Shoot the Moon (21 page)

In the bedroom, Ivy was waiting for him with a glass of warm milk.

“Thought you might need this,” she said.

“Thanks.” He took a sip, then put the glass on the dresser. After he got in bed, Ivy switched off the table lamp and started for the door.

“Ivy?”

“Yes?”

“Stay with me tonight. Please.”

Without a word, she crawled in beside him, where he wrapped her in his arms, buried his face in her neck and whispered her name.

January 6, 1970

Dear Diary,

We had a big surprise today. My brother Navy came home to stay. And guess what he brought with him? A wife named Teeve and a baby girl they call Ivy. Mom didn’t even know Navy was married, much less that he had a daughter.

Aunt Teeve is nice, too. She’s real pretty and perky. She reminds me of Julie Andrews except she doesn’t have an English accent.

They’re staying with us until they can find a place of their own, but I hope they stay for a long time even if I do have to sleep on the couch. They put Ivy’s crib here in the living room so when she wakes up at night, when she’s afraid or cold or hungry or wet, I’m the first one she sees.

Spider Woman

February 27, 1970

Dear Diary,

I scored thirty-four points tonight in our game against Catoosa. Coach said there were two scouts in the bleachers who’d come to watch me play. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get a basketball scholarship so I can go to college.

I haven’t told Mom and Daddy, but I’m going to major in art. Mom wants me to get a degree in education so I can get a teaching job here in DeClare. Daddy wants me to study accounting at a junior college so I can finish in two years.

But I’m not going to be an accountant or a teacher, and I’m not going to stay in DeClare. That’s for sure!

Spider Woman

Chapter Thirty-one

T
eeve was still awake when Mark came in, even though she’d been in bed for hours. She thought about getting up, but when she heard Ivy meet him at the back door, she decided to stay in bed. She couldn’t think of one thing she could say to Mark to make him feel better, because she felt so bad herself. All her empathy and compassion had seemed to evaporate along with the dreams of her grandchild.

When she finally crawled out of bed at six, she felt more tired than when she’d crawled in last night. She pulled on her bathrobe, thinking of all she should take care of today, making a mental list that would erase itself before she got out the door.

In the past two days, she’d failed to make her bank deposit; bought groceries, but left them forgotten in the trunk of her car, spoiling three pounds of sliced turkey, three pounds of ham and half a dozen heads of lettuce.

She’d lost her set of keys to the pool hall; given ten dollars too much change to one of her customers; slammed her thumb in the door of the fridge, causing her thumbnail to turn black; and dropped a tray of twenty tea glasses, breaking every one. But the biggest change, according to the domino boys, was that she’d gone strangely quiet.

Lonnie, the lone Republican in the foursome, could always get a rise out of Teeve, a devout Democrat, by repeating some half-assed opinion he’d heard Rush Limbaugh make on the radio. Lonnie was one of those know-it-all do-nothing Republicans who didn’t know the issues, didn’t contribute money or time to the party, didn’t put campaign signs in his yard. He didn’t even vote.

All he did was offer up Rush propaganda. Once Teeve had bought him a bumper sticker that said
MY DOGMA CAN WHIP YOUR DOGMA
, but the joke was wasted on Lonnie, who didn’t know the meaning of “dogma.”

But Lonnie wasn’t on Teeve’s mind as she padded into the kitchen, dreading the chores she faced this morning: putting together her salad spreads, getting cookies in the oven and making her famous peanut-butter pies.

Before she turned on the kitchen light and started up the mixer, the blender and the meat grinder, she slipped back quietly to Ivy’s bedroom to close the door, hoping the racket in the kitchen wouldn’t wake Mark. He obviously needed his sleep.

At first, as she glanced toward the bed, she couldn’t make out for sure what she was seeing—in part because of the dark hour of the morning, but mostly because of the incongruity of what she
thought
she saw. It looked like
two
people were sharing the bed.

Teeve switched on a small night lamp in the hall to get a better look. And that’s when she discovered her daughter in bed with Nicky Jack Harjo, both sleeping soundly.

He was spooned in right behind Ivy, her head resting on one arm, the other draped across her waist, his hand settled protectively on her swollen belly.

Teeve gave herself a moment to take it all in, but she wasn’t about to second-guess what was going on. Whatever it was, she felt good about it. And as she backed silently away, turning off the light as she went, her heart felt lighter.

When she stepped into her kitchen, she decided to hell with chicken salad, pimento cheese and those damn peanut-butter pies. The world would just have to get along without them today.

In her bedroom, she dressed quickly, went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, skipped makeup and ran her fingers through her hair.

She was going out to breakfast.

