Well, especially since York had been there for so many years. He was practically an institution.
Steve and York had had some pretty intense, in-depth conversations when Steve was a youngster, and York, although not yet blind in those days, had seemed just exactly as old as he was today.
York was the one who got through to Steve that he ought to be treating people the same way he’d like to be treated. His mother had tried to tell him that a million times or more, but when that concept came from York’s mouth, Steve heard, and he understood. Years later, it was York who told Steve that a gentleman always wore a condom. No lectures on morality or sexually transmitted diseases or the life-ruination of an unplanned pregnancy with a high-school girl. A gentleman always wore one, period. Plain and simple.
Steve heard that in a way he’d never heard his parents talk about such things, on the rare occasions that they did talk about such emotionally charged things.
One night, when young Steve Goddard had been restless with hormones and wanderlust, he climbed out of his bedroom window and by the light of the full moon, wandered around town until he found himself down by York’s place. A freight train was slowly screeching itself on by, and a little fire was lit under that dented and bent-up coffeepot that York still used to this day. They sat together, Steve and York, in comfortable silence until the train passed on by, and the two of them talked about the wildness of the world and the untamable human spirit while some blanket-covered soul snored and more stars looked down on them than Steve had ever remembered seeing.
That night, York talked of hopping freights, and the danger and the peace. He talked about the freedom and how addictive it was until it was its own prison. He talked about the fence of morality that contained behavior and gave life meaning, direction and rules to abide by. When the sun came up, Steve was foggy from lack of sleep, but he had a completely different view of the universe and his small, yet not insignificant, part in it.
And now what would his sons say if they found out that in the interest of being reelected, he’d thrown York out of his home? Just because he could.
Power corrupts, that’s what they’d say.
Unless it was for York’s own good. York was old. York had been old thirty years ago.
Steve wondered if his wife would let York stay in their behind-the-garage apartment for a while.
Probably not.
He ran his hands through his bristly gray crew cut and thought about going down and having a little chat with York and the boys and see what they could come up with together. York had always been a fair-minded guy. He might have an answer that Steve could hear.
But then going to York for his advice was a stupid thing to do, particularly since York had a serious interest in the advice he would give, and not only that, but Steve already knew the right thing to do.
Shit.
~ ~ ~
“Stupid government’s got their fingers in everything, know that?” Sly opened with that announcement as he came down the path toward camp. “You got to go to one government agency to find out one thing, and another agency to find out another. You think about the fact that all the schoolteachers are government employees, and that ought to make you sick to your stomach. Teaching all those little kids. It’s no wonder the world’s in a pickle.”
“So what’d you find out?” Clover asked as she brushed Denny’s hand off her breast. He was feeling frisky, and she was interested in just exactly what “holding fast” meant.
“I found out that the railroad owns this land we’re on.”
“That’s all?” Denny asked. “Jesus, we all kind of figured that.”
“What else was I supposed to find out? Who owns the railroad? Probably the government. They own everything. Besides, I didn’t want to get too nosy. Soon they’d be asking for my ID, and saying, ‘Your papers, please,’ like in the old Nazi movies and then they’d start a file on me. I don’t want a file on me, least not anything added to the file they’ve already got. I don’t know how you expect to beat those–”
“Shhht,” York said. “Someone’s coming.”
A long pair of legs, too old for the tiny shorts at the top of them, and too long for the high heels at the bottom of them, were stepping gingerly down the path. Above the blue shorts was a red-and-white-striped top full of boobs, and on top of that was a face too full of makeup and hair that was too red and too fried at the ends.
“Denny?” she said when she saw them all looking up at her.
Clover felt a red-hot flush come up her chest, over her neck and fill her face. She moved a little bit away from Denny, but not before he moved away from her.
“Hey, Brenda,” Denny said, stood up and brushed off his jeans. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see about your head,” she said.
“Oh, thanks, it’s okay.” Denny fingered the bump on his forehead. He felt uncomfortable, and it showed.
“Introduce me?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah, sure. That’s York.” York smiled and waved. “That’s Sly.”
“Hi,” Sly said.
“Hi.” Brenda felt shy, or coy, or something. She hoped she didn’t look it.
“And this is Clover.” Clover stood up, brushed dust off her uniform and gave him a look that would kill. “Clover’s my girlfriend,” he said.
Clover smiled and held out her hand.
“This here’s Brenda,” Denny said as he watched the two women shake hands. “Brenda saved me the other night when I got whacked by a pool cue.”
“We owe you thanks,” Clover said.
“Wasn’t nothing. He was trying to help a friend of mine when her old man came in and started giving her grief. It was the least I could do for a good Samaritan.”
“And I still owe you for that dinner you paid for,” Denny said. “I ain’t forgot.”
Brenda smiled at him and nodded.
There was a long pause, as nobody seemed to have much to say about anything to each other. Clover looked directly at Brenda, not with a challenge, but with the territorial stare of a vixen, and Brenda looked at Denny with a desperate, help-me-I’m-out-of-my-element-here look, but Denny was looking at the ground. Sly was grinning as he viewed the situation, and York’s brow furrowed as he tried to grasp the psychic vibrations of the situation at hand.
