The Slow Moon (9 page)

Over the next few days Crow appeared envious of this mysterious new figure who might show up in Bobby’s life. “Have you written to him yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just getting used to the idea.”

“You always wanted a dad; now you’ve got one. But you don’t do anything about it. Hell, if it was me—”

“It’s not you, Crow.”

Crow stopped asking, except in offhand ways. At lunch or after basketball practice, he’d say, “How’s your dad?”

“Okay, I guess.” Bobby would smile. One day he said, “I wrote to him finally. I told him that my mother didn’t know I knew anything yet. He wrote me back, care of Mr. Hollis. He said I could handle this any way I wanted to.”

“That’s cool.”

A few days later Bobby bought a gun. A Glock nine-millimeter pistol. He kept it in his room under his pillow. No one knew he had it. Bobby himself didn’t know exactly why he had it. He liked the feel of it under his pillow. It had a sweet silver odor, like the moon or a cake of blood. And with it he slept the sleep of the ocean, safe, rocking like a fish. He hadn’t loaded it yet, had only six bullets, but he liked the feel of the cold handle and the square look of it in his hand. He thought his father might be proud of him.

It was the beginning of the second semester, and rumors were being spread about a girl who had moved to town with her mother. They moved in a few doors down the street from Bobby, and they would be coming to dinner tonight.

II

Old Ground

Fourteen

A
S THE MOVING
van came around the corner, Rita Chabot called inside the house to her daughter, then rose from the front steps to stand in the yard and wave down the monster white truck. This was the first move she had ever made without her husband, and memories of Ben rose up like crickets, insistent, familiar, and brought in the full force of his absence. How long had it been since she felt voluptuous?

“They’re here!” she called. “So-phie, they’re here!”

They had left Montana four days ago and stayed in a motel until the van arrived. They seemed ready for a new life, but this morning just before dawn, when the light was only a thin pencil line on the horizon, Rita read again the newspaper article she kept folded in her purse. The clipping described her husband’s death.

Ben had been a forest ranger in Glacier Park when they met. She had never imagined anything would happen to him. She’d believed they would be together in old age. She read the article, wanting to bring him into this new adventure, keeping a razor-sharp control on her emotions. She noticed how she was losing that stoic quality she had counted on.

She allowed herself to take out a picture kept tucked in her wallet: Ben standing beside her, his arm around her waist, her skirt billowing around her legs. How long would her mind feel these ragged edges? Ben faced the camera, but she had turned to look at him. Her desires then appeared simple.

The van slowed and pulled up to the curb, then backed into her driveway, blocking part of the narrow street. Two men climbed down from the cab and handed Rita the papers itemizing everything she owned. She called Sophie again, and hoped they could be civil to each other today.

For the past nine months (since Sophie had turned fourteen) civility had not been part of their repertoire. Before that, they had argued in predictable ways. Rita didn’t know if the change in mood stemmed from the move or Sophie’s hormones.

Sophie came out of the house in jeans and T-shirt. “I love not wearing a coat in January.” She held her arms wide to the sky. “Radio says it’ll be sixty-five degrees today. Hey! When can we get a phone?”

One of the men approached Rita, holding out a sheaf of papers. “Lady, you want to look at this list? Check off the things as we bring them in?”

The morning was moist, with warm sunlight coming through the clouds. Rita tried to imagine what this move would force from her, hoping some kind of inner order might be achieved. She stood in the yard and heaved a sigh as the two men opened the back of the truck, making a sound like thunder.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Sophie asked, standing beside her.

Rita laughed. “I’m just thinking…”

“It doesn’t feel normal, does it?” Sophie’s expression looked surprised but not worried. “I mean, it doesn’t seem right yet.” Her hair was long and pulled up on top of her head. She was excited and ready to work, but she was thinking of Montana—the place she had always called home.

