Hunter's Moon (10 page)

The raised voices had wakened Thor, and Dorothy watched as he stood and yawned. She pulled another cigarette from the pack in her pocket and lit it.

“Your soul is on the pages, son,” she said after taking a long draw. “Right there for everyone to see. It’s not
what
you write about; it’s
how
you write it. And that’s what they can’t stand. They’re afraid people will see into your soul—see what kind of people they—we—are.”

CJ was dumbfounded. He hadn’t come here for literary criticism—not from his chain-smoking mother. Worse, he could almost see what she meant. He didn’t doubt that his soul was on the pages; in fact, he might have even read something like that in a review of his work. At the time he’d thought it a compliment. Writing had always been cathartic, and didn’t writers often use the written word to explore the weighty issues that kept them up at night? And there’d been a lot keeping him up at night, especially over the last few years. Of course it would be on the pages. Coming from his mother, though, it was an accusation.

And he wasn’t much good at accusations—not from Janet, and not from his mother. And there was no way he was going to field questions about his soul. So he did the only thing he could think to do. He gathered up his dog, kissed his mother on the cheek, and walked out the door.

When he stepped out onto the porch, just as the screen door was about to shut behind him, his mother launched her parting shot.

“I know what you think your brother did,” she said.

For the briefest of moments he froze on the porch, but then willed his legs to move forward.

It was a strange feeling sitting in a barstool in a place one’s own father frequented, a place that filled his memory with images of drinking Coke from a pilsner glass and scrounging quarters from bar patrons so he could play pinball with his brother. CJ came near to growing up in Ronny’s, at least during his earlier years, before his mother impressed upon his father the unseemliness of taking the boys with him to the bar. But Ronny’s elicited nothing but pleasant feelings in CJ.

Later, when he was in high school and knew that his father was playing cards somewhere else, CJ considered it a triumph to come in here, belly up to the bar, and order a beer of his own. At the time he’d thought it quite the caper, and had marveled that his father had never caught him. It wasn’t until years later that he realized the men sitting around him, as well as the bartender, had known exactly who he was, likely sharing the knowledge of his presence to his father. He came to see that George had allowed him these small victories, and had counted on Ronny and the others to keep an eye on him.

When he’d walked in tonight, no one recognized him. With Ronny long retired, and the establishment passed to his son, Rick, the place seemed different, even with CJ’s warm memories. Rick had poured him a Labatt and left CJ alone, and the prodigal writer had remained that way until someone at the end of the bar outed him. After that, he’d spent about thirty minutes as a celebrity— with several commenting on the golden arm that would have taken him to either the Yankees or the Red Sox, depending on the personal preference of the speaker—before interest had waned and he was once again left in peace. And that was fine with him, because he was in no mood to be the center of attention.

His visit with his mother had left him with a jumble of thoughts that, except when he wrote, remained relegated to the attic-like portions of his brain. And even during those times, when they were pulled out and dusted off, held up to whatever light enabled him to transfer them to the screen via the blinking cursor, the more life-defining moments remained snugly in their places. Tonight, though, things were different, rawer. It was impossible to be in this town without considering the weightier things.

CJ was ten when Graham killed Eddie.

His back is numb against the thick lines of bark running along
the massive maple tree when the voices wake him. The first thing he
feels when he hears them, after the guilt associated with having fallen
asleep, is annoyance that Graham and Eddie have scared off any deer
within a mile. It’s been at least an hour since he picked his spot and
settled onto a cushion of brown leaves, shotgun resting across his lap,
and now that time is wasted.

The only cold he feels is on his nose, and he rubs it with a gloved
hand, unconcerned now about giving his position away to any lurking
deer. He’d left Graham in a tree stand about thirty yards to the north,
and Eddie was supposed to have picked a spot southeast of there, which
would have allowed them to box in anything that came over the ridge
and started down into the depression over which CJ has been sitting
watch. But it sounds like Graham is out of the stand and, the morning
now wasted, CJ rises on stiff legs, brushes the leaves and dirt from his
pants, and starts toward the voices.

Leaves crunch beneath his boots as he walks. He keeps the gun
pointed up and over his left shoulder, but even at only ten years old, his
eyes scan the forest as if he were a veteran. The joke is that you never
know when you will run into a deaf deer.

CJ is still too far away to hear clearly what his brother and Eddie
are shouting at each other, but he catches bits and pieces and isn’t surprised
to hear the name Jennifer mentioned more than once. Graham
and Eddie’s long friendship has been suffering for the last month with
the introduction of this new element, and while even CJ suspects that
Jennifer Caldwell is all right as far as girls go, he can’t understand
how she could come between two best friends on a morning like this.
And now she has—albeit unknowingly—insinuated herself into what
is to CJ almost as holy an activity as any of the duties he performs
as an altar boy at St. Anthony’s. CJ thinks that if Graham is going
to get him up at four in the morning, he could at least stay quiet until
they get a deer.

