Shoot the Moon

by Billie Letts

  “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 Geographics 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

  Chapter Eleven

  After Mark phoned Hap Duchamp to tell him about the missing documents, he started to call Charlene at home but hung up before he finished dialing.

  If the sheriff had already spoken to her, told her Mark Albright was suspected of a series of burglaries in Oklahoma, she would be hysterical. And he couldn’t deal with Charlene’s hysteria. Not now.

  He took a long baking soda bath, during which he removed two ticks from his groin and one from behind his knee, counted twenty-four chigger bites around his midsection and nineteen on his ankles.

  While he soaked in the tub, he tried to make sense of the last forty-eight hours, reconstructing the events, putting them in order.

  Until the past few weeks, almost everything in his life had gone according to plan. His plan. A sort of paint-by-numbers for living.

  He had mapped out his future when he was sixteen, the result of a questionnaire prepared by his guidance counselor, the form asking, “Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten years? Twenty-five?”

  Most of his classmates had responded by filling in the blanks. But not Mark Albright. He had spent days and nights composing his answers, finally turning in a ten-page blueprint for his life.

  His plan included a bachelor’s degree from UCLA and a DVM from Tufts. Marriage at thirty; a beautiful wife. Professional success in his own Beverly Hills clinic. A healthy investment portfolio that would provide a home in Malibu and another in Palm Springs, two vintage Jaguars, and membership in the Bel-Air Country Club. Trips abroad. All part of Mark Albright’s Life-by-Design.

  Becoming Nick Harjo had not been in his plan.

  When he finally pulled the plug on the tub and watched the water swirling down the drain, it seemed a metaphor for what had happened to that other life.

  After he shaved and rebandaged his arm, he picked through his clothes. Not that he had much to look at—two pairs of slacks and two shirts, the total of what he’d brought with him. Twenty-five hundred dollars’ worth of Versace, Fendi and Valentino, some beyond salvage now.

  He decided to wear the least torn, stained and smelly of the bunch, put aside his favorite shirt to see if the cleaners could resurrect it, then tossed the rest in the wastebasket.

  He used a wet towel to clean his loafers, a pair of Guccis he’d bought in Milan, but they didn’t look much better when he finished. The leather looked like it had been clawed, and one shoe was missing a tassel. But he supposed Gucci hadn’t designed them for an overland expedition.

  The lobby downstairs was quiet now, empty except for a black man standing near the door.

  “Excuse me,” Mark said to the woman behind the reception desk.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I had intended to check out this afternoon, but my plans have changed. I need to keep the room for a few more days.”

  “Your name?” she asked as she stepped over to her computer.

  “Mark Albright.”

  “Room two twenty-nine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No problem, Mr. Albright. Just let us know when you’ll be checking out.”

  “Thanks. Is the dining room still open?”

  “No, but you can get sandwiches in the bar.”

  As he started toward the bar, the black man fell in beside him.

  “Mr. Harjo?”

  Mark felt a jolt of apprehension at hearing this stranger say his name, a name that still seemed alien to him, despite the revelations of the past few days.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “My father.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Amax Dawson. Joe Dawson was my daddy.”

  “I wish I could tell you more,” Mark said. “But that’s really all I know.”

  Amax nodded, swallowed hard, then pushed back from the table. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said as he headed for the men’s room in the motel lobby.

  Mark watched him walk away, noticing that he h
ad a slight limp. He was a handsome man, with smooth mahogany-colored skin, eyes a light shade of green and long, thick lashes of the kind women bought at cosmetic counters. Though he had probably thickened some around the middle, he still had narrow hips, broad shoulders and arms rippled with muscle.

  “Hey, you guys ready for another round?” the bartender asked Mark.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  Amax came back to the table as the barmaid arrived with two bottles of beer, causing him to go for his pocket.

  “You got the first ones.” Mark handed the woman some bills. As soon as she retreated to the bar, he asked Amax, “Are you okay?”

  Amax hesitated, then cleared his throat. “The day the gravediggers were shoveling out a hole for Dad’s casket, O Boy Daniels had a crew on our land digging for a dead baby.” Shifting his gaze to the mirror behind the bar, Amax stared at his own reflection, as if trying to put a name to the face looking back at him.

  “I knew my daddy didn’t kill anybody, knew he couldn’t do a thing like that. But now and then . . .” Amax pulled at his lip. “Some kid at school would make a remark. Or I’d have a dream about my dad, see him on his hands and knees scooping out a hole down by the pond or behind the barn. Or maybe I’d just catch a stranger looking at me, his eyes telling me I was too young, too simple, to see the truth.

  “And I’d wonder, you know? I’d think, What if . . .” Amax ran a thumb around the rim of his beer bottle. “But I couldn’t talk about that. Couldn’t admit that sometimes I had doubts. I had to keep that to myself, keep all that guilt inside.”

  He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Sorry. I haven’t talked about this in a long time.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology.”

  An outburst of laughter at the bar provided a brief distraction.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?” Mark said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How did your father know her?”

  “Your mama?”

  Mark nodded, acknowledging a word as strange as one from an undiscovered language.

  “Daddy knew everybody in the county, I guess. He was a farmer who preached . . . or a preacher who farmed. Depended on what time of year it was.