Finally, Brenda said, “Denny, could I talk with you for a minute?”
“Sure,” he said, and together they walked up the path.
“Nice to meet y’all,” Brenda said over her shoulder.
Clover stood still, watching them go. At the top of the hill, they stopped and faced each other. Brenda spoke while Denny kicked dirt. Then Denny talked for a minute, looking intently up at Brenda. Then Brenda spoke, and Denny nodded. Then she kissed him on the cheek, turned, and walked away. Denny kicked dirt some more, then turned and came back down the hill.
Clover never moved, not knowing who she was anymore. She didn’t know what she thought, or what she felt, or what she wanted. The identity that Clover considered hers had up and vanished, and in its place stood a stranger. A scary stranger. The intense jealous rage that flared up in her and made her want to strangle the redhead was as foreign an emotion as any she’d ever had. She had no idea she felt that way about Denny. But she knew one thing, and she knew it suddenly and for absolute certain: She had given Denny the power to hurt her, and to hurt her in a big, bad way.
“Brenda’s brother works for the railroad,” Denny said when he came back down. “Railroad guys are fixing to evict us.”
“What else did she say?” Clover asked.
“That Christine and her dumbass husband, the one who cracked me on the head, they took the six hundred bucks they stole from me and sucked it right on up their noses. Or something.”
“Anything go on between you two?” Clover asked.
“Did it look like it?” Denny was secretly a little bit pleased that this was getting a rise out of the girl. He didn’t mind having two women square off over him
.
“I don’t know.”
“I introduced you as my girlfriend,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, stifling a smile. She sat down on his blanket and pulled him down with her. “That was kind of nice. You’ve never done that before.”
“Evict us?” Sly said. “What does that mean?”
“Well, you are,” Denny said to Clover, and poked at her playfully. “Aren’t you?”
Clover giggled. “I guess.”
“What did she mean, evict us?” Sly asked again.
“She meant baseball bats under the dark of night,” York said. “I seen it in a dream.”
Sly looked over at Denny, panic rising, but Denny was smooching with the girl, and Sly knew that once a man’s whanger got the best of him, there was no talking with him until it had had its way with him.
“We need weapons, York,” Sly said, and visions of his creepy lieutenant came back into his head. He crouched down next to York and whispered urgently to him, while out of the corner of his eye, he saw Denny pull the girl up and take off with her somewheres on down the track. “We need to secure the perimeter, stand watch, defend ourselves. We could use a couple of semi-automatic weapons, some booby traps, some intelligence about the movement of the enemy troops.”
“Don’t want no conflict,” York said. “Don’t want no violence.”
“Well, conflict is just exactly what we got, and violence happens if they start it. We’re just standing fast. Holding the line.”
The good thing was that Denny wasn’t much for basking in afterglow, and in about ten minutes, they were back. He kissed the girl long and hard, then whacked her on the butt and sent her off to home. The men had work to do.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said. “In case you need me for something else.” He lunged at her, and she parried, giggling, then tripped on up the path.
“Did that woman say when the railroad guys were coming?” Sly asked.
“Nope,” Denny said.
“We’ve got to prepare.”
“With what? How?”
“No violence,” York said. But over York’s head, Sly looked at Denny, Denny looked back at Sly, and they both smiled.
~ ~ ~
As Clover lightly made her way uptown, she idly wondered how a day could turn so dark and stormy and then so beautiful, all within the space of a few moments. She felt in love with the world, and for the first time, started to think about someday maybe putting on a white dress and standing with Denny in front of a preacher.
Her mother would like that, and then she could move out of her dinky apartment, and they could set up housekeeping in a sweet little house. Maybe her mom could live in the attic, or over the garage or something. Clover would fix nice, healthy food, and maybe York and Sly could sleep over sometimes. They could come for a good, hot meal occasionally, and they could take a bath now and then.
Or maybe Clover would want to move Denny away from there, away from her mother, away from York and Sly.
But then that’s the kiss of death, isn’t it? Marrying a man and then being determined to change him. All the women’s magazines said so.
Nope, Denny wasn’t all that good a deal, as husbands go. Clover was a good deal, because she was bright, shiny, loyal, a good worker and a devoted friend. She was sympathetic and nice and not too emotional, for a girl.
But Denny. Denny was a bum, that’s all there was to that. And Clover needed to watch herself real careful so she didn’t get knocked up and end up like her mother.
Maybe York knocked her mother up when they were both about twenty-four years younger, and he really was her daddy. That’s why her mother didn’t want her hanging around down there by the train tracks.
By the time Clover got to her apartment, her nether parts were all sticky, her panties smelled like Denny had just had a go at her, which he had, and she was ready for a bath, not marriage.
She was glad she’d the good sense to reason these things out instead of acting on them.
Still, it was nice to feel loved. And Denny loved her, she knew it.
She walked around the back of the house where Mrs. Fine lived with Charlie, her Down’s-syndrome son. Clover had her own little yard, but the yard man mowed it for her, so she only had to take care of what flower beds she chose to keep and tend, and make sure all the birdfeeders were full.
