FIN'S STORY
an Excerpt
from
the Novel
FINDING VERITY
By
Faith Friese Nelson
Fin's Story is an excerpt from the novel FINDING VERITY, a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Faith Friese Nelson
Copyright © 2013 by Faith Friese Nelson
ISBN-9781301573622
All right reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Nelson, Faith Friese
Fin's Story
Finding Verity
Fiction.
Cover photograph: Wallace Weeks, Fotolio.com,
Fin's Story is an excerpt from the full length novel titled FINDING VERITY.
If you enjoy this excerpt, please consider buying the novel for the competitive price of only 99 cents.
Fin's Story
No one ever thinks it will happen to them.
Ask anyone. They'll tell you. It won't happen to them.
My name is Fin. Believe me when I say, it can happen to you.
I say this with confidence, knowing it's true.
I say this with firsthand knowledge because it happened to me.
It doesn't happen overnight and no one sees it coming because it kind of sneaks up on you when you aren't looking. It might take a day, maybe a week or a month. It might even take years. But one morning you'll wake up and voila, you face the fact that you've lost your family and friends, your job, house, everything that was near and dear to you and your heart.
I can tell you the exact day it began for me.
October 16, 1989.
The same year President Bush and Vice President Quayle moved into office.
The same year New York City raised the transit fare from $1.00 to $1.15.
The same year Dead Poets Society, starring Robin Williams, premiered in movie theaters.
October 16, 1989.
I didn't see it begin, but others did. I heard plenty about it over the next few days. It was reported in the newspaper, and one of my students told me a talking head spoke at length about it on Channel 8.
October 16, 1989.
I was in my office at the university when it happened. I had no idea my life was about to change. I was oblivious to that fact. What was I doing? If I remember correctly, I was coaching a student on how to approach her dissertation.
This is what happened.
My eight year old son Kenny was walking home from school with his best friend Rob. Rob lived next door. He and Kenny had been inseparable since they were three years old. That particular day was like any other day. School was out and they were walking home, and when they got home they would change out of their school clothes and play until their mothers called them to dinner.
Kenny's life was good. Rob's life was good. Everyone's life was good.
But that day, everything changed.
The boys walked home while tossing a ball back and forth. That didn't surprise me because the boys were on the same little league team. But Rob tossed the ball to Kenny, and Kenny missed it, and the ball bounced into the street, and even though Kenny knew better, like a squirrel darting across the street, he flew after that ball without looking in either direction. Unfortunately, one of his shoes had untied. He tripped over a lace and fell face first to the pavement.
The school bus driver tried to stop.
Kenny's death was instantaneous.
The doctors said he felt no pain.
One moment, he was a boy chasing a ball.
The next moment, he was an angel.
I tried to understand, but I couldn't.
Rob's mother was my wife's best friend; I was close to Rob's dad; and our families always spent a lot of time together, barbecuing and camping, even attending the same church.
At first, our families tried to keep things as normal as possible, but I suppose it's understandable that we grew apart after Kenny's funeral.
Rob remained an inquisitive boy, full of love and life, but he seemed lost without Kenny. He reminded Victoria and I of our darling boy. He reminded us of our loss. It was painful for everyone.
When summer came and the ice cream truck made its rounds through our neighborhood, we were reminded of Kenny. When Rob rode his bike in front of our house, we were reminded of Kenny. Every time we turned around, we were reminded of our son. We kept a stiff upper lip and tried, we really tried, but it wasn't easy.
Then Rob's mother became pregnant, and they decided to buy a larger house. Their home sold in three weeks. They said they'd keep in touch, that they'd miss being our neighbor. But we never heard from them again.
Victoria worked as an artist out of our home. However, all of a sudden, there were no coffee breaks with her best friend next door. There was no reason to watch the clock because Kenny wasn't coming home. She found herself alone, completely alone, so she lost herself in her work.
She was well known for colorful abstract paintings. Some art critics even compared her work to Picasso, but instead of the modern abstracts she was known for, Victoria painted pictures of Kenny: Kenny wearing a baseball cap, Kenny playing chess, Kenny splashing in a swimming pool. When I arrived home from work, I'd find her in her studio. Sometimes she'd be painting another picture of Kenny, a glass of wine or vodka at her elbow, but more often than not, she'd be passed out on the small sofa in her studio.
So home was no longer a welcome retreat. I couldn't blame Victoria. Really, I couldn't. And I couldn't blame Kenny. How could I possibly blame my darling boy? But as time went by, I stayed in my office until the wee hours of the evening, hiding out with a bottle and drowning my sorrow with booze.
One night, I arrived home around ten. I parked in the garage and stumbled into the house. I went upstairs, showered, slipped into a pair of sweatpants and tromped downstairs. Victoria wasn't in her studio, but that didn't surprise me, and I don't think I even wondered where she was.
I made a sandwich and grabbed a beer. If I'd eaten at the table I would have found the papers sooner, but I ate at the counter, so I didn't see them right away.
After I rinsed off my plate, I noticed them.
They were impossible to miss, two envelopes strewn in the middle of our oak dining table.
One was fat and from some lawyer on Fifth Avenue.
The other was from Victoria; it was written on perfumed stationary.
In the letter, Victoria explained she'd fallen in love with someone else. She said she didn't want anything. Everything was mine: the house, the cars, the checking and savings accounts. But please, please, please don't follow me because I've got to get on with my life.
All she took were her clothes and jewelry. She even left her art supplies. I later learned she quit painting and took up sculpting.
I spent more and more time at the college. One evening, I was in my office, obliterating my soul with my old friend Jack Daniels. Owl stopped by. I was soused. I'd already emptied one J.D. bottle and was half way through another.
Owl, an exceptional student loaded with potential, surprised me with a few jokes and hours of decent conversation. We chatted about politics, university gossip, the state of the world, that kind of stuff. We drank until after midnight. Then Owl lit up a joint, and after taking a deep drag, he passed it to me.
I'd smoked pot in college, so it wasn't an entirely new experience, but it had been over ten years since I'd ta
ken a toke. I found it pleasurable, and it brought back a remembrance of a more carefree time. My stresses melted. I told Owl about Kenny and Victoria. I laughed at some of the memories and faced my losses without feeling as if I was falling apart.
Owl asked me if the pot helped.
“Sure,” I said.
He offered to get me a stash. And that was when I learned Owl dealt drugs.
Pot dulled my senses, so I used it all the time.
Over the course of the next year, I needed more than weed. Owl accommodated me. He introduced me to other drugs. The costs went up, but I didn't care.
In 1990, I sold the house to support my habit, and moved into an apartment near the college. And because I lived close to the college, I decided I didn't need a car, so I sold my B.M.W. When the money from the car and house was gone, I emptied my savings. About that time, I read an article about the person who won the New York Lotto. The payout was $35 million bucks and it all went to one winner. I remember thinking that I could buy a lot of drugs with that money.
As the months went by, I grew paranoid. By the time 1991 came around, I was certain the college would discover my drug addiction, so I quit before they could fire me.
When I was kicked out of my apartment, I slept at the Y.
When I couldn't afford the Y anymore, I moved into the park.
I found a sleeping bag in a dumpster and carried essentials in a backpack. It was summer and I slept under the stars, feeling like a hippy from the sixties. If it was raining, I hung out at the bus station, and when the cops showed up, I moved somewhere else.
I discovered crack. It was cheap, and I bought it on the street, and it took away my pain for a short