He lay back, eyes closed, and enjoyed the warmth of her hand upon his chest, wanting to stay there, doing just that, for the rest of his life. That would be enough.
“You haven’t had it easy,” she said. “You and me are the same.”
It was a lie, but he didn’t tell her that. She needed it to be true, as much as he needed it to be false. He didn’t want to be the same as anyone in Darwin. Acceptance here would also have a cost, and he wasn’t willing to pay it.
“Happy birthday,” she said. “You’re one step closer.”
“To what?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said sadly.
In her eyes, there was a truthfulness he saw nowhere else in his world. Sometimes Morgan could be as artful as the most money-starved prostitute. But once in a while, her face possessed the most plainspoken honesty, no price demanded.
It was only a few minutes later that they heard the front door open and shut, followed by the unmistakable sound of Miss Bridie coughing. It was the first time Finton had ever paid serious attention to it, as the coughing, for Miss Bridie, was as constant as her cigarettes or her cups of tea. They were all just a part of her. But the way she seemed to nearly gag with her hacking made him wonder if she was going to be all right.
“She went to the doctor,” Morgan half-whispered, as if she’d read his mind. “She saw blood this morning.”
Trembling, he immediately pulled on his clothes and, as casually as possible, went downstairs. “Heard you come in,” he said. “Me and Morgan were talkin’. She said you went to the doctor.”
“Nothin’ to worry about, b’y,” she said, barely glancing up from the table. He noticed she’d already put on the tea. “The bad news is that I’ll live.”
Crowley
As he stepped into the close confines of Bilch’s snack bar, Finton’s first thought was that he didn’t belong. It wasn’t a sudden realization so much as a remembrance—the recognition of an eternal truth.
It was the beginning of summer, and school was over for the year. The sun was just beginning to set on the streets, hollows, and hills of Darwin. It had been another rough day. Homer had brought home a failed report card, and neither parent had reacted well. Elsie cried briefly; Tom struck Homer on the backside with his hand and sent him to bed without supper. Finton tried to make his brother feel better. “Not everyone’s good at school,” he told Homer. “You can build things. I wish I could do that.” Clancy, too, tried to cheer Homer up, but it was no use. The crisis simply needed to run its course.
After supper, when things had calmed down, Finton sat on the front step, still tense, but relieved that the school year was done. Mary never did come back to school, but he hadn’t stopped looking for her on the bus. Now, he was relieved to be able to quit waiting. The police rarely came around their door either. Futterman would drop by to ask Tom questions about the Sawyer affair, trying to dig up forgotten information. But it had been weeks since he’d seen either Futterman or Kieran Dredge. Even Skeet was starting to come back to himself, though he was still pretty moody at times.
But none of that mattered now. There were only good days ahead; all he had to do was imagine them. He’d even decided to stop seeing Morgan. It took a few days after his birthday to make up his mind, but it seemed like the best thing. He didn’t like being addicted to her, or to anyone else. Besides, he didn’t get to see her very often, and he was tired of sneaking around for something he knew was for the short term. He yearned only for the freedom to do whatever he wanted this summer, no strings attached—no one to hurt, and no one to hurt him.
Then, after supper, Skeet came along. He seemed to have forgotten about their argument. Finton could hardly remember what they’d fought about, but he recalled that Skeet was dissatisfied with life in general. But, then, Skeet had a talent for getting over such things, and Finton was skilled at forgiveness. The one thing he couldn’t forget, however, was that Skeet had blabbed to Mary about Finton’s feelings for her.
They sat together on the Moon’s doorstep, musing about the school year and the oncoming summer, favourite girls and comic books, as they gazed out at the meadow and the surrounding woods. Mosquitoes danced before their faces. Chickadees, robins, and sparrows sang. The setting sun cast trees and rocks in a blood orange veil. For the first time in weeks, Finton felt good and free.
“Did you tell Mary I had a thing for her?” he asked.
“She dragged it out of me,” Skeet said. “Besides, someone had to tell her.”
“Me,” Finton said. “I should have told her.”
