Shoot the Moon (6 page)
“Lord, that must have been hard.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“I suppose it helps you to distance yourself from what happened to her if you call yourself Mark and call her Gaylene.”
“What should I call her? Mother? Mom? Ivy, I’ve been Mark Albright for as long as I can remember,” he said, impatience beginning to creep into his voice. “And I’m not sure I can make the leap to having people call me Nick or saying ‘Mother’ when I’m talking about her.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“No, I don’t think you can. How could you? You grew up knowing your family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. Right?
“You spent most of your life with them. Birthdays, holidays. You’ve seen their pictures, listened to their stories, held their babies, cried at their funerals.”
Ivy nodded.
“But they’re not the people of
my
history. My father’s name was Morris, my mother was Helen. They were wonderful parents. I was my dad’s best buddy; my mother adored me. And they made sure I knew I was loved.
“They took me to New York when I was seven, to Paris when I was ten. And I skied Aspen every winter. I lived a life most people only dream of.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Right now,” he said, his eyes shifting to the old trailer, the pond downhill, the cans of flowers nearby, “I’m not really sure. I came to meet Gaylene Harjo, see what she had to say, then get out. I didn’t come to establish a relationship with her if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“What I’m thinking is that you must feel awfully alone right now.”
“How the hell would you know how I must feel, huh?” His anger, an emotion he had been taught to suppress, was just below the surface now. “All of this meant nothing to me until a few weeks ago. So I show up here, meet you, and now, twelve, fourteen hours later, you’re going to tell me how I should feel?”
“Mark, I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be bitter, but maybe . . .”
“You know? You don’t know a damn thing about me, not a goddamn thing, so don’t try to fit me into your notion of what I should be, what I should feel. Don’t try to cast me in the role of the long-lost son mourning the loss of a mother he never knew, because that’s not going to happen. But here
is
what’s going to happen. I’m going to take a quick look at this trailer, go back to town, pick up my car and drive to the airport in Tulsa. About three hours after I board a plane, I’ll be back in Los Angeles, where I live. My home. Then I’ll see my shrink, who’ll tell me to try to ‘fit this into my life experience,’ and in time, my trip to DeClare, Oklahoma, will seem like nothing more than a bad dream.”
He pulled back then, confused by this anger, mystified by this voice that seemed not to be his.
Embarrassed, he stepped up on the porch to open the door. As an afterthought, he turned back, prepared to offer Ivy a hand up, but she shook her head.
Dank and dark, the trailer smelled of mildew, like the locked trunks he had discovered in his parents’ attic.
The living room held an overturned canvas camp stool and an aluminum lawn chair, the plastic webbing torn loose from the frame. The linoleum was littered with cigarette butts, burned candles, pecan shells and ruined cassettes, their tapes curled and spooled across the floor.
The kitchen had been gutted—stove and refrigerator gone, cabinet doors and faucets missing. A dead bird lay in the rusted sink, an empty Spam can and bottle opener on the countertop.
The toilet had been wrenched from the bathroom, leaving a gaping hole in the floor. “Shit Happins” was scrawled in lipstick on the tile over the tub, the medicine cabinet yanked from the wall, the mirror smashed.
A filthy blanket covered with rat droppings was piled in one corner of the bedroom, a pair of yellowed men’s briefs and a used condom in the other.
He tried to imagine how this room might have looked when she lived here, tried to see it with bright curtains at the windows, a baby bed and rocking chair, a shelf holding teddy bears and a wooden Pinocchio doll. But those images were blurred, the pictures dark and distorted.
As he started back down the hallway, he noticed a closet, the door hanging by only one hinge. The floor was strewn with wire hangers, a broken broomstick, lightbulbs and curtain rods.
But there was something else, something half-hidden beneath the crumpled page of a magazine. A bootie crocheted of blue thread, a white silk ribbon laced around the top. The shoe, no bigger than his thumb, was covered with dust, and the ribbon was frayed at one end. But as he turned it between his fingers, studying the intricate stitches, he knew it was a connection. An unexpected gift from her.
“Where in the world have you two been?” Teeve asked when Mark and Ivy walked into the café. “I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what happened to you. I looked up and you were gone.”
