Status: “Finny…” “Yes Gene, I’m back from the dead!”

Like the Ticking of the Clock

fin

Everybody has that one moment in their lives which defines their childhood. For me it’s not just one moment, but rather a series of moments; all taking place during the summer of 1942 at the height of the war—at the Devon Boarding School. These moments could be considered a sort of domino effect, each setting off the next in rapid succession.

First there was the tree, a place where so many good memories took place and were swept away in an instant because of one stupid decision. Finny fell out of that tree and broke his leg, because I pushed him, crushing his dreams of joining in the war or having a future in athletics. There were happy times too. Like the Olympics, created by Finny—always the revolutionary—who was hell bent on getting me to make a future for myself in what he could no longer ever do himself. And then there was the trial, the conclusion of my lies where everyone found out exactly how Finny fell out of that tree. The trial was also where Finny fell down the staircase and broke his leg once more. The next day he died as the doctor set his bone, a piece of marrow traveling like a bullet straight to his heart.

It is these events that I think about when I look back at my teen years—that summer now almost twenty years ago. That summer is the reason I don’t like to reminisce, even now when I catch up with old friends from Devon; at a coffee shop or that one chance encounter I had with Brinker that one time at that one place. At Lepelliers funeral, now five years ago, I managed to say hi to everybody in a cordial fashion, paying my respects and then sneaking out the back as quickly as possible. He was crazy after all. It didn’t matter anyway, right?

No, I avoided thoughts of the past at all costs. There was that time—around when Lepellier died and the funeral debacle—when I paid Devon one final visit, a sort of experiment to shake the skeletons out of my proverbial closet. Apparently my hypothesis was incorrect because it has been a constant game of cat and mouse ever since; and considering I’m playing it with myself it is impossible to ever really win.

And then one night, it really caught up with me again.

This particular night was spent at an old bar; a real dive. I’m talking paint peeling from the walls, the smell of urine and beer seeming to permeate from the walls as if a force as real as the people inside the building. Drug deals going on in the parking lot, and god only knows what in the bathroom; I didn’t check to find out. I sat at the bar, hands resting in my lap—for fear of touching the bar, I went to prep school, remember? The bartender, a man who was about my age at the time and had long greasy hair and body art, paced before me, a rag over his shoulder as he refilled drinks. Other than him and the other sad, lonely, middle aged men around me, I was by myself.

There was no real reason for me to be at this bar on this night. Nothing particularly sad had happened to me, I was still happily married, the kids were okay, I had a good job and money wasn’t a problem. But these damn thoughts were stalking me like something out of a horror movie. I slammed a fist against the bar in a sudden rage, and nobody looked up or even flinched. And then I heard a soft laugh beside my left shoulder and a fear like none I’d ever experienced before, or since, made its way through every part of my body. I knew that laugh. I knew that laugh very well.

“Finny…” I said in a hushed voice, the alcohol suddenly hitting me as my vision blurred around the corners. Of course, I knew it couldn’t be Finny. Finny was dead. I killed Finny in every way that really mattered. But there was that laugh again, followed by a newfound chill in the chair beside me.

“Yes Gene, I’m back from the dead!” he spoke the last part in a mocking tone. This statement was so completely Finny that I had to turn and see who was impersonating my dead friend, and doing a damn good job at that.

I blinked my eyes a few times; sure I was going crazy, just like Lepellier. But in the chair beside me, clear as day, was my best friend from my Devon days, and the one person I thought I’d never see again. “Finny…” I whispered again, tears clouding my vision as I reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder, making sure he was real. A small smile spread across his mouth, and then slowly slipped away as he looked in front of himself, serious as I’d ever seen him. “How are you...?”

“Alive?” he finished, a scoff leaving his throat as he turned back to me, a look on his face like that day in the hospital when I told him it was me, and he believed me. “Believe me; I’m dead as you last saw me.”

I stared, utterly flabbergasted, at him for a moment; not sure what to say next. “Then how are you here?” I asked finally.

“That doesn’t matter.” Finny reached over and grabbed the almost empty glass of scotch, taking the last swig and making a face before putting it down and motioning to the bartender for a refill. “What matters is that we finally get our goodbye, so you can stop coming to places like this.” He made a face, much like when he drank the scotch and shook his head in disgust.

“How did you know?” I looked at him, stunned—this was absolutely too much.

“Stop asking questions you know I can’t answer, that’s not what’s important.” He banged his fist against the bar, like I had done earlier and shook his head again, as if that was the only movement death allowed him to make.

I began to ask why he was so angry; I didn’t know Finny to act this way. Even when I had confessed to him, face-to-face, what had happened on the tree, he wasn’t this brand of upset. But I cut off the question quickly, knowing it would not make him happy. “I’m sorry,” I said instead, as a fresh set of tears flooded my eyes.

Finny nodded his head in response, “I know you are,” he said gently and in a voice which left no doubt that he was being genuine. “You need to stop blaming yourself.”

I shook my head with a sudden vigor and grabbed him tightly by the arm. “But it’s completely my fault you’re dead. I pushed… oh god…” my voice cracked as for the first time in years I was unable to say what I had done to him, out loud.

He smiled; seemingly back to his old self. “You pushed me from the tree, yes. But I fell down the stairs, I was stupid and angry and I should’ve acted differently. Just like you should’ve resisted the urge to permanently injure your best friend…” There was a humor in his voice, as his smile grew. “…And Dr. Stanpole, he should’ve sent me into Boston, to get the bone set by someone more qualified. Hindsight is twenty, twenty and people make mistakes Gene. Sometimes the consequences are fatal. But Gene, you never stopped being my best friend, and if I hadn’t died we’d be sitting at a bar... a bit nicer than this one… and talking about Devon and the boys and boring day-to-day old man problems.”

I was almost blinded by tears at this point, though I so badly wanted to see my best friend clearly, to engrave his image to memory. He looked the same as when I last saw him, seventeen years old with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, still wearing his Devon uniform. “But you did die, and it was at least partly my fault!” I wept, rubbing my eyes until they felt raw.

His smile never depleted, just like his personality. “Gene, you need to let go of this, I have. I’m begging you to forgive yourself, because I’ve forgiven you. What happened is in the past and what matters is that you’re here now. Please, as my last wish, let go.” His voice was slightly unsteady, and he was almost begging me until all I could do was give a slight nod. He reached down and grabbed hold of my hand, bringing it to his lips and in such a quick gesture I wasn’t sure it had really happened, brushed them against my knuckles. “I love you Gene.”

These were the final words I ever heard from Finny. He was there one second and then in the next he wasn’t. I wiped furiously at my eyes, and looked around the room as if maybe he went to play a game of pool; but he was really gone.

I went home shortly after, crawled into bed beside my wife—still in my work clothes—and kissed her softly on the forehead. “I love you too,” I whispered as I shut off the bedside light, but it was not directed at the women beside me.

Since that day I have mostly come to peace with Finny’s death, and my part in it. Occasionally I think about my Devon days, but always with a sort of fondness of the good times, no longer with resentment of the bad ones. Those moments are now just a part of me. One time I helped kill my best friend, but that is in the past. He has forgiven me and he loves me and I love him and we love each other, and I’ve let go.
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Written for This contest. This was slightly influenced by how much Anne Rice I've been reading lately. Also, now I'm tired because this thing had a mind of its own and physically wouldn't let me sleep until I finished writing it :/ #writersproblems