“Yeah,” said Skeet. “You should have.”
“It wasn’t up to you.”
“Sorry.”
Skeet looked sincere enough when he apologized, and so that was the end of it. Finton still felt the dual sting of Skeet’s betrayal and Mary’s rejection, but there was nothing he could do except swallow the pain, which was preferable to losing two friends over the same incident. He resigned himself to the likelihood that everyone had meant well; but, for some reason, Finton was the one who had gotten hurt.
Skeet suggested they go to Bilch’s and play pool, a rite of passage Finton had yet to endure. While he occasionally wondered what went on inside of Bilch’s after dark, he would gladly have ended his days in Darwin without ever having known.
“There might be girls,” Skeet had said.
“I don’t need girls.”
Skeet had shook his head impatiently. “You’re just a scaredy-cat.”
“I don’t see any reason to go to Bilch’s, that’s all.”
“Don’t you ever get sick o’ being inside your own noggin? There’s a world out there, Moon, and you’re missin’ it all with your nose stuck in a book half the time.”
“You’re tellin’ me there’s a world at Bilch’s?” Finton had smiled sarcastically. “I don’t think so.”
“There’s girls.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, then, lots o’ girls—and they’re nothing like Mary Connelly.”
“Girls are the last thing I need.”
“Because...”
“Because I plan to leave this shitty town, and I don’t want to get some girl knocked up.”
“Jesus, b’y—lighten up. It’s only a friggin’ game o’ pool.”
“Then leave the girls out of it.”
“Fine.” Skeet stood up. “You comin’ or not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong now?”
“You know what happened with Homer.”
Skeet laughed roughly. “So it’s your mudder you’re afraid of.”
“That’s not it.” Finton jumped to his feet and stuck his hands into his pockets. He’d kicked at a rock beside the step, but his feet merely scuffed its surface, and the rock had gone nowhere. “She made him look like a tool in front of everyone.”
“I know—I was there.”
Finton sighed and squinted at the sun. “If she did that to me, I’d run away for good.”
“Ah, b’y.” Skeet clapped a friendly, big hand on Finton’s back, leading him down the lane. “What’s life without a little adventure?”
Bilch’s was about a mile from Moon’s Lane walking along the dusty shoulder of the road. By day, the Bilches ran a convenience store, where they sold every item known to Darwin—from shampoo, Corn Flakes, and hockey tape to Campbell’s soup, ABC detergent, and louse combs. There wasn’t much that Mudder Bilch didn’t carry in her store, which was sometimes tended to by one of the younger Bilches. The father spent his time either watching TV or up in the woods, far from the prying eyes of the welfare officers. He had a bad back whenever they were around, but most times he was the picture of good health.
In reality, the snack bar was the rectangular west wing of a mediumsized, tumbledown bungalow a mile down the road from Moon’s Lane. Aside from the dire need of a new paint job and the stench of manure from the fenced-in, chestnut horse in the side yard, the exterior was passable. But
the insides fell a few shades below respectable.
As he pushed open the door and made the bell ring, Finton stood in the doorway, one foot inside and the other on the step. Already, those wood-paneled walls were closing in on him. Blue cigarette smoke hung over every piece of furniture and drifted above each head. A pinball machine was pressed against the back wall, with a large deep freeze to its right and a jukebox—blaring “Tin Man”—to its right. To Finton’s left as he entered was a long, wooden countertop laid with a strip of red-and-black checkered linoleum. On the near edge of the counter sat a bubble gum machine, two-thirds filled with balls of various colours, the red ones being the most entrancing to Finton. Behind the counter, in front of a Coca-cola sign, Mudder Bilch leaned forward, hands clasped, watching Bernard Crowley and Willie Dredge play pool. Beside her, her son Chosey—a freckled, thirteen-year-old boy with the mind of a toddler—sat on a stool, scratching his head and squinting with puzzlement at the entertainment before him.
“Mom,” he was saying in a graveled voice that sounded like a cat in heat. “When are these people goin’ home?”