At nine, the doorbell rang, but Ivy and Mark slept on, didn’t even flinch. After Lantana Mitchell tried the bell again, Mark reshifted one leg, the only sign that his sleep had registered a sound. Lantana tried knocking but got no better results, so she worked her way around Teeve’s house, peering into windows when she could. In one, she saw Mark and a woman in a bed, still and motionless. Her first thought, after all that had happened in the past few hours, was that they were dead.

At the edge of panic, she pounded on the glass with her shoe until Mark finally roused, slipped his arms slowly and gently from around Ivy, then climbed out of bed in his briefs and motioned Lantana toward the patio door.

“Morning,” he said as he led her inside.

“Sorry to wake you,” Lantana whispered.

“We had a late night,” Mark said, still groggy from sleep.

“Yeah, I heard about Arthur.”

Ivy, finally brought around by the conversation, got up and wandered into the den.

“Lantana, this is my cousin, Ivy Harjo.”

Ivy, not at all concerned that her T-shirt and underpants revealed her nearly full-term pregnancy, said, “Well, we’re not quite cousins. I mean, not in the strictest sense.”

“Hi. Glad to meet you,” Lantana said, trying to seem uncurious by the encounter. “Looks like congratulations are in order.”

“Oh, you mean the baby. Thanks. But Mark’s not the father.”

“Well, not in the strictest sense,” he said, drawing a most puzzled look from Ivy.

“I see,” Lantana said, though she didn’t see at all.

“Why don’t we fix you a cup of coffee,” Ivy suggested, readjusting her underwear.

“No!” Then, less insistently, she added, “No, thank you. I can’t stay. I came by for a couple of reasons, but then I have to run. Mark, I’ve set up an appointment with you to meet Lige Haney today. You might remember my mentioning him to you yesterday. He has some information I believe you’d be interested in hearing.”

“Sure. I’d like to talk to him.”

“He’ll be expecting you at his home at eleven this morning. Can you make it?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Here’s his address. Now,” she said, the change in her tone noticeable, “this was faxed to me at the motel ten minutes ago.”

Lantana offered Mark a business-size manila envelope. “I think Harold worked on this all night.”

Mark and Lantana locked eyes while the envelope changed hands. He knew what was inside, so he studied her face for some clue as to what the DNA test had revealed, but her expression remained unchanged.

He removed several sheets of paper from the envelope, shuffled through some graphs, several studies and a cover letter, which he tried to read but couldn’t because his hands were trembling so that the text wouldn’t hold still.

“I, uh, I’m not sure that . . .” He was at a loss. “Maybe you should . . .”

“It means there’s a 99.9 percent chance that Arthur McFadden was your father.”

Mark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then sat on the couch as if he suddenly found himself too weak to stand.

“Arthur McFadden,” he said.

Ivy scooted in beside him, took his hand and held it inside both of hers.

“I really don’t know what to say to you, Mark,” Lantana said. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t seem appropriate somehow.”

“You don’t know what to say? Well, let me tell you, I don’t know what to feel.”

While Ivy took a shower and washed her hair, Mark dressed, started coffee, poured orange juice and put bread in the toaster.

When she came back to the kitchen, dressed in slacks and a loose cotton blouse, Mark said, “You were awfully kind to stay with me, Ivy.”

“Hope you slept well,” she said.

“Very well.”

Ivy smiled, leaned over and kissed him on the lips, a kiss that started as a sweet gesture, a casual kiss between casual friends. But it changed when he took her head in his hands, her wet hair curling around his fingers, and the kiss became something more. Much more.

When they parted, he said, “I kissed my cousin that way once.”

“Mark . . .”

“Don’t say anything, Ivy. Please. Not yet. Just know that I care for you. And your baby.”

The woman who answered the door couldn’t have weighed ninety pounds. She was totally bald but wore her head uncovered; had an infinity of wrinkles carved gently into her face; and her coloring ran somewhere between overripe cucumber flesh and stale cottage cheese.

Mark didn’t have to be told this woman was fighting a tough battle against a nasty opponent: cancer.

Still, she was lovely. She had deep-set brown eyes that looked as rich and strong as polished walnut; her full, unpainted lips held the tint of pale raspberries; and her delicate bone structure emphasized high cheeks and an Audrey Hepburn chin.

“Hello,” she said as she offered a warm, firm handshake. “I’m Clara, Lige’s friend, lover and wife, pretty much in that order, but I’m working hard to put lover in the number one position.”

“I appreciate your letting me come by today, Mrs. Haney.”

“We’ve been anxious to meet you. Please. Come in.”

Mark followed her down a short hallway, where she whispered, “Lige is probably asleep, but when I wake him, he’ll say he was just resting his eyes, which is kind of funny when you think about it.”