When they’d left Montana, a furry, feathery snow covered the ground. Ben had taken them skiing every February, and Rita thought of that now. Neither Rita nor Sophie had skied since his death two years ago. When Rita suggested they move to the South, Sophie hadn’t liked the idea, but Rita could see that she enjoyed telling her friends that she might move away. She liked hearing them beg her not to leave.

Rita had never lived in Tennessee, but she had visited the mountains and liked it there. Hot summers and long lazy springs would be welcome but unfamiliar. Maybe Ben’s presence would not feel so strong there. For days, as they approached their new home, Ben’s face had lingered over them like an illusion, but now it began to vanish with the business of the day, as the movers brought out a long narrow table, a rug.

“Show them where to put things,” Rita told Sophie.

All day they made quick decisions, putting sofas, beds, tables, and chairs in expected places. The sun began to run the thermometer up to almost seventy degrees. A neighbor brought over a pitcher of peach tea and a batch of chocolate chip cookies, still warm. It was the town’s judge, Aurelia Bailey.

She shared the cookies with the movers, and though they ate three or four each, a full plate remained. The aroma of cookies had preceded Aurelia Bailey into the house, and Rita liked her immediately. Her face was round and full, her hands strong like a man’s. She asked about Montana. “I noticed your license plates,” she said. Her questions were direct and without excess curiosity.

Rita told Aurelia about Ben and his job in Glacier Park. She placed a bronze plaque on the mantel—one that honored Ben and his courage. Judge Bailey read the plaque, then ran her fingers over the letters of the name, etched into the smooth bronze. After a few moments Aurelia said, “Why don’t you and Sophie come over for dinner tomorrow night?” She moved toward the door. “I have a son who’s a little older than your daughter. He can introduce her to his friends.”

By five o’clock all the furniture was in and placed—suitcases in the bedrooms, clothes hung in the closets, plants scattered around in odd places, and Sophie’s books, sketch pads, charcoals, and paints neatly arranged on her bookshelf. Rita ordered pizza. The pitcher of peach tea sat with two glasses. The only thing in the refrigerator was ice.

“Should we go to the grocery store tomorrow or tonight?” Rita asked. “Are you tired?” Rita rubbed her neck, trying to ease a knot that had developed from a day of lifting.

Sophie stood up. “I’ll make a list.”

Rita gazed at her daughter’s face, a bloom of color and petallike skin. Sophie kept redoing her ponytail to keep hair out of her eyes. Her legs were muscular, and her breasts in the last year had doubled in size.

Someone was barbecuing chicken and hamburgers next door, and Sophie thought of buying a grill. She wrote “grill” on her list. “Who ever heard of anybody grilling outside in January?” she said.

The pizza arrived and they ate all but one piece. Rita lifted the last slice from the box and wrapped it in the Saran Wrap taken from the cookies. Sophie loved cold pizza for breakfast.

As they rode to the store, Rita noticed a group of boys near the movie theater. They turned to check out the unfamiliar car and saw Sophie in the passenger seat. Rita rolled down the window to inhale short breaths of cool air.
How strange,
she thought,
to be able to taste the air.

One boy waved to them. Rita smiled at his boldness. “We might like it here, huh? It might be friendly.”

Rita hoped that she herself might find someone, and though the prospect of going out with a man had not much appealed to her, she imagined it more easily now. She had already tried it once.

The previous fall, on a Friday night, Rita had suggested that Sophie go next door to a friend’s house for the evening. Sophie thought her mother was going to a movie. She often went to the movies with her friend Ginger.

“You’ll be back by nine, won’t you?”

“Well, honey, the truth is, I have a date,” Rita said, her tone confessional.

Sophie smiled, an unexpected response. “Who with?”

“Ted Farrell.” As she spoke the man’s name, she hoped he was not the father of one of Sophie’s friends at school.

Sophie kept smiling.

“Ginger introduced me to him. She said we might like each other.” Rita sounded as though she was making an excuse, trying too hard to explain.

“Okay,” Sophie said.

“So you’ll go next door?”