“Don’t be so foolish, Chosey. These people gives us money so they can play our games. Why would you want them to go home?”
“I don’t like ’em,” he said, swiping at an imaginary fly on his cheek. “’cept that one over there.” He nodded towards Millie Griffin, with short brown hair and freckles, drinking a Mountain Dew and smiling as she leaned against the deep freeze and watched Morgan play pinball. “I likes Milliegriffin,” Chosey said. Despite feeling that he’d entered a madhouse, Finton sensed an innocence in Chosey that was rare in Darwin, at least among teenagers.
The main attraction was the hulking pool table, which consumed nearly one-third of the room. More than a dozen patrons milled about—drinking, talking, playing or watching—and he recognized some of them: Morgan Battenhatch playing pinball, shaking her rear end to the music and tapping the corner of the machine to make the silver balls do her bidding. Alicia Dredge watched her brother Willie line up his next shot, a worried expression on her face.
He glanced towards the only vacant space, near the back of the room, where a thick brown curtain separated the business side of the bungalow from the residential side. Finton wondered what was behind the famous curtain—definitely not the Wizard of Oz, but something more troubling. He heard rumours about the Bilches—how, at all hours, strange noises came from behind that curtain; how the youngsters were often brutalized by their father; how the small horse was brought in at night to sleep on the pool table. He couldn’t quite picture any of it and, for that, he was glad.
Drawing a deep breath, Finton tried to quiet the warnings in his head as he timidly stepped forward into “that den of iniquity.”
And then he saw Bernard Crowley with a cue stick.
“Well, look who’s here.” Bernard didn’t move except to lift his gaze.
“Hey, Bernard.” Finton nodded unsteadily.
“Don’t worry about him,” Skeet murmured. “We’re just here to shoot stick.”
“Mommy let you out tonight, did she?” Bernard had a cigarette stuck in his mouth and was bent over the side railing of the pool table. In his denim jacket, black t-shirt, and tight blue jeans, with his hair slicked back, he was a skinnier version of the Fonz. He sunk his shot, then looked up at Finton, who turned his back to his nemesis and went straight to the counter.
“Orange Crush,” Finton said.
Mudder Bilch sized him up. “Haven’t seen you in here before—not at night anyways.”
“I knows you,” said Chosey. “Do you know me?”
He shook his head and said “thank you” as she handed him the warm bottle—making him think the electrical cord joining the fridge to the outlet in the wall was a ruse—and he turned to assess his best chances for survival. His instinct was to huddle with Alicia, but she appeared more nervous than him—all the more reason to join her. He glanced towards Morgan, who was surrounded by horny teenage boys and a couple of girls, including Millie Griffin, all watching her slay the pinball dragon with quarters and a lot of shimmying and swearing. The bells on the machine rang out so prolifically that he assumed her quest was successful. It was the first time in a while he’d seen her anywhere but in her bedroom, and she appeared relaxed and enjoying herself.
Although he knew them all on sight, they were mostly strangers. Except for Skeet, Alicia, and Chosey, just about everyone there was older than him.
The next song that came on the jukebox was weird—he’d heard it only once before, in Morgan’s bedroom—something about “heat whispered trees” and “two spirits dancing so strange”—and he figured she’d already put coins in the machine.
As he sidled close to Alicia, Orange Crush clutched in his sweaty palm, he could feel Bernard glare at him, grinning. But Finton ignored him and nudged Alicia. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She smiled, barely removing her gaze from the game.
“Good game?”
“Not so much.”
“Bernard’s beating your brother, eh?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Bad for me.”
“Why bad for you?”
She overlapped her top lip with her bottom one, then smacked both lips together. “They’re playing for me.”
Finton scrunched his eyes together. “You mean Willie’s your proxy in the game?”
“No.” She shook her head somberly, hair swaying before her eyes. “He ran out of money and Bernard gave him double or nothing—if Crowley wins, he gets to take me out.”
“On a date?”
“Yeah.” She swallowed hard, eyes glistening, lips drawn tight.
