Finton Moon (44 page)

Finton figured he should have known, but then he considered his own occasions having sex with Morgan without protection—to think… no, he couldn't think about that. It would drive him insane.

You were only twelve
, he reminded himself.
Nobody told you that stuff.

“One more thing,” he said when he figured his father was losing his motivation to keep talking and the pauses had become lengthy.

“One more,” Tom said warily.

“Once and for all, did you kill Sawyer Moon?”

“I told you—”

“We're all telling the truth today for the first time ever. So tell me…”

“No,” said Tom. “I told you before: I'm never answering that question again.”

Lost

On the afternoon of the second last day of October, snow plummeted from the sky and blanketed the countryside. He'd stayed home from school, saying he didn't feel well. But everyone had scattered yet again, and, especially with his father taking Nanny Moon to the grocery store, he saw an opportunity to leave unnoticed. Through an opening he'd cleared on the sweaty windowpane, Finton watched in silent wonder and realized—
it has to be now
.

Now and then, he would glance outside to ensure that the snow was still falling. Then he pulled on his clothes and double-wrapped his long, red scarf around his neck so that it hung like vestments. He soon shut the door behind him, trundled out into the meadow and up the hill towards the woods.

The world was shockingly white, a land without edges or sharp distinctions. On the snow-laden ground, patches of brown grass and brambles poked up through the white carpet, reaching skyward against the rushing, white flakes.

In awe of how quickly the world had changed, Finton trudged the ghostly path. Where once the landscape was brown and drab, all had now turned bright. It was as if he'd breached the forbidden border and emerged into a land enshrouded by snow, where everything blended with everything else. Oblivious to the flakes on his cheeks and bare head, he forged a path into the waiting woods. Twenty minutes later, he stopped on the home side of the cold, dark river, peering into the thicket. Clouds billowed from his mouth. Over there would be darker, colder. The babbling brook seemed to call: “Step over. Hurry up. Don't waste time.”

At the edge of the stream, he bent down and slid flat onto his belly. He leaned forward, leveraging himself with his arms, and drank from the river. Every time he thought he was done, he thrust his lips and nose back into the cool water, and gulped until he'd had his fill. Satisfied, he stood upright and sniffed the wind that smelled of spruce, pine, and birch, and the rot of half-frozen bog and damp peat moss.

For a long time now, he'd had the feeling of being watched, and he'd expected to see his observer when he'd lifted his head.

With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth, tugged both ends of his snow-stippled scarf, then launched himself across the brook, landing with a thud on the other side. The river's song was unexpectedly different—deeper, resonant—reverberating in his heart. Hundreds of times he had crossed that river and never noticed the variance. But the thought was fleeting as the sun skittered behind a cloud, and he plodded towards the ominous thicket.

Except for the shimmering, white flakes that continued to fall, the woods were dark. A brown-coated rabbit hopped across the phantom path, paused to face the traveler, then quickly disappeared into the underbrush. Finton paused to notice the imprints of feathery paws and a furry belly that formed a divergent trail. He expected something magical to happen like in
Alice in Wonderland
, for someone to speak to him, tell him to go back home—or perhaps welcome him back to this place where he once belonged. He hoped not to be scolded, but that wouldn't have surprised him.

He stared at the branches of a snow-laden pine and thought how majestic it was. He marveled at the moment's silent perfection, frozen in time. Then, all at once, the branch bowed down, flicked upwards and dropped its load. The accompanying sound was like a gas stove igniting, jolting and abrupt. As a fine white mist sprayed the air around the tree, he gazed in wonder, blinked, and trudged onward.

At last, he came to the foxhole, where he sat on the rim, dangling his feet, and caught his breath. The snow was falling thicker now, as if it might go on forever. If he lay on his back, they'd probably never find him here—at least not until the spring, and then it would be too late.

He climbed into the hole and lay back, closed his eyes and listened to his own breathing rising and falling. Then he heard a sound—a light, quick intake of breath. His eyes snapped open, alert for an oncoming bear or a circling wolf. He swallowed hard and scanned the woods.

But he heard the sound only once and, after a while, his breathing slowed, and his senses attuned themselves to the woodland scene. The north wind whistled through the tops of the snow-covered evergreens, and a lonesome chill enveloped him. Already, the damp cold had seeped through his corduroy pants, and he wished he'd worn his snowsuit. He wondered how long he'd had his eyes closed, and whether he'd dozed. He kept his eyes shut, despite the cold and the truculent snowflakes that slowly buried him.

He knew how it should end. Jesus had to die for the sins of mankind. The world wouldn't take him back once he'd gone so far and shown them all how badly they'd behaved. Galilee was no place for such an enlightened soul.

All Finton had to do was to lie there and he'd be dead within hours. He was just exhausted.
So much much.

No one was looking for him—they were all too busy. No rescue party was coming, at least not until it was too late. But it was some cold. Starting to shiver, he was tempted to wipe the snow from his cheeks and eyelids. But the snow felt so right. The foxhole was welcoming.

