The Slow Moon (16 page)

Thirty-one

W
ITHOUT
J
OHNNY, THE
things in Tom’s room became arbitrary: huge posters on the wall, old army boots belonging to Peter, a baseball from the championship game when he was eleven. They became things he could have or not have. He didn’t care now. He began to feel numb, and longed for just an inkling of emotion. Before, with Johnny, everything he owned carried weight. The things in his room told him who he was. He had felt his whole life opening ahead of him, but now a great train had stopped and let him off in a place he hadn’t seen before.

Johnny.
Now there was nothing left to dream about. Tom’s bones had been unstrung and strung back again. Johnny had dissolved the embarrassment of loneliness, and music that had been their dream still swam in Tom’s head. Their intimacy had ended weeks ago, but his mind still rang every moment with what he had lost.

The sheriff had questioned Tom repeatedly about that April night—about who or what he had seen. Today they brought him to the station, questioned him in a small room.

Tom answered as best he could, though a few times, when they caught him in a lie, he imagined a blade of judgment falling suddenly, and when it did, things in the corners of his mind blazed upward. When he left the police station the sky above the horizon glowed like a candle.

On the way home, not five miles outside of town, Tom hit a dog crossing the road. It had come out of nowhere. At first he thought the dog was dead, but then he saw its legs move slightly, eyes looking up. Its small body shivered.

Tom’s first impulse was to lift the animal and take it to the vet, but the idea seemed like more trouble than he wanted right now. He turned the dog over with the toe of his shoe and heard it whimper. It was a light-colored terrier, wiry and scruffy-looking. Its eyes looked glazed, shiny, but its back legs still trembled.

If he could get the dog to the car, maybe he could save it. He leaned to lift the body up carefully, but the dog snapped and growled, tore Tom’s shirt. So he thought to leave it, let it die naturally, but he couldn’t do it—the dog was in such pain. Tom looked around for a big stick and saw a limb about the size of a baseball bat. He picked it up to feel its heft. It felt right in his hands. He held the limb firmly, and as he saw the dog move to stand, he hit quickly, hard; and to his great surprise the dog let out a high, jerky sound, then it crawled a couple of feet forward. Tom hit the dog once more. Blood came out in spurts onto the bat, spattering Tom’s shirt and face.

“My God. Die! Why don’t you fucking die!”

The dog’s feet jerked, but reflexively this time. The head split open from ear to mouth. Gray matter came out of its ears and eyes. Tom kept hitting, thinking it was probably dead but wanting to make sure. He had to be sure. He was grateful that no cars had passed while he performed these machinations.

That night his mother asked Tom how he got blood on his shirt.

“I cut my hand on an arrow,” Tom said. “It was just a little cut, but it kept on bleeding.”

She looked at his hand. “When?”

“Can’t even see it now,” he said. “I mean, I can’t figure out how so much blood came from such a little cut. Hell, I can’t even find it now.”

“It is a lot of blood,” she said. “I won’t tell your father.”

Tom looked at her quickly, without blinking, but she’d already turned away and was gathering piles of dirty clothes to wash. “You want anything else washed?” she asked.

The air seemed full of friction. Tom slipped off one shoe, then the other. He pulled off his socks and put them into the pile of clothes. “I’m not hiding anything,” he said.

“I didn’t say you were.” She took his socks and smelled them, from habit. “If you’d been hiding it, I wouldn’t have seen the blood on your shirt, would I?” She looked at him to see if he was amazed.

“I found a dog in a ditch coming home,” he said. “I tried to help it and got blood on me.” He liked the feel of confession.

“The preacher’s dog? The preacher can’t find his dog. Where is he?”

“He’s gone. He was suffering so much that I put him out of his misery.”

“You killed him?”

“He’d been hit. There wasn’t anything anybody could do. He was suffering.”

“We don’t have to say this to anyone,” his mother said. She looked more worried than she’d looked earlier.

“There are worse things,” Tom said.

His mother didn’t know what he meant. Before she left the room with her basket of clothes, she turned and asked, “Why didn’t you just take the dog to the vet, Tom?”

“I’m telling you,” said Tom. “This dog was gone. I tried to pick him up. He wouldn’t let me.”

