Shoot the Moon (5 page)

“Tell me about her son,” Mark said.

“Nicky Jack.” Kyle cracked a smile. “Man, she loved that little guy. You should have seen her with him. He was the center of the world for her.”

“Kyle . . .” Mark hesitated, creating an uneasy silence. Though he had already formed the question, he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer. “Were you his father?”

“Oh, no, man. Ours was a spiritual love. Oh, I won’t deny that I wanted her, wanted her more than anything. But that never happened.” Kyle’s eyes filled with tears. “I used to pretend he was mine, made believe I was the one. But I wasn’t.”

“Do you know who was?”

“Didn’t ask her, didn’t care who she’d been with. That didn’t matter to me.” Weeping again, he buried his face in his hands.

“Kyle!”

Arthur McFadden, a cigar clamped between his teeth, was closing in on seventy. He was painfully thin and slightly stooped, but he had a powerful voice, the voice of a man accustomed to having his way. He dismissed Mark with little more than a glance, then zeroed in on Kyle, seemingly oblivious to his former stepson’s distress.

“I want you to take care of a problem in the control room.”

Choking back sobs, Kyle said, “I . . . I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. The automation unit is screwing up again. Fix it.” Arthur shot him a look of disgust, then wheeled and walked away.

Mark waited until Kyle had regained some control before he asked, “Do you have any idea who killed Gaylene Harjo?”

“I wish I did. I swear I’d shoot the bastard did that to her and Nicky Jack.”

“You think whoever killed her, killed the boy, too?”

“I won’t let myself believe he’s dead. ’Cause if he’s alive, she’s alive, too. In him.” Kyle wiped a hand across his face. “He’s out there somewhere.”

March 7, 1967

Dear Diary,

School today was so-so. We had a spelling test in English class. I think I failed because I didn’t study. Row always makes the best grades, but I think spelling is borring.

I sent off for the bust cream today. Row said I could send it to her house and even if Mrs. Whitekiller sees it, she won’t say anything. I should be so lucky!

Mom had to work late at the bank so we didn’t get home until almost seven. Daddy wasn’t too happy that we had tuna fish sandwiches for dinner, but Mom said she didn’t have time to cook the roast she thawed out. Sometimes I think he doesn’t realize how hard she has to work at her job, keep house, can stuff from the garden and help him with the chickens and goats. I think women work alot harder than men. If I get to heaven I want to be a man.

Me and Daddy watched television tonight. We saw
Gunsmoke
and
The Andy Griffith Show
because those are his favorites, but on the news we saw a big crowd of black people in Washington protesting the war in Vietnam. I told Daddy that I would like to go to Washington and march with them, but he said that was colored people’s business not ours.

Guess he has not noticed that we’re colored too.

Spider Woman

Chapter Eight

H
e’s convinced that Joe Dawson buried the body somewhere on his land,” Mark said.

Ivy laughed, momentarily drawing the attention of the domino boys. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’d like to have seen the look on his face when you told him who you are.”

“I didn’t. I said I was an attorney handling an estate Nick Harjo would inherit. If I could find him.”

“And he bought that?” Teeve asked.

“He seemed to.”

“Well, don’t underestimate O Boy Daniels. He might come across like a yokel, but he’s nobody’s fool. You ever watch that old TV show, detective acted like he didn’t have a clue? Can’t think of his name. Always chomped on a cigar, wore a wrinkled raincoat?”

“Columbo,” Lonnie Cruddup yelled from the domino corner. “His name was Columbo. Damn good show.”

“Right.” Then to Mark and Ivy, she whispered, “Let’s go outside. Lonnie’s turned up his hearing aid.”

When they were assembled on the sidewalk, Teeve said, “What did O Boy say about Gaylene?”

“Not much.” Mark hoped his face didn’t betray the lie.

“That’s a switch. Never known him to pass up a chance to dish some dirt.”

“Did you see Kippy while you were there?” Ivy asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“He was a few years older than me, but he was in some of my classes at school. His mom went to all his classes with him, sat in a little desk beside his. Helped him with his work, made sure he passed from one grade to the next. When he walked across the stage at graduation, everyone stood up and cheered. He didn’t get a diploma, but he got a certificate.”

“They should have given Carrie a diploma,” Teeve said. “She was devoted to him. Still is. Didn’t get a bit of help from O Boy, but she—”

Teeve stopped in midsentence as a white Impala drove by, the driver staring at the trio gathered in front of the pool hall.

“Arthur McFadden,” she said. “The guy I told you about who owned Gaylene’s trailer.”

“I saw him this morning,” Mark said.

Teeve looked puzzled. “Where?”

“At the radio station. I talked to Kyle Leander.”

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you.”

“I was curious to see what he had to say.”

“Guess you could tell he’s burned out a few circuits. But all in all, Kyle’s not a bad guy, though Arthur doesn’t see it that way.”

“I got the feeling they’re not overly fond of each other.”

“Arthur’s ex-wife was loaded, just what he was looking for. And Anne needed someone to help her deal with Kyle after his father died. Left her with a ton of money and a real messed-up son.”

