Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway

much stuff.
    While I was a little hesitant about the whole ordeal, Finnie was beside himself with anticipation. “Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?” he asked me.
    “I don’t know.”
    “I hope it’s a boy.”
    “Why?”
    “Because then we can show him all the stuff we know, without him having to figure it out for himself.”
    “Oh.”
    “And there will be no oaths.”
    I saw where Finnie was coming from; he hated his brothers and was determined that this child would have the benefit of siblings less homicidal than his own. He liked my family precisely because, without trying, my parents had made Finnie feel like he was one of us.
    “Of course, it’s fine if it’s a girl,” Finnie said, “it’ll just make things a little harder.”
    “Harder?”
    “Well, sure. Girls are harder to understand.”
    “Even Louise?”
    “Especially Louise.”
    He got no argument from me. When Louise had helped Finnie build the rink, I had wondered if it was a sign of things to come. But if Louise had spent a lot of time in the basement before the move, that amount now doubled. She was only seen at meals; from the time she got home from school to the time she went to bed, she was in her room, with the door shut.
    I didn’t really have much time to dwell on Louise’s peculiarities, however, because in the middle of April my mother went into labour and gave birth to Sarah Esther Woodward, my younger sister. My mother was one of those rare women who actually give birth on their due dates; Sarah was born exactly on schedule.
    It was the 5th of April, a calm, mild day. Finnie and I were having a heated argument on my front steps about whether or not the New York Islanders were going to win their third Stanley Cup in a row in the upcoming playoffs. We both hated the Islanders, but Finnie said that they were going to win for sure, which they eventually did. At the time, however, I was certain that they wouldn’t.
    “Come on, Finnie,” I said, “Edmonton’s a way better team.”
    “Maybe. Anything can happen in the playoffs, though.”
    Our discussion was interrupted by the sound of my mother screaming. We rushed inside and found her in the front hall, leaning heavily against the wall, in obvious pain. My father and Louise arrived seconds later, whereupon my mother announced that she had gone into labour.
    “Are you sure?” my father asked.
    My mother answered him with a look that could have stripped paint.
    “Maybe we should go to the hospital,” Louise said.
    “Right. Of course,” my father said.
    I wondered if he’d been like this when Louise and I were born.
    We all piled into the car, my father and Finnie and I in the front and my mother and Louise in the back. My father hadn’t driven since his accident and with all the excitement he had apparently forgotten that he was the only one who could.
    “Let’s go, Robert,” my mother said.
    “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I can. Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
    “Are you fucking kidding me? We don’t have time for that. Just drive the car, please, Bob.” I rarely heard my mother use such strong language. Apparently, neither had my father. He turned the key, put the gearshift into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
    By the end of the block, however, it was obvious that my father was having a difficult time steered the car and changing gears. There was sweat on his brow and his jaw was clenched. Then, while making a left-hand turn, he narrowly avoided hitting a bright green pickup. Shaken, he pulled the car over. “This isn’t working,” he said. “I’m going to get us all killed.”
    Finnie had an idea. “What if I steer?” he said.
    My father considered the merits of the suggestion. “Have you ever driven a car before?”
    “Oh, sure,” he said. “My brother Pat lets me drive all the time.”
    I knew this was a lie; Pat wouldn’t even let Finnie ride in the same car if he could help it.
    “You’re positive you can do