When his mother closed the door, Tom couldn’t stop thinking of the dog and how his own arms felt holding the branch, how they felt coming down on the dog. He couldn’t get out of his mind the dog trying to get up, his paw just before he fell, slipping in the dust, his nose lifting a fraction before he was dead.

That night was the first night Tom went to bed with a sense of hope, a plan. He told his parents good night, and his mother noted what a good mood he was in. He got into bed and closed his eyes—it seemed a good thing, to be out of misery. He had given the dog what the dog most desired.

There are worse things than death,
he thought. When he opened his eyes, the skylight above his bed was dark. The night held only a tinge of light.

Tom felt a dim anguish emerging, and imagined that life might be less preferable than death. His plan to leave with Johnny for San Francisco was not a plan now. It was less than a dream. All of his friendships were dissolving, and he was not the person he thought he was.

Later, when he opened his eyes again, the sun was full up. As he glanced at the clock he heard the faint sound of machinery in the distance—a lawn mower, a Weed Eater, or someone trying to start a car.

Thirty-two

A
FEW DAYS
after Sophie left for Montana, Rita went to Aurelia Bailey’s house, marching up to the door as if she had bad news rather than urgent questions.

“I hoped you might come by,” said the judge. “I’ve called you so many times, Rita. You know I’ve called you.”

“I didn’t return anybody’s calls, Aurelia,” Rita said.

“Come in.” Rita looked as if she had been hit by a truck.

“I want to ask you about my next step,” said Rita. “I’m going crazy at how slow the police work is going. I mean, since the acquittal.”

“You need patience for this, Rita. The whole process is slow.”

“How can I speed things up?”

“Let me say that things are probably moving along faster than you know. The police don’t want to make the mistake of telling you something, getting your hopes up, then be wrong. They are questioning many boys, and E. G. Hollis is working with the detectives. So is Charlie Post. I think everyone knows more than they’re saying, and in time you will know too. Tell me, how is Sophie?”

“She has good and bad days. She’s gone back to Montana for a while. She wanted to stay with a friend of hers. I think it’s the best thing. Just to get away, get a new perspective. Might help her to remember something.”

“Yes.”

Rita took a long, unblinking look at Judge Bailey. “Where is Bobby? Is he around?”

“He’s spending time with his father,” said Aurelia. “I don’t know if you know, if you heard—”

“I do know, yes, that Bobby’s father lives in Kentucky and—”

“Yes, okay. He went to visit. I’m going to get him next week.”

“Oh.”

“What were you about to say? I mean, before you asked about Bobby?”

“Just that I think I might go mad with this thing. You know, knowing how I couldn’t keep her safe.”

Aurelia dropped her head in what looked like submission. “I’m so sorry, Rita. I am truly sorry for all of us.” When she raised her head, she was crying. “I feel so responsible for this horrible thing. I keep wondering what I could have done differently—you know, to make the community safer.” She shifted and looked at Rita. “Is Sophie remembering anything at all? You know, does she talk to you about it?”

“Not really.”

“I wonder what remembering will do to her.”

“Dr. Brooks says she won’t remember until she can handle it. What I want to ask you is this: If Sophie remembers, if she gets on the witness stand and names the ones who did this, will it backfire on her? Is there a chance that they will get off, or that Sophie herself will be blamed in some horrible and lasting way? Sophie seems to think it will. I’m not sure how to advise her.”

Aurelia motioned Rita into the living room. They sat down. “It does happen that way sometimes,” she said. “God knows why. And that’s exactly why more victims don’t come forward. You know, when several men attack a girl, people tend to remember the girl.” Aurelia would not look at Rita. “The girl becomes tainted and people don’t forget. I can understand how hesitant Sophie would be to bring this out, Rita.” Aurelia couldn’t believe she was saying this.

“Are you saying that Sophie should
not say
who these men are?” Rita stood up, visibly shocked by what she believed was Aurelia’s suggestion. “Aurelia, I can’t encourage her to remain quiet. If she remembers, I can’t. I have to say”—she turned to face the judge—“I have to say that every time I see a boy in town, walking around, I wonder if that boy hurt Sophie. I wonder if he was the one. I’ve wondered that about Lester, and Antony. Tom. And even Bobby.”

