Every day, Finton clambered onto the bus and a few people would wave their hands for him to sit beside them. If he sat alone, someone would join him. More and more, he began sitting in the back beside Alicia Dredge, comforted by the secrets they shared—their moment in the library and the book she’d given him. She expected nothing from him and, in fact, was one of the few who had seen fit to give something to him. He’d read To Kill a Mockingbird again and kept it under his mattress; occasionally he took it out to reread certain passages. On the bus, in such close proximity, they exchanged greetings and the occasional bit of chatter about the inhabitants of a house they passed by or some animal on the side of the road. He felt as if he was getting to know her a little, but mostly he took comfort in the knowledge that she was even more of a social misfit than he was.
One day, she had been quieter than usual and barely raised a smile as he approached and sat beside her. After a couple of minutes of staring at the passing landscape, he asked her, “Are you okay?”
With obvious hesitation, she admitted that her father had come home from drinking the previous night and wreaked havoc upon the Dredge household. “Nights like that, I can’t even sleep,” she said. “I stay up to make sure he doesn’t hurt Mom, but there’s not much I can do.”
“Does he hit you?” Finton asked.
“Not unless I really deserve it. But Mom gets it regardless.”
Finton nodded, wanting only for Alicia to keep talking, which she did. “I went to bed, but he was shouting and throwing stuff around. I heard him kick the TV, but he only hurt his foot.” She smiled faintly. “I don’t know what he did to Mom, but she didn’t get up this morning.
I checked on her, but she just told me to go away.”
“Pretty rough,” said Finton. “Dad only hits me when he’s trying to teach me something… most times.”
“Oh, mine is teaching me something, all right.” She didn’t finish the thought, but Finton was pretty sure of what she meant.
“I can’t stand the cruelty of this place sometimes,” he said as they rolled past Bilch’s where the chestnut brown horse was grazing behind the fence.
“I know,” said Alicia, and he could tell she was pretty sad about her mother. “Everybody drinks. You’re nobody if you don’t drink with them.”
“It’s the beatings, too,” said Finton. “The fights. The names people call ya. The way they treats ya, like you’re not even on the same level as them. But most of the time, they’re just ignorant. They wouldn’t know a good thing if it came outta the toilet and bit ’em on the arse.” He raised his head and nodded towards the skyline on the left. “That salt water out there is filled to the brim with drowned cats and dogs, sure. The woods got more rotten carcasses than a cemetery.” He hung his head and sighed, wondering if he’d gone too far. He lifted his gaze to see if Alicia felt the same.
She nodded slowly, as if coming to a sudden realization. “Darwin is a strange little place. Sometimes, I don’t know how we live here.”
“Or why,” said Finton. “All I know is sometimes I feel I’ve got to get out of here so bad, I think I’ll die. I don’t know if it’s better anywhere else, but I got to try.”
She shook her head. “I’ll never leave. I want to. But I think some of us are just meant to stay where we are.”
“That’s just foolish,” said Finton. “You can leave whenever you want.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you can.” Alicia turned back towards the window, leaving Finton feeling as if he’d pushed her far enough for the moment. Apparently, it was harder being a Dredge than even he had known.
It occurred to Finton he’d left briefly, in his mind, and hadn’t spoken to Skeet in quite some time. It was the bounce of the basketball upon the ground that brought him back. But Skeet was used to the long silences between them, and used to Finton being in two places at once. He hardly missed a beat. “Heard you were spending time at the Battenhatch house,” he said.
“Who told you that?” Finton roused himself with a shake of his head.
“Morgan told me.”
“When did you see Morgan?”
“Don’t matter.” Skeet rolled the ball around in his hand, focused on the net and made his shot. “Seen Mary lately?”
“Few days ago. She’s doin’ all right.”
“Aren’t you worried about her?”
“Kind of.”
Finton had been about to take his turn when Skeet snatched the ball from him and said, “Why don’t you ever talk about what’s goin’ on with you?”
“I tell you stuff.”
“Yeah, right.” Skeet plucked a homemade cigarette from behind his ear and popped it in his mouth, then whipped out his lighter and lit up. After a long, wistful draw, he underhanded the basketball to Finton. “You got more secrets than the Pope.” He waited for Finton to miss his shot, then snatched the ball and slam-dunked it—not so difficult, considering the net had been rigged a foot lower than regulation. He returned to the shooting line, rolling the ball between his fingertips, and meditated his next shot.
“I don’t like to talk about myself, that’s all.”
“I get it.” He released the basketball, arcing it perfectly into the hoop. Finton chest-passed it back to Skeet at the line. “You’re not the only one with secrets.”
“Yeah?” said Finton. “Like what?”
Skeet paused, seemed as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head. “Never mind.” His shot banked off the backboard and would have smacked the side of Finton’s skull if he hadn’t ducked.
Finton retrieved the ball and carried it to the line. Even as he was readying his shot, he found himself disturbed by Skeet’s confession. He’d always thought of Skeet as someone without secrets or complexity. With everything else so messed up in his life, he’d come to depend on the simplicity of his only real friend.
