“Hey—watch it!” said Alicia. “That arsehole’s my brother.”
“Not him,” said Finton, and he nodded towards Bernard. “This arsehole.” He paused, partly for a reaction, partly to give himself time to think. He truly didn’t know what he was going to do. But he had to come up with something fast because Bernard already looked as if he had run out of patience, throwing the cue stick aside and raising his fists.
“Alicia, leave.” Finton nodded towards the door.
“This isn’t your business, Finton. You should go.” Even as she said it—despite her obvious anger—she fought back tears. The way she looked at him said she was grateful he’d stepped in. Unlike her dumb brother, at least he hadn’t abandoned her.
Bernard grabbed the front of Finton’s shirt. “I’ve been wanting to pound the shit out of you for a long time, faggot.” Instantly, Skeet grabbed Bernard’s wrist and wrenched it away.
“Outside!” Mudder Dredge yelled. “Don’t want no blood on these floors. Take it outdoors, or I’ll call the cops.”
“Fine.” Bernard pounded a fist into his open hand. “Outside is what I had in mind anyway.”
But taking matters outside didn’t resemble Finton’s wishes at all. Bernard led the way, pulling open the door and making the bell ring. Finton thought, with little satisfaction, that an angel had just gotten its wings. The uproar from the mob was nearly deafening as he found himself being propelled towards the exit, despite the fact he had no intention of fighting.
There were two suped-up cars—a blue Charger and a yellow Javelin—in the small, dirt driveway. The two antagonists were thrust together, while the throng of spectators squeezed itself between the two vehicles. Although Alicia remained near Finton, clutching his right arm, and Bernard’s cronies, Cocky Munro and the redheaded King twins, retained a close proximity to their hero, most of the ones Finton knew had been pushed to the perimeter. From near the back of the crowd, Skeet shouted, “Leave ’im alone, Crowley!” Morgan jumped up on the Javelin, flexing her bare arms and shadow boxing. In her denim short-shorts and tight, yellow t-shirt, she looked like one of the girls from Clancy’s Hot Rod magazine covers. “Uppercut, Finton. Your best goddamn friend—uppercut!”
He’d never given anyone an uppercut before and, furthermore, didn’t know how to, even if he’d been so inclined. He supposed that if a fight were to happen, Bernard would just beat him up with any combination of two or three punches. It might only take one, of course, and that in itself would be merciful.
Across the road and away to the south, the dying sun had set the ocean ablaze. Even the trees seemed draped in an orange veil that grew denser as the sun sank behind the mountains. Finton lifted his eyes as the sun’s last rays painted his skin. The fading heat infiltrated his pores and seeped into his soul. A voice from somewhere said, Don’t be afraid.
Bernard was waving around his two softball-sized fists like a prize fighter warming up, and Finton was mesmerized by the steady, pistonlike motion. Blue and white spots danced before his eyes and inside his head. He’d expected to panic, but somehow, he stayed calm. People were banging on the hoods of cars, screaming for someone to hit someone. “Don’t be afraid of him,” he heard Millie Griffin say. There was no mistaking the intended recipient. Bernard Crowley wasn’t likely to be afraid of anyone, especially Finton Moon.
“Rip his head off,” someone else yelled. “Piss down his neck!”
An impatient onlooker shoved Finton towards Bernard, and Alicia yelped. As if he were flicking a crumb from his lapel, Bernard grabbed Finton’s shirt and pushed him away. Finton fell to his knees, hands planted in the rocks and dirt.
“Stop it!” he heard Skeet shout.
“Get up!” Morgan yelled from her perch on the Javelin’s hood. “Fuck him up good!”
“You gonna fight or not?” Bernard pounded his fists together and managed a slight shuffle despite the closeness of the surrounding mob. Then he ripped off his jacket and flung it aside.
“That’s enough,” Alicia said, stepping between the two of them as Finton rose to his feet. At the same moment, Bernard took a jab at Finton’s face, but instead struck Alicia’s cheek, and she fell backwards into a pair of arms.
“Jesus,” Finton yelled, and he thrust himself forward enough so that he could place a hand on the small of her back.