“We went out to Aunt Gaylene’s trailer,” Ivy said. She and Mark hadn’t spoken since his flare-up at the trailer, not even when she stopped briefly at the shelter to drop off the stray dog. And the silent ride back to town had only increased their discomfort with each other.
Teeve looked unsure of how she should react, knowing her nephew had just been to the place where his mother had been killed. “Well, I guess you had lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ivy said.
“How about you, Nicky Jack? I’ve got some roast beef left,” she offered, thinking food might provide some solace.
“No, thanks.”
“He doesn’t want us to call him that, Mom.”
“Well, I guess it sounds kind of babyish, doesn’t it?”
“His name is Mark. Mark Albright. Besides, he doesn’t have time to eat. He’s got to get to Tulsa.”
“Tulsa? Why?”
“I’ve decided—”
“He’s flying back to Los Angeles this evening.”
“No,” he said, trying again to break into the conversation, “I’ve—”
“But you just got here,” Teeve said. “I thought you’d want to meet Enid, your grandmother.”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
Ivy looked mystified.
“I’m not leaving, Ivy. At least not for a while.”
“But you told me—”
“I changed my mind.”
May 2, 1967
Dear Diary,
I got my period while I was in math class! My stomach was acheing all morning, but I thought it was gas. Boy was I wrong. When I felt something wet in my pants I was pretty sure I knew what was happening. I went to the bathroom to check and sure enough there was blood. Not a lot, thank goodness, because I had on a pair of tan corduroy pants so it could have been a disaster.
The school nurse gave me a sanitary napkin then signed a note so I could leave early. When I got to the bank and told Mom I’d started, she left work and took me home. She fixed me a cup of maidenhair tea which is an old recipe for Cherokee girls when they start they’re periods. I didn’t like it much, but I drank it anyway. I’m glad I finally got my period though. Row’s been menistrating since she was twelve and I think all the girls on our basketball team do too.
I guess I am a woman now.
Spider Woman
D
id you hear what I said?” Ivy asked.
She and Mark had the café all to themselves, as it was well past lunchtime, but the pool hall was anything but quiet. Lonnie Cruddup and Ron John O’Reily were yelling at each other over the domino table, Teeve was trying to break up an argument between two girls at the video machines and three pool players were razzing a fourth who’d just missed an easy shot.
Ivy tried again. “I asked you why you decided to stay. What changed your mind?”
Mark ran a hand through his hair, glanced into the pool hall to make sure no one was watching, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the blue bootie. As he placed it in the center of the table, he said, “I found this in the trailer. In the corner of a closet.”
Ivy picked up the bootie, pinched a piece of lint from the heel and said, “So you think—”
“She made this for me.”
“Aunt Gaylene?”
“Yes.”
“Mark, a lot of people have been in that trailer since you and Aunt Gaylene lived there. Lots of kids. And some homeless folks, more than likely. Maybe families.
“This”—she handed the bootie back—“could have been left by any number of women, or girls, with babies. After all, the place has been empty for years.”
“No,” he said, closing his fingers around the tiny shoe. “It was mine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Ivy, when I saw this, when I picked it up, I knew. Before then, I’d been distanced from all this, like it was happening to someone else. None of it had anything to do with me until that moment.”
They were quiet for a while, the only sounds coming from up front.
Finally Ivy said, “So how long will you be here?”
“As long as it takes.”
“For what?”
“To know her,” Mark said as he stuffed the bootie back in his pocket. “Don’t you see, Ivy? I can’t figure out who I am until I know who she was.”
“Mark, I’m so glad you’ve decided to stay for a while longer,” Teeve said, keeping her voice low so the domino boys couldn’t hear. “Your grandma is going to be thrilled to death to see you.”
“We’re going to her place now.”
“Unless you need me here, Mom,” Ivy said.
“Honey, you all go on. Nothing here I can’t handle.”
“We’ll be going by Wal-Mart. Anything you need?” Ivy asked.
“Yeah, you might ought to pick up a case of . . .”
When the door opened behind him, Mark could tell from the look on Teeve’s face and the shift in her posture that whoever was coming in had put her on alert.
“Afternoon, O Boy,” she said.
Mark had an uneasy feeling when he saw the sheriff, dressed now in his uniform, a badge on his pocket. And he remembered Teeve’s warning:
Don’t underestimate O Boy Daniels. He might come across like a yokel, but he’s nobody’s fool.
