Skeet was on the bus, beating out “Me and Julio” on the back of the padded seat in rhythm with the radio blaring from the tinny speakers.
Alicia Dredge sat in the back, as usual, gazing out the window. Dolly sat across from Finton, scanning Flight Into Danger while she cracked her bubble gum. She spoke to him once in a while, but he paid little attention. She was asking questions, such as, Why didn’t the pilot just take Tums or make himself vomit after he ate the poisoned fish? “The poisoned poisson,” she said.
Mary didn’t get on the bus that morning, which made Finton worry about her. But he kept his concern to himself.
Rolling around the turns and past the various beaches, along the side routes and back roads, the bus driver picked up kids all over North Darwin. All Finton could think about, besides Mary, was that inevitable meeting with Alicia. When they arrived at the school, before she’d even gotten up from her seat, he fled the bus and hung out by the swings, turning his head away as she entered.
When he came into the classroom, she was sitting in her usual spot. Except, she looked different. At first, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but occasionally he would glance in her direction when he figured she wouldn’t notice. She’d washed her hair for sure. But her clothes seemed better—cleaner and more carefully chosen. She was also wearing makeup, her cheeks being rosier and her lips redder.
He wondered whatever made her buy To Kill a Mockingbird for him, especially when he hadn’t bought anything for her. It was an amazing story, full of ideas that could hardly fit into his head. The author had written things that Finton had often thought about the world—especially its injustices and the way some people, Negroes in particular, are ghettoized because of the way they look or their lack of money. And Scout’s father was a good man, the kind of man every child could be proud to call “Dad.” He wondered again whether there was something about him that made her buy it for him. Or maybe it was something about her. He had decided over the holidays that any girl who would even think of reading a book like that, let alone give it to him, was probably a girl worth knowing. The problem, of course, was that that girl was Alicia Dredge.
The book had also made him wonder if he could write a story like that. Over the Christmas holidays, he finished the one about the corpse in the woods, and he wondered if one of his teachers might like to read it. That, however, would take the kind of courage he wasn’t sure he possessed. The very idea of someone reading his secret thoughts was terrifying because, chances were, they would mock him—his inadequate vocabulary, his poor attempts at storytelling, and, worst of all, his all-too-obvious vulnerability.
“Hi, Finton.” He awoke from his reverie to see her waving and smiling at him. “Did you have a good holiday?”
“It was all right.” His tongue felt swollen and thick in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bernard Crowley, a few rows over, nudge Cocky Munro, both of them eavesdropping and grinning. Arseholes, he thought.
“Did the usual,” he said in a lowered voice. “You know—games, hockey, food. How about you?”
She appeared crestfallen, looking up at him with those big Texas Across the River eyes, and something in his heart stirred for her. It wasn’t love or lust or anything romantic. He just felt sorry for her. And ashamed of himself.
“It was okay,” she said. “Lots of drinking at our house. You know what it’s like.”
“Yeah.” He nodded earnestly, desperate to deter the subject from the gift she’d given him.
“Did you happen to read any good books?” The hope and sadness that commingled in her eyes were almost enough to make him blurt out the truth—to profess his undying devotion to Scout and Atticus, Jem and Boo, and Calpurnia, too, and to pour out his gratitude for the privilege she’d given him.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t have much time.”
She nodded and lowered her head. “That’s too bad.”
He felt his heart leap to his throat, and this time, he managed to speak the right words. “I did… actually… read one… actually. I loved the book you gave me.”
“Really?” Her cheeks beamed rosy and her eyes twinkled with a happiness he’d never seen in her before. Her entire body seemed to levitate from the desk and, suddenly, she seemed twice as good-looking as before, nearly as pretty as Mary. “I thought you would. I figured you were just the kind of boy who would love it.”
The final bell rang just as the teacher came in, smiling pleasantly, and said she hoped they’d all had a chance to read ahead in the curriculum over the holidays.
