The Slow Moon (8 page)

“She touched you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On my legs,” he said. “And here.” He cupped his crotch. The courtroom was quiet, and Crow blushed.

“Had she touched you like that before this night?”

He couldn’t look up at the jury or the lawyer. “Yeah.”

“What happened next?”

“She started taking off her clothes.”

Someone coughed. It was Rita. She cocked her head to one side. She did not take her eyes away from Crow’s face.

“She removed her own clothes?”

“Yeah, well, I was taking some of them off and she was taking off some of mine.”

“She removed some of your clothes?”

“She helped me pull off my shirt and unzip my pants.”

“Go on.”

“And we started having sex then, but somewhere in there she said no. She said to stop. She said, did I have something.”

“What did she mean?”

“She wanted to know if I had a condom. We’d talked about that. I said it was in my car. In the glove compartment of my car.”

“So what did you do then?”

“I told her that I’d just be a minute, and she covered herself up with my shirt. I said I’d be right back.”

“And were you?”

“I put on my underwear and my shoes. I did it fast, then went to where the car was. It wasn’t so far away.”

“But far enough that you didn’t hear anything.” Butler had taken great pains to go over this next question with Crow. He hesitated, then asked. “How far was the car from where Sophie waited for you?”

“About a hundred yards. About the length of a football field. Only it was through the woods. It was the parking lot of the First Baptist Church.”

“So you ran through those woods to your car.”

“Yeah, and I was about to go back when some girls drove up in a truck. I thought they would get out and go on to the party, but they stayed and smoked. They just stood around their truck, laughing. At first I thought they saw me, that they were laughing at
me.
I ducked down and waited. I didn’t want anybody to see me, you know, running around in my underwear. Anyway, the girls took a long time. I almost left.”

“How long were they there?”

“Seemed like probably twenty, twenty-five minutes. I kept wondering what Sophie was thinking. I was afraid she might have left, gotten mad, you know?”

“And when the girls left?”

“I ran as fast as I could, and when I got to the spot where Sophie had been, she wasn’t there. I called to her, then I saw her farther back in the woods. I thought she was asleep until I got close. Then I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Something real bad had happened. She was hurt. I got scared. She was unconscious, I think. I tried to wake her up, you know. I put some of her clothes back on her and—”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I couldn’t stand to see her just…I had to put something on her. I thought I would take her to get help. Then I heard police cars pull into the Fairchilds’ driveway. When I heard that, I ran away.”

“You tried to help her first.”

“She wouldn’t wake up. And I was afraid the police might think I had done this to her, so I ran. I knew they would take her to the hospital. See? She needed help, but I was afraid they’d think I did it. I ran off. I wish I hadn’t.”

“And Sophie Chabot was unconscious, or at least it seemed that way to you.”

“She looked pretty bad. There was a lot of blood.”

“So you ran away?”

“Yes.” His lips said the word.

At the back of the room Judge Bailey gazed at Crow as if she were trying to make up her mind about him.

“Did you ever, even for one moment, think she was dead?” Raymond Butler rubbed one hand over his head.

“No. I knew she was unconscious. She made a sound, like a moan or something. She was hurt, but I knew she wasn’t dead.” Crow looked out at everyone. “I wished
I
was dead though, at that time. I wished it was me.”

Butler returned to the long table now. He was almost through.

“I’m sure anyone in your position would have felt the same way.”

“Your Honor,” Jeb Wall objected.

“Withdrawn.” He motioned to the judge to indicate that he was finished.

Rita Chabot was crying, the cords of her throat worked themselves, swallowing, then swallowing again. Coach Post went to sit behind her, and light from the courtroom windows ballooned around them.

Crow’s face, as he waited for the questions from the district attorney, looked like a mask that could not be allowed to flag.

Jeb Wall stood now and paced slowly toward the jury box. He began his questions to Crow, but he faced the jurors.

“So, you ran away. You left Sophie Chabot there.”

“But help was already there. I knew the police would take care of her.” Crow felt helpless and looked to his lawyer. Raymond Butler appeared calm, and he smiled, gave one slow nod. “The police were already there.”

“The police were there, but not before you ran away. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“And did you see anyone, I mean, besides the police? Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?”

“No. And, see, I was afraid that everybody’d think I did it. And that’s exactly what happened.”

