The Slow Moon (12 page)

Twenty-one

T
OM
C
ANADY LIVED
on the edge of town in an old house bought and rebuilt by his father, a contractor. Their home was a showplace, not because of its size but because of its gabled entrance and large sprawling porch. His mother sat on the porch most days, curing her restlessness with bourbon and Coke. She was known in town as a fabulous cook, but she had stopped having dinner parties years ago.

Tom’s last image of his mother “alive and well” was one day at the beach four years ago. She had been sickly and cross for days, but the suggestion to spend a week at the beach in South Carolina cheered her and she began to prepare by washing clothes and bringing home groceries. The first day at the beach was bright and sunny, everyone in bathing suits and shorts, the wide beach littered with towels and chairs stuck firmly in the sand. Dogs ran into the water and back out again. Tom and his older brother, Peter, set the cooler down and opened the beach chairs at the edge of the water, and to everyone’s surprise, Mrs. Canady—alive in spirit for the first time in months—suggested they go into the water. “Right now,” she said. “Let’s take a swim right now, before we eat anything.”

But Peter settled down, scanning for girls, so Tom did the same. Over the last few years, as Tom realized who and what he was, he had created for himself the burdensome role of an impostor. He wore expensive tennis shoes and cut his hair like a jock. He wore khaki pants and large, dark sweaters. Sometimes he wore a tie and endured the gentle ribbing from his friends. He made good grades but flew into a rage if achievement was mentioned. He wanted more than anything else to be one of the gang. At every turn, he tried to imitate his brother. They both pointed to a girl with big breasts walking near the water. She seemed to know they were watching her.

“C’mon,” his mother said, but they ignored her, so she went into the ocean, hesitating at first, like a child, then moving full force. Some young girls were riding the waves, and Tom watched his mother join them, laughing and jumping up to ride the surge of a wave. Her face looked suddenly younger. Jack Canady laughed at her, but his laugh sounded more like jeering. Peter joined the laughter, then Tom. She could not hear them. When she returned, her face was flushed with adventure, until she realized they were making fun of her. She was not blessed with a gift for comebacks. “I don’t know why you’re laughing,” she told them, and plopped down defeated into the chair Jack had set up for her. She did not speak for more than an hour. No one seemed to notice.

Tom’s memory of her that day brought a kind of shame to his heart, but he told himself that she probably didn’t remember it. She was the kind of woman who never demanded kindness from her family and so, therefore, it was not given.

Tom blamed his mother in ways that weren’t explainable. He hated to hear her complaints. If she could just take control, he thought, stop drinking and take control, then his family might be happy. If she didn’t drink so much during the day, the family would be different. Tom wished his mother could protect him. Each year he felt more estranged from the world. He wanted his father to be proud of him, as he was of Peter. For as long as Tom could remember, his dad had worshipped Peter.

In gym, fifth period, Tom undressed with the other boys as they clowned around in the showers, yelling obscenities, calling each another “fag,” flipping towels. Sometimes he got an erection that he tried to hide. He felt desire and tried to think of a way to blame his mother for this embarrassment. All the while his insides seemed to tear away, recoiling from the outer layer of his skin. He tried in his mind to keep the two layers connected. But he grew weary of this effort and began to think he was damaged beyond repair.

There was one story told in the family about Tom, the only story that dwelled on him as a special creature. Whenever they told it, Tom grew quiet with pleasure. And tonight, while sitting around before dinner, they told it again.

“We almost lost you in the months before you were born,” his father said jovially.

“I went to bed, stayed in bed for two months,” his mother added. She usually told the story, with his father and Peter chiming in. As she told it, her face became animated. “And after all those long days in bed—meals brought to me, nothing to do but sleep and watch TV, read—after all those days, I went to the hospital in the middle of the night and you were born. But it took twelve hours, because the cord was wrapped around your neck and they had to do a cesarean section. When they lifted you out, when I saw you, I screamed. Your face was so blue, purple really. I thought you were gone. I thought you might never take a breath. Then, of course, they loosened the cord and I heard you cry. And that cry pinked you up.”

“The doctor came out to tell me and Peter you were okay,” said Jack Canady, taking credit for something, Tom didn’t know what.

“Yeah, but earlier they came out to say you might not make it,” Peter added. “We didn’t expect you to even be alive.” Peter liked when the family focused on Tom.

“That doctor thought you were a goner. I mean, he thought you might not be all right.” His mother shook her head. “Mentally,” she said. “And just look how smart.” She raised her arm toward Tom, celebrating his mental capabilities.

“I don’t know,” said Peter. “He’s pretty screwy. I think that cord did something to him.” Tom had grown so skinny in the last two years that his knees stuck out, and the family had begun to call him Knobs. Tom didn’t mind the nickname.

Peter and Tom wrestled momentarily until their father suggested they all go out to dinner. He had completed one wing of the new hospital last week. He wanted to celebrate.

