The Slow Moon (15 page)

Twenty-eight

H
OW MANY TIMES
had Crow tried to speak to Sophie? He had lifted the phone twenty, thirty times; he had followed her in town. But whenever Sophie saw him she looked mortified. He wrote notes to her, but they went unanswered.

Then, on the Saturday before school let out, Crow saw Sophie come out of the drugstore, walking toward him. He stopped. When he saw her, her hand moved up to her face. She touched her cheek, neck, and hair. Crow approached, trying to think of what to say. At night he spent hours planning what he might say to her, but now all words went out of his head.

She held his gaze and even greeted him, though it was only a nod. So Crow asked, “Did you get my last note?” Crow had written a note a few weeks ago, and left it in Sophie’s mailbox, asking to talk to her. He had a birthday present he wanted to give her. Her birthday had been the last day of May. She was fifteen.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded flat. “I got it.”

He fell into walking beside her. “Where’re you going?”

“Home.”

“Can I drive you?”

She didn’t give assent, but she didn’t object either, so they got into his car and rode in silence until they reached Sophie’s house. Crow followed her across the yard to her porch. Sophie motioned for him to sit on the steps.

“For a while, I thought you might have done it,” Sophie said. “I thought you might have hurt me.”

“No. No.”

“I know you didn’t, but that’s what I thought at first.”

“And now?”
Maybe she has remembered,
Crow thought. “Have you been talking to the police? Have you told them?”
Maybe she knows who did it.
“I mean, do you know?”

His barrage of questions made her flinch.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just wanted—”

“I can’t remember,” she said. “Anyway…”

“Anyway what?”

“I might go away. I might go back to Montana.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I haven’t told anyone yet, except Dr. Brooks. He’s my therapist. And he thought it was a good idea. You know, to go for a few weeks.” Sophie looked at him.

“Oh,” he said. “I thought you meant for good.”

“No.”

Crow looked out across the yard. “Do you hate me for what I said in court?”

“I know you had to say that.”

“But do you hate me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I wanted to call you,” Crow said. Sophie remained silent. “I didn’t know if I had any right to talk to you. I couldn’t get up the nerve for a while.”

They sat stiffly for a moment.

“Are you still drawing? You know, painting?”

“No,” she said, but it was a lie. She had been sketching for the past three days, watching something lurk at the edge of the paper. Then, when she tried to paint, she lost track of the edge of the canvas. She painted beyond that edge, spreading paint onto the wall or just moving the brush into the air, letting paint drip onto the rug.

“No, I’m not painting anything.” She fingered her necklace, a gold chain fine as lace.

Crow made a sound in his throat, primitive and coarse. “When are you leaving?” he asked.

“As soon as I can.”

“Sometimes,” said Crow, “sometimes you imagine yourself in a situation, you know? And you think about how you might act, and in your mind you always act the right way? But when it comes, and you don’t act the way you thought, when you turn out to be somebody worse than you imagined—there’s no way to think about it. No way to make it right.”

They waited, a terrible hiatus before Sophie spoke. “You said you had a present for me.”

Crow stood up. “It’s in my car. Want me to get it?”

“Okay.” Sophie’s interest was perfunctory, but curious. “Yeah.”

Crow went to the car. Sophie called, “Crow?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you get me a present?”

“For your birthday,” said Crow. His shoulders sagged with something secret even to his own mind.

“I know that.” She challenged Crow to be more than he was. “But I just wondered why, exactly.”

Crow went across the street and leaned into the backseat of his car. He came back with a box wrapped in green tissue paper and a white satin ribbon; but when he got to the porch, Sophie wasn’t there. The front door was closed, so he put the present on the porch steps and left. Their time together had ended, he thought, and nothing would be good between them again.

Twenty-nine

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
Sophie asked her mother if she could go back to Montana for a few weeks. Her voice, when she asked, sounded shaky. “I want to go away, just go away. I called Grace, and she said it would be fine. Her mother said so too.”

“Oh, Sophie. You can’t leave now. You can’t just run away.”

“I don’t think I
am
running away.”

“Then why do you want to go?”

“I want to be somewhere where people don’t look at me like I’m a freak. Grace won’t do that.”

“Have you told Grace?”

“I told her that I’d been hurt. I didn’t say anything else. I think she guessed. She got real quiet.”

“Even if you go,” said Rita, “you have to come back.” She sank back in her chair. “You finally have to face whoever did this. And what about your sessions with Dr. Brooks?”

“I already told him. He said I could call him anytime I wanted to. He said he would talk to me twice a week by phone. Or more.”

“Well.” Rita sighed. “I guess I could go with you. Charlie wouldn’t mind if I missed a week or so at the store.”

Sophie shook her head. “I want to go by myself.”

Rita shifted. “Not for the whole summer.”

Sophie cleared her throat. “How long?” She had her hands in the pocket of her sweater and could feel the card that Dr. Brooks had given her, listing both his office and his home numbers. “If I stay more than three weeks, then you can come for a visit.” She leaned toward her mother. “I really want to do this,” she said.

