“Jeez, Alicia, it’s not like dyin’.”
“It is, sort of.”
“Look,” he said. “I wouldn’t tell this to no one else, but I’m actually scared to death. I could end up homeless, nothin’ to eat and no place to live.” She nodded as he continued, as if he’d articulated her deepest fears. “But you know what? I don’t care. You can’t go around being scared all the time. You just don’t get anywhere that way.”
“But what if the worst happens and you can’t come back?”
“To me,” he said, “that wouldn’t be the worst thing could happen.” He looked at her—really looked at her, just as he had done earlier with Mary—and saw a girl who, all her life, had been told she would amount to nothing. She was born a Dredge, lived in poverty and would never escape. Her fate was to be a Dredge until the day she died. In the eyes of Mary Connelly he’d seen the fear of loss that comes with privilege but, in Alicia’s eyes he saw the resignation of the dispossessed. “You could start over.”
She peered behind her, glanced towards the sink as if it were calling to her, and she sighed. “I think you should go.”
“No,” he said. “You saved me once, and now it’s my turn. Come with me and change your life. You are so much better… than this.”
“Just leave me alone—just go wherever you were always going to!” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she dropped both the mitts and Great Expectations, and leaped off the porch. She charged past Finton and left the door banging against the frame.
He bolted after her, but she was faster than he’d expected. They dashed, one after the other, into her backyard, which was littered with old tires and car parts as far as the eye could see. One of the scrawny fir trees had a Styrofoam tray wedged in its topmost branches. He’d never been back here—in the Dredges’s backyard garbage pit—and he’d never before seen such a mess.
When she swung around to punch him, the sun beamed on her face. He turned his head slightly and saw at the farthest end of the garden, against a backdrop of scrawny spruce, a gigantic apple tree. He was so flabbergasted he forgot to duck; Alicia’s fist struck his cheek and sent him reeling backwards. But he couldn’t take his gaze from the sprawling, grey tree with the sunlight bursting through its branches like a holy vision.
It looked like the apple tree on the Planet of Solitude. Tall and stout, its branches overhung the ground at its roots, like someone had propped open a gigantic umbrella and stuck it into the earth—the same tree under which he had lain so many times.
“How long has this been here?” he asked, rubbing his hurt cheek.
She turned around to see what he was staring at. “That old tree? Since before I was born. But it was a lot smaller than that when I was a girl. I remember that. I used to climb it every day. But I don’t anymore.”
“Why not?” he asked, even as he found himself drifting towards it.
“I don’t know. I just don’t—I mean, do you still climb trees?”
“I guess we’re too old for that now.”
Standing at the edge of the tree’s massive shadow, he wanted nothing more than to sit and bask in its cool majesty. But he feared doing it. He was waiting for something to happen.
“Maybe you’re too old.” Alicia shucked her shoes and rolled up her sleeves. “But I’m not.”
“Hey!”
“Hey yerself!” She lodged one foot at the junction between a low branch and the gnarled trunk. “Give me a boost, if yer just gonna stand there.”
As Finton rushed forward and ducked beneath a branch, he received a small, stinging gash beneath his left eye. He put his fingers to the cut, but there was no blood. Undeterred, he spread his hands on her backside and shoved her upward. Her left foot scrambled for, and found, secure placement just a bit higher than where her right foot was planted. By wrapping one arm around a branch above her head, she hoisted herself up.
“Be careful, Alicia!”
“You sound like my mother.” She glanced back at him and grinned. “You’re such an arse, Finton Moon.” She was shaking her head as she resumed her attention to the climb ahead. “Such an arse.”
Suddenly, the branch beneath her right foot snapped. Planting himself beneath her plummeting body, he spread his arms, and she fell into them. But his triumph was short-lived as his arms wavered, his knees buckled, and they fell together to the ground. His tailbone struck the root, and his head snapped back and struck the trunk. Alicia’s head hit the earth with a sickening crack.