“Did she live here?” Mark asked.

“She was from Atlanta. She met Arthur when she came here for her aunt’s funeral. Came for the funeral one week, married Arthur the next week, then moved here the week after that. Well, sort of moved.”

“What does that mean?”

“She kept her big house in Atlanta, bought a smaller one here, not her kind of place, from what I heard. But see, I don’t think she ever intended to stay. Doubt she planned to celebrate many wedding anniversaries with Arthur.”

“Then why did she marry him?”

“Kyle. She wanted to get him out of the city, believed he wouldn’t have access to drugs in a little town like this. Of course, that didn’t stop him, didn’t even slow him down. But Kyle loved music almost as much as he loved drugs, said he wanted to be a DJ.

“So when Anne met Arthur, found out he worked at the radio station and dreamed of owning it, she bought it. Actually, the station wasn’t for sale, but she had the money.

“Six months later, she was gone. Back to Atlanta. Arthur got to keep the station, but according to their divorce settlement, he had to keep Kyle, too, so they’re pretty much stuck with each other. Seems like—”

Teeve was interrupted by Lonnie rapping on the window, holding his coffee cup so she could see it was empty.

“If those old bastards don’t die soon, I’m gonna have to shoot them,” she said as she went back inside.

“Look, I know you’re busy,” Mark said to Ivy, “so I’m going to get out of your way.”

“Nah. Kids have other places to go on Saturday. What’ve you got in mind, Nicky Jack?”

“Thought I’d take a drive.”

“Where?”

“I’d like to see where she lived.”

“You mean the trailer where Aunt Gaylene—”

“Yes.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll be easier to take you than to tell you how to get there. Come on.”

Mark followed her across the street to her old Ford Aerostar. The van was a patchwork of bumper stickers, their messages a plea to save everything from the Key Largo cotton mouse to humpback whales. Inside, it looked like home to a nation of pack rats.

Floorboards were inches deep in running shoes, birdseed, mildewed towels, newspapers, tools and telephone books. The back held cardboard boxes filled with corn shucks and tree bark, empty wire cages and bulging garbage bags. The front seat was a jumble of books, binoculars, unopened mail, dog biscuits, maps, a canteen and a tangle of animal leashes.

Ivy dug out the books, handed them to Mark. “Hold these,” she said, then swept the rest of the mess into the floor.

While she watched her rearview mirror, waiting for a break in the traffic, Mark glanced at the titles of the books in his lap:
How to Grow Fresh Air
,
The Natural Habitat Garden
,
Sacred Depths of Nature
and
Drum of the Earth.

Ivy gave a thank-you wave to the driver who let her pull out of the parking space, then squeezed the van into the line of vehicles waiting for the light to change at the corner.

“Everyone still comes to town on Saturday. They spend their money at Wal-Mart, have burgers at McDonald’s, then drag Main.”

“Have you lived here all your life, Ivy?”

“Hell, no! Left as soon as I could. Swore I’d never live in this town again. But I came back after I started growing this kid.”

“Where were you before?”

“I’ve moved around. Spent two years in Honduras with the Peace Corps, worked in California with the Forestry Department. Did a stint as a river guide in Wyoming. Taught organic gardening at a community college in Vermont. Managed an animal shelter in Chicago. Guess I haven’t found where I fit yet. What about you?”

“I’m a veterinarian. I have a clinic in Beverly Hills.”

“Ah, physician to the stars’ pets.”

“Pretty much.”

“What’s that like?”

“Well, the animals are a lot like their owners . . . primped, pampered and shivering, terrified that somebody might not be paying attention to them.”

When Ivy turned off Main, they lost most of the traffic, the two-lane road winding through the edge of town.

“You married?” Ivy asked.

“No.”

“Neither am I, but I was in love for a few hours one day when I was in the fifth grade. I have a short attention span, Nicky Jack.”

“Would you mind very much not calling me Nicky Jack?”

Ivy grinned. “I guess Nicky Jack does sound like one of those names little kids give to their imaginary friends. I called mine Fluty Marie.”

“Mine was Wallace.”

“Wallace?” Ivy made a face. “Sounds like some disapproving old man.”

“Wallace wore a gray three-piece suit, dark tie. Very conservative. And he didn’t like me much.”

“Nick! The whole point of a make-believe friend is to create someone who is . . . well, a friend, someone who’s always on your side.”

“Guess I had a better sense of fashion than fantasy.”

Ivy laughed. “You know, I’ll never forget something that happened when you were a baby, maybe five or six months old, so I would’ve been, oh, three or four.

“You were asleep on Mom’s bed; she was in the kitchen with Aunt Gaylene. Now I’d watched them change you, and I’d seen that equipment between your legs and wondered why I didn’t have what you had. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me.

“I’d asked about it, but I suppose Mom had dodged the question, so I sneaked into the bedroom and took off your diaper to try to figure things out for myself.

“You woke up, but didn’t cry. As a matter of fact, I think you enjoyed the examination. But then you started to pee. That little job popped up, sprayed like a damned fountain. I clamped my hand over it, but it was like one of those cartoons where a hose gets loose, squirting water all over the place.