Finton sneaked the occasional peek at Alicia, who was still glowing, practically vibrating. Once, she caught him looking, and her face burst into a pleasant smile as she blinked slowly and averted her eyes to the blackboard.
As gratified as he was to have made Alicia smile, Finton was disconcerted to see Mary Connelly’s empty desk. Most likely, she was just sick. But he wondered if she’d pieced together the Paris puzzle. Somehow he doubted that she’d spent any time thinking about him, let alone laying her hands on something he’d given her.
The day would be long, as most days would be. But tomorrow forever brought reason for optimism. Tomorrow, Mary might be back, and the world might look brighter. But at least he’d made Alicia smile, which felt better to him than he’d thought it could.
Questioning
That evening, just after supper, Finton was scribbling a new story at the kitchen table when the telephone rang and startled him. Clancy and Homer were watching a Happy Days rerun, Nanny Moon was in her bedroom, and Elsie had gone to the bathroom. His mother banged on the wall and yelled, “Get that, please!” The voice on the telephone raised the hairs on his neck.
“Put your mother on.”
“Are you all right?”
“Put your mother on now.”
He called out to Elsie, who immediately came running.
“It’s Dad.” He handed the phone to her.
“Tom, where are you?”
Finton could hear only a small voice coming from the receiver. But his mother’s complexion suddenly paled.
“Come home,” she said. “Just come home.”
She listened some more. The tone of the small voice was sharp and abrupt, trailing off at the end of each sentence. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just—just hang on.” She hung up and called the other two boys to the kitchen. When they’d all gathered, she told them, “Get down on your knees and pray.”
“What for?” Clancy whined.
Nanny Moon appeared, wielding her Bible and giving a small cough. Her limp was unusually prominent. “What in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph is going on?” She looked to the children’s mother for an explanation.
“Just pray, Nanny. Boys. On your knees now. Finton, start us out with the first round of Hail Marys.”
The first round of Speed Rosary began, with each Moon taking a turn, and each round quickening and quickening until Finton could feel the room spinning into an otherworldly realm, propelled by a fuel of desperation and fear. When the rosary was done, and they’d all stood up and rubbed their knees, Elsie cleared her throat and said in a shaky voice, “That was your father.”
“What’s wrong?” Clancy and Homer both asked at once.
“I’ll explain later.” She took Finton into her arms, tousling his hair in a demented way, seeming to draw comfort from his smallness. She pulled away then and gazed out the window, appearing lost. “He’s at Jack’s, but the police are looking for him.”
They all nodded, but the two older ones were more concerned about what he’d done. “He didn’t do anything.” Elsie was pulling on her coat and boots. “It’s just a big misunderstanding.”
“It’s about Sawyer, isn’t it?” Nanny Moon looked directly at Finton, almost accusing him. “The bloody fool said something he shouldn’t have.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” Elsie had stopped in the porch to fumble for her car keys.
“Where else would such a mess co
me from?”
“Unless he’s after beatin’ someone up at Jack’s.” Clancy nodded as he said it, convinced of its truth.
Homer raised his fists in combat mode. “Dad wouldn’t let no one off with nudding.” Then he roared and raised his arms, punching the air and dancing around until Elsie slapped his face, which stood him up straight, bewildered and speechless. Finton felt sick and just wanted to crawl into a hole someplace no one could find him.
“Stop it!” Elsie said, her face tight with fear. “Just behave for Nanny Moon until I gets back.” Then, she departed, coattail flying behind her as the door slammed shut.
Within moments, Nanny Moon knelt at the kitchen table and said, “Let’s say the rosary again.” Finton knelt with the others, but said no prayers. He imagined his father slouched in the dark corner of the tavern, his mother speeding through the dark streets, racing around turns, tortured by thoughts of raising three children alone.
Nanny Moon coughed through much of the rosary, which got him to wondering who was worried about her.