“You’re a little late for lunch,” Teeve said.
“I didn’t come for lunch. I came to talk to Mr. Albright here.” He inclined his head toward Mark.
“Well, my feelings are hurt,” she said, trying her best to sound natural.
Then, when she noticed that O Boy’s arrival had gotten the attention of the domino boys, she said, “Why don’t we go in the back and—”
“I can take care of my business right here.”
“No reason for us to stand when we can sit back there, have a cup of coffee.”
“What brings you to DeClare, Mr. Albright?”
“Insurance,” Teeve offered too quickly. Then, remembering that Mark had told O Boy he was an attorney, she added, “And he’s a lawyer, too.”
“Trying to settle an estate. Isn’t that your story, Albright?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now, that’s interesting. Real interesting. You say you’re a lawyer. But when you checked into the Riverfront, I believe you told Patti Frazier you were in real estate. And now you’ve got Teeve believing you peddle insurance.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Either you’re confused, fella, or you have your hands in a lot of pots.”
“Well, I—”
“You got to town night before last. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Patti said you checked in at six.”
“Six, six-thirty. I’m not sure.”
“What did you do when you got here?” O Boy asked.
“Drove around for a while.”
“Why?”
“Just taking a look at the town,” Mark said.
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
“I’d like to know why you’re asking me these questions. If I’m in some kind of trouble . . .”
“What happened there?” O Boy asked, gesturing toward Mark’s bandaged arm.
“I was bitten by a dog.”
“Tell me how that happened.”
“I’m a veterinarian. I was treating a keeshond in my clinic and—”
“Hold on here. You were a lawyer, then an attorney, and now you’re a vet?”
“I can explain all that,” Mark said.
“You’re damn right you can. And you will.”
“When I came to town—”
“So, you got bit by a Keystone, whatever the hell that is, and you—”
“Keeshond. It’s a dog.”
“Did you need stitches?” O Boy asked. “Go to a doctor?”
“No, I took care of it myself.”
“Sure you did.”
“What’s this about, O Boy?” Teeve asked.
“Haven’t you been reading your paper, Teeve? We’ve had five break-ins the last two nights. They started when your friend here hit town.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean—”
“And whoever tried to get into Dewey Gentry’s workshop tangled with his German shepherd.”
“Are you accusing me?”
“I think we’d better talk about this in my office.”
“O Boy,” Teeve said, “you’re making a mistake.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s not . . . well . . .”
“He’s not what, Teeve?”
“He’s not who you think he is. You don’t know the truth about what’s going on here.”
“Then maybe you’d better tell me.”
“This is Nicky Jack.”
O Boy looked as if he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. Not only did he seem to be having trouble drawing breath, his skin paled to the color of corkwood.
“Nicky Harjo,” Teeve said. “Gaylene’s son.”
T
hen I had dinner in the motel.”
“Yeah.” O Boy grinned, an expression intended to convey contempt, not humor. “I hear you don’t care for fried catfish.”
“Is that a felony here? Or just a misdemeanor.”
“I’d call it bad judgment.”
The phone on the desk rang only once before O Boy picked it up, holding the receiver to his good ear. “Daniels,” he said, grabbing for a pen and notepad, brushing aside the soiled bandage Mark had removed from his arm.
The wound the sheriff had insisted on seeing was five days old now, the purple bruising beginning to yellow. The dog’s teeth had punctured the skin in two places, but the deepest lesion, where the flesh had been ripped away, was held together by six stitches, healing but still tender.
“Okay. Let me know when you find out,” O Boy said to his caller.
As he cradled the phone, he turned his attention back to Mark. “So what did you do after you had your supper?”
“I walked to the pool hall, but it was closed. I didn’t see Teeve until the next day. That’s when she told me what happened to Gaylene Harjo and her son.”
“And that’s you. Right?”
“As far as I know.”
“Then what?”
“Went to the newspaper office, looked at some microfilm, went back to the motel.”
“But you took a little detour, didn’t you. Stopped in for a few drinks somewhere along the way.”
“No, I—”
“I got two witnesses who saw you staggering down Main Street yesterday afternoon.”
“I was sick.”
“You had to have help to get to your room.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“One of the dangers of drink, I’m told. So let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you passed out in your room. You stay there all night?”