“They found semen from several different men. What do you say about that?”

“I know I came a little, then I stopped. Sophie wanted me to use something…” Crow couldn’t finish.

“She told you to stop. You and your friends.”

“Yes,” said Crow. “No, wait. What friends? It was just me and Sophie.”

“So you got mad, frustrated, and you—”

“No. I stopped. I left to go to the car, and when I came back, that’s when I found her.”

“You found her beat up, and you ran away,” said Wall. “But you didn’t go to your car then, did you? You had just been to your car, and you didn’t go back there?”

“I ran. I wasn’t thinking. I just ran. I couldn’t believe what’d happened. I ran into the river.”

“But you picked up your clothes, didn’t you? Before you ran, you gathered your clothes?”

“I guess.” His voice came out muffled.

“You
guess
you gathered your clothes?”

“I did!” yelled Crow. “I picked up my shirt and pants and ran. I didn’t even know what I was doing.” He was sweating. A terrible shame split his head and stung the tips of his fingers. He looked dumbfounded. Sweat formed at his temples.

“Maybe you didn’t know what you were doing when you beat her up. When you raped her.” Jeb Wall let these words sink in. “Maybe you didn’t know what you were doing then either.”

“Objection.”

“No.” Crow’s voice cracked. “I cared about her, and she cared about me. I didn’t hurt her.” Crow was crying, his face in his hands.

“Though you
did
leave her there.”

“Yes,” said Crow, though he was shaking his head no. “I’m sorry. I told you. The police were going to take care of her.”

“What time did you get home?”

Crow didn’t answer.

“Would the judge instruct the witness to answer?” Wall said.

The judge leaned toward the witness chair, and Crow, working through a band of intricate thought, said, “About three o’clock, I think. My dad was at the door. He told me the sheriff had called and that Sophie was in the hospital.”

Wall straightened his shoulders. “We already know there was underage drinking at this party. How about drugs? Were there drugs too?”

Crow wasn’t ready for this question. He had thought about his answer, but when the D.A. asked him he wasn’t ready. He hesitated. “No.”

“At this party, there weren’t any drugs?” The D.A. kept restraint in his voice.

“Some, I guess.”

“Some, you guess.” The district attorney faced the judge.

“Did you take any drugs yourself?”

“No.”

“Did Sophie have anything to drink? How old is Sophie Chabot?”

“Fourteen.”

“Did you get her drunk before taking her to the woods?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Crow objected.

Raymond Butler stood. “He’s badgering the witness, Your Honor.”

“Cool down your tone, Mr. Wall,” the judge said.

“But she had been drinking that night, is that right?”

“I guess she’d had a little.” Crow could not look up, could not lift his head.

“How much?”

“I don’t know, but she wasn’t drunk. I’ll swear she wasn’t drunk.”

“If you’ll remember, you’re swearing to everything here.” Wall ambled back to the table as though he might be through, then quickly turned. “If there was so much affection between you and Miss Chabot, then explain why there was evidence of force found. How did Sophie get those bruises?”

“He’s badgering the witness again, Your Honor.”

“I’ll rephrase.” Wall turned again to face Crow. “Sophie’s body had bruises and evidence of rape. We have pictures showing the state of her body. Are you saying that you did not penetrate her?”

Crow put his face in his hands again. “I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t do anything to hurt her.”

“But you did have intercourse with her.”

Crow really wasn’t sure if he had.

“You’ve already testified to that.”

“We went too far,” said Crow, “and I had forgotten the condom, so I went to get it.”

“But you had already had intercourse by that time.”

“Just barely. I mean hardly at all.”

“One more thing, Mr. Davenport.”

At the mention of his name, Crow looked up.

“Did you happen to see anyone else there, in the woods? Did you see anyone from the party there?”

“No.” Crow hadn’t appeared to even try to recall whether he had seen someone.

“You sure?”

Crow looked toward his dad, who was not moving, not even blinking. “Yes, I’m sure.”

That was all.

Crow was allowed to step down, but as he walked back to the defense table, he shuddered. Aurelia Bailey breathed heavily, seeing Crow step out of the witness box, a gloomy mist emanating from his body. She tried to read the jurors’ expressions, but their eyes stayed level. Their body language revealed nothing. Crow coughed before sitting down, and a weak rattle could be heard in his chest.