Aurelia brought herself back from some dark corner of protection. “Well,” she said. “I don’t know.” She stood up herself now, assumed the authoritative tone of a judge. “I think the only thing to do is to prosecute whoever did this to Sophie. I hope it isn’t the boys you named, and I don’t think it is, but even so, we have to prosecute. But Rita, this town is so full of rancor right now that
anybody
she named might be found guilty. So try to be sure, will you?”

“So what do I tell Sophie?”

“Tell her that she can count on the justice system and
not
to withhold the truth. Tell her that.” Aurelia walked to the door, planning to leave before realizing that she was in her own house. “Tell her, no matter who it is, to say the names.”

The two women did not say more, and they did not look at each other when Rita left. The night sounds of cicadas and tree frogs created a sigh from the yard and woods. The breathing sound made them both calm.

From the porch steps Rita thanked Aurelia, but she didn’t know if Aurelia heard.

Rita walked three houses down, and into her house. Tonight she would call Sophie and tell her what Judge Bailey had said; then, over the next weeks, Rita would find some way to put their life back on track.

She had done that before.

Thirty-three

A
VA HAD COME
back to South Pittsburg a week before Crow’s acquittal. And during those weeks after the trial Helen came upon the idea that she might not love her husband anymore, or else that she might not want to love him. She and Ava had begun to argue about even the smallest things, their larger argument going unsaid.

“I have thought of marrying again, Helen,” Ava spoke defensively. “Last year I almost got engaged.”

“What changed your mind?” Helen asked.

“I’m not sure I want to marry anybody. I like to come here, but I always know it’ll end and then I can go back to my own apartment. It’s my apartment, and I don’t have to do anything for anybody if I don’t want to. Marriage would be different.”

“Maybe that’s the trouble,” Helen said. They were packing Ava’s clothes, taking them out of drawers and putting them into her suitcase. “Maybe you like to keep everything in a box, then when something real creeps in, you don’t like it.”

Ava felt embarrassed by the strong visibility of her shortcomings. Helen had said the very thing Ava feared was true.

Helen said, “Carl thinks you’re stunted.”

“Stunted?”

“He said he thought you were caught up in some adolescent idea about what love is. He said being with you finally wouldn’t be very satisfactory to a man, unless you grew up a little.”

“He said that?” Ava’s shoulders became round, and she felt blood rushing from her head.

Helen amended herself. “He didn’t say it exactly like that, but Ava, sometimes if you’re stuck, you need something blunt to jog you out of it.”

Ava looked thoughtfully at her sister. “So did he say it or not?”

“He said you were stunted and that life with you wouldn’t be very satisfactory. He did say that.” The lines in Helen’s face grew hard. Ava wondered if her sister finally hated her.

Because Ava had been in Europe when Helen married Carl, she didn’t meet her brother-in-law until after the wedding. Carl had dreaded meeting Ava, because she had been described to him by the family as “a difficult person.” Ava’s first visit, though, was a success. Ava and Helen had stayed up until 2
A.M.
talking, and at one point they laughed so hard and so loud that Carl came downstairs thinking that one of them was crying. He found the two women leaning over each other’s shoulders, tears of laughter streaming down their cheeks. They tried to explain what they were laughing about, but he couldn’t make out what they said, and his confusion made them laugh more. He smiled, waved his hand as though brushing away a fly, and went back to bed.

Helen had always felt responsible for her sister. And though the visits became more trying as years rolled by, they sometimes laughed in their old childhood way. And though those times came less and less, still on certain nights Carl was awakened by loud laughter rolling up the stairs.

In past summers, or holidays, whenever Ava left the house after supper, claiming to look up friends, Carl called to say he would be home late.

Several years ago Helen had asked her sister where she went. “If you go to a movie, I could go with you. You don’t have to go alone.” Her words had a razor-edge sharpness.

“I visit with people.” Embarrassment settled onto Ava’s face, but her arms moved in a voluptuous gesture. Ava saw the world as a vast secret that was hers to unfold. She was capable of discipline, but her discipline usually centered on not allowing herself to love completely.

“I didn’t know you knew so many people around here.” Helen lifted a rag and began to rub clean the counters and kitchen table.

