Finton Moon Page 4

“Your coat.”

  “Why would you stare at my coat?”

  “It’s really pink.”

  “Haven’t you ever seen a pink coat before?”

  “Not like that one.” The bright September sun had arisen behind her in the crisp, fall sky, illuminating her hair in golden red.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Finton Moon.” Squinting, he looked away to the trees surrounding the schoolyard. He felt slightly destabilized whenever he said his own name aloud, as if each time he did so, he was giving away something of himself. He could imagine a day when he wouldn’t speak it at all, and when someone asked, he would offer a made-up one.

  “Mine’s Mary Connelly,” she said, looking first at the ground and then into Finton’s eyes. “Wanna be my friend?”

  Finton nodded. “Okay.” Then Mary began telling him what Grade One would be like and what the teacher would say. She seemed very wise for one so small and fragile. Someone ought to be protecting her, he thought. Sir Finton Moon of the Laughing Woods—slayer of dragons, saviour of damsels in distress. In a way, of course, she was also looking out for him. She was his queen, and for her he would lay down his life.

  They sat beside each other in class, occasionally whispering a comment on the strange things the teacher said. But Mary had several such friends around her, all just wanting to be in her world, perhaps all thinking they would stand guard for her while she reigned over them and protected them. Finton shrank in his seat, defeated by the idea of competing for friendship.

  As the school year went on, Mary slipped gradually away from him and into the exclusive realm of girls. Her best friend was Dolly Worchester, the Amazon queen. While Mary was small and delicate, Dolly was tall, strong, and more athletic than most boys. In the games at recess in the school grounds, Dolly would battle more fiercely than anyone and was always a member of the victorious team.

  “Hey, Moon! Wait up!” Hearing the voice of Skeet Stuckey, Finton instinctively halted on the side of the road. Resignedly, he watched the girls disappear over the hill.

  Every day at recess and when school let out, he would watch Mary go off with her girls while he fell into a stream of babbling boys that usually headed for the woods. He often wished he could go with her, but she was beyond his grasp. Even to be seen talking to Mary would mean being mocked by the other boys, especially Bernard Crowley and his minions. Eventually, he took to sitting with the boys on the far side of the classroom, opposite the girls. He often felt the pressure of such restraint as if he were bound in a straitjacket, each authentic emotion buckled, every dangerous thought shackled.

  “Did you hear about Miss Bridie?” Skeet panted from running to catch up.

  “I was there.”

  “Yes, b’y! I managed to sneak out for a few minutes, but Mudder caught me and dragged me home. What a bitch, man.” Finton shrugged and kept walking, while Skeet scrambled to keep up. “I heard Morgan started it, and now’s she in the mental.”

  “No one knows what really happened.”

  Skeet drew a huge gob of spit into his throat and hawked on the ground in front of Finton’s feet. “One in and one out.”

  Finton shook his head disgustedly. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Morgan’s gone in and Sawyer Moon’s out.”

  Finton halted near the top of the hill. Skeet laughed heartily as he paused beside him, then glided past. “You scared o’ Sawyer?”

  “No… not really.”

  “That must be why you’re running.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh—I get it.” Skeet slowed and nodded towards the schoolyard. “Trying to catch up with your girlfriend.” He motioned towards Mary, who by now was standing around with a circle of girls, no doubt gossiping about last night’s fire.

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Well, let’s catch up with her then.”

  “No!”

  “If you won’t talk to her, I will.” Skeet took off running, straight for the girls at the edge of the small crowd while Finton muttered to himself and trudged behind.

  Seeing the boys approach, Dolly pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and nudged Mary with her elbow. “Did you hear about Sawyer?” she asked.

  “He’s outta the mental,” Skeet said testily. “We know.”

  “We just saw him.” Mary pointed towards the thicket. “Over there.”

  Skeet spit on the ground. “Scared, are ya?”

  Finton peered nervously into the woods, imagining the madman could be lurking behind any tree.

  “Better to be scared than to let ’em catch ya,” Mary said. “That’s what Dad says.”

  “I’m not scared o’ nuttin’.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see about that when Sawyer gets ya. Then you’ll run home cryin’.” Dolly’s prediction sent the three of them into peals of laughter. Skeet didn’t laugh, though. He seemed embarrassed, which was always funny to see because Skeet was so much bigger than everyone else.