“I’m all right,” she said, though her eyes were glassy.
Finton rose up to his full height. He glared at Bernard, who shrugged and said, “She jumped in front o’ me. It’s her own fuckin’ fault.”
“Someone needs to teach you a lesson in how to treat people,” Finton said.
“Come on then, if you’re man enough.”
Finton dangled his hands loose at his side to show Bernard he wasn’t going to fight. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“Just shut up and fight.” Bernard took a step towards Finton, who felt his first real tremor of fear. His eyes were bedazzled by the setting sun, which had painted the landscape behind Bernard like a vibrant oil painting. A mosquito buzzed at his ear and landed on it. Instead of swiping at it, Finton merely picked it up and tossed into the air between him and Bernard where, it hovered for a moment before flying away. Despite the jolt of adrenaline, Finton felt surprisingly peaceful, as if this moment were no different from any other—as if this was where he was supposed to be, doing precisely what he was supposed to be doing, no matter how awful it probably looked.
“Why do you need to do this?” said Finton. “These people are just using you to spill some blood. They’re too scared to fight you themselves, so they like the idea of you beatin’ the shit outta me just for fun.”
“Fun for me too,” Bernard smiled shakily. “So let’s get it over with.”
“Fine.” Finton raised his hands and spread his arms outward. The sun was nearly blinding him. All he could see was the dark silhouette of an oversized high school kid with his upraised fists. Behind him lurked shades of other kids, most just standing and staring in near silence. They’re listening to me, Finton thought. Hanging on every word between the two combatants. They wanted some blood—it didn’t matter whose—but mostly they craved the show. Something to tell.
Bernard came forward, fist raised to strike. Finton closed his eyes and thought, Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. When Bernard socked him, the pain in his stomach was excruciating, and he doubled over, holding his gut. The kingdom come, thy will be done. No sooner was he aware of being suspended by both arms when he fell to his knees, vomit burning his throat as his fishcake supper splattered onto the ground.
“Get up,” he heard Bernard say.
The voices around him said, “Just stay down.” But Finton stood up and wiped his mouth. There was Bernard, standing mostly in shadow, tinged with orange. He looked perplexed, as if he’d never seen anyone get up from a beating before. In fact, Finton’s audacity must have made him angry. Bernard rushed at him, wrapped his arms around Finton’s neck, and wrestled him stock-still.
From atop the car, Morgan yelled, “Kick ’im in the nuts, Finton!”
Skeet shouted, “Leave him alone, Crowley! He’s littler than you,” and he lunged across several people to take a swipe at Bernard’s head. His knuckles made contact, but Bernard barely flinched.
“Back off,” Finton said in a calm voice that seemed to come from deep inside him. “I got this.” He didn’t struggle against Bernard’s chokehold. He chose to remain tranquil and tire him out, figure him out, and wait for the danger to pass.
“You don’t want to be doing this, Bernard. It’s just because of who you are.”
“Jesus, faggot, if you don’t shut up, I’ll kill you.”
“All they wants is for you to entertain them like a circus freak. Like a stupid animal—’cause you’re just a Crowley.”
Bernard squeezed harder. Finton feared his windpipe would be crushed.
“You won,” he rasped. “You proved you could beat me. Just let go.”
�
��I already knew that.”
“Well…” Finton coughed. His stomach hurt. He would certainly throw up again if Bernard didn’t release him soon. “Then why are we fighting?”
“Because you’re a faggot.”
Finton struggled to speak, his throat hurt so bad. “Even if I was, you’re not proving anything.” Coughed again, thought he tasted blood.
“That’s enough,” Skeet said. Suddenly he was there, pulling them apart.
“No,” said Finton.
But Bernard allowed his arm to be drawn away—too easily, Finton thought. Once freed, Finton slumped to the ground, coughing and sputtering, and folded his hands across his chest to hold himself in, hands to his throat and elbows against his stomach. Morgan crouched beside him, cradling his head in one hand and stroking his arm with the other. Alicia hovered over him, looking down on him, the last rays of light setting her crown aglow.
