Finton Moon

by Gerard Collins

  “Well, just don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

  With that, his father left him alone with Dean Martin jumping on a piano, only to fall on his backside to the floor, singing “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.”

  “I’m not allowed to talk to you.” Naked from the waist up, Skeet stood in the doorway and peeked behind. He saw no sign of his parents, so he whispered, “Come on.”

  Summer had deepened in the days and nights following the ill-fated evening at Bilch’s. The buds on the aspens and maples were plumping, and a few crocuses and dandelions had sprouted on the neighbours’ lawns.

  Together, they ran across the tree-dotted landscape until they’d reached the edge of the woods. The Stuckeys didn’t have money but owned an enormous piece of inherited property with tall, broad-leaved maples and dogwoods. The two boys collapsed in the shade of a dogwood tree sprouting thousands of leaves.

  “How’s your face?” Skeet asked.

  “All right.”

  “First time to Bilch’s, first fight—nice goin’, Moon. Yer old man would be proud.” He laughed and added, “Hell, I’m proud of ya.”

  Finton hung his head at the mention of his father.

  “How’s things with him?” Skeet asked as he lit a homemade cigarette, his hands trembling slightly.

  “Jeez, Skeet. You gotta lay off the booze, man.”

  “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he said. “So the cops still comin’ around or what?”

  “Not so much—unless you count droppin’ me off that night.”

  Skeet laughed. “Sorry about that, ol’ man. I split as soon as I saw ’im. Thought you’d have enough sense to do the same.”

  “I froze, b’y—although maybe I wanted to get caught.”

  “Why would you want that?”

  “What if they saw me? I’d spend the rest of the summer waiting for them to come get me.” He hung his head. “Bad enough waitin’ for them to come take Dad away.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Skeet blew a smoke ring in the breeze.

  “No,” Finton said, and he plucked a blade of grass, considered tossing it away, but kept it between his fingers instead. “He wouldn’t.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I just knows, that’s all.”

  “Well, the cops think he did it.”

  “They don’t know anything.”

  “I heard he got pretty mad at Sawyer that night.” Skeet sniffed and hawked in rapid succession, making Finton queasy. Fishing a cigarette from behind his ear, Skeet stuck it in his mouth and lit it, all in one motion. “Do you wanna know what I think?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, everyone’s sayin’ that yer father got Sawyer drunk, then took him into the woods.”

  Finton closed his eyes and listened to the breeze whistling through the treetops. “He probably did something. But he didn’t kill him.”

  “Your old man was about the only one that had the time o’ day for Sawyer. I often wondered why, and now I knows.”

  “What do you know?”

  “That it was all an act, I s’pose. Like, maybe Sawyer had something on ’im.”

  Finton shook his head. “I don’t see that. Everyone here knows everything.”

  Skeet shrugged and took another draw, his whole body shivering, despite the warmth of the afternoon air. “It just all seems pretty strange to me.”

  “What about it?”

  “Everything about it. Everyone knew Sawyer couldn’t drink because of his medication, and your father went and got him drunk.”

  “He didn’t get him drunk.”

  “Were you there?” asked Skeet.

  “No, but neither were you.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Skeet stared at the ground. “But maybe Sawyer had it coming.”

  “Maybe.”

  They both fell silent until Finton deliberately changed the subject. “Been to Bilch’s since?”

  Skeet shook his head, a disgusted grimace on his lips. “Folks won’t let me. They only thinks that’ll stop me.” He spit on the ground. “You?”

  “Don’t care if I ever go back.”

  “Scared o’ Slim Crowley.” Skeet nodded sagely. “I get it.”

  “It’s just not my kinda place.”

  “Well, what is your kinda place?”

  “I don’t know,” said Finton. “Some place where you don’t have to get into a brawl every time you want to go out after dark. And people don’t think you’re queer because you reads books.”

  Skeet laughed, but it was an ugly, judgmental sound. “And where might that be?”

  “I don’t know,” said Finton. “But it better be surrounded by ocean, have lots of books and lots of trees.”