“No, I slept for several hours, woke up around ten-thirty, then went to Teeve’s house.”
“How long were you there?”
“An hour or so.”
“Anyone see you when you got back to the motel?”
“Not sure. The lobby was empty.”
“No one on the desk?”
“I . . . I can’t remember.”
“Seems to me there’s a lot that you don’t remember. Hell, you probably don’t remember coming out to my place this morning with that bullshit story about you being a lawyer.”
“If I’d told you the truth, you’d have thought I was crazy.”
“You wanna know what I think? I think you got to town Thursday night, saw that old flyer in the window of the pool hall, got the idea to pass yourself off as Nick Harjo and—”
“Why would I do that?”
“Gives you a story to explain why you’re here. Just a coincidence that the break-ins start up on the same night you hit town. Only problem was, you got chewed up by some guy’s watchdog while you—”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah. You got bit by a Keystone.”
“Keeshond. Look at the teeth marks. They don’t look anything like the bite of a German shepherd. Call my clinic in Los Angeles. They’ll tell you that I—”
“Oh, I’ll be making some calls. You can count on it. But while I do that, let me find you a comfortable place to wait. Quiet spot where you can relax a while. That sound like a good idea to you?”
As he was being led from O Boy’s office to the jail at the back of the building, Mark had envisioned sharing a cell with drunks, junkies and maybe a maniac or two. As it turned out, he was the lone occupant of his cell, the only bonus he could determine in being locked up.
At first, he read the graffiti scrawled on the walls. His favorite was “Do’nt blame Marybeth for what I done cause it ain’t her fawlt,” signed “Fred,” a line that set Mark’s imagination spinning as he constructed a history for Marybeth and Fred.
For the next hour, Mark paced from the bars across the front of the cell to the concrete windowless wall at the back, a distance of some twelve feet according to his calculations.
During the second hour, he overcame his reluctance to lie down on the stained ticking mattress, which was probably infested with all manner of bugs naked to the human eye. But sleep, he figured, offered him, at present, his only means of escape.
At first, he scratched at imagined bugs setting up housekeeping in his hair, bugs slipping down the collar of his shirt and creeping up the inside legs of his trousers. But when he heard snoring coming from one of the other cells, he finally dozed, lulled by the regularity of the sound.
“Hey, buddy. Nap time’s over.”
Mark was jerked from sleep by the same deputy who had locked him up two hours earlier.
“Come on,” he said, growing impatient. “Your lawyer got you sprung.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Well, you don’t have
much
of a lawyer, but you got one.”
Mark trailed the deputy, retracing the path he’d followed earlier, entering a hallway, then passing the room where the sheriff had questioned him before he’d been led to the jail.
At the end of the hallway, the deputy unlocked a door to a narrow room with an area that looked like a bank teller’s cage, where a uniformed woman was working at a computer. She got up when they entered, obviously expecting them.
“Step over here,” she said, her voice and manner stiff and officious. “Reclaim your property.”
She emptied a large manila envelope onto the counter in front of her and called out items as she shoved them beneath the bars to Mark.
“Wallet. Cash—two hundred forty-three dollars, sixteen cents. Car keys. Motel key. Gold chain. Nail clippers. Wristwatch. Plastic comb. And one blue baby bootie.”
After he signed the release form, she handed him a copy and said, “Have a nice evening.”
In a public office at the front of the building, Ivy was waiting with a man Mark had seen on his first visit to the pool hall.
“Are you okay?” Ivy asked as soon as Mark stepped through the door.
“Yeah.”
“This is Hap Duchamp,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind that I called him, but I thought you needed a lawyer.”
Hap extended his hand. “Nick? Or Mark?”
“Mark, please.”
“Sorry it took so long to get you released,” Hap said.
“I’m just glad you got me out when you did. I was beginning to think I’d be in that cell all night.”
“Let’s talk outside.” Hap gestured toward a desk where a secretary was watching them with interest. He held the door for Ivy and Mark, then followed them out to the sidewalk.
“So, is this finished?” Mark asked.
“I think so,” Ivy said.
“O Boy didn’t have any evidence to link you to those burglaries,” Hap said. “He had nothing at all.”
“Then why did he put me in jail?”
“I’m guessing it’s because you told him you’re Nick Harjo.”