“Oh, and Tom,” his father said. “You got a call from Mr. Davenport. He wants to hire you to teach that boy of his, Johnny, to show him some of your spearfishing expertise. Your bow and arrow still in good condition?”

“Yessir.”

“Well, make him pay you, son. You don’t have to do it, but if you do, get some decent pay. He’s been trying for years to turn that boy into a man. Maybe you can do it.”

Peter would be home all weekend, and Tom’s favorite time was being with Peter on Saturday and Sunday afternoon as they lounged around, hair tousled, faces blowsy with naps, half dressed, a football game blaring, the blinds drawn. Their father would leave about midafternoon to check on some site. Peter and Tom stayed the course, drowsing until five-thirty or six, then they walked into town for a burger, maybe to see a movie. What would he do with himself when Peter was stationed far away? What would the house be like without his brother? Would his parents behave differently? His mother would surely continue to drink.

Tom knew Johnny Davenport, had known him as Crow’s kid brother, but he hadn’t really noticed him until a fire drill at school the previous fall. The students filed out into the halls, moving into the side yards of the school. The principal stood on the platform set up for the cheerleaders and announced the threat of a fire in the middle school cafeteria. Smoke had filled the halls on the first floor. He sent everyone home. Police swarmed the grounds, and an air of both menace and freedom descended upon the day.

As Tom left for home, he saw Johnny walking alone toward a car. He saw him but did not at first recognize who it was. Johnny had grown larger in the last year, his muscles filling out. He had always seemed puny and thin, an earnest-looking boy, but since his father had sent him to a camp with a ropes course, his body had changed. Tom felt drawn to him. He didn’t look at all like Crow. Had he ever been drawn to Crow?

Johnny wore ratty jeans, torn on one side. His baggy shirt looked jaunty, and he had a Band-Aid on his arm. The effect was good. His eyes were dark blue fields, small flecks of green inside, his smile pretty, like a girl’s. Tom felt a strong attraction to him. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be attracted to boys. There had been one girl in the eighth grade that he thought he could like; but when he pursued her, he felt sorry for her instead. Love turned almost immediately to pity.

What in his mind was not to be possible, not to be part of his life, not even open for examination, was now skirling around in his head. Everything suddenly looked too small for this place in the world, for this town.

When Johnny waved, Tom felt embarrassed. He caught up to him and walked him to the car, where his father was waiting. Johnny got in and Mr. Davenport spoke to Tom, asking him about his hobbies and what he did at his father’s construction sites. When Tom mentioned spearfishing, Mr. Davenport zeroed in on it, saying that Johnny might like to try it sometime.

“Sure,” said Johnny with very little enthusiasm. “It sounds okay.”

Tom waved goodbye to Johnny and imagined that Johnny held his look longer than usual, eyes bright as marbles.

A high fog hovered in the tops of trees, and birds could be heard but not seen. The day felt full of quiet promises. The thought of Johnny carrying his books in a small orderly pile, climbing into the car, overeager and shaggy, made Tom’s heart open. The taste on his tongue felt hopeful. As Tom walked onto the porch of his house, he entered as if he were the ambassador of good news, his posture straight-backed, ceremonial.

“What happened at school today?” his father yelled. “It’s all over the news. That fire at the school.”

“It was nothing. We got out early because of all the smoke. Something in the cafeteria.”

“Peter’s gone,” his mother said. Her voice slurry, a chuckle, an incoherent sentence, then, “He said to tell you goodbye.”

That night, as Tom lay in bed, stars, cold as knives, sharpened themselves against the dark sky and a triangle of moonlight fell into the room across the floor and onto the sheet that covered his legs. Tom thought he could feel the weight of the moonlight on his arms and legs, a heaviness working over his body like quicksilver.

Twenty-two

O
VER THE PAST
couple of years Johnny had spent more time with his father than he imagined possible. They drove to Atlanta to see the Braves play Cincinnati. Carl took him fishing or frog-gigging. Sometimes Crow came with them. They hiked and camped out in the woods. They went hunting. Johnny came back from these excursions exhausted and bored. He hated fishing the most. He began to dread his father’s call to come downstairs.

For Christmas Johnny got a bow and arrows from his father. “I’ve asked Tom Canady to show you about shooting at fish with a bow and arrow,” Carl told Johnny. “He’ll take you out on Saturdays. Tom’s really good. His father says he’s better than Peter at this.”

Johnny made a noise of assent.

Carl tried to reassure him. “It’ll make a difference to be good at something, Johnny.”

“I’m good at things now,” said Johnny. “I’m the best in my art class, and in math I’m second highest, and I’ve read more books than any of the other guys in my homeroom.”

Carl smiled. “Well, I know that, and that’s all fine, son. But now we need to really toughen you up. And I’m just the one to do it.” Carl laughed a hard laugh. He didn’t see Johnny’s expression as he turned away.

“What’s gotten into Dad?” Crow asked. They were sitting on the porch. “He seems frantic to take you places.”

“He thinks I’m a pussy.”