“That’s kind of sick.”
Alicia didn’t answer, just focused on the game.
“How much money does he owe?” Finton asked.
“Twenty-four bucks,” Alicia said. “Dad’ll kill him if he doesn’t win it back.”
“Don’t you get a say?”
Skeet suddenly moved in behind them and punched Finton’s arm. “See? Not such a bad place, is it?” He tilted his Coca-cola bottle upwards and took a long, gurgling draught. When he’d emptied the bottle, he smacked his lips and patted his stomach, belching so loud he momentarily drowned out the jukebox.
Finton shook his head in disgust.
“I get a say.” Alicia winced as Willie missed an easy shot to a corner pocket. “But Willie don’t have all that money. If he don’t pay up, Bernard and his buddies are gonna beat the shit out of ’im.”
“You’re kidding,” Skeet interjected, now fully engaged in the conversation.
“Nope.” Bernard suddenly stood upright, jamming the cue stick between his legs and stroking it up and down. “Couple more shots, and Miss Dredge and me are gonna get it fuckin’ on!” He whipped around, bent over the table and, without hardly drawing a breath, he called his next shot—“combination, four off the nine, into the side”—and pointed to the pocket. Boom. Just like that. One ball left.
“Wait a minute,” said Skeet. “This is not right.”
“They’re treating you like a piece of meat,” said Finton. “Speak up for yourself.”
“Too late.” Alicia raised a hand to her mouth as if to chew her fingernails.
“It’s not too late,” he said, although something in her demeanour made him question whether she was really convinced. She seemed more interested in Bernard and, in particular, the way his backside filled out his jeans, than in how her brother was faring. Maybe she wasn’t so dead set against the idea of going out with Bernard after all.
“Yer in the way, faggot.” Bernard squeezed between the table and Finton, leaning in for his last shot, an easy pick: the three ball into the corner. Even Finton, who’d never played pool in his life, could have made that shot. He closed his eyes. Don’t make the shot, he thought. Don’t make the shot. He heard the clink of cue ball against three ball—a quick kiss, and it was done. The soft roll along the green felt tabletop lasted only a moment. There was a sickening clu
nk as the last ball dropped.
He opened his eyes as Bernard Crowley let out a whoop and celebrated with a pump of the cue stick. Bernard looked at Alicia, almost apologetically, then grinned at Willie and shrugged. “Better luck next time, Dredge.”
He reached for Alicia’s arm. She jerked back, but he moved quickly and pulled her towards him. He pressed his body against hers and whispered in her ear, causing her to slap his face and try to push him away.
Without thinking, Finton wedged himself between Alicia and Bernard, surprising all three of them and spilling some of his soft drink. “You don’t have to go with him, Alicia,” he said.
Skeet’s eyes opened wide. “Fuck,” he said, shaking his head. “This is not good.”
Finton turned to Alicia. “Get out,” he said. “Go home.”
“She’s mine,” Bernard said as he tugged on her arm. “I won her fair and square.” Again she yanked her arm away, but he grabbed it once more. Finton clamped a hand down on Bernard’s wrist and split them apart, then gave Bernard a small shove, which made the Crowley boy snarl, “Back off.”
“I don’t like it either,” Willie said, scratching one of his large ears. “But he did win, fair and square, like she said.”
“Well, aren’t you the man?” Skeet said sarcastically.
Suddenly, the jukebox went quiet. The pinball machine paused. The shouting fell silent. Finton laid down his Crush.
Willie sneezed and wiped his nose in his sleeve. “Not your problem, Stuckey. Stay out of it.”
“Finton?” a female voice called from the far left corner. Morgan. He cringed as she made her way through the small crowd, pushed Alicia aside and stood beside him. Alicia quickly edged her way back in, however, and maneuvered her way in front of Morgan. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”
Here it comes, thought Finton. Gettin’ dragged by the collar out of Bilch’s snack bar—the new Moon family tradition. But that wasn’t Morgan’s style. Not at all.
“This arsehole giving you a problem?” She glared at Willie.
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