“Sure. What’s your curfew?”

“I don’t have one.”

The whole scene turned out better than Rita expected. Her conversation with Sophie had been playful, teasing. Her first date went well, and the more she went out with Ted, the more Sophie teased her.

“Has he kissed you yet?” Sophie asked.

Rita wouldn’t answer.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

“Does it bother you?” Rita asked. “I mean, because of your dad?”

“I don’t think of this guy as a re
place
ment,” said Sophie. She paused. “Anyway, he’s got a great car.”

Rita shook her head.

“His car is really hot, Mom.”

Rita swept the floor thoughtfully, pushing crumbs into a dustpan. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a Mercedes, E-class. Mom, you’ve been going out with him four months and you didn’t notice?”

Rita threw the crumbs into the garbage and tied up the bag. “Take this out, will you?”

She stopped seeing Ted within the next few weeks, both of them losing interest.

Rita and Sophie spent an hour unloading and putting away their groceries. They threw away the Pizza Express box, and helped each other make up beds. Then they went to their separate rooms, putting away clothes and calling back and forth to each other to ask where something was.

By eleven o’clock they were both in bed. Rita had already fallen asleep when she heard Sophie call from down the hall.

“Go back to sleep,” Rita said.

“I can’t. I’m wide awake.”

“Go to sleep, honey. I’m tired.”

They heard a car pass on the street, slowing, then moving on, then another car, then quiet.

“I’m wide awake,” Sophie yelled.

“We sound like the Waltons.” Rita laughed. “But not as pleasant.”

“Who?”

“Nothing.”

“Can I come in there with you?” Sophie asked.

“Come on.”

Sophie entered her mother’s room and climbed into bed, quietly grateful. “I kept hearing strange noises,” she said.

“Different houses have different sounds,” Rita told her. “We’ll get used to it.”

“Did you lock the doors?”

“Front and back.” She held Sophie in her arms and felt her relax. “Are your eyes closed?”

“No.”

“Close them.” After a few moments she said, “Are you still scared?”

“I wasn’t really scared,” said Sophie. “It just felt strange.”

“I know.”

In a few more minutes Rita heard the slow breathing of sleep and felt the small twitches of her daughter’s body fade into a perfectly designated slumber.

The next morning Rita woke to an empty bed. She could hear the shower running in the hall bathroom and, as she sometimes did, imagined that Ben was up before she was—showering. In only a few moments he would wake her by shaking his wet head over her face, then touching her, tickling. A bump of grief pulled her back to the hollow of her bed.

During the weeks before moving to Tennessee, new thoughts had come into Rita’s head: of beginnings and hope, of weakness and dread, of assessing the world differently, of assuaging a barely drifting edge of sexuality as it began to enter her bones again.

Rita loved waking last night, feeling the small delicacy of her daughter’s breath on the pillow. Sophie had spread herself across the bed, leaving little room for her mother, but they had made it through the first night in the new house. Now Rita would get up, make French toast, and cut up bananas and fresh pineapple. She would allow Sophie to play her music loud as they worked to unpack boxes and put order to the house. Later she would take Sophie to see the school she would attend. The second semester was about to begin. Rita felt the form of her life taking shape again. She suspected this day might be one they would keep in their memory for years, but she wondered if their memory of it would be the same.

Fifteen

S
OPHIE WORRIED THAT
moving from Montana might cut her off from memories of her father. She felt that, by leaving, she might even forget him. She tried to say this to her mother, but her mother couldn’t listen.

“You’ll like Tennessee,” she told Sophie. “It’ll be different. A kind of adventure.”

“Don’t you like Montana?” Sophie asked.

“Oh, honey.”

During the Thanksgiving holiday they went to look for a house. They flew to Chattanooga, rented a car, and drove to South Pittsburg. “If you don’t like it, we won’t move there,” Rita said. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

The day they bought the house on Mulberry Street, the temperature was fifty-five degrees. “It’ll be spring before you know it,” said Rita. The house was two stories and had a guest room for friends or relatives who might want to visit from Montana. They imagined themselves living there, deciding where to put the sofa and which room would belong to Sophie. By the time they left, they felt connected to it, eager.