The jurors were dismissed and the courtroom emptied, but as Crow went through the side doors, he half turned to look at Judge Bailey and Bobby, a wide sharpness in his face. Aurelia saw the alert grief in him, and she felt the heat of Bobby beside her.

As they left, Bobby nodded to his friend once, in a military way.

Thirteen

B
OBBY HAD NOT
seen Crow for several weeks, not since it happened. He didn’t know what to say. But Aurelia kept insisting that he go over to the house. “He’s your best friend, Bobby.”

But Bobby did not go. He couldn’t talk to Crow but found some reassurance in talking to the other boys who were being questioned by the police, comparing what they were asked and what they had answered.

Lester and Tom closed the gate to Bobby’s yard. Dog came barreling up to greet them. They sat in swings from a childhood swing set that was cemented into the ground. Their legs dragged in the dust.

“Deputy Canton ask you a lot of shit?” Bobby asked.

“They asked everything,” said Lester. “Hell, they accused me of helping Crow attack her. I ended up yelling at them.”

“Me too,” said Tom. “And they tried to make me say that we got Sophie drunk so Crow could get laid.”

“They’re going after everybody the same way,” said Bobby.

Aurelia came out the back door and went to the side garden with a basket of tools. She dug out a few weeds.

“What does your mom say, Bobby?”

“Not much.”

Lester’s determination had grown unstoppable. “I hope they find the sons of bitches,” he said. His mind couldn’t take in what was done to Sophie. “They can’t pin this on Crow.”

Tom nodded. “How’s Crow doing anyway? Anybody talk to him?”

“Not yet,” said Bobby.

Aurelia stood up. “You boys ought to go over there. All of you. Stop avoiding him. It doesn’t matter what you say. Just go.”

Bobby and his mother had come to Tennessee from Washington, D.C., when he was five, almost six. His father was gone, a car accident, his mother told him. Bobby only half believed that. His head, even at that age, buzzed with doubt. He had never seen his father’s dead body, and he remembered no funeral. The funeral was private, his mother explained. Bobby had stayed home with a babysitter. Within a week they moved to Tennessee.

In South Pittsburg, Aurelia Bailey, not yet a judge, placed Bobby in first grade. On his first day at school he sat at his desk in shorts, a new shirt, and sneakers, his spine very straight. He held a teddy bear with both hands. No one spoke to him at first.

At recess the teacher, Miss Sweet, who had a mean voice, introduced Bobby as the “new boy.” The first person to speak to him was Crow Davenport. He asked Bobby to get the softballs out of the locker and said he could play ball with them, if he wanted to. Bobby ran to gather up softballs and a few bats, struggling to carry everything to the makeshift baseball diamond, where the bases were rocks painted yellow.

“You go first,” Crow said. “You be first bat.”

The pitcher lobbed the ball across the plate. Bobby hit it high and halfway across the field. All of the kids swung around to stare first at the ball in the air, then at the boy who hit it.

For the next few weeks everyone chose Bobby for their team and treated him like a treasure. Crow told him, “I knew you could hit it. I knew you could hit the ball like that.”

On that same day, when Tom Canady mentioned his big brother, who was then in high school, Bobby bragged that he also had a big brother, but that his brother lived in Florida. “I didn’t see him in a long time,” said Bobby.

“You mean your brother never lived with you?” Tom asked.

Bobby hated being an only child. The world felt saddest when he woke early and knew he was the only one in the house awake. He had Dog, and sometimes Dog was enough. But he thought about having brothers and sisters around, waking each other. He imagined peeking under the eyelids of a brother, there where the waking-up started in the skull’s base and moved up like smoke in the wide trees of the brain. Whenever he imagined other children in the house he felt “on fire,” his dreams coming true in a moment, then, just as quickly, the wind blowing and blowing until all the smoke was gone and faces disappeared in the shadows.

“He lives in Florida, I said,” Bobby told them. “He’s a lot older.”

For much of the first year his classmates believed him, and at night Bobby sank into the ease he felt when he thought of himself with a brother. He felt lucky to have a big brother, he said, and claimed that his brother had taught him how to hit a ball. Everyone knew Bobby’s father was dead, so Bobby never mentioned him.