“Wait,” Finton said as he struggled to his feet. The earth was unsteady beneath him, the stars above unnaturally close. “Bernard.”
The Crowley boy was rubbing his chin as Skeet pointed a serious finger in his face, saying, “Next time, I’ll kill ya.” Bernard blandly ignored him and looked at Finton instead. He couldn’t help feeling it was the first time Bernard had truly seen him. A diminished light stared out from those eyes. “Yeah, faggot?”
“Just ’cause you won don’t mean you gotta keep fightin’.”
Bernard sighed and looked up to the stars. “Jesus, Moon.” He glared at him again and, once more, seemed to see the human being standing before him. “Just shut up, will ya?” He nodded to Alicia, who appeared to be in shock. “You comin’?” he asked.
She glanced apologetically towards Finton. “A deal’s a deal,” she said, “and ya gotta admit—he earned one date, at least.”
“At least,” Finton murmured as he watched her allow Bernard to take her by the arm and guide her away.
That’s when the police car came, and everyone scattered—everyone but Finton.
Since Finton wasn’t being charged with a crime, Kieran Dredge let him ride in the front seat. It was only a few minutes from Bilch’s to Moon’s Lane, but long enough for his initial sense of shame to become mixed with a sense of pride at riding in a police cruiser.
Kieran glanced at Finton. “So who was involved?”
“Just me.”
Suppressing a sardonic grin, Kieran prodded him. “Oh, come on. You mean to say you were fighting yourself?”
“No. There was no fight at all.”
“Then why the crowd?”
“Everyone just realized it was time to go home.”
“All at the same time?”
“All at the same time. I guess Mudder Bilch was closing up.”
“I got a call that there was a fight goin’ on between a Crowley and a Moon—care to enlighten me?”
Finton sighed. “I don’t want to be a snitch.” Too quickly, they chewed up the asphalt. Already, he could see the Battenhatch place. Almost home.
“Look, Finton. You’re a good lad. But you’re going down a bad road.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay away from there,” he said and turned onto Moon’s Lane. “More important, stay away from the Crowleys. They’re bad news. The worst.”
“I know.”
“Give me your word you’ll keep your distance, and I won’t pursue this any further… not with you anyway.”
“But Bernard’s the one who’s after me. I don’t have nothin’ to do with him, but he’s always lookin’ for trouble.”
“Next time, walk away.”
“It’s not that easy. You don’t understand.”
“You don’t think so, do ya?” Kieran laughed. “Alicia ever tell ya what a hard ticket I used to be?”
“You?” Finton’s eyes grew wide.
“Oh, yeah. I’m not proud of it, but I was a pretty bad case. Ask anybody around here. I won’t say what I did, but it’s a wonder I got out alive and without a record.”
“So how’d you get into the RCMP?”
“I was determined to get away—to clean up my act and do whatever it took. I thought about the military, but this is more my style. I’m a stay-at-home kind.”
“Not me,” said Finton. “I can’t wait to get away.”
“Yeah, well, for that to happen, you’re gonna have to stay outta trouble—unless you’re lookin’ for someone to take you away. You get what I’m sayin’?”
Finton nodded. But, apparently, that wasn’t good enough for Kieran, who kept on talking. “I’m saying there are other ways outta here—there’s handcuffs and there’s body bags, and you don’t want either one, understand? And neither do your parents.”
“Got it.” Finton slid out of the car, paused and said, “Thanks.” Then he slammed the door on the police car for what he hoped would be his first and last time. Still, there was a part of him that couldn’t wait to tell Skeet.
Some Other Place
The only blessing was that neither his brothers nor his father were home when Kieran dropped him off. But the look on his mother’s face hurt more than Bernard Crowley’s fist or chokehold.
“I was pickin’ up for someone,” he said, a slight wheezing sound in his throat. He touched a thumb and forefinger to the aggrieved area, realizing that talking might be uncomfortable for a while.
She blessed herself and laid a hand on his swollen cheek. He couldn’t remember being hit in the face, but he guessed it might have happened inadvertently during the skirmish. The cut was little more than a flesh wound. “That’s the last time,” she said. “Don’t you ever set foot into Bilch’s again, ya hear me?”