“I’ve been coming back for years, Helen,” Ava said. The veins on her temple were blue, and Helen thought if she touched them, she could feel them throb. “I’ve made friends here.”

“Seems funny that nobody ever comes by, or calls. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t want them bothering you.” Ava looked unnerved.

Helen had never before come close to confronting her, but now her blunt, no-nonsense tone dominated the room. Helen wiped the counter, rubbing the same spot over and over. “
Bo-ther-ing
me?” she said. A clashing sound, like metal, ran between them.

Outside the stars became visible. South Pittsburg still had starlight, since the town kept its backcountry characteristics and streetlights were few. Trucks on the bypass could be heard, more like far-off thunder or rushing water than like traffic.

In bed that night Helen pretended the traffic wasn’t there. A dog barked in the neighborhood and a loose window in the house slammed shut.

“What was that?” Carl said.

“Nothing,” said Helen. “Go back to sleep.” The wind had picked up and the air smelled like rain. By 4
A.M.
everyone was asleep, but Helen quivered under the weight of her suspicions. She felt waves of anger wash over her.

She had married Carl and had the child that was not his, but one that he had claimed without complaint. But his claim came with discomfiting knowledge that eventually bored its way into their bed and made their marriage pale.

She regarded him in sleep. She looked for motive in his face, looked for guile, something malicious, but she didn’t find either. She got up and went to the closet, lifted one of Carl’s sports jackets, trying to imagine where she would go if she left him. The idea lay in her mind like an egg, broken, its yolk running through her body, making yellow the dreams that came with leaving.

She eased back into bed and listened to Carl’s uneven breathing, the snoring, and saw the small twitching that came a minute or two before his whole body grew quiet. She tried to imagine different possibilities for her life. Then Carl woke suddenly and said, “What’s the matter?” She thought maybe she had spoken her thoughts out loud.

“Nothing.” She felt apologetic. “I must’ve jerked in my sleep. You know how I do.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. He lay at an angle, one leg thrown over her legs. “You getting up?” he asked. She moved to sit on the side of the bed. “It’s early, isn’t it?”

“I’m hungry for eggs,” she said.

He didn’t answer, already lulled back to sleep. She walked to the bathroom and threw cold water on her face, looking into the mirror to see it drip off. She did this three more times, as though the ritual were interesting, amazing. She stood straight, turned sideways, sucked in her stomach and observed how her nightgown fell from her breasts and brushed over her bottom. She thought she looked pretty good at almost forty, and tried to imagine someone else loving her. If she left Carl, would she be alone for the rest of her life? Would that be such a bad thing?

“Get me a glass of water, will you, honey?” Carl called from bed.

She turned the faucet on and ran water into the glass he kept on the sink. She brought it to him.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

“I was. You getting up?”

“I’m hungry for eggs.”

“Oh yeah.” He drank the water and sat up. “Might as well get up too,” he said.

He smelled stale. As she kissed the top of his head, he touched her breast.

“Sleep a while longer,” she told him.

And it was that touch, that gentle hand touching her breast as it had done a thousand times before, that convinced her. The naturalness of the moment when he asked for water and she brought it and watched him drink, the light kiss on the head, a few repetitions of words, his touch—this progression of things made her know she would not leave, would probably never leave him.

Carl had asked Helen many times in their marriage: “What do you think it’ll be like when the boys are gone, when we’re all by ourselves?”

“It’ll be fine,” she always answered.

“Really?”

“We can do lots of things,” she told him.

“Like what?”

“We can travel.”

Carl grumbled.

“Don’t get mad,” she said.

“I’m not mad.”

In truth Helen didn’t know what their life might be like when they were by themselves in the house. Maybe they could find their way back to themselves again, if they could just get past Ava.

Ava.

She closed the bedroom door and went downstairs. The kitchen had dishes in the sink from various nighttime snacks. She made coffee, then washed the dishes, finishing them just as the coffee stopped burbling. She sat at the kitchen table and looked out into the backyard. The cat wanted in, so she opened the door. She would let it eat the dry food already there. She wanted to sit awhile in the field of dim light of that particular morning. Sitting there, she decided she didn’t want eggs after all. She didn’t want anything, though her brain still kept the yolk of her thoughts about leaving.