“Finton?”

Go away.

“What are you doing?”

“God? Is that you? I'm not answering until you explain some things.”

“It's not God.”

He felt like that fisherman in
The Old Man and the Sea
. How much had he hated that book? Skeet actually threw his copy into the garbage can outside school and set it on fire. A few other guys threw theirs in too. But it stayed in Finton's mind how the old man used to have these conversations with the big fish and the teacher said he was really talking to God.
Bunch of baloney
, he'd thought. He wanted to open his eyes, but couldn't. Something not quite like sleep had overtaken him and resisted his attempts to animate himself. His lips were frozen, but he managed to ask, “Who's talking?”

“It's me, b'y. What the hell are you doin'?” she asked, and he knew her now. “You can't stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Snap out of it, b'y. Get yerself up or you'll freeze to death.”

Warm hands caressed his face; soft lips pressed themselves to his frozen mouth. He considered resisting. But it was too late. No one could save him. He felt two fingers pinch his nose and cut off his breath. Sputtering and coughing, he bolted upright. “Jesus, girl—tryin' to kill me.”

She squat in the snow across from him, her hands red, her discarded mittens lying in the snow beside her. A mischievous grin adorned her face.

Found

She brushed the snow from his face and chest. “Talk to me,” she said. But his tongue was too numb for words. By wrapping one of his arms around her shoulder and leveraging him upward, she coaxed him to stand. She shouldered him ploddingly along until the foxhole had receded from view. Gradually, he became more alert and noticed she was dressed all in white except for her brown boots that looked like some kind of animal skin. Her mittens were green like Granny Smith apples. Her pants and down-filled jacket, even her hat, were whiter than the snow and so dazzling he had to shield his eyes.

The longer they walked, her arm around his waist, the warmer he got. Eventually, the numbness fell away from his legs and he was able to lumber solo.

“What in God's name were you doing there?”

“Th-thinking.” His teeth chattered, and his breath was visible. “Whwhat are you doing here?”

“I scouted you.” She shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal that she stalked him occasionally. And sometimes, like now, it came in handy. “Did you think about the fact that you coulda killed yerself?”

He watched the silent, white world slip past, the snow still dense, though less than before. Gradually, as he observed the same familiar trees and rocks, he began to feel as if he were emerging from a long journey or an extensive sleep.

They weren't following his usual trail. He had always known of a diverging path, and this was the one toward which Alicia steered him, although it had recently been obscured by snow. No need to ask—he knew where they were going.

In snow, the Dredge property looked the same as any other place. When he hesitated on the doorstep, she grabbed his hand. “Come on.” He followed close behind her, his legs still numb—closed his eyes against the dual smells of cat's piss and rotting wood. As they stepped into the kitchen, she pulled a chrome, padded chair alongside the table for him, and then she began stripping him—first his boots and then his socks, revealing his reddened feet. “Jesus,” she muttered.

“What's he doin' here?” It was Alicia's brother Willie, in only his underwear, chewing on a red Twizzler, his ears even redder.

“What are you doin' here, smarty-pants? You should be in school.”

“So should you, shit-for-brains.”

“He got caught in the snowstorm. Help me get him into the bathtub.”

“You're off yer head, girl. What are you gonna do—take his clothes off?”

“That's the plan.”

“No thanks.”

“Arsehole.”

“Bitch.”

“I should go home.” Finton tried to stand, but just as suddenly, found himself sinking until his behind was in the chair. And yet he had the sensation of floating towards the ceiling. Alicia laid a hand on his shoulder, a motion more comforting than anything his mother had ever done, and the next few minutes were a blur as he was lifted and moved. In his dazed and nauseous state, he calculated that if he opened his eyes, he would definitely vomit. Alicia managed to guide him onto the toilet seat and, despite his mild protests, she proceeded to pull off his pants. At some point, she had also begun running water in the bathtub, its hollow babbling making the room small and all other sounds muffled and detached.

A knock came on the bathroom door. The door opened slightly, and Mrs. Dredge demanded to know what in God's name her daughter was at. He clenched his eyes shut for fear of discovering the scene was real—drunk and dazed in the bathroom with Alicia Dredge, pants to his knees, and her mother barging in and catching them in the act. Too strange-headed to care, he was nonetheless relieved when the door closed, allowing Alicia to finish the task.

“Keep your underwear on.” She laid a steadying, cool hand on the small of his back. When he was finally soaking in the tub—trying not to think about the peculiarity of the moment—and she was wiping down his face and neck with a cloth drenched in hot water—he inhaled so deeply that the breath caught in his chest as he choked a rising sob. Something about the way she stroked his body with the cloth made him wish his life was better, that he loved his family, that it wasn't all so ridiculous.

“I love you,” she whispered. He pretended not to hear.

Meet the Dredges