The room they entered had more books than it was built for, even though bookcases, from floor to ceiling, covered three walls. The books that wouldn’t fit in the filled cases were stacked on the floor, the coffee table, the mantel, and in large baskets scattered here and there.

“Lige,” Clara said to the small man sleeping in the over-stuffed chintz chair, “our guest has arrived.”

“Of course he has,” Lige said, straightening. “I heard him at the front door.”

“Oh, I thought you might be sleeping.”

“No, no. Just resting my eyes. Glad to meet you, Mr. Harjo,” he said, offering a hand.

“Please, just call me Mark.”

“I’m not surprised that you use the name you’ve been accustomed to for so many years. New realities need time to take root, don’t they,” Lige said. “Sit down over there, Mark, where I can see you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Lige. Just plain old Lige and Clara. And this is Phantom.”

At hearing her name, Phantom rose from beside Lige’s chair, waiting patiently for a command.

“We have company, Phantom,” Lige said. “Where are your manners?”

The dog wandered over to Mark, sat on her haunches and offered a paw, which Mark shook. “How do you do, Phantom,” he said.

Her duty complete, Phantom returned to her “spot” and reclined again by Lige’s side.

Lige still had most of his hair, silver and as shiny as Christmas tree icicles; his sightless eyes were covered by dark glasses; and he wore a mustache and goatee, which Mark guessed were tended by Clara.

“You know, Mark,” Clara said, “you’re our number one celebrity around here.”

“Certainly seems that way sometimes. Can’t say I enjoy it, though.”

“I noticed when I let you in that you’d been followed by several vehicles.”

“Yes, I have an entourage wherever I go now.”

“May I get you some coffee?” Clara asked.

“Please don’t go to any trouble for me.”

“Actually, we enjoy a cup every morning about this time. We like it with just a hint of Irish cream in it. Quite a lovely drink. Join us.”

“All right. I think I will.”

“Wonderful.”

When Clara left the room, Lige smiled and began to recite softly, almost to himself.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses—

I will study wry music for your sake.

For should your hands drop white and empty

All the toys of the world would break.

“That’s beautiful,” Mark said. “Did you write it?”

“No, but how I wish I had. John Frederick Nims. The title is ‘Love Poem.’ So, Nick, we haven’t had such goings-on in DeClare since you were taken from us. And now, you walk out of our past and into our lives once again.”

Clara, returning with a tray holding three mugs and a plate of brownies, said, “Lige, dear, this handsome young man has asked us to call him Mark.”

“Oh, did I slip up?”

“No problem,” Mark said.

Clara handed Lige a mug, then placed the tray atop a pile of books in braille on the coffee table. “Help yourself, Mark. I should tell you that I added a pinch or two of pot to the brownies, a trend I missed in the sixties, so I’m just now catching up.”

Mark took a mug of coffee, sipped at it, then realized it was a cup of cream liqueur with perhaps a couple of tablespoons of coffee added.

Lige held his mug aloft, waited for Clara and Mark to heft theirs, then said, “
‘The Joy that isn’t shared,
I’ve heard, dies young.
’ Here’s to you, Anne Sexton.”

“Lige can’t eat, drink or go to the john without quoting poetry,” Clara said. “Well, I think I’ll retire to my room to do some reading and let you two take care of your business.” She wrapped two of the “spiced” brownies in a napkin, grabbed her coffee mug and started for the door. “If I don’t see you before you leave today, Mark, I hope I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Mark said, standing. After she’d gone, he added, “She’s a lovely woman.”

“Yes. She is.”

The room was quiet for such a long moment that Phantom raised her head to check things out.

Finally, to break the awkward stillness, Mark said, “Lantana Mitchell told me you might have some information that would be important to me.”

“Yes, perhaps I do.” Lige reached to a table beside his chair and picked up a newspaper, yellowed with age. “This is an article I wrote in 1972. It was to be a three-part feature story about Kippy Daniels. I imagine you know something of his background, don’t you?”

“A bit. Teeve and Ivy have filled me in on some of his history. I know that his mother went to school with him almost every day from first through twelfth grade.”

“And so much more. She did so much more for that boy. She made him a Boy Scout, she even became a den mother. She helped him with his 4-H projects; taught him to ride a horse; to make change. She took him to dance classes; gave him art lessons.

“In other words, she made him a world he could fit into. A world that would accept him. And he was accepted by almost everyone but his own father. I think O Boy has always been ashamed of Kippy, a resentment he takes out on Carrie. But apparently that’s a trade-off she has accepted. Decided she’d rather take her lumps from O Boy than live without her son.”

“What do you mean,” Mark asked, “live without him?”

“It’s no secret that when Oliver found out about the boy’s impairment, he wanted to put the child in a home. I guess he all but beat Carrie to death when she refused. But refuse she did. And the boy flourished because of her and her alone.