Just past eight-thirty, the front door opened. They must have driven under cover of darkness, headlights off, because, even though he’d been watching out the window for a couple of hours, they took Finton—and everyone else—by surprise. His mother looked haggard, while her unkempt husband smelled like beer. He propped himself up by grasping the doorknob.
“I’m home,” he said, stomping the slush from his boots onto the doormat. “Those lousy bastards are lookin’ for me, but I’m too smart for the fuckin’ works.” Elsie and Clancy helped ease his backside into a chair, and he leaned his right arm on the table. Spittle flew from his face as he ranted, his eyes feral like those of a cornered mountain lion. “None o’ the Moons have ever gone to jail, and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll be the first.”
“Tut-tut.” Elsie shook her head. “Not in front of the boys, Tom.”
“Who are ya goin’ on about, Tom?” Nanny Moon looked worried, scrolling through her rosary beads.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said as he covered his eyes with both palms. “I’m so sorry.”
“What have ya got to be sorry about?” Nanny Moon asked. “You didn’t kill him sure… did ya now?”
Finton was still marveling at the strange scene when a knock came on the door.
“I’m sorry, Tom. Just doing our jobs.” That’s what Futterman said as he took their father by the arm and hoisted him to his feet. Tom passively resisted and called him a “lousy mainland fucker.” But it was the same pair of officers who’d been at the house several times before, and they didn’t seem to take Tom’s comments to heart.
Futterman tried again. “Easy now, Tom. We’re just goin’ down to the station for a talk, see if we can straighten out this mess, okay?”
They talked to him as if he was a wounded animal that might attack if they made any sudden moves. Kieran Dredge gently lifted Tom’s opposite arm. “We’re not gonna cuff you, Tom, but you gotta be civilized, okay?” His reassurance seemed directed more to the family than to the man being arrested. “Just take it easy.”
Tom seemed to calm down after that. He hugged Elsie and kissed her cheek, and he nodded to his mother. He said to the boys, “Watch out fer yer mother.”
“They can’t take you,” Finton said, and Tom bent down on one knee in front of him, his eyes drunk and tired, full of surrender—the boy, for once, looking down on the man, as if they’d swapped places.
“I’ll be back soon, b’y. They can’t keep an innocent man in jail.” He squinted and cocked his head to one side. “That better not be tears I see.”
“It’s not,” said Finton, turning his face away.
“Hmph,” said Tom, a hint of sarcasm in his grin as the policemen pulled him to a standing position. “Imagine that.”
They all followed as the officers escorted their prisoner to the cruiser.
A cool January breeze ruffled Tom’s hair as he stood by the open police car door to observe his family one last time. He seemed to be trying to commit their faces to memory. Elsie cried and fell to her knees in the snow, despite the physical support from the two older boys, one at each of her elbows. “Please don’t take him! Please, please, God!”
Kieran came over and removed his cap. “It’s just for questioning, Mrs. Moon. If he’s innocent, he’ll be back in no time.”
They all just watched him as if he’d read from the Good Book. He put his cap back on, returned to the car, slammed the door shut and rolled backwards down the lane without flashing lights or siren.
“Proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind!” Nanny Moon said, blessing the night air with the sign of the cross, clouds of breath billowing from her mouth. “And let the oppressed go free. Jesus, have mercy on us all.” It was a queer thing to say since Finton wasn’t sure his father was oppressed or would even go free. But maybe the old woman was right to believe it.
Futterman was certain of Tom’s guilt. Over and over the corporal said, “We got the body. We got witnesses that say you gave him liquor. We even got motive.”
In the end, however, they couldn’t charge him, a purported argument and a beer at Jack’s being insufficient evidence to try someone for murder or manslaughter. Officer Dredge brought him home the next afternoon, dazed and angry, but no worse for wear.