Sophie pretended to be happier than she was, but she did like the countryside, the weather, and the chance to start a different life. “It’s just that I won’t know anybody.”

“I won’t either. We’ll meet people real fast, though. You’ll see.”

“I want a rug in my room,” Sophie said. “One with an Indian pattern.”

“And I’ll have a garden.” Even after returning to Montana, they thought of where to place things in the new house. They were already beginning to move there in their minds.

“Can we afford this?” Sophie asked. “Will you get a job?”

“Maybe,” said Rita. “But your dad left us in good shape, honey. And the insurance money paid for this house. Now pick out a color for your room.”

“Light yellow. But that slanted wall, I want that purple, or red.”

“Fine, baby. You’ve always had a good eye for color.”

Everything Sophie did brought her mother’s approval, and Sophie knew this had to do with her willingness to move away. Their life now seemed about to lift off, and they both trod softly on each other’s turf.

“Are you going to take all your clothes with you?” her mother asked. “I mean, sometimes the styles are different somewhere else. We could just get rid of a lot that we have, I think.”

“I like my clothes. I’m keeping them.”

“What about all these ski clothes?”

“It’s not going to help,” said Sophie.

“What?”

“Getting rid of these things, moving. Nothing’s going to make us miss Dad any less. Don’t get rid of
his
clothes. You haven’t, have you? You haven’t gotten rid of his clothes!”

“It’s been almost two years, Sophie. I can’t keep hanging on to them forever.”

“Then
I
will. I’ll keep them in my closet. Don’t get rid of anything of his. I want them. I want to be able to go back to them.”

“So, we’re taking this stuff with us?”

“Yes.” Sophie snapped her head up. “Don’t worry. I’ll make space for it. That house has plenty of room.”

Rita sighed.

Sophie started to turn away, then she said, “You think if you get rid of the clothes that we won’t miss him as much? You think what we feel is ever gonna go away?” Her words stunned them both.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stillness hung in the room like a shadow. Flecks of gold reflected in Rita’s eyes. Those blank white days in the hospital came back in, then weeks followed by rituals and casseroles and hams, cakes and pies brought in, not eaten, thrown out, frozen. People thought Rita had been given a drug to help her stay calm, but it was not calm at all—just a daze, a numb, stun-gun look. Sophie did not want that look to return.

“Listen, it’s gonna be all right,” she told her mother. “We’ll move to Tennessee the way you want. We’ll take Dad’s stuff, the way I want.”

Those words forced Rita to choke in her throat. “You’re pretty smart,” she said. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Sometimes I think my mother is alive again in you, you know that? Sometimes she comes out in the words you say.” She cleared her throat.

“I guess that’s good.”

Sophie, only fourteen, carried patterns of old life in her bones. She looked at the woman who was her mother and often wondered what was to become of them. Today she felt good about their life.

Rita picked up the car keys. “I’m going to tell some people goodbye. Wanna come?”

“No.”

Sophie watched her mother pull out of the driveway, seeing her turn to look at the house before she sped off. Then Sophie wandered the house, looking into boxes half packed and stacks of clothes. She lifted two of her father’s shirts and smelled them. The odor of him still lingered, though she wasn’t sure if it was actually there or if it was just brought back by the act of burying her face into the sleeve or collar. She rubbed the shirt’s softness onto her face and what she smelled was her mother’s perfume, so she knew her mother had been dwelling with these shirts, that she too kept searching for ways to bring him back.

Sophie sat down hard on the floor, heaving a huge, blank sigh into the cotton, letting the sigh move down into the floor, then up toward the ceiling, rising through the walls to the roof and out into the dark winter air of a vast Montana sky.