  Skeet stuck his hands in his pockets and winked at her. “You know what you needs, Dolly?”

  “What do I need, Skeet Stuckey?”

  “A man.”

  “What would I do with a man? Everyone knows women are better.”

  “Someday you’ll need a man to protect you—then we’ll see who’s better.”

  “Well, if you see one around, let me know.”

  “B’ys, shut up—women are just as good as men.” As he spoke, Finton noticed Alicia Dredge sitting on the steps with her big-eared, older brother Willie. When she caught him looking, she shifted her gaze towards the road. Conversations went on all around them, but the two siblings sat in seclusion. They didn’t even talk to each other.

  To most people, Alicia was invisible. But Finton often noticed her, in spite of himself. She never spoke, preferred the shadowed periphery and eschewed attention. She often averted her eyes as if she’d been discovered—and discovery was certainly not on her agenda. For she was a Dredge and, as such, not just unworthy of attention but disdainful of it. The Dredges were like spiders in the corner of a shed, or a bottomless black hole at the far end of an overgrown yard—it was best to pretend they didn’t exist. Alicia didn’t call attention to herself, but Finton was sometimes aware of her watching him with those unnaturally large eyes. Despite being a Dredge, she was not unattractive. In fact, he sometimes wondered what it was like to be her, the only flower in a neglected lawn. Of course, he would never admit that she intrigued him, for she was a Dredge, and a Dredge never met with anyone’s approval.

  “Hey, I got an idea.” Skeet nodded towards the school. “Fielding don’t even know we’re here yet. We should take the morning off.”

  “No!” said Mary, clutching her books to her chest. “Mom would kill me.”

  “Come on, girl.” Dolly nudged her friend. “It’d be fun!”

  “Moon?” Skeet’s plan was obvious—since most of his previous attempts had failed, he was trying to embarrass Finton into skipping school.

  Inside the schoolhouse, the first bell rang, creating a knot in Finton’s stomach. “Not me.”

  “What if Mary went with us?”

  “Not likely,” she said.

  “Come on, b’ys. It’s only one morning. No one will know.”

  But Finton knew the teacher would call his mother, and there’d be a lot of explaining to do, and the next thing he knew, he’d be staying after school and being grounded at home, and everyone would be mad at him, so he’d have to tell the priest what he did, and then God would be mad at him, and he’d have to do penance, and even that wouldn’t make up for the all the guilt he’d feel. It was better to stay innocent than to face all the punishment. Even if no one else knew, skipping school felt wrong.

  When the second bell rang, Skeet began to panic. “Fine. I guess I’ll just have to go in the woods by meself.”

  “Sawyer’s in there,” said Mary.

  “Think I’m scared o’ him?” Skeet laughed just as Miss Fielding
was opening the doors to the school, and he ran off towards the thicket. “Chickens!”

  “You can’t let him go by himself,” said Dolly. “Go after him, Finton.”

  “You go after him. He’s big enough to handle Sawyer.”

  “But it’s Sawyer,” said Mary. “He might do anything.”

  Finton stared at the ground, then looked at Mary, who was clearly disappointed in him. He looked at Dolly, who stood with her arms folded and lips twisted skeptically, practically daring him to prove his masculinity in front of the girl he obviously loved. He glanced to the doors, where he could just see Miss Fielding herding the children inside. In fact, the Dredges were already entering, with Alicia casting him a backwards glance. She always seemed to be looking at him.

  “Hurry up!” Dolly said. “Sawyer Moon’s on the go!”

  Mary looked to the woods. Finton’s heart pounded furiously. “Fine,” he said. “If Miss Fielding asks where I am, tell her I forgot something and went home to get it.” He started to run, but stopped. “I’ll be right back with Skeet.”

  Both girls nodded and exchanged worried glances. When Mary and Dolly turned the corner of the schoolhouse, Finton dashed for the woods. Only when he’d reached the first line of tall, skinny birch did he stop and catch his breath. “What the hell am I doing?” he grumbled to himself as he took up a brisk walk, the hard plastic handle of his bookbag making his palms sweat. The path in these woods was worn from many generations of school-skippers that likely included Finton’s own father. So there was little doubt which route Skeet had taken.