He follows the sound of the boys’ voices, the path of his boots arcing
slightly as he adjusts his course in response to the noise they are making.
It seems to take a while to get there, and at some point the voices give
way to silence—only it isn’t silence, but maybe the half sounds people
make when they’re giving and receiving punches.

CJ sighs and considers turning around and heading home. What
stops him is knowing that Graham will undoubtedly look for him once
the fight is over, and would return home angry at CJ for leaving. And
since CJ has noticed Graham’s growing inclination toward violence over
the last few months, he is hesitant about giving the older boy any reason
to exercise this new trait. Although CJ isn’t even sure if
violence
is
the right word; the word
cruel
might be more appropriate, especially
after what Graham, with an odd calm, did to the cat. And last week he
hit CJ for the first time.

The whole thing is over before CJ steps into the clearing, and as the
report still echoes in the air. When CJ comes out from behind the tree
separating him from Eddie and his brother, he has only enough time to see
Eddie’s eyes widen, and to hear an ungodly gurgle come from somewhere
inside the boy. Before he can fall, it seems that his eyes seek out CJ’s.
Then he topples, and it is as he’s falling to the ground that CJ finds his
voice. He screams for his brother. Graham’s eyes track from Eddie to
CJ, and after an interminable moment, he brings the gun down.

The silence in the woods is the kind that happens when all living
things hold their collective breath in the face of danger. CJ finds he is
holding his only when he feels an uncomfortable sensation in his chest.
He stands at the edge of the clearing—his own gun forgotten, held over
his shoulder—watching his brother, this stranger, who has just killed
someone. CJ is shivering, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

Time ticks on while Graham stares down at the body of his friend.
Then he releases a deep sigh, and something seems to let go of him with
the exhalation. When he looks over at his frightened, still-shaking
younger brother, he even smiles.

“It looks like we had a little accident,” Graham says.

Chapter 7

There didn’t appear to be an empty seat, which was what CJ had expected after two hours of standing in the receiving line. It seemed that every resident of Adelia had come to pay his or her respects, filling St. Anthony’s to overflowing. The sheer number of people who had formed a line that wrapped around the building and then stretched down the School Street sidewalk was impressive, and a testament to how well-liked Sal had been, as well as to the place the Baxter clan still held in the town’s collective consciousness.

It turned out too that CJ’s presence might have figured into the attendance. His books were understandably popular in Adelia. He was arguably the most famous former resident of the town (CJ thought that spoke poorly of the town), and they appreciated his success, even if CJ knew they had over-inflated any notoriety he commanded. And with the charge that much of CJ’s material was drawn from his own life, his books had the tenor of a soap opera in which these local readers had a behind-the-scenes view of all the characters. Part of the draw today, then, could have been to watch the family dynamic in action.

At first, the attention embarrassed CJ, coupled as it was with effusive praise. But not long into the visitation he’d decided to enjoy it, especially after he saw the way it affected Graham. The brothers hadn’t spoken since the near garroting. Graham had left him on the ground, and once he could breathe without tears coming to his eyes, CJ and Thor had driven off. He’d taken the basketball as a minor assuagement of his anger, briefly considering the possibility that, since he had technically stolen Thoreau from his own house, theft was his coping mechanism.

He was staying at the Seven Oaks Hotel, the only one in town that accepted dogs. CJ had discovered that was because Thoreau was a higher class of occupant than the hotel normally serviced. The dog was cleaner and, in all likelihood, smarter than the revolving door of junkies and prostitutes that frequented the place. The sign listing hourly rates should have been his first clue. Thor was back there, and his bark should make anyone think twice about trying to steal CJ’s few belongings.

CJ was watching the audience through the half-open door to the left of the altar. He didn’t recognize most of them; even the ones he used to know had changed so much in the intervening years that he’d had trouble putting names with faces in the receiving line. One person he’d been pleased to recognize was now sitting in the back of the church. Mr. Kadziolka had given him a warm handshake as he’d made his way down the queue. CJ would have liked the chance to speak with him, to talk shop a bit, to see how the old place was holding up, but the press of people hadn’t made that possible.

He didn’t realize his sister was at his side until she spoke.

“They’re only here because of his last name,” Maryann said.

CJ hadn’t liked Maryann when they were growing up. She was the middle sibling, older than he was by three years, younger than Graham by an equal margin. Yet in some ways she’d taken on the role of eldest child in that she’d grown up faster and had perfected a late teen’s contempt for adults while still in middle school.

It appeared the passage of time had not pressed a diamond from this lump of coal. It probably wasn’t fair for him to make that determination after only two days, but he was pretty good at snap judgments. And where Maryann was concerned, there was much obvious material with which to render a verdict. The fact that she still talked like a sailor didn’t help her case.

Too, he’d heard rumors that Maryann had taken on a new gig—stealing from the store she managed. The only ones he’d heard speak of it were immediate family, and CJ had learned enough to understand the theft had been occurring for years, and the only reason they were concerned about it now was because of the potential for damaging Graham’s campaign. It said a lot about both Maryann and CJ’s family.