“Alicia?”
Again, he called her name as the summer wind whistled through the branches overhead. As he brushed the hair from her face, he rocked her softly. He wasn’t sure when the birds had ceased singing or the various Dredges had stopped yelling, slamming doors and running machinery. And yet at some point, all activity had ceased, and Finton heard the world take a massive suck of breath as the earth fell black, teetered on its axis, and threatened to roll away into the infinite, dark sky.
She didn’t open her eyes, so he shut himself down: his eyes blocked out the world, and he slowed his heart’s rhythm, making it beat stronger, with singular purpose. His body stilled like a reed in a pond, motionless within, at the very source, yet bending with the breeze. Finally, his mind was freed from its moorings and he lifted them both to the sky. She was light in his arms—floating, spiraling upwards until, all around, the darkness bled light in every colour. Far below, at last, was his Neverland and, suddenly, he was there, on the grassy surface of his Planet of Solitude, beneath the white tree with the unconscious girl in his lap, while he stroked her face and spoke her name.
Her eyes came open and she smiled. Where are we?
You struck your head. I brought you here.
What is this place?
My home.
It’s beautiful here. I’d like to stay for a while.
So he allowed her to remain, safe in his arms while he held her close. Shooting stars flew by in the distant, dark sky. A translucent rainbow bordered the planet, reaching towards infinity. The sudden memory of a Romper Room song made him laugh aloud: Bend and stretch—reach for the sky! He lifted his head to acknowledge the neighbouring planets—small and large, ringed and plain. A ripple of cool wind rushed through his hair.
He heard her small, clear voice singing the words he’d sung in his mind. Her eyes filled with tears. He swept a hand through her hair and closed his eyes, took a deep breath and finally exhaled. Involuntarily and unexpectedly, he opened his eyes to the bright, material world.
There were people standing around, peering at the two injured teenagers huddled beneath the apple tree. Gradually, his mind adjusted to his surroundings, and he realized the girl’s fall had summoned the Dredges from wherever they’d been playing, working, or hiding. But the girl in his arms wasn’t smiling. Her skin was pale, her features stiff.
Exodus
It rained.
All through the night, the lightning-lit clouds had their way with the ground and flooded Darwin with a torrent of biblical timbre. Finton lay in bed and watched the sky illuminate as if they were in World War II London, under siege from enemy bombs. Just before dawn, the lightning ceased, though the occasional Aslanic growl unfurled itself upon the earth, and Finton stood at the kitchen window, awaiting his moment when the rain would cease and the sky would clear. Despite his exhaustion, he was anxious to begin his journey.
He wouldn’t have minded a send-off. They knew he was leaving and the acknowledgment would have meant something—although what exactly, he wasn’t sure. But the fact that such kindness was withheld indicated the gesture’s significance.
His mother’s reaction to the news had been calm, but her eyes were nervous. He told her he might go to school or he might just wander the world and educate himself. Elsie’s response was, “What do ya want to do that for?”—a question for which he had answers, but not nearly enough time, energy, or incentive to entertain. When he insisted that leaving was something he needed to do, she said cheerlessly, “You’re
only sixteen.”
“Old enough.”
“I know. But… we’ll worry.”
He promised he’d write now and then. She still didn’t smile, but she at least relented. “I know we can’t hold you here, Finton. But I hope this isn’t because of what Miss Bridie told you. We always loved you, you know. Don’t forget that.”
He said nothing for fear of either appearing weak or opening a discussion he’d rather avoid.
Nanny Moon’s disappointment was not as obvious. “Be a good lad and stay out of trouble,” she said. “If you runs into anything ya can’t handle, you knows where we are.” She started towards her bedroom, but turned at the last second. “And go to mass.” She went to the bedroom and, within moments, returned with a white envelope. “Open it in the morning,” she whispered. He knew she saved money in the Jesus tin on her dresser —the one with Christ surrounded by youngsters and the caption at the bottom: “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” The envelope contained three hundred and eightyfive dollars, nearly every cent she’d saved.