“He say that?”

“Not straight out. He’s acting like he wants me to get over something. He hates that I like cooking and painting and stuff.”

Crow laughed. “He’s trying to make you like him. He did that to me too.”

“But it worked with you. You didn’t mind it. I wish he’d stop. Now I have to spend Saturday mornings learning how to shoot a bow and arrow—with Tom Canady.”

“Je-sus, Dad doesn’t know what he’s doing. Can you get out of it? You want me to talk to him?”

“I don’t think so. How bad can it be?”

“Listen, Tom’s into drugs sometimes.” Crow paced the room. “I don’t want you around him. Don’t go.”

“I thought he was your friend.”

“He is. He probably won’t give you anything, but he’s got a reputation now for carrying it around.”

“I’ve never tried it. Never even smoked. Have you?”

“Well. A few times.”

“What’s it like?”

“Better than being drunk.”

“I’ve never been drunk either.”

“Don’t take anything from Tom, hear? And if you ever want to try something, pot, whatever, come to me. I want to be with you if you try anything.”

Crow stood to go into the kitchen. “Don’t mention what I said about Tom to any of your friends.”

“I won’t,” Johnny said. “I don’t have any friends.” He laughed. “You’re my best friend, Crow.” Crow laughed, but he knew it was true.

The next Saturday morning a mist hung over the ground until nine-thirty. By ten, Tom arrived at the house in his Camry. Johnny was ready, waiting on the front steps.

Tom drove several miles out of town and they walked straight to a clearing, where a canvas bull’s-eye was mounted on a bale of hay. Johnny opened the car door and got out. He helped Tom carry equipment.

They hadn’t talked much on the ride there. Johnny had asked Tom about his trophies and medals and Tom answered, but he didn’t expand beyond the basic details, so they rode the last few miles in silence. Just before they got out of the car, Tom said, “Your dad said he thought you didn’t want to do this.”

Johnny nodded. “He thinks it’ll be good for me.” They both laughed, sharing a joke about fathers.

Tom took out his bow and handed the arrows to Johnny. “Well?” he said.

“Well, what?”

“Is that right? About you not wanting to do this?”

“Pretty much right, but it’s okay,” said Johnny.

“Bastard,” said Tom.

Johnny didn’t know if Tom meant him or his dad.

Tom showed him how to hold the bow, how to aim by resting his hand against his cheek, how to hold his shoulders in the right position. He showed him how to place the arrow on the string, how to make the string taut so the arrow wouldn’t fly off. He stood behind Johnny and held his arms, letting him feel the strength it took to pull back the bow just right, then the fun of letting the arrow go, letting it fly toward a target.

“This is great,” Johnny said.

“Yeah, it’s all right.”

They shot arrows for thirty minutes. Johnny sometimes shot without instruction. Tom sometimes instructed, standing behind Johnny, breathing into his hair. “Your hair smells like shampoo,” Tom said.

“I washed it this morning.” Johnny wondered if Tom might be angry because he had washed his hair, if this would seem feminine and wrong.

“Smells good,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t you take off your coat? It’ll make it easier to hold the bow.”

“Naw.”

Tom pulled off his jacket, letting his shirt ride up to reveal a hard body, a tight waist. He put his jacket on the ground and turned to see if Johnny was watching. He was, and Tom smiled.

The tone between them had changed from one of discomfort to something like camaraderie.

“Are you afraid of me?” Tom asked.

For some strange reason Johnny was not surprised or jarred by the question. “I don’t think so.”

Tom suggested that Johnny try some arrows that had a different kind of feather. He explained how arc and speed differed from one arrow to another, depending on the type of feather. Johnny grew interested. He could smell Tom’s hair oil and the odor of his skin.

Tom stood behind Johnny, pushing his body against him and pulling back the bow, letting it strain against Johnny’s arms and wrists, feeling a tautness develop in both bow and string. He held Johnny’s arms like that for a few seconds, told him to aim for the middle of a far tree, then release. When he did, the arrow moved straight toward the middle, hitting slightly off center. Tom kissed Johnny quickly on the cheek in congratulation, then pulled away. Johnny was startled and could think of nothing to say.

Tom put his jacket back on. “We’ve got to get back,” he said. “I’ve got to go somewhere this afternoon. My dad’ll kill me if I’m late.”

“Okay.” They hustled to pick up arrows that had gone astray.

“One’s missing,” Tom yelled.

“I got it. It landed in a bush.”

“First lesson,” said Tom. “Something’s always gonna land in a bush.” He smiled, but his mouth barely moved and he gave Johnny a long, serious look. “So,” he said. “See you next week?”

“Okay,” said Johnny. The ride home wasn’t much different from the ride there—not much talking. And when Johnny got out, Tom said, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, because he thought maybe his dad was right, and this was how it was supposed to be. If he felt different, maybe the differentness was this. “I’m okay,” and he gave Tom back the same smile Tom had given him—one that had in it the very meaning of hiddenness.