The day Sophie arrived with her mother in South Pittsburg, she saw Crow Davenport in front of the movie theater. She didn’t know his name then. He was thin, tall, with short hair that brushed forward and up in front, as if a dog had licked his forehead. He was with three other boys, one with long hair over his ears, one tall and dark-haired, and one with glasses. When her mother drove by, all four boys checked out the new car in town. They stood together, their arms and legs moving as though they felt dangerous, even to themselves. And Sophie saw this moment as a lucky sign in her new life. One boy waved, and the others continued to watch as her mother pulled into the Kroger parking lot.

“Did you see that sign in the hardware store?” her mother asked. “It said ‘Help Wanted.’”

“For me or you?”

“Me.”

“You’re gonna work in a hardware store?” Sophie swung open the car door. “You want to do that?”

“It might be perfect,” Rita said. The grocery-store doors slid open, and they could smell a deli and bakery all at once. “Mmmh, let’s get something good. You pick it out.” Rita took a basket and gave one to Sophie. “Something chocolate, okay?”

They separated, each having a list of items. When they met at the register, both of their baskets held items not on the list. As they placed their groceries on the rolling counter, they shared a conspiratorial grin. “We’re going to eat with our neighbor tomorrow night,” said Rita.

“That judge lady?”

“Yeah. She has a son she wants you to meet.”

Sophie hoped the judge’s son proved to be the boy with dog-licked hair. If she hadn’t seen the boys a moment ago, she might be less willing, or less curious, to join her mother at a neighbor’s house. Now she felt like she had already met these boys, and that they already liked her. Now she had a plan. On the way home they passed the movie theater again, but the boys had gone.

The next evening they entered the judge’s house with a bottle of wine. Bobby answered the door, and Sophie thought he might be one of the boys she had seen the day before. She was immediately struck by how handsome he was. Most girls liked Bobby immediately, and she saw how easy he felt around girls. His dark hair and brows set off light blue eyes, and he looked slightly mischievous. When she saw him, Sophie let her lower lip fall into a slight pout. She had practiced this look in the mirror: her dark eyes large, her mouth slightly puckered. She usually wore her hair pulled up in back, but tonight she let it fall around her shoulders. Bobby’s long glance indicated that he liked what he saw.

“Bobby plays in a band,” Judge Bailey said, introducing him to Sophie and Mrs. Chabot.

“Please, call me Rita,” Rita insisted.

“What do you play?” Sophie asked, the pout still in place.

“Rock, blues mostly.” Bobby wore a Braves cap and pulled it forward with one jerk on the bill.

“No, I mean what instrument?”

“Oh.” He laughed. “Guitar.”

“He’s good,” said his mother. “He plays lead guitar. They’re entering a statewide competition this summer.”

Bobby motioned for Sophie to move out of the kitchen into the backyard. They wanted to get out of the range of mothers.

“What kind of competition?” Sophie asked.

“One that, if we win, we win big-time,” he told her.

“Like what?”

“A contract from a recording studio.” He smiled. His whole body looked confident.

“Really.”

“If we win, you could hear us on the radio. We call ourselves the Bandits.”

“Really.”

“We’re kinda famous. We’ve played all over the state, even went to Knoxville once. Listen, we’re practicing tonight. Want to come?”

“Depends on where.”

“The band’s practicing at Casey’s house. You could meet everybody.”

“Maybe.”

Bobby could not stop looking at this new girl, and he could not believe his bad luck. He had meant to break up with Stephanie a few weeks ago but aside from dropping a couple of hints to test the waters, he hadn’t done much about it. Now he wanted to be free. Sophie’s mouth was a perfect bow. He watched as she pushed out her lower lip.

“Are you French?” he asked, excited by the suggestion. “Your name is French, isn’t it? Sha-bo.”

“Most people say ‘Sha-bot,’ you know, saying the
t
sound. You said it right. My daddy was French Canadian.”

“Can you speak French?”

“Yeah. Some.”

“I thought you might be French,” he said, slapping his leg. “That’s so cool.”