When he told his father he was leaving, Tom blew a smoke ring and said, “The time has come, I s’pose.” Then the commercials were over, and the news was back on.
Each one had asked where he was going, and his reply was always the same: “I’ll let you know when I get there.” No one was satisfied with the response, but that was all the information he’d give. Clancy said, “I wish I had yer guts, b’y. Good luck to ya.” Homer didn’t even look up from the sawhorse, where he was cutting a large log. He looked straight ahead, paused in his sawing, and said, “You’ll be back.” He resumed sawing until the piece of wood fell to the ground; then he repositioned the log for his next cut.
When the rain subsided to drizzle, Finton took up his knapsack, which contained a change of clothes wrapped in a plastic bag, as well as some food, his wallet and, also wrapped in plastic, his copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.
One hand on the doorknob, he turned for one last look around. Over the stove, the clock kept ticking. A corner of the brown-stained wallpaper curled down from behind the fridge. The house seemed to hum a barely discernable dirge. But in his heart, there was no song, and his feet were too heavy for skipping.
He turned to leave and, even with the door more than halfway ajar, he couldn’t help but turn around one more time—perhaps out of hope, or some errant sense of faith—with the expectation that his mother would bustle out, in her bathrobe, to make sure he’d eaten and had sufficient money to see him through. And maybe, just maybe, to ask him if he’d reconsider. He would reject her request. But that didn’t mean he didn’t hope for some last-minute attempt at familial connection.
He noted the clock that read 7:15. As he stepped into the porch and began closing the door, a glimpse of white hair and a grey nightgown made him halt.
“I just wanted to wish ya luck,” she said. She gave him an awkward hug and said, “It’s rainin’ out, sure. Why don’t ya wait till tomorrow?”
“It’ll stop.”
“Well, if you wants to be foolish about it, I can’t stop ya. Don’t forget to call when ya gets there.”
“Thanks for getting up,” he said.
She closed her eyes and nodded. “Your mother’s feelin’ pretty low. And your father’s not the type, ya know?”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I get it.”
He thanked her again and was about to leave, when she said, “I didn’t like your mother once upon a time.” She peered into his eyes as if to assess whether he was listening and understood the importance of her confession. “But I’ve come to see that she’s a good woman who’s done her best.”
“It’s too late for this, Nanny Moon.”
“It’s never too late. Sure, go on ahead now. That’s the way of things, and it’s what you have to do—although I still thinks you’re a bit too young.”
“No one in this house can lecture me about anything,” he said. “Way I see it, there’s too much water under the bridge.”
“Yes. You might be right about that.” She nodded sadly. “But people only do what they think is best at the time. No one meant any harm to ya. Just remember that.”
Then he heard footsteps, bare feet on canvas, and a voice that gave him chills: “Finton?” Elsie emerged from the hallway in her billowy, blue nightgown, arms folded across her chest. He hadn’t really wanted this. He realized that now. The mere sound of her voice made him sad. But he didn’t mind leaving; he mourned the relationship they never had. “Were you leavin’ without saying goodbye?” she asked.
“I didn’t think you were getting up,” he said. “You knew I was going.”
Elsie seemed as if she was about to scold him again, but she was interrupted by the sight of Tom entering the kitchen, yawning and swiping his hand through his tangle of hair. “Jesus, b’y—you’re goin’ awful early, aren’t ya?”
“I got a ride waitin’,” he said. It was only a small, convenient lie.
“Are ya sure? I don’t mind drivin’ ya.”
“No, that’s all right.”
“Well,” said Elsie. “You write to us when you get there.”
“Where are you goin’ again?” asked Tom.
“I’ll write,” Finton said. “I promise.”
The kitchen filled with an awkward silence that lasted only a couple of seconds, just enough to remind Finton of why he was leaving.