  “Skeet! Where the hell are ya?” He waited and listened. A few yards off, a crow called from a towering spruce, but the only other sound was the distant clanging of the final bell, signaling that he was officially late.

  Finton walked into the thicket, where the birch and spruce bramble was densest, and pushed his way onto the path. Within moments, he entered a clearing and heard the fading footsteps of someone running.

  But it was already too late for him to turn. On a stump in the clearing sat a man, with his head bowed and his hands covering his eyes. His head was bobbing up and down while he chanted something indecipherable in a low, guttural voice.

  Despite serious misgivings, Finton stood his ground, his heart pounding furiously. A gasp must have escaped his lips because Sawyer looked up at him with the pus-filled, narrowed eyes of a rabid dog. His face was unshaven, his mouth drawn tight like a keyhole. He shook his head and started beating the air in front of him with open palms as if he were encased in a water-filled glass tank and was trying to escape. Finton’s instinct was to turn and run. But he was frozen in place.

  Sawyer wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Do you know me?” he asked.

  “I do,” said Finton. “I knows you.” He steadied his breathing as best he could, trying not to show any signs of fear. “My father is Tom Moon. He’s a friend of yours.”

  A dim light came on in Sawyer’s eyes. “Good ol’ Tom. Yish.”

  Finton glanced around. The path lay ahead, but he preferred not to cross near Sawyer. The only safe route was the way he had come. “I have to go to school,” he said.

  Sawyer stood up, taller than Finton remembered, wearing the same khaki Army jacket with the stains of Africa and the crucified Jesus. His hands kept fidgeting and swiping at his face as if to rid himself of an invisible web. As he shuffled forward, dead twigs snapped beneath his boots. “You knows me, sure.” He kept coming closer, and Finton was prepared to bolt. “I’m a friend o’ your father’s.” Every now and then, he blinked several times in rapid succession, and when he stopped, his eyes were redder.

  “Tom.” Finton took a step backwards. “Tom’s my father.”

  “You’re a good lad,” said Sawyer. “Come here till I tells ya something.”

  “What is it?” asked Finton, too petrified to move. He’d always wondered what this moment might be like, and now that he knew, he wished he didn’t.

  “Come here till I tells ya!” Sawyer said, and with one hand that was quicker than Finton would have guessed possible, he grabbed Finton by the shoulder, shook the bookbag from his hand, and drew him in close. He could smell Sawyer’s smelly breath. He gazed into his mongrel eyes. “You tell ’em I’m not goin’ back.”

  “What? Tell who?”

  “Not for no one.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  Before Finton could get the words out, Sawyer shoved him to the ground and lay on top of him, pinning him with one hand. Finton kicked and flailed, but his size was no match for a man who had once been a soldier.

  He found himself staring into those deep-set red eyes, that engorged nose, and those yellowed teeth that had consumed raw flesh. The grey, stiff bristles and weather-chewed skin. Finton wanted to scream, but Sawyer had taken his voice.

  Finton closed his eyes and focused on the whistle of the breeze, the beating of his own heart. The crow cawed and, somewhere farther off, children chattered. It took only an instant for the world to go black. Then he could no longer hear or feel. All around him was a blanket of darkness beset with a panoply of brilliant, spinning stars of burnt orange and lemon yellow. Here, there was no Sawyer, no danger—just tranquility.

  An invisible force tugged at his pant legs. Finton clamped his hands on his belt, resisting the humiliation with all his strength. A voice commanded him to open his eyes, said it was going to be okay. But he couldn’t open his mouth to respond; he was floating above the starry planet. Finally, when he felt a slap on his cheek, he opened his eyes. There, leaning over him and blocking out the sun was Skeet.

  “You came back,” Finton said.

  “Good thing too. Rotten bugger wasn’t long runnin’ when he saw me comin’ after ’im.” He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit up, panting and grinning, his forehead glistening. He pointed to the darkest part of the woods. “Went that way, the bastard. You okay, Moon?”

  “I’m all right.” Finton tried to stand up, but he felt woozy and had to sit on the stump.