Tom clearly wasn’t in the mood to talk about what had happened. After he’d relayed Futterman’s accusations, he departed to the living room, where he spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, gaping at the TV, gazing vacantly at the soaps and after-school specials. He didn’t eat supper with the family, just sat and stared. After finishing his own supper quickly, Finton sat and watched with his father in silence. One of the big stories on the suppertime news was that President Nixon was in some kind of trouble for withholding evidence in a scandal that was making him look terrible in the eyes of the American people. When the newscast was over, Tom got up and turned off the set. He stood in front of the TV and watched the screen darken, the bright dot in the centre fading away. “They got no proof,” he said, then sat down again and stared at the screen.
Things just got worse as the week progressed. Wednesday morning, he rushed from the house and barely caught the school bus. But there was no Mary. As the week progressed, the classrooms got emptier because of a flu that was going around.
“Mary’s got pneumonia,” Dolly told him, and he figured he should buy Mary something to keep her mind off her illness, to help her pass the time alone. He imagined her lying in bed all day in great pain, unable to move and wanting something to do.
After school on Thursday, he got off the bus at Mary’s place and walked up to her front step. The Connelly house was the nicest in that part of Darwin, standing out from the landscape by virtue of its pristine beauty. Although better kept than most houses in Darwin, Mary’s home was a modest two-storey with pink trim to highlight the white clapboard. Despite the brown muck of a false spring that debased the rest of the town, the Connelly front yard was flawless, looking as if it had been puritanically swept.
Mary’s mother answered the doorbell in a pink track suit and sneakers. He’d seen Sylvia Connelly around town, but she was always at mass or the grocery store, or some school function where she always wore a dress, high heels, and pearls.
“Hi, Mrs. Connelly. Is Mary here?”
She glanced with bewilderment from his face to the present in his hand. “Mary can’t come to the door. She’s sick.”
“Can you give her this, please?”
Smiling, she took it from him. As he was leaving, she called out to him. “Mary’s very ill, and she’s contagious. Maybe if you came back next week.”
He walked home in a weep of falling snow, consoled that there was a reason he didn’t get past the front door and resolved that he would return next week, and every week thereafter, until he saw her. Maybe he could even help her get better.
In late January, Kieran Dredge dropped by the house and gathered everyone together in
the kitchen. It was fairly obvious that Clancy and Homer were clueless about the whole affair. Homer seemed uncomfortable even talking about Sawyer and simply said, “I’m glad he’s dead.” Nanny Moon and Elsie weren’t able to contribute much either, but they listened with a mixture of fascination and dread.
Tom repeated the few facts that were known, and Kieran kept tapping his fingers on the table as if something didn’t quite make sense. At one point, he leaned back in his chair and pushed his shiny-billed cap back on his head, impressing Finton with how confident and wise he appeared.
“I’ve got to admit, Tom, it doesn’t look good for you.” Kieran stood up, obviously wanting to pace, but since there was no room, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “There’s not enough to convict you for murder, obviously, and the coroner says he died of exposure. But there was a blow to Sawyer’s head that probably played a role. Either way, you’re our only suspect. A man was killed and, sooner or later, according to Futterman, we’re going to have to arrest somebody. Make no mistake.”
The speech might have been impressive, but the message was terrifying.
“The evidence is all circumstantial,” Kieran added, addressing the entire family. “That’s not to say Tom did nothing wrong. He shouldn’t have given Sawyer a beer, knowing full well it would have a bad effect on his medication. And people are talking, beyond that—stuff that makes you look bad.”
“No matter what they said, I’m not a killer,” Tom declared, leaving Kieran just as mystified as when he’d arrived.
Following that afternoon, every now and then throughout the winter, Kieran would come over and corner one of the boys for a chat, and Finton supposed he asked all of them the same questions. One warmish day in the middle of March, he got Finton alone on the front step and sat down beside him, Kieran’s long, gangly legs spread wide, nearly pointing East and West, while his policeman’s hat, with the shiny bill and the broad yellow strip around the band, hung from his long fingertips. The pose reminded Finton of the graceful way his father would handle a fishing pole.
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