“You peed in my face, on my hair, the bed, the floor. And I started to cry, which, of course, brought Mom and Aunt Gaylene running.

“Mom was furious, ready to paddle my butt, but Aunt Gaylene wouldn’t let her. She thought it was funny. Threw her head back and howled while she hugged me. And that’s the way I remember her. Laughing.”

Mark gave Ivy a weak smile, then turned to look out his window.

“Nick, does it bother you when I talk about Aunt Gaylene? Because if it does . . .”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Mark said.

“What?”

“Nick.”

“Oh, I thought you meant for me not to call you Nicky Jack because it sounds, well, childish.”

“It does.”

“So you’re not going by the name Nick, either?”

“No.”

“Guess I misunderstood. I thought—”

“Please. Call me Mark.”

“Okay,” Ivy said.

For the next several miles, neither spoke. Not until a red pickup with teenage girls blew past the van, a McDonald’s box sailing out one window, a Styrofoam cup from the other. Ivy hit her horn, yelled, “You dumb shits!” then swerved onto the shoulder. She left the motor running while she retrieved the litter from beside the road.

When she slid back under the steering wheel, she tossed the trash into the backseat, then pulled a notepad and pen from over her visor. Mark watched as she wrote down the pickup’s tag number.

“Was that a ’97 Chevy or a ’98?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about trucks.”

“I think it was a ’98.”

“What do you do with that information?” he asked.

“Turn it in to O Boy. He probably throws it in the wastebasket as soon as I walk out. If it was up to me, I’d stick the bastards in jail.”

Ivy made two more stops on the way to the trailer—one to bag up more roadside trash, another to pick up a half-starved hound, which she fed, then put into one of the cages in the back.

When she slid into the driver’s seat again, Mark said, “Are you going to keep him?”

“No, Mom can hardly put up with Bernie, my cat. DeClare has a no-kill shelter. I’ll take him there.”

Mark had never known a woman like Ivy, a woman who wanted to improve the environment and rescue the strays of the world but seemed barely able to manage her own life. She was in her early thirties, he guessed, unmarried, but pregnant; driving a vehicle filled with trash; and by her own admission, unable to keep a job. She was, no doubt, one of those people who had little order in her life. A woman who was living without a plan.

He kept his own car immaculate, had it detailed once a month, had never been foolish enough to father a child, owned a thriving animal clinic and checked his day planner each night before he went to bed.

“Here we are,” she said, when she came to a barbed-wire fence posted with
PRIVATE PROPERTY
and
NO TRESPASSING
signs.

She turned in at a break in the fence, easing the van across a rocky gully. A hundred yards beyond that, she parked, turned off the ignition.

“We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

“How far is it?”

“Not too far. Maybe a quarter of a mile. Used to be able to drive right up to the trailer, but not anymore.”

After they got out, Ivy went to the back, opened the hatch and scrounged around in the debris, emerging with a pair of worn western boots, a garbage bag and a can of insect repellent. Leaning against the van, she slid her feet out of the black rubber thongs and pulled on the boots.

“You want to watch where you walk. This place is crawling with snakes.” She sprayed her legs and arms with the repellent, then offered the container to Mark.

“Chiggers and mosquitoes will eat you alive without this.”

“You make it sound like a safari. But I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go.”

Ivy struck out on a trail soon disappearing into pines, blackjacks, pin oaks and bois d’arcs. Boulders and waist-high weeds made slow going for Mark, but Ivy moved at a steady clip. Even as she stopped now and then to stuff litter into the garbage bag, he still fell behind.

“Look,” she said, pointing to a shallow ravine where two does and a fawn skittered into a grove of cedars.

Midway up a steep incline, Mark flushed a covey of quail, their sudden flight causing him to lose his footing. When he landed, he felt the sting of nettles through the seat of his linen slacks.

Ivy, waiting for him at the top, pretended not to see him fall, kneeling to examine the shell of a blue jay egg. When he finally struggled to the crest, he was panting, slapping at mosquitoes, welts already rising on his face and arms.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” he said, gulping for air.

She slowed her pace as they descended the hill to a small pond shaded by willows. As they skirted the bank, a stubby black water moccasin slithered into the edge of the water.

Just beyond the pond, the trailer, sheathed in trumpet vines and Virginia creeper, was shadowed by pines, banked by redwoods and azaleas. A weathered wooden porch tilted beneath the front door, which had been sprayed with graffiti.

“Kids,” Ivy said. “I don’t know how they find this place, but they do.”

Then Mark noticed the containers—coffee cans, plastic buckets, tin tubs—arranged around the porch. Filled with a variety of plants and flowers, all dead.

“Grandma Enid,” Ivy explained. “Mom brings her out because she doesn’t see well enough to drive anymore, but that doesn’t stop her from coming here every year. January thirtieth.”

“The day Gaylene died,” he said, his voice flat, giving away nothing. When he noticed Ivy’s questioning look, he added, “I read everything I could find about her at the library yesterday. I know when she was born, when she died, how many times she was stabbed, where she—”