“See ya.” He nodded, turned and then, with merciful quickness, he was gone.
His last image of Nanny Moon was her standing in her grey night dress, a sad look on her face, his mother looking perplexed in her baby blue gown, and Tom, patting his chest and glancing towards the table where his cigarettes lay beside the ashtray.
Finton closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Finally, he shuffled outside into the dark, wet landscape and shut the door behind him. Not once did he look back.
By the time he’d reached the bottom of Moon’s Lane, the drizzle had misted his face, drenched his hair and soaked through his backpack’s exterior. Every step he took for those first thirty minutes, he considered aborting the mission. But he soldiered on, bolstered by his out-loud singing of Beatles’ songs. By the time he’d reached the bridge that opened Darwin to the rest of the island, he had launched into “The Long and Winding Road.” The clouds split their seams and poured their vendetta down on his head—a baptismal soak that was to be his judgment. The weather was an obstacle, but a mere piffle to his innate obstinacy and pure determination to escape from it all.
Nearly two hours after leaving the house, he stood, soaked to his skin, at the access road. He stopped and read the sign:
You are now leaving Darwin. Come again soon!
Of course, if, by some miracle, he made his destination, that place of his dreams would be filled with everything good and there would be no need ever to return to Darwin. Another hour or so later, he arrived at the highway and stood beneath the gigantic green government signs with their bright, white lettering telling him how many miles to get from that precarious spot to everywhere. He found himself wondering—a flickering thought that briefly transfixed him—what would happen if he veered left instead of right, towards the interior—deeper into the heart of provincial darkness—rather than away from all he had ever known? Wearily, he resumed his predetermined path, trekking southward along the highway, hoping somebody would come along to offer a lift. The rain might keep people from traveling unnecessarily, but surely to God, even on such an ungodly morning, there’d be someone else escaping Darwin.
As he approached a particularly solid wall of mist and fog that seemed anchored to the road, he found himself immersed in a world of whiteness, full of silver shadows and muffled noises. Events of yesterday tumbled around in his mind.
Alicia’s eyelids trembled partway open, and she gazed with concern into her father’s face. When she saw her mother peering down at her, she closed her eyes again. When she opened them once more, she saw Finton, but shut her eyes.
&nb
sp; A few minutes later, she was lying on a gurney being wheeled through the Emergency Room on her way to X-ray. A handful of Dredges remained in the waiting room because only the parents were allowed to escort her through those demoralizing double doors. Surveying the landscape—Dredge to the left of him, Dredge to the right, in front of and behind him, sitting in chairs, on the floor and under the coffee table—Finton closed his eyes and prepared himself for the long night ahead.
He endured the chatter and noise, the hum of fluorescent lights, the crying of a baby, the dull metallic groan of the Pepsi machine. But he couldn’t ignore the internal chatter, reminding him that tomorrow would be even harder—and life, after that, might well be more difficult. He would get up early, creep outside and hit the road, come what may. He was finished with school and Darwin, its people and its church. The further he walked away from it all, the better he would feel, and the more possibilities he would see for himself. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but getting out of bed tomorrow morning and forcing himself out the front door would be a beginning. It would be easy to just forget his plans, just stay home, and live out the rest of his days. But it would also be the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he’d never be done doing it until the day he died.
The doctor emerged and told Finton Alicia had asked to see him. The Dredge family appeared unimpressed.
She was lying in a bed, covered in a white sheet, face exposed and a white bandage wrapped around her head, her right arm in a sling. Her smile lacked enthusiasm. “Now I know why we don’t climb trees anymore.”
“It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
“Just mine,” she said. “I shouldn’t have gone up there. But—”
“But you were trying to get away from me—”
“I was trying to show you that we can still climb trees, silly. That we shouldn’t give up on being childlike just because we’re not children. Does that make sense?”
“It would make more sense if you didn’t have a concussion and a broken arm because of me.”
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