Some mornings Bobby woke and vomited before school. He was popular and even had a best friend, Crow, but he felt constantly anxious that his lie about a brother might be exposed.

The inevitable moment came the summer before the boys entered second grade. The boys were swimming at the river, and only a moment earlier Crow had swung from a rope and landed in the water. As he swam back to shore, Tom yelled at Bobby that he didn’t believe he had a brother at all. “Your father’s dead, and I heard your mama say that you were her only child.”

Bobby managed to control his tears by standing very still. Aurelia Bailey went to stand between Bobby and Tom. “What’s the matter with you two?” she yelled. She had heard the boys arguing.

Tom repeated his accusation.

Aurelia looked stung. Now it was abundantly clear to her why Bobby kept a framed picture of his older cousin in his room.

“So he doesn’t have a brother at all,” said Tom. “He can’t have one. He just told a lie. Are you a liar or what?” Then he yelled, “Liar!”

They stood in a circle and Bobby covered his face with his hands. Aurelia leaned to touch his back, but he pulled away from her. The river shuddered under the sun as Crow emerged dripping, wiping his face with a towel.

“I’ve seen his brother,” said Crow, and Bobby put out his tongue and tasted his tears. “I saw him one time.”

“Yeah?” said Tom. “Where? What’s his name?”

Crow looked at Mrs. Bailey.

“His name’s Vincent,” Aurelia said, and Bobby’s sad white features lifted. “His name is Vincent, but we call him Vinny.”

Crow held his towel in midair. “Yeah,” he said.

Tom walked off. He still didn’t believe it, but couldn’t go against Mrs. Bailey.

Crow smiled at Bobby. Both boys smelled like mice.

“Wanna swim?” Crow said. Sun and shadow dappled the ground, and the river played havoc with midday light. The world was wild and suddenly beautiful.

“Sure.” They ran into the water laughing and pushing each other.

Aurelia Bailey wrapped her arms around her waist and took a breath. She wanted to laugh out loud at the shenanigans of boys, but a gnawing sensation kept her from it. She stood haunted, trying to smile, caught up now in her son’s wish for a different truth. She didn’t know how that different truth might expose itself.

In mid-January Bobby had driven out to Mr. Hollis’s house. The three hounds barked as he knocked on the door.

“That you, Bobby?” Hollis yelled. Hollis thought Bobby had come by to get his present. He’d turned seventeen on New Year’s Day. “Come on back. I’m in the kitchen.” He sat at a table, blue Formica with white specks, chrome-and-vinyl chairs from the fifties. He was reading. “You want something to eat?” The hounds encircled Bobby, who was usually very affectionate with them. Today he ignored their friendly welcome, gently but firmly pushing them away.

Bobby threw the letter onto the table.

“What’s that?” asked Hollis.

“It’s proof,” said Bobby.

“Of what?”

“Just what I thought was true. What I came here to ask you is this: Did
you
know?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Bobby?” asked Hollis, but as he lifted the envelope with the return address of Robert Bailey, he paled.

“Well,” he said.

“You
do
know.”

Hollis ordered the dogs out of the kitchen and closed the door. “Where’d you get this?”

“I went by the post office to mail something for my mom. Mr. Dunphy gave me our mail from our P.O. box to take home. I didn’t even know we had a P.O. box.”

“Roland Dunphy doesn’t know about this. Nobody much knows.”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t. Why didn’t somebody tell me my father was alive? All these years living somewhere.” Bobby stood very still, as though if he moved, he might hit someone.

“What does the letter say?” Hollis could see it had been opened.

“Read it.” Bobby picked up the letter and threw it at Hollis. “It says I have a dad who went to jail and that he’s out now. It says he wants to see me.”

Hollis took the letter and read it.

Thursday, January
15

Dear Bobby,

At the start of this New Year you turned
17,
and I have some news for you. I hope it will be good news. You’ve believed, until now, that your father was dead. The reasons for that are complicated. The truth is I am very much alive, though ashamed of much of my life. I was in jail for ten years, but I’ve been out now for two. I have a wife. She has two children of her own and we live in Kentucky. I’m rebuilding my life, Bobby, and I want to include you. I hope your mother will give you this letter.

