Finton Moon Read Free Page B

between crashes of thunder, Finton breathlessly tallied the seconds separating Sawyer’s barrages. Longer spaces between poundings meant that Sawyer was getting tired and soon would leave. At first the blows rained continually, but then grew lighter, with time in between. After a while—maybe half a minute—Sawyer seemed to take breathers. The first break was eight seconds; the next was fourteen; then it was forty, and Finton could hear talking—a shout of greeting. Finally, when the knocking had stopped for several moments, he peeked out the window and saw no Sawyer. He thanked Jesus and made the sign of the cross. The storm had passed. He still dared not move, but waited for a word from his mother. She knelt on the floor, her brown, permed head bowed against the hard, white fridge and her hands clasped as she whispered a rosary.
    â€œHe’s gone,” Finton said, feeling the wonder and relief of certainty. She shot him a sharp look and finished a Hail Mary before blessing herself and going to the window to peek through the curtain.
    â€œWhat in the name of Jesus—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour father—what’s he doin’ out there?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe’s talking to Sawyer Moon. There’s more sense in a cow than there is—don’t tell me he’s bringin’ ’im in. Sweet Jesus—” She jerked away from the door and folded her arms across her chest defensively.
    The door handle rattled, but Finton’s mother had locked it. His father kicked the door three times, making the windowpane jostle in its frame. “Else! Open the door!”
    Elsie obeyed and stepped aside to let Tom and his guest enter.
    â€œElse, have we got five dollars to lend Sawyer?” With his right index finger, Tom repeatedly jabbed his left palm, for he rarely rested his hands in his pockets; he was always gesturing, smoking, clutching or clouting. “Till Thursday?” When he laid one brotherly hand on Sawyer’s shoulder, Finton’s gaze fixed on his father’s grease-blackened knuckles, which meant he had been labouring on someone’s car. He was proud that other kids’ fathers had to come to his for such important repairs. While Tom was known to be a bit of a hard ticket who always had trouble finding steady work, he was well regarded for his talent in saving cars from the junkyard.
    â€œI have twenty,” Elsie said, a slight quiver in her voice, placing her hands on her hips in mock defiance. “But we need groceries, and I wouldn’t mind a night o’ bingo to get outta this friggin’ house.”
    Finton watched as Sawyer stood in the doorway, rubbing his grizzled chin with his left hand, a sly expression on his face as he looked around. To the boy, who couldn’t help but rankle his nose and rub his eyes from the stench of sweat and turpentine, he appeared to be appraising the meagre contents of the kitchen. Finton had never known any visitor but the parish priest to exceed the boundaries of the kitchen; very few saw the inside of the slightly more comfortable living room that was just beyond it. He would often hear stories about parties and good times in the tiny living room “in olden times,” which was what Nanny Moon called the days when people laughed and danced so roughly that the McNulty Family record would skip from beginning to end on the suitcase turntable that had come in the mail from relatives in Boston. There would be beer and cake, chips and Cheezies, and sometimes even a pot of homemade turkey soup. Someone always brought a guitar for Tom to play and sing “My Lovely Irish Rose.” But those were the good old days, which seemed to have ended just before Finton’s coming.
    Sawyer’s presence emphasized that people rarely came to the Moon house anymore. To Finton’s admiration, he did not seem to be the slightest bit discomfited to be standing in someone else’s