  “Sounds perfect,” said Skeet, “for you.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Me? I’d take off and sail around the world in my own boat. A different girl in every harbour. Not come home no more, just go far away.”

  Skeet was shaking uncontrollably, as if he were freezing. As he spoke, his yellow-stained fingers fidgeted on his homemade cigarette, and he rarely glanced upward; when he did, he looked away quickly.

  “Sounds nice,” Finton said, “for you.”

  Picking at a blade of grass, Skeet peeked over at him, but only briefly.

  “Yeah, well, we all knows that’s not gonna happen.”

  “It might. Ya just gotta say you’re gonna do it and then just go do it.”

  Suddenly, Skeet looked straight at him. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, imbuing himself with an extra measure of toughness, then pulled it out and blew a ring of smoke into Finton’s face. “Dreams are for losers, kid. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  Long after he’d watched Skeet strutting half naked back to the house, Finton sat back beneath the tree and listened to the whispering leaves.

  To the Moon

  (August 1974)

  July crept by in a sweltering haze in pursuit of the perfect summer day—swimming in the ocean at the Darwin Day fairgrounds, splashing and bobbing on a sparkling lake while clinging to a gargantuan inner tube, or sipping an Orange Crush and reading a good book in a shady spot. Nights meant sitting on the front step or lying in the meadow, looking up at the stars and wondering, dreaming, scheming grandeur. Finton and Skeet, sometimes with Homer, would camp out overnight in a tent or a newly built tree house. Finton’s favourite evening pastime was sitting in Clancy’s Galaxy, turning the radio way up and singing along to the Top Ten. Alone or with Skeet or one of his brothers, it didn’t matter. The only activity he religiously avoided was going to Bilch’s or anywhere else Bernard Crowley might be.

  Early in July, he ran into Alicia as they were both getting checked out at Sellars’ store. “How’s your summer?” she’d asked.

  He was about to tell her about the new book he was reading when a voice from behind him said, “Hey, faggot. Does your mommy know you’re out by yourself?” Bernard Crowley slipped from behind a shelf. Finton thought, You need some new material, buddy. Judging by the corner of a Caramel Log bar sticking out of his pocket, Bernard had been stuffing his jacket with chocolate bars; a glance at Alicia suggested she knew nothing of her boyfriend’s illegal activity.

  He ignored Bernard’s insult. “Fine,” he said, “how about yours?”

  Bernard wrapped an arm around Alicia’s waist, although she seemed surprised and uncomfortable with the arrangement. “We’re just fine, as you can see,” he said.

  “You’re going together now?” He directed his question at Alicia, as he could barely stand to look at Bernard.

  “We’ve gone out a couple of times,” said Alicia. “You know—hangin’ around Bilch’s. Both times.”

  “Sounds…” he looked at them and wanted to say something appropriate: “strange,” he finished.

  “What a thing to say!” Alicia looked slightly wounded and, judging by the partial smile, rather amused.

  “Whattya mean strange, Moon? You sayin’ I’m not good eno
ugh for her?”

  “I just didn’t expect you two to go out… together. That’s what I meant.” Yes, he thought, just go with that. No need to provoke.

  “Well,” said Alicia. “we’ve gone out twice, to Bilch’s, like I said.”

  Finton nodded and paid for his Dreamsicle. He peeled the wrapper off slowly, letting them get a head start. He didn’t want to risk having to walk with them.

  “See ya,” said Alicia.

  “See ya, Alicia.”

  “So long, faggot.” Bernard raised his middle finger as he departed.

  By the time Finton got home, the police cruiser was just leaving, with Futterman glaring at him as he backed out of the Moon’s Lane.

  In the living room, his father sat watching the news, hands clasped before him. Nixon again.

  “Why are they still coming around?” Finton kept one eye on the television set. Grey-haired men in suits talking into microphones.

  Now and then, they showed film of Nixon, gazing into the camera with his dark, scowling eyes. Finton glanced at his father’s darting, cobalt eyes and wondered what he was capable of.

  “’Cause they thinks I did it.” Tom sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Lots o’ people think I got Sawyer drunk, got into a fight with ’im and killed ’im.” His eyes assumed a faraway look, a familiar mixture of fear and hurt.