Before choosing a therapist for Sophie, Rita had discussed with friends the advantage of seeing a man instead of a woman. She had made the right choice. Dr. Brooks had the patience that Sophie needed, and his willingness to be available had given Sophie a kind of confidence. Sophie had told Dr. Brooks that sometimes he seemed to say the things her father might have said. Sophie needed to believe again in the trustworthiness of men.

“When you leave town,” Dr. Brooks told Sophie, “you might begin to remember things.”

His words had made her sit bolt upright in her chair. Sophie had looked at him as if he were telling her something that had never occurred to her. The thought of what had happened could not enter her mind completely; but neither could the horror of that night leave her head.

“And you can call me. Anytime at all.”

Dr. Brooks also talked once a week with Rita. He did not want the rage of the mother to affect the daughter’s progress.

“Every time I pass a boy in town,” Rita told Dr. Brooks, “whether it’s Tom Canady, or Bobby Bailey, or Lester Dunphy, I think:
Was it him? Was it him?
” Rita kept her hands held tightly together, pushing against her knees as she spoke. “And Lester, he comes over to the house all the time. Sophie’s glad to see him. He’s been a friend to her, but I look at him and, Dr. Brooks, I want to scream. I think,
What if he did this? What if I’m letting the boy who did this into the house?
”

“Don’t, Rita. Lester was in the Fairchild house at the time it happened. He was with five or six people. Let him be a friend to her.”

“But I look at him, or I see Bobby Bailey walk across the street to catch the bus, and I think,
Did he do it?
Judge Bailey has called me several times, but I can’t talk to her. I seem to hate everybody.”

“Even Sophie?”

Rita could not answer.

“Rita,” he said. “You must guard yourself against bitterness.”

Rita could see what Sophie liked about this man. No matter what you said, he made you feel that everything was going to be all right.

That night Rita went to Sophie’s room. “You still want to visit with Grace?”

“Are you letting me go?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s a good idea.”

“Really? You mean it?”

“I’ll call her mother tonight. It might be just the right thing for you.”

“Oh, Mama.” Before Rita closed the door Sophie said, “How long?”

“What?”

“How long can I stay?”

“As long as you want,” Rita said, but before she closed the door completely, she added, “but not the whole summer.”

She could hear Sophie’s sigh in the room’s air.

In the airport Rita told Sophie that she was glad that Grace probably knew. “Now you won’t have to explain. Maybe that’s good.”

“Mom, everything I do in therapy is trying to find ways to talk about it.” Sophie smiled. The act of leaving South Pittsburg was making her strong again. “Did you tell Grace’s mother?”

“I didn’t think I should. That will be up to you.” Rita handed Sophie the tickets. “You can stay longer if you need to.”

“I want to stay forever.”

Rita shook her head.

“I know, I know,” said Sophie. “When does the plane leave?”

“In forty-five minutes. You want something to eat?”

“Sure.”

Rita put her arm around her daughter. “You are being very brave, you know.”

Sophie’s lip quivered and she began to shake uncontrollably. Rita took her into a restroom and held her until she stopped shaking.

“It’s going to be all right,” she said. She rocked Sophie and casually wiped away some drool that had appeared in the corner of her mouth. The medicine Sophie took made her drool sometimes. “We’ll work through this. And we’ll find who did it, and we’ll send them to jail.” Rita’s voice sounded hard, determined.

“But people say that…” Sophie stopped and began to cry.

“What do people say, darling?”

Sophie shook her head. Several women came into the restroom, walking by, staring. Rita led Sophie back out to a place by the window where they could be alone. The loudspeaker announced the boarding of her plane.

Sophie continued. “I’m afraid if I accuse somebody, that the accusation will backfire. Lawyers could make it look like it was my fault, the guys could get off and—”

“And you think that could happen to you?”

“If I accuse somebody, they’ll say that I wasn’t wearing clothes, they’ll say it was my fault. And I’d had some beer, so that too.” Her words came out in huge sobs.

“Oh, honey. Nobody could blame you for this.”

“But Nikki said that when her cousin went through this, the boys got off. They said her cousin was drunk, and that she led them on. They weren’t found guilty, and the girl looked like a slut. That’s what Nikki said.”

Rita leaned back slowly. “Nikki’s wrong.” She tried to keep her voice calm. “Listen to me,” she said. “Nothing like that is going to happen to you, Sophie. It didn’t happen at Crow’s trial, did it?”

“I didn’t testify,” said Sophie. “But if I did remember, and had to get up on the stand…”

Rita kept her hand on Sophie’s shoulder, thinking. “That happens when a girl has a reputation for leading boys on, or has even slept with the boy accused—not in a case like this, not in this case.” Rita knew Sophie’s fear was legitimate. “I can ask Judge Bailey about this. She’s called me several times and I haven’t returned her calls, but I can call and ask her about this.”

“You could?”

“Yes.”

Sophie sat up and wiped her face with the hem of her blouse. “Okay.”

“Sophie?”

“What?”

