quiet there. He liked the singing, particularly on special occasions when a few kids from the high school choir played their instruments and sang hymns in a country and western style. He thought mass should be fun, but it usually wasn’t, mostly because he hated being told what to do. The constant sitting, kneeling, and standing on cue, along with the recitations, left him feeling like a trained, and slightly confused, monkey. But it was the only hour of the week when he could watch Mary as she whispered the prayers and sang along with each hymn. The parting of her lips and the quavering of her throat with every note was mesmerizing, and he gladly endured mass just to be in Mary’s company. Besides that, his mother insisted on his attendance, and there would be no arguing the point. But, if he were to tell the truth, Finton did not enjoy mass nearly so much as the holy feeling he got from having been there.
One Sunda
y morning, just past the Darwin fairgrounds, they saw Phonse Dredge, strolling along, dressed as if he were going to church. “Strange to see Phonse walkin’,” Tom said, as if to himself. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Looks like you needs a ride, me buddy. Hop in.” Phonse seemed to think nothing of it as he didn’t look surprised, just opened the car door and, with a grunt of exertion, climbed into the back seat. “Lovely day,” he said, and so the conversation went—normal, yet strange, considering Phonse had his own car and rarely went to mass.
“Wife’s not too happy with me,” he said.
“Did you say where you were goin’?” Tom glanced into the rearview mirror.
“B’y, she knows. I can say what I like, but she always knows.”
As Phonse was speaking, and Finton was wishing they hadn’t picked him up, they passed by Bilch’s, then a little further on, a pathway on the left where Sawyer Moon was just coming out of the woods, wearing his familiar khaki green Army jacket and baggy, brown trousers. Tom blew his horn and started to slow down. Sawyer raised his hand in greeting, but Phonse said, “Don’t you stop for the like o’ that.”
“Why?” asked Tom. “What’s he after doin’ now?” But he kept going and soon the slouching figure had faded from view.
“Oh, if only you knew,” Phonse said as they rounded a bend. “I knows you’re friends ’n all, but he’s a dirty blaggard, that one.”
Tom peered with narrowed eyes into the rearview mirror and held Phonse’s gaze. “Speak plain, b’y.”
“You mean you never heard what he does? Oh, my son, he’s vile. He’s after the young ones, ya know. Not just the girls, but the boys too.” Phonse fell silent for a moment. “Your own, sure.”
“What are ya talkin’ about, Phonse? What about me own?”
“I’ll tell ya about it when we gets there. But not while he’s here.”
A deep, troubling silence settled over the car, and Tom, in particular, seemed to grip the wheel more tightly and didn’t speak again until, a few minutes later, they pulled in front of the church and were parked in their usual spot, halfway between the church and the tavern. “You go on in,” he told Finton, “You knows where I’ll be.”
Finton Moon Page 7