“You can tell me,” he said. “I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Skeet smirked. “Shoot, would ya.”
Finton launched the ball towards the net, but missed competely. He groaned, not because of the bungled shot but because he was worried about Skeet.
“If you change your mind—”
“Just fuck off, okay?” Skeet’s choice of words was shocking. His swearing was notorious, but he’d somehow always refrained from directing such crudeness towards Finton. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just school. Mudder. Fadder. Life. It’s just all a big fuckin’ joke, okay? I’m just sick of everything.” He stepped to the line and appeared to consider his next shot. Then, without warning, he reared his arm back and lashed the ball at the side of the shed and made the clapboard rattle.
Finton threw his arms in front of his face as the ball zinged past him. It rolled behind them both and into the road. He hung his head, afraid to look at Skeet, fearful of this tantrum just as he dreaded those fights between his parents. If it were possible to do so, he would have gone invisible.
There was nothing he could say.
“Gotta go,” Skeet said, taking a final draw of his cigarette and flicking it to the ground near Finton’s feet. Then he strode away and into the woods.
When Skeet was worked up like that, there was nowhere for Finton to turn. He and Mary weren’t exactly friends, but they at least had history. So he strolled the couple of hundred yards to her house, thinking it would be nice just to see her, to be in her presence, or to catch a glimpse of her.
She was actually sitting on the front step, sipping a cup of chamomile tea. Her complexion was so pale that even her freckles had faded somewhat, but being outdoors gave her more of a semblance of health than he’d seen in a while.
“Good to see you up and about,” he said as he strolled up to her. He stuck his thumbs in the loops of his belt, hoping to look more casually confident.
She smiled as the sun beamed down on her face and rendered it buttercup yellow, nearly translucent. Just seeing her made his body thrum and his heartbeat quicken. “Hey, Finton. It’s good to see you, of all people.”
“Really? Why me?”
“Why not you? I hear every day about how ‘that wonderful Moon boy’ made me feel better.”
“But you still seem kinda sick.”
“Oh, this is definitely an improvement, believe me. I sit out here now and then, and I can feel myself getting stronger.”
“Do you know what was wrong?”
“Started out as pneumonia,” she said, shrugging. “Grew into something worse. I dunno. Anyway, thank you. I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but everyone says I owe you my life.”
Although he was certain she’d spoken figuratively, he liked the sound of her words. “You don’t owe me anything. I just wish you’d come back to school.”
“That’s sweet of you to say. Sometimes I don’t know how I got so lucky, to have such good friends as you and Dolly.”
“And Skeet.”
“Yes,” she said, a flicker of trouble in her eyes. “How is Skeet?”
“Haven’t you seen him?”
“He did drop by—I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”
“When was that?”
“A couple of days ago.” She lifted the cup to her mouth, her hands trembling from the exertion. “He seemed agitated. I was sitting here just watching the cars and people, tryin’ to get used to the world again. He went by and I waved. He came over and sat. We didn’t talk about much important, but he did say one thing that I thought was strange.”
“What was that?”
“He looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘Do you ever wish sometimes you could say something to someone, but you know you shouldn’t because it would change everything?’” She looked at Finton as if she were reading his thoughts. “Do you know that feeling?”
“I think so,” said Finton. “What did you say to him? What was his big secret?”
“I had to practically beat it out of him—with words, I mean. He tried to take it back and almost left without telling me, but I threatened to run after him. Skeet’s a hard one to figure out.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She lowered her gaze. “He said you had a thing for me, but have always been afraid to say it.” She looked directly at him in such a knowing, honest way that he couldn’t escape the glare of exposure, nor could he lie. “Is it true?”
“I can’t believe Skeet would say that to you.” The world slowly slipped from beneath his feet. He jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “I mean, why would he?”
“Did you say anything like that to him?” she asked.
Here was the moment. If Finton lied now, he could never tell her the truth. This was an opportunity. Maybe he could have what he wanted. Maybe some stories had a happy ending. “Maybe,” he said, starting out uncertainly. “The truth is… I’ve had a thing for you since Grade One.”
She seemed stunned. Then she nodded, and kept nodding. “I should’ve guessed.”
“I tried not to make it obvious.”
“The Christmas gift,” she said, still nodding. Not smiling and her eyes with a hint of pain. “I thought you were just being friendly.”
“I didn’t give one to Dolly, or Skeet.” His voice faltered and faded. “Just you.”
“Maybe I was just hoping,” she said. “But why me?”
“You’re the most beautiful girl I know. You’re kind. You’re smart. I can’t wait to see you every day, and when you’re not there, I want to go looking for you.” He stopped, unsure of how much he could say, pretty sure he had ruined everything. “I think I’m always looking for you.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears, and he wished he could erase the last three minutes from the world’s history. “That’s really, really… nice,” she said. “I mean, wow. I never… I mean, what do you say to something like that?”
“That you like me too?” he said.
She shook her head sadly. “I can’t say I feel that way for you when I don’t. If I led you on, I’m sorry, Finton. I appreciate your friendship and all you’ve done for me. I probably wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.” She wiped tears from her eyes, sniffled, and drew a deep breath that she exhaled slowly. “I’m glad you told me how you feel. I’m sure it’s good for you, not to keep those feelings bottled up inside you. But…”
“You don’t love me.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Do you feel anything for me at all?”