  “Do you think they have enough to ever send you to jail?”

  “No.” As Tom averted his gaze towards the window, Finton wondered what he saw through those eyes—if the meadow had looked different these past few months. “I have faith.”

  “You mean in God.”

  Tom laughed. “In the truth and the decency of certain people. I never done nutting, and that should be enough.”

  “Then why don’t they leave you alone?”

  Tom swept his hands through his bedraggled hair, shaking his head like he was suffering some kind of breakdown. “’Cause they needs to do their job… I s’pose.”

  “Then they should go after the real killer.”

  “I wish it was that easy.” Tom’s eyes misted, causing Finton to be amazed as well as embarrassed. “But things will unfold as they should. Justice will prevail.”

  Finton shook his head angrily. “What the hell is justice? I don’t see much of it around here.”

  “Justice is when the good go free, and the bad get punished. It’s as simple as that.”

  But Finton wasn’t so sure. “Did Sawyer get punished?”

  “Some would say so.”

  “Would you?”

  Tom coughed and stood up, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was trying to give up smoking, so he stuffed them in his pockets as if they were the most useless appendages a man could own. “It’s too nice to be stuck indoors,” he said. “You’ll get enough of that when you’re older.”

  It didn’t sound so bad to Finton, being able to stay inside all day without anyone telling him what to do. But his father had looked so sad, it made him think that adulthood was a prison sentence from which there was no bail or parole. Kind of like it was for Nanny Moon. And his mother too. It must be hard to grow old, knowing you can never be young again. They all seemed so serious, sad, and angry. He decided he would never grow up in that way. Sure, he couldn’t wait to leave Darwin, but he’d never take life so seriously that he only believed in the bad stuff.

  He ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. There was no one around, so he ran for the woods. When he reached a dense part of the forest, he slowed to a walk, barely breathing hard, feeling more alive and scared than he had in a long time. The shadows from the trees were deep and cool. He felt as if he should be able to slip right into them and slide into a secret world beneath the earth.

  The best he could do was climb a tree and lie down in its branches. So that’s what he did.

  In early August, he heard on the radio that the circus was coming to Darwin, a rare event that his mother agreed would be a welcome distraction for him. But she warned he would have to earn his own money for admission and cotton candy, as she simply had no extra. He resented her response, since he hadn’t asked for anything, and yet she’d found it necessary to curtail his expectations.

  Despite his desire to maintain a distance from girls, Finton found himself more immersed that summer in a world where females held sway over all his senses. They were all he could think about—How’s Mary? Who’s Morgan with tonight? Did Alicia tell Bernard Crowley to take a long walk on a short pier? For the most part, though, girls seemed unconcerned with him. Maybe it was because his father was suspected of killing a man. No one said it to him outright, but the signs were all there. Tom’s work at the garage completely evaporated, and he wasn’t able to find a job anywhere. Jobs had never been plentiful in Darwin, and Tom had never worked in the fishery, carpentry, or anything else except mechanics and driving trucks. He had some unemployment insurance coming in, but that too would dry up before Christmas.

  Regardless of who his father was, girls had never exactly thrown themselves at Finton’s feet. Alicia had always liked him, and Morgan was always there for him, but neither female represented his ideal romance. Only Mary did. But now he adored her from what seemed like a much greater distance, making her all the more attractive.

  On Friday nights he would go alone to movies just to feel like he was a part of something. Darwin was growing, with a new mall in the works and a new cinema showing movies like Earthquake and Towering Inferno. Earthquake was supposed to have “sensurround” technology that made you move in your seat when Los Angeles was being destroyed, but the seats in Darwin stayed disappointingly still; plus, he couldn’t help thinking of Charlton Heston as Moses, saying, “Let my people go!” Finton stood outside the cinema before showtime and watched the good-looking high school girls goofing around with their good-looking boyfriends, and he wished it could be him with the girl. Once, he saw Alicia with Bernard, and they exchanged awkward greetings, then went inside, where they sat many rows apart on opposite sides of the theatre.