“That’s a crime?”
“No, but I think he wanted to keep you until he could check you out.”
“What do you mean, ‘check me out’?”
“I believe he’s afraid you really might be who you claim to be. And if you are, it wouldn’t look good for him.”
“Why?”
“O Boy worked real hard to convince folks around here that Joe Dawson killed Gaylene and her son. And after he matched Joe’s knife to her wounds, he pretty much thought he had wrapped it up. But if you really are Nick Harjo, then his theory’s shot all to hell. Might even cost him the next election. Still enough people in the county who believe Joe was innocent.”
“Then why did he let me go?”
“Well, for one thing, he didn’t have a reason to charge you. But if I had to guess, I’d say he discovered something to make him believe you
might
be the Harjo boy, so he probably couldn’t wait to let you go. More than likely he’s hoping you’ll hightail it out of here.”
“You mean he wants me out of town so he can save his political ass.”
“Yeah. That’s the way I see it.”
“Then I think I’m going to need your help.”
“Sure. What can I do?”
“Help me prove I’m Gaylene Harjo’s son.”
In the four hours since Mark had ridden in Ivy’s van, she had managed to fill the passenger seat with an interesting mix—a package of crackers, a stack of old
National Geographic
s and two boxes of baking soda.
She moved the magazines and crackers, then handed Mark the baking soda while he was fastening his seat belt. “Here,” she said, “this is for you.”
“What’s it for?”
“Chiggers, mosquito bites. Remember our hike to the trailer?”
“What makes you think I’ve got bites?”
Without missing a beat, she said, “Sprinkle it in your bathwater. You’ll still itch, but it’ll help.”
As she pulled away from the courthouse, Mark surreptitiously scratched at a welt on his upper arm.
“Would you like to get something to eat?”
“No, just drop me at the motel if you don’t mind. I need to wash the smell of jail off me.”
“It’s distinctive.
Parfum de prison.
”
“Tell me about Hap Duchamp.”
“He comes from the oldest and wealthiest family in town, maybe the whole state. But he’s a decent guy. Hap’s not impressed by his family or their money.”
“Is he a good lawyer?”
“I think so. But I can’t speak from personal experience. He’s never had to get me out of jail.” She laughed as she pulled into the motel.
“I’m glad to know you’re sensitive to my situation. Now, would you like to come in? Watch my chiggers drown?”
“Why, you have a sense of humor after all.”
“Yeah, I’m a riot,” he said as he got out. “Oh, since it looks like I’m going to be around here for a while, I’m going to need to buy some clothes. Any suggestions?”
“Wal-Mart.”
“I thought they sold shovels and Crock-Pots. Batteries. Stuff like that.”
“You’ve never been in a Wal-Mart?”
“No.”
“Welcome to the real world, Nick Harjo,” she said with a teasing smile as she waved and drove away.
As he entered the lobby, two women behind the reception desk suspended their conversation when they saw him; a man seated in the waiting area looked up from his newspaper to gape as he walked by; two teenage girls going into the dining room stepped back to avoid getting too near him.
He knew he looked like he’d been held captive and tortured, his body bearing stitches, scratches, bruises and bites . . . both he and his clothes having suffered through an afternoon in the woods, an evening in jail.
When he unlocked the door to his room and switched on the light, he was stunned by what he saw—drawers hanging open, phone receiver off the hook, his suitcase upended on the bed, the clothes in his closet pulled from their hangers and piled in a heap on the floor.
And he knew without looking that the adoption decree and birth certificate were gone.
July 19, 1967
Dear Diary,
Tonight at prayer meeting I won a plastic rose for memorizing more scriptures than anyone else in my class. I am good at memorizing, but a lot of times I don’t understand what the scripture means. Like this one in Ezra. “Now because we have maintenance from the king’s palace, and it was not meet for us to see the king’s dishonour, therefore have we sent and certified the king.” Now what does that mean? Well, I usually just memorize short verses like “For the body is not one member, but many.” I don’t know what that one means either, but its short.
I wish Danny Pittman went to our church, but I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. Once we had a white couple who came one Sunday, but they never came back. Might be because we sang “Amazing Grace” in Cherokee and they felt embarrassed. We always sing one hymn in Cherokee, but “Amazing Grace” is the only one I know.
Spider Woman