“Not love,” she said. “I don’t want to give you false hope. Besides, I’m only fourteen. I haven’t even dated yet. I’ve been sick—and my parents think I’m too young.”
“Is there someone else you wanted to date?”
She thought for a moment, averted her eyes and said, “No.”
“Well, that’s it then.” Finton looked away down the road, then once more at Mary. She seemed paler and weaker than when he’d arrived.
“I have to go inside,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”
In one quick motion, she stood up and turned to go. At the last second, she swiveled and laid a hand to his face. She kissed his cheek, just beneath his scar. “Someday, you’ll find someone who loves you and appreciates you. In time, you won’t even remember me.”
“I doubt it.”
“I don’t,” she said. “You really are a wonderful boy, Finton Moon. Don’t ever believe otherwise.”
Then she turned, went inside, and was gone.
Something Wicked
“Now—” From her familiar spot at the rickety kitchen table, Miss Bridie plunked down two tumblers and a bottle of Five Star. “Tell ol’ Bridie what ails ya.”
As she poured the drinks, he deliberated on where to start. At first he said nothing as he avoided her haunting gaze. He stared at the comatose clock above the heat-blasting wood stove. Miss Bridie turned her head away, the glass raised to her parted lips, but not before he observed the moistness in her eyes.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I just want to get the hell away from here and go where no one knows me.”
“What about the girl?”
Her implied familiarity with Mary was unnerving, but he dared not show it.
But Miss Bridie pursued him to the darkest corner of his mind. “The little one you’re always chasin’ after—Mary, I believe. Does she even know you’re alive?”
“She knows. But she don’t care.”
“Pretty harsh stuff,” she said. “Not nice being unwanted.”
They each fell quiet then and waited for the other to break the silence. She, being older and more practised in patience, outlasted him. “I just wish I felt at home somewhere, where people loved each other. That’s not asking too much, is it?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
Morgan emerged from the bedroom in her cut-off blue jeans. There were large, ugly bruises all over her calves, thighs, and shins. “Hey, buddy.”
“Morgan, be a good girl and put on the kettle. Poor Finton’s had hisself a day.”
He watched discreetly as she flicked her blonde hair behind her shoulders, picked up the kettle and brought it to the sink. While she turned on the tap and ran the water into the kettle, she stole a glance towards him, winked mischievously and smiled.
“Are you listening to me, lad?” Miss Bridie laughed and shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose you are with the likes of that runnin’ around half naked. Yer not so far off from yer father, are ya?”
He thought it was better not to refute the accusation. Meanwhile, Morgan eased the tension by announcing that she had to wash her hair.
“Goin’ out again, girl! Can’t ya stay home a single night with yer poor ol’ mother?”
“There’s more people in the world than you, Mudder.”
Once again, Finton wondered who else she was seeing, though he tried to redirect his thoughts. No more rejection today. He just didn’t think he could handle it.
Morgan ambled from room to room, grabbing a towel and a Balsam Plus bottle. She turned the water on, tested it for warmth, and thrust her head unde
r the tap, letting the water anoint her. She chattered continuously with them as she scrubbed her scalp and massaged the shampoo into her long, blonde hair. Despite his better judgment, Finton found himself sneaking the occasional peek at her backside.
“Did you get anywhere with that advice I gave you about the Connelly girl?” Morgan was rinsing the soap from her hair.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘anywhere,’” said Finton.
Morgan smiled as she turned off the taps and wrung the water from her hair. She bundled her hair into a towel, making her look like a Hindu goddess. “You’re so sweet. I can’t believe some bitch hasn’t snatched you up yet.”
“Believe it,” he said. “’Cause it’s true.”
“Come on upstairs and we’ll talk—Mudder don’t mind, do ya?”
Miss Bridie cast a suspicious gaze at her daughter, furrowing her brow. “I hope talkin’ is all yer doin’.”
“Now, Mudder, he’s only a child, sure. I’m just helpin’ poor Finton with his girl troubles.”
“That better be it.” Miss Bridie jerked her head and coughed, a raspy sound that caused Finton to worry she might have something seriously wrong. “Go on then. I’m goin’ for me walk.” Miss Bridie had already removed the kettle from the burner and was pulling on her boots and coat, coughing occasionally, as Morgan shifted past him. As Morgan ascended the stairs, he scrambled to keep up with her. Two steps at a time, he followed those naked legs that promised sanctuary.
His face was blazing red, and the crotch of his pants had grown uncomfortably tight. Still, he liked this feeling of becoming. It was a pleasant sort of torture that he would gladly endure for as long as he had to. There was something delicious in the dark, musty air of the Battenhatch house that held him captive, intoxicated and yearning. In his own home, and in the world outside, he felt a perpetual hunger. But here he had the reasonable expectation that his cravings would be satisfied. Out there, he was forever foraging and never finding. Here, he’d discovered something tangible and comforting, however forbidden.
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