“Do you remember something about that night, and you’re not saying the names because of what Nikki said?”

“I remember some of it,” she said. “But not a face. I remember things like somebody’s hair, and a smell, and a watch ticking. I remember a watch next to my ear.” She began to cry again.

“Oh, honey.” Rita reached again to comfort her.

Sophie stood up, a fast motion. “Let’s go,” she said. “I want to get on the plane. I want to get there.”

Thirty

O
NE AFTERNOON IN
late March, Tom saw Johnny walk across the school parking lot with Melanie Bowen. Melanie was taller than Johnny, willowy, with hair past her shoulders. She leaned her head toward him, listening. Tom stood against the wall and watched them go past. Melanie laughed at something Johnny said. Johnny sounded confident, older. He put his arm around her waist, and she wore it like a blessing.

The next morning, Tom got to school early and swung around the north side of the building to the middle school entrance. When he saw Johnny approaching, he jogged over to meet him. “Meet me at the old house later. I have something to tell you.”

“Today?” Johnny looked irritated by the request.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t stay long,” said Johnny.

Tom nodded.

For the past few weeks they had been meeting at an old abandoned house. They sat on a pallet, ate food from McDonald’s or Burger King, and sometimes smoked pot. They spent hours touching each other, exploring what they felt.

Now Johnny showed up at the old house a little late, and the two boys sat a few moments before speaking.

“So what’s up?” Johnny asked.

“How’s Crow doing? How do you think he’s doing?”

“He’s okay.” Johnny sat down on the floor. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“Not really.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just that I finally know something about myself,” Tom said. It was not the first time he had confided in Johnny. Outside this old house Tom was simply who he was, but in this place he felt connected to the world. “I mean, I finally know what I am, and I’m glad. I think I’m glad I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

“You know what. We’re homo, man. We’re gay. I suspected it before, but now I’m sure.” His face shone with excitement. “I’m not even ashamed anymore.”

Johnny got up.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Naw. I’m okay. I’m just not as sure as you are.”

“Hey, I know. C’mon. I wouldn’t have been sure either. Not at your age. I know what you mean.”

“No you don’t.” Johnny had gone along with everything at first, curious about sex, any kind of sex. He liked the feeling of a shared privacy with Tom. It was as though they both kept a secret life, and for a while Johnny thought his father’s suspicions about him might be right. But as time went on, he felt that his secret life was not a gay one, just private. Still, he had learned something about sex, about risk.

Now Tom was pushing him to admit something he didn’t need to admit. “You are. You know you are. Hell, you couldn’t do this if you weren’t.”

“Lots of guys try this,” said Johnny.

“You been talking about us to other people?” Tom turned and trained his eyes on Johnny.

“No way. But I know other guys who’ve tried it. They’ve told me.”

“I know what you’re doing,” said Tom. He was angry. “You want this to be something that you just tried out, but you don’t want to say it’s who you are.”

“It
isn’t
who I am.” Johnny stood up. “I’m not homo. I thought I might be, but I don’t think so now.”

Tom grew rigid. “You can’t just turn it on and off like that. You can’t just decide you’re not this way.”

“I’m not deciding. I’m just not. I know it now.”

“You been talking to Crow? You said anything to anybody about this?”

“No.”

“So are you into somebody else?”

Johnny hesitated. “Not exactly.”

“You know what I think?” Tom said, trying to sound understanding. “I think you don’t know how to handle it and you’re trying to be like everybody else. But I’ll tell you something, you’ll have to deal with it sometime. I tried going out with girls too.”

“I didn’t say I was doing that.”

“Yeah, but that’s what you’re doing. I’ve seen you with Melanie.” Tom leaned close and spoke low. “Maybe you just want somebody to see you with a girl. Is that it? Hell, I’ve been there.”

“I like her,” said Johnny. “I like being around her. Listen, I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m not like you.”

“The hell you’re not.”

Johnny picked up his book bag, leaving.

“That’s okay. You’ll be back.”

“I won’t come back,” said Johnny. “I won’t.” His voice sounded adult, severe.

Tom picked up the pallet and his own book bag and walked toward the car. “Let’s go.”

“I won’t come back,” Johnny said again.

“I heard you,” Tom said. “I said let’s go.”

All the way home Johnny wondered what would happen if he told someone—Crow, or the police, or Coach Post—about what Tom had done to him. If he made it look as if Tom had molested him, then sympathy might fall his way. He didn’t know if he could do that.

That night Helen Davenport noticed a change in Johnny’s mood. He had been moping around all evening, snapping at anyone who spoke to him.

“Johnny? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

She felt his forehead with her cheek. “No fever,” she said. “But maybe you should stay home tomorrow.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Oh, I forgot,” she said. “Tom Canady called.” She laughed. “I thought he was calling for Crow, but he asked to speak to you. Was it about a lesson?”

“He said something today about one. I don’t know.” Johnny forced a cough, two coughs. “I don’t want to talk to anybody though. I’m going up to my room.”

He walked upstairs, his gait ramshackle, like a man crippled, or shot.