  He walked past Mary’s house every day, hoping she’d be out front, sipping tea or watering the garden. Occasionally, he saw her, sitting on the step, but he never stopped in. If she saw him and waved, he would wave back and hurry his step. But he was in no particular rush to repeat that hurtful conversation. He wondered if he—or Skeet, really—had ruined things for good.

  As the days stretched into weeks, and summer slipped past, Finton began to give up on romance and adventure, except for in his novels. He didn’t talk anymore about his intention to be a writer because they always made fun of him when he announced plans for a future. And yet he could feel the difference within him, like that moment when Dorothy awakened to find herself transported to the world of Oz—lately, he saw the world in Technicolor as he strove for new and better ways of expressing his burgeoning understanding of all that surrounded him. In early summer, Tom Swift, Robin Hood, and King Arthur had been his daily companions; through July and into August, they’d been succeeded by Tom Sawyer, Holden Caulfield, and, finally, Jay Gatsby —each more real and inspiring than any person he’d ever known. He wrote a couple of stories of his own, but grew frustrated with the feeling that his ability to express himself was stunted by his lack of knowledge about the world. The books were helpful, his imagination vast. But he craved intimacy with faraway places; he yearned for big cities and the English countryside, experiences like those of the characters in novels. But these desires, too, he kept locked inside himself, hidden from those who would not understand them.

  His father was barely speaking and kept mostly to himself, even when they watched TV together. Their favourite shows were Front Page Challenge and the CBC news, with a particular fondness for American politics. Finton didn’t understand the Watergate scandal, nor did he know much about the Middle East, but his father seemed to care, and that was enough. For Tom, observing the faraway trials of others seemed to replace discussion of the trials and tribulations at hand. Finton yearned t
o offer his father words of comfort, but he was always struck wordless when the need was greatest. Unemployed and suspected of sinister deeds, Tom would just sit there, watching TV, eyes glazed over as if he’d retreated to the darkest recesses of his mind. Or perhaps he possessed his own Planet of Solitude where he went to escape his troubles. But right here on earth, Tom had surrendered his efforts to give up smoking, and the burning cigarette between his fingers was the only indication that the light inside him hadn’t expired.

  Indeed, the whole family came to avoid the subjects of jobs and police. While it was a rare moment when Elsie would retreat to her bedroom and quietly weep, most days the tension was etched in her face. Neither of his brothers spoke of the troubles, and Finton spent most of his time alone, writing or reading stories, or hiding out in a newly built tree house. And yet, every day began with hope that something thrilling would happen—that maybe Sawyer’s killer would be caught or his father would land a job.

  One day at the library, Finton came across an article with sundrenched photographs of massive lawns and towering oak trees. There were old, brick buildings with ivy climbing the sides and winding across the eaves. But the one picture that made him sit down in one of those big chairs and gape in wonder was of a happy, young man with a wide grin, holding an apple-filled basket and standing in front of several lush, green trees with boughs that drooped from the weight of ripe, red fruit. The caption was: “Migrant Apple Picker in Wolfville, Nova Scotia.” For the first time in his life, Finton looked at a photograph and said to himself, I need to go there. There are jobs and trees. He loved the photo so much he asked the librarian to make a photocopy for him, which he took home and tucked into his copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.

  Meanwhile, the spectres of Sawyer, Mary, and Morgan—along with his family—were his daily reality. At night, he dreamt of corpses and killers who resembled either his father, Miss Bridie, himself, or Skeet Stuckey. Finton awakened each morning at the crack of dawn to the crow of his grandmother’s aged rooster, perched on a boulder outside his window at the crack of dawn. His mother complained about “that Jesus chicken” but Finton loved being startled to begin the day. He would lie awake on the bottom bunk, watching the broad sky over faroff mountains evolve from blue-black emptiness to a bright orange-yellow, casting long, reaching shadows across the deep, green forest. Sparrows and robins sang and whistled, while blue jays screeched and crows cawed. Lying in bed and listening to the potential of the day was the most perfect peace that Finton felt. It was only after he got out of bed that the day, either quickly or slowly, went downhill.