It was a hot, dry July, and the grass looked tattered and exhausted, though the flowers, well mulched, were abundant and glorious. Clover promised the lawn some water after she took her bath, and promised herself some cut flowers for the coffee table. She checked the feeders and found they were all still full, so the birds weren’t having a problem staying fat and sassy this year.
Her apartment, though tiny, was its own separate building. It probably used to be some kind of a shed or something, but it had its own bedroom with a twin bed, a nightstand and a dresser, a living room with a couch, a television, a Formica table, a teeny stove and fridge, and a bathroom with a little plant area next to the tub that got both morning and evening sun through well-placed windows on both sides. She started the tub water running, threw in some Mr. Bubble, and then turned the radio on low to listen to some soft country music.
It felt good to get out of that uniform. She smelled like donut grease, burnt coffee, and Denny.
She lowered herself gently into the hot, sudsy water with a sigh, and started going over the mental agenda she had worked out for herself.
First: laundry. She’d take care of that right after her bath, because she only had one clean uniform left, and Clover didn’t like to be that short on things. She could spill something ugly on it right away on her next shift, and then she’d have to look trashy all day long. Second: her mother. Clover worried about Eileen, the way she drank and smoked and ran around at night. If Clover had behaved that way when she lived at home, she’d get a slap for her trouble. But that had never been necessary, because Clover behaved herself. But Eileen—that was how Clover was beginning to think of her, instead of as Mother—was looking older by the minute, and Clover was certain she’d get herself either sick or into trouble soon.
Eileen was due at the bakery at three a.m. every day; Clover’s shift started at five. Most times, Eileen looked as if she hadn’t even gone to bed yet. Clover thought she’d pop on by Eileen’s apartment to see if she could do her mom’s laundry while she was doing her own. Maybe that would be a good time for them to talk. Clover was beginning to feel like the adult, and that was a shame, because her mom wasn’t even forty yet.
Something ate at Eileen, something Clover couldn’t even begin to imagine, but someday, she’d find out what it was.
Okay. She’d pop by her mom’s apartment, offer to wash her uniforms, and see where that took her.
Denny. Nothing to think about there. He was on her agenda automatically, because she liked thinking about him, about his shy smile and his nice hazel eyes, his brown hair and his reddish eyebrows and beard.
Clover smiled and dunked herself down in the soapy water. He would not be the father of her children, but she was certainly becoming fond of him. One of these days she’d give him up, she supposed, but she really hoped he’d change from his own wanting to, and then they could make a life together. That weird jealousy was not something she was interested in experiencing again, but that had been her own fault; Denny was blameless. And he’d called her his girlfriend.
Clover grinned into her soapy washcloth. She was somebody’s girlfriend.
Okay. Last agenda item: Railroad guys evicting Denny, Sly and York. She didn’t like the sound of that, and she didn’t like the sound of those guys fighting back. That bump and bruise on Denny’s forehead had scared her half to death, and maybe it would even be worse with those tough guys. They’d break him like a twig, probably.
Okay, Clover, she thought to herself, you’re so clever, figure something out.
She closed her eyes and lay back in the warm water, feeling the anxieties of the day soak out of her
as Clint Black crooned softly.
Maybe Eileen would have an idea.
Maybe Clover could go talk to Deputy Travis. Deputy Travis seemed pretty interested in whatever Clover had to say, as long as the top button of her uniform was undone. Maybe Clover should put on a pair of short-shorts and a tight T-shirt and go pay a little visit to Deputy Travis.
The thought made her blush. Shame on you, Clover, she scolded herself, for thinking like that even as you’re washing your boyfriend’s essence from your body.
She felt like a sexy little thing, there was no doubt about that. And that was Denny’s fault.
And she was doing this for Denny, right?
Right.
She dunked her head back into the warm water, then began to lather up her hair.
~ ~ ~
With a cigarette in her mouth, and hair that looked as though it might have mice living in it, a scruffy, worn-out-looking Eileen opened the door. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her makeup-free face looking gray and haggard instead of fresh-scrubbed as it ought to look. It had been over a year since Clover had seen her mother without the thick makeup she wore, and the aging that had been taking place in that time was amazing.
“Just came to visit,” Clover said. “Is this a bad time?”
Eileen sneered, and Clover thought she might be sneering at her daughter’s youth as much as anything. She stepped aside, and Clover stepped up into the trailer that was coated with a thin patina of nicotine and smelled like food gone bad. “Why do you live like this?” Clover asked as she pushed up her sleeves and began running hot water in the sink.
“Why do you come over here?”
“I came over to talk, but you make me worry about you.”
Eileen snorted. “Don’t waste it.” She adjusted her bra, then flopped down onto the worn cushions in the settee. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Where’s your dish soap?”
“I’m out.”
Clover sighed in exasperation, then decided that a sink full of dirty dishes wasn’t going to spell the end of her mother, but she could spell the end of their relationship if she didn’t ease off. She turned off the water, dried her hands, and sat down on the orange chair with a blue-striped beach towel covering the seat.
York's Moon Page 6