Years ago I behaved in a stupid way. I was caught up in a scam and the final responsibility was laid on me. I was not the only one guilty, but I became the scapegoat. This is not a complaint, finally. Just a fact. I was guilty and if you feel anger towards me, I don’t blame you.

I can only imagine the shock you feel as you read this letter. I cannot guess what effect it will have on you, or even if you will be allowed to read it—but you are my son and I still love you. Can you believe that? I have a picture of you on my mantel—of you and the whole Little League team. It was sent by E. G. Hollis when I was in jail, and even though the picture is old, I feel proud every time I look at it.

You can call me at (
502
)
555-9377.
I have dreamed of seeing you, Bobby.

Love from your father,

Robert Bailey

“He didn’t want you to know he was in jail, Bobby.”

“But I thought he was
dead.
” Bobby held on to the back of a chair. “I thought he was fucking dead! Is that better than knowing he was in jail?”

“I guess your mother thought so.” The smallest hound let out a mournful howl at the door. “Knock it off!” Hollis yelled. He took his plate to the sink.

Bobby spoke in a quieter tone. “You knew all this time?”

“I didn’t have any say in the matter, Bobby.”

“But what did you think? Why did she tell you and not me?”

“I knew your dad. I did urge your mother to tell you, but I couldn’t say anything without her permission.”

“Right.”

“What did she say about the letter?”

“I didn’t tell her. I’m not going to either. Why should I?”

“You have to. She needs to know.”

“Why? I just came to you to see if this was a hoax or something.”

“It’s not a hoax.”

“Hell, I can hardly believe it now—I always thought he was alive somewhere, and even though I’ve read the letter and I know he wrote it, it’s still hard to believe.”

The image that came to Bobby’s mind over and over, a day he had grown not to believe, was this: his father bringing home a yellow Lab puppy that they named Dog. His father laughing with admiration at the name. Bobby could close his eyes and hear the sound of his father in that moment, his laugh that had the round shape of a bowl. And he could hear the praise that followed.

“Perfect,” his father had said. He had lifted Bobby up, pulling him to his chest, nuzzling. His father’s smell was strong, like cigars. “A perfect name. Straightforward, nothing fancy. I like it.” Then he turned to Bobby’s mother. “The boy named the dog Dog. Perfect.”

Then he had put Bobby down, and the eager puppy licked their arms. Bobby’s mind that day became a happy sea, as he chased Dog in circles, then ran around in waves of delight. As they ran across the yard, birds flew up, and later that night the dog slept beside his bed. The arc of a moon swung low in the sky. Cloudless. Bobby dreamed, and later when the puppy cried and wanted to sleep beside him in bed, he pulled Dog up, as his father had lifted him, and in sleep he became the father, a small velvety ear under his chin.

Hollis wiped the blue table, lit a cigarette, and motioned for Bobby to sit down. The vinyl on the chairs was cracked and torn. These chairs had been part of Lila’s kitchen, and Hollis kept them as they were. Even though Hollis had slept with women from other towns, he had never subjected them to more than a few days of his affection. After that, he wished to be alone, became impatient and began to long fiercely for his wife. His kitchen looked as though Lila might still live there.

“Listen, Bobby. I know you’re angry. You’re mad at me, your mother, everybody probably, though hardly anybody knows about this.”

“Coach Post? Did he know?”

“I told him.”

“Shit.”

“Listen, you can let this be a good thing.” Hollis walked toward Bobby. “Just because you veer off course doesn’t mean you’re going to crash. Remember in class when I talked about azimuth?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” He had grown tired of Mr. Hollis’s science analogies. “I’ve got to go,” said Bobby. He didn’t want to hear anything hopeful.

“Come back later, if you want,” Hollis offered. “And think about talking to your mother.”

Bobby did not tell his mother about the letter, but he told Crow.

“I took the mail from Mr. Dunphy and he asked me something about Lester, and that’s when I saw on top a letter from Robert Bailey addressed to me care of my mother.”

On the steps of the post office that day Bobby had held the letter a few moments before opening it. He had read it slowly. Then he had read it again. He had read it once more later in the car, trying to memorize the words, as if they could disappear.

“Man, that’s great!” said Crow. “So he’s not dead?”

“His name’s Robert. Like mine.”

“Cool. You gonna write him back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me see.” Crow reached for the envelope. Bobby took out the letter and gave it to him.