“What’s happening?”
From Finnegan’s window, Beck could see the horse stables. In a clearing adjacent to the stables stood what appeared to be a gymnast’s balance beam with four legs. A young woman with waist-length, curly brown hair pulled a stallion from the barn, its coat a glistening brown.
“Oh, that? My mom says that she’s dad’s lover.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. That woman is Francesca. She’s from Italy. They screw around sometimes. My dad fools around with everyone and he thinks we don’t know.”
“But . . .” Thoroughly confused by the madness of this household, Beck pointed at the stallion mounting the balance beam as if the beam were a mare. “What’s that?!” A short balding man, who Beck assumed was Finnegan’s father, slid a large tube over the stallion’s genitals and collected a generous semen sample. With clinical efficiency, he capped the specimen and walked towards the stable, out of sight. The stallion was whisked away by Francesca, its hide soapy with perspiration.
“Oh that. My dad is a horse breeder. He’s collecting his stallion’s wet dream so we can keep this house.” Beck’s stomach churned.
“Mushroom soup?” Mrs. Waters asked Beck at the dinner table later that evening. Beck shook his head, but a bowl was poured for him anyway. He wanted to wretch at the sight of the creamy liquid, with the image of the semen sample still fresh in his mind. He picked at the next course, a dry chicken breast, and swallowed hard at the spit gathering in his throat. Across the table sat the guest of honour, Finnegan’s brother, Stewart, who had just returned from serving in Afghanistan. He too had a face overrun with freckles. He too picked at the chicken. He too wore a dinner jacket, although his fit much too small over the bulk of his new military muscle. The place setting for Mr. Waters remained vacant, as did the place setting for Francesca. Stewart picked at his food in silence.
“You can’t tell me this food isn’t a million times better than what you were eating in the mess halls.” Despite the store-bought chicken and the canned soup, Mrs. Waters adjusted her apron in a way that begged for a compliment.
“Mom. There are excellent cooks in the army.” His mother flinched at the insinuation. He backpedalled. “But this is . . . it’s better. Yes. You didn’t have to do all this, Mom. I know things are tight right now.”
“Of course I did! My baby is home safe.”
Stewart gave a tepid smile and changed the subject. “When is Dad coming?”
“Oh, you know your father. Always tinkering. If it’s not a repair in the stables, it’s a horse with an injury. He’ll come to dinner when he wants. But that won’t keep us from having our celebration, will it?”
Later, Mrs. Waters agreed to allow the boys to set up a tent in the field behind the house for the night. “I’m sure the sounds of the barn will help Beck feel more comfortable here on our estate,” she said with pursed lips.
When Beck made one more trip to the washroom before returning to the tent, he spied Stewart smoking a cigarette on the stoop of the side entrance.
“You know it’s rude to stare, right?”
Beck was startled. “I wasn’t staring. It’s just such a big house. I got confused which door I was supposed to use.”
Stewart took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke into the night air. “Whatever, kid. Stare all you want.” A long pause dissipated as slowly as the smoke.
Beck twiddled his fingers and bit his lips. “Um. Did you kill anybody? When you were out there. In the war. Did you kill anybody?”
Even in the darkness, Beck could see Stewart’s jawline tense. When Stewart turned his head to face Beck, what little light shone from the field lamp made a perfect halo around his puppy-cut hair. Stewart’s silhouette stared back at Beck and said nothing, like he was letting the crickets’ and grasshoppers’ nighttime song do the talking for him. Stewart threw his cigarette on the grass, shut the door to the main house and walked past Beck with a slight limp.
Beck found his way to the tent with his flashlight. When he unzipped it, he found Finnegan sitting inside with his arms crossed like a petulant child, stifling his tears with coughs.
“I thought you had left.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because my family is weird. It happens all the time. I don’t even know where my dad and Francesca went. Well, I don’t know, but I know.” The dike that kept his sobs at bay broke, and he wiped at his face with the bottom of his pyjama shirt.
Beck didn’t know what to say, so he put his hand on Finnegan’s shoulder like he had seen his father do to his Uncle Rodney at Grandpa’s funeral. But instead of the wooden tap he once witnessed, his hand melted onto Finnegan’s bony neck. It melted so warmly that Finnegan responded by snuggling down into his sleeping bag like a small child being coaxed into slumber with a bedtime story. When they woke, they were tightly spooning, watching the shadow of dew run off the tent’s surface. Beck turned around and traced Finnegan’s freckles. Finnegan took Beck’s hands and inspected them.
“You bite your fingernails.” Finnegan kissed each of Beck’s stubby digits, then held his hand close to his heart. They both fell asleep until Mrs. Waters called them in for a breakfast of watery oatmeal and burned toast.
The boys grew older. Gary Tulle ended up in adult jail. Coach Trent graduated them from being pussies to being his star players, with Beck playing left defence and Finnegan as goalie. McGregor’s Bend was still McGregor’s Bend.
They never spooned again. The memory seemed so distant that Beck willed himself to believe it had never actually happened. The only touch they shared was in a fleeting hug or a manly tap on the back.
“A toast to this ugly son of a bitch right here.” Beck roped his arm around Coach Trent, now smaller than him, frailer than him. “Happy retirement, you punk!” Everyone raised their Molson’s beer around the old man, and for the briefest of moments the only sound you could hear was the sizzle of the Costco burgers on the barbecue grill nearby.
Coach Trent managed to release himself from Beck’s hold and raised his own beer. “I’d like to say a few things,” he said, to which everyone responded, “Speech! Speech!”
“Oh god, no! I don’t wanna give a speech, you assholes. I wanted to congratulate Finnegan here too.” Another brief moment of silence, this time a bit longer. All the players paused and shifted their focus to Finnegan, wiping his mouth of ketchup and waving his hand in faux humility. “Unlike you losers who will most likely be covered in chicken shit come the fall, this one here actually made something of himself. This one here is heading to university, and I’m proud of you. We’re proud of you. So go, and please don’t come back here to this shithole of a town.” Everyone cheered. Finnegan’s hair was tousled by his mates. Beck braced himself on the rattan patio chair and looked straight at him. Finnegan toasted Beck and awkwardly headed inside. Beck followed.
“You never told me you were heading out.”
“Well . . . I graduated high school, Beck. That’s what you do. You graduate, then you go to university. Where the hell is the bathroom here?” Finnegan searched Coach Trent’s empty house. The endless hallway of shag carpet and textured wallpaper had door after door of bedrooms and storage closets but no bathroom. The sound of guests outside echoed along the textured wallpaper. Beck followed.