After dinner Bobby mentioned taking Sophie to hear the band practice and meet some of his friends. Judge Bailey urged them to go.

“Don’t be late,” Rita said.

“What’s late?” asked Bobby.

Judge Bailey frowned. She thought he sounded rude.

“I just want to know what time she has to be home,” he said.

Sophie felt like a child. She shot her mother a look:
Don’t embarrass me.

“She knows her own limits,” Rita said. “She can judge the time.” Rita shot back a look of equal demand.

As they left, Sophie turned to see her mother carrying dishes into the kitchen. Rita was laughing, but she watched Bobby’s truck pull out of the driveway. Bobby drove a truck so they could carry their equipment from town to town when they played.

“You heard of the Doors?” he asked her. The question came out abruptly.

“I think so.”

“They’re the best. The whole sound is so different, you know? Well, Antony, our singer, can make us sound just like them. And we write our own songs.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, me and Crow write most of the songs. Crow’s my best friend. He plays rhythm guitar. I play lead.”

“That’s what your mother said.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Before she could ask about the others in the band, Bobby turned onto a dirt road and Sophie could see the lights of a house behind the trees. “That’s it,” he said, too loudly. His eyes, restless and worried, kept something secret behind them. She hadn’t seen it until now—a moment that showed the hidden piece that shone like metal around his body. She suddenly had an image of him as a robot. She didn’t know why.

“That’s Casey’s house,” he said, pointing. “He’s our drummer. He’s really good. We practice in his old man’s barn. Me, Crow, Tom, Lester, and Casey. Antony on vocals.”

“No girls?”

“Not yet. You play anything? Hey, can you sing?”

“Depends on what you call singing.”

“Guess that’s a no.” His legs were so long that his knees hit the steering wheel. Sophie thought he must be an athlete. He walked and moved like an athlete. He turned the wheel into the driveway.

“We saw you yesterday in the car with your mom,” he told Sophie. “You were going to the store, I guess.”

“Was that you?” She spoke with a nonchalance that no one would have believed.

“So, you’ve already seen most of the band. Crow, Lester, Casey, and me.” Bobby laughed, and again Sophie saw a piece of him she didn’t understand—a way he shifted, turned his head, something that seemed false. “Tom and Antony are the only ones you haven’t seen. Antony’s our singer.” He laughed again.

Sophie laughed too, even though she didn’t know what was funny.

Bobby pulled the truck onto a grassy lot beside the house, honked the horn twice, and jumped out to take his guitar and speakers into the barn. “Wanna help me?” he said cheerfully, the hidden piece back in like a turtle drawing in its head and legs, tail and feet.

As she helped him with the equipment, Sophie hoped some girls would be there, someone to talk to while they practiced.

In the house a specter of a woman came to the door, her slim body seeming to float. She waved toward the barn and went back in, closing the door behind her.

Three girls stood on one side of the barn drinking beer. Bobby waved to one of them. They steered themselves away from Sophie, because she was new, maybe contagious.

Sophie spoke to each boy, not seeing Crow until Bobby said, “She’s French,” as though he owned her. “I mean, she’s really French. Not from France, but…her name is Chabot.” That was when Crow looked up.

She didn’t know what to say, so she walked toward the girls. She had never been shy about meeting new people. She knew that most people liked to have someone introduce themselves, so that they didn’t have to make the effort. It made them feel pleased, chosen. The girls offered Sophie a beer. They probably thought she was older than fourteen. Sophie looked older. She was beautiful, and the girls weren’t sure if they wanted to like her.

Lester walked over to them, nodding at Sophie. “We saw you yesterday,” he announced.

“Yeah, I know.” She liked his face immediately. He wore glasses. He looked open and without guile.

Crow stared at Sophie but never approached her. Bobby kept telling everyone, “She’s French, but not from France. Her dad’s French.”

“C’mon, Bobby, give us a riff. Let’s get started.” Crow and Tom called him back to practice.