  “He was like an animal,” Skeet said. “Worse than I ever seen him before.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not much.” Finton shook his head. “Something about not wanting to go back.”

  “To the mental, I suppose. I mean, who would, right?”

  When Finton finally felt up to it, the boys decided they’d skip the rest of the morning. Their parents and the teacher would just have to understand.

  “I’m not telling anybody about this,” Finton said.

  “Understood.” Skeet blew a ring of smoke into the wind. “I wouldn’t either.”

  Together, they ambled down the road, avoiding the path until they reached an opening in the brush, where they followed a secret path through the woods, all the way to the foxhole.

  In the sunlit hollow, Skeet plucked a cigarette out of his pocket and coolly lit it with a match. “Sawyer almost had you, man. I thought you was a goner.”

  “He had me pinned,” Finton said. “But he couldn’t get to me.”

  Skeet looked at him curiously and held the cigarette towards him. Finton shook his head. “What do you mean?” Skeet asked.

  “I was long gone.” Finton thought about Sawyer. He could see that mean face and those tortured eyes, staring at his own death—fear and sorrow eclipsing each other. And then he saw Sawyer’s body, face down on the ground, not moving.

  “Earth to Finton.” Skeet shook him by the arm, the cigarette stuck in one side of his mouth, a worried look in his eyes. “Jesus, b’y, you’re like a fuckin’ zombie.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinkin’.”

  “Sometimes you really weird me out,” said Skeet.

  “Sometimes I weird myself out.”

  A crow cawed as it flew overhead and perched in a tall spruce behind them. Skeet seemed lost in thought, reminding Finton of how little he actually knew of Skeet’s motives. To his mind, Skeet was brighter and kinder than m
ost people gave him credit for. He had a hard reputation—always cursing, smoking, and getting into trouble—but Finton saw a side of him that no one else did. Skeet was protective over Finton like a big brother would be, with a sense of justice that perpetually courted trouble. More than anything, it was his insistence on doing right by people that impressed Finton. In Darwin, nearly everyone struggled to get by, and most people did only what they needed to do. The town had more than its share of bullies—the Crowleys, who lived on the edge of town on their ramshackle property, were the best example of Darwinian ethics.

  Bernard Crowley was perpetually trying to goad Finton. In Darwin, any child who read books, went to mass, and stayed out of trouble was simply trying not to stand out. It was the safest method of ensuring one’s survival. Likewise, you didn’t jump onto the ice pans in spring, you didn’t go joyriding out on the highway at night, and you didn’t hang around at Bilch’s after dark. But Finton drew attention no matter what. It just seemed that the more invisible he tried to be, the more he attracted unwanted notice. If he went for a walk in the woods, wasps would sometimes buzz around his head. Mosquitoes would zip towards him and sometimes flit right into his eye as if he wasn’t there. Butterflies would pitch on his head as if he were a tall plant, and rabbits would occasionally hop towards him on a path, eyeing him curiously. Likewise, people like Bernard Crowley inevitably took an interest in him. It was as if he were an alien species they were intent on studying.

  It was common knowledge in Darwin that you didn’t mess with the Crowleys. They were crouched at the edge of town in their rundown house full of youngsters and animals—mangy dogs, barnyard cats, a host of chickens and ducks, and a bedraggled horse. Even by Darwinian standards, the Crowleys were dirty, foulmouthed and poor. The parents lived on welfare, and none of the children went to school regularly. Bernard was probably better off than most; at least he came to school once in a while, even if his chances of passing were slim. In fact, his nickname was “Slim,” not just because he was as scrawny as a junkyard dog, but because Miss Fielding had once asked him in front of everyone, on a day he’d been acting up worse than usual, what he thought his chances were of passing Grade Two. Bernard had already failed it once, mostly because of chronic absence combined with an inability to count or spell. When he shrugged nonchalantly, the teacher bent over, looked him right in the eye and said, “Slim.” Then she said it again. “Slim, slim, and slim. Those are your chances of passing.” Sure enough, he failed, and the name stuck. Some people forgot his given name and just called him Slim. Finton, however, preferred to call him “Bernard,” which seemed more suitable.