He didn’t answer, but he figured staying away would not be a problem. He’d had more than his fill of Bilch’s and everyone there. As far as he was concerned, Bilch’s was the worst of Darwin epitomized. The cruelty. The bloodsports. The pettiness and strange sense of justice. And now, Alicia going out with Bernard Crowley? Who would have thought that was even possible?
Of course, he suspected the real reason she hadn’t spoken up for herself. This isn’t your business,” she’d said. Secretly, he figured, she really wanted to go out with Bernard, and the pool wager was just an excuse. After all, she hadn’t exactly seemed brokenhearted to go with him. If anything, she seemed eager, and that realization stung more than the rest.
“I never thought I’d see the day the police would be coming to this house on a regular basis. First for your father and now you.” She shook her head shamefully as she plastered the Band-Aid on his cheek and smoothed the edges. “Where in the name o’ God did I go wrong, I wonder?”
That was a question for which he had no response. He wasn’t even sure she’d done anything wrong; he just had the sense that he’d been born a certain way, and trouble would probably always follow him. Tom came home at that moment, and the first thing he noticed was the injury to Finton’s cheek. “What in the blazes happened to you?”
“Don’t start,” said Elsie. “I already had me say—and you’re in no position to judge. In fact—”
“In fact, what? You’re saying this is my fault?”
“Well, I’m not the one he takes after.”
“Please stop,” said Finton. “Don’t fight again.”
“Finton, don’t talk that way to your mother.”
Déjà vu. That was the feeling. But this time, he wasn’t having it. He got up from the table and started for the living room and turned on the TV. “Let me know when you’re done fighting.” For the next half hour, while she told Tom the details of his exploits at Bilch’s, and they argued like politicians, he watched The Dean Martin Show. He’d seen this one before, with Donna Fargo singing “Happiest Girl in the Whole U.S.A.” His mother loved that song, but he turned down the volume when it came on.
Finally, when things calmed down and his mother had retreated to the bedroom to collect herself and cry, Tom came slowly into the living room and sat down on the couch. They watched a skit where Dom Delu
ise came to the door and Dean answered it, pretending to be drunk. His father even laughed. “I love that Dean,” he said. “He’s the king of cool. There’s nobody cooler than Deano.”
“I remember the story from when I was born and everybody sang that song.”
“What song was that?”
“‘You’re Nobody Till—”’
“‘Somebody Loves You.’” He chuckled as he lit up a cigarette. “Yeah, sure. I remember now. Always loved Dean. Always did.”
“Skeet says Dean is a Negro.” Finton didn’t know exactly why he said it, but it was true. Skeet had said it, and now Finton wanted his father’s impression of the idea.
“Well, sure, he’s got dark skin. But Deano’s as white as me or you. Not an ounce of Negro blood in ’im. Where the hell would he get an idea like that?”
Finton shrugged. “He’s pretty dark.”
“I s’pose,” Tom nodded, then shifted abruptly as if leading up to what he really wanted to say. “Your mother’s not too happy with you.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know. I just wanted to say… I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For standin’ up for yourself. Goddamn Crowleys are a no-good bunch. Had my own run-in with Hector Crowley a long time ago, and one of us nearly got killed that night, I tell ya.”
“Why?”
“Don’t matter. Let’s just say he had a thing for your mother, and my thing was bigger.” Again, Tom laughed, and Finton cracked a smile in spite of himself. “Anyway, I promised yer mother I’d say something. And I mean it—you did good to look after yerself—’cause in the end, you’re all you’ve got. Remember that. No one else is gonna look after you, so ya got to look after yourself.” Tom’s eyes flickered towards the TV screen. “Still and all, you don’t want to end up like me, you understand?”
“Not really. No.”
“I mean, havin’ the cops comin’ to the door. Beatin’ around. Smokin’. Drinkin’. It’s a hard road, Finton.”
“But I don’t go that way. I don’t smoke or drink.” It was a small lie, but a convenient one, since he’d confined those activities to Miss Bridie’s place.
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