Shoot the Moon

by Billie Letts

  Finally, perhaps because Kyle had said all he had come to say, or because of his compassion, he found he couldn’t watch Arthur suffer anymore, so he’d ended it with another blast, this one to Arthur’s head, a shot that had blown away most of his face.

  After Mark had retched for the second time, he went to a hose connected to a faucet at the side of the condo, washed his face, doused his head, then drank deeply.

  “You gonna puke again?” O Boy yelled from across the yard, where he was leaning against the door of his patrol car, smoking a cigar from a box of Roi-Tan he’d found in Arthur’s bedside table.

  “You finished with me yet?” Mark asked, making sure to stay upwind of the cigar smoke.

  “Hell, no. I want to hear the rest of this fucking story of yours. It’s just now getting good. Let’s see. You hooked up with Lantana Mitchell, then she drove you to the nuthouse, where you got Kyle all riled up about Arthur slipping Gaylene a bit of the old sausage. Then you came back to town, went to the radio station and confronted Arthur, accusing him of raping Gaylene.”

  O Boy spit, took another drag on the cigar. “How am I doing so far, Nicky Jack? I got all the facts straight here?”

  Mark said nothing.

  “Now, let’s assume that Arthur and Gaylene played a little in and out, whether she wanted to or not. Either way, if he was your daddy, you just got him killed. Now, tell me something. How does that make you feel?”

  Mark choked back the bile he tasted at the back of his throat, fighting not to throw up again, which was exactly what O Boy was going for.

  “What I can’t understand is why. You came here, so you said, to find your mama, but you discovered she was dead. Then you went to a hell of a lot of trouble to find out who your daddy is. But once you thought you’d figured it out, you set him up to die.”

  “I didn’t set up a goddamn thing, and you know it,” Mark said. “Kyle was locked in that hospital, under guard. How could I know he’d get loose, kill Arthur? And by the way, how did Kyle get out?”

  “That’s my job to find out. Not yours. But let’s get back to the business of Arthur picking Gaylene up at the jail just so we’ll be clear on that. In case you didn’t know it, he was doing her a favor; and so was I. She was drunk out of her mind when I stopped her on the highway. Wonder she didn’t kill somebody. So I had the car towed, gave Rowena a ride home and took Gaylene to jail.

  “But a few cups of coffee and an hour or so later, she had the jailer call me back to her cell. She was still in bad shape, but aware enough to know she was in trouble. She cried, said if her folks found out, it would kill them.

  “Well, I couldn’t see much to be gained by holding her over for arraignment, charging her with DUI. She’d never been in trouble before, so when she asked me to call Arthur, see if he’d pick her up, take her to Rowena’s, I said sure. Why not? She worked for him, and I figured he wouldn’t mind helping the kid out. He showed up fifteen, twenty minutes later and we let her go with him.

  “If anything happened between the two of them after they left the jail, I never heard about it. But Gaylene had a problem keeping her drawers pulled up, so it’s not beyond reason. He might’ve been porking her all along. ’Course, you probably don’t want to hear that, you being so bound and determined to prove she was your mama. Now, anything else you want to know?”

  “Yeah. I want to know who killed her. And I don’t buy that Joe Dawson story. Not for a minute.”

  “Oh, is that right? Well, Mr. Detective,” O Boy said, “I would certainly be happy to deputize you, put you on the case, but unfortunately that case was closed. Almost thirty years ago. Joe Dawson killed Gaylene Harjo,” he said. “End of story.”

  “No, not quite the end.”

  “Really? Then where do we go next?”

  “How about California,” Mark said.

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “If Dawson killed her, then how did I get to California? Who took me? Who arranged for my adoption?”

  “I wouldn’t know a thing about that.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would, since you accused Joe Dawson of not one, but two killings. You even had most of the people around here believing he buried me someplace on his own land.”

  “And how many believe you? Huh?” O Boy asked. “How many believe you’re really Nick Harjo and not just a fucking punk trying to get some publicity that might earn you some big bucks for one of them TV movies? Or maybe a book.”

  “It was a woman who showed up at the lawyer’s office in Los Angeles,” Mark said. “She had a baby in her arms and my birth certificate in her purse. Said her name was Gaylene Harjo. But that would have been quite a trick, wouldn’t it, since my mother was already dead right here in DeClare.”

  O Boy pushed away from the patrol car, crushed the cigar beneath his boot and stomped across the narrow strip of grass that separated Arthur’s condo from the one next to it, the area where two of his deputies were studying their shoe tops.

  “You boys don’t have no goddamn work to do? No reports to file? No follow-ups to those burglaries? If not, then maybe you better be thinking about applying for unemployment ’cause your county paychecks might not be coming in next month.”

  The deputies got into a vehicle and created an exit from the trailer park that would have made a good scene in a bad movie.

  “You got any proof of what you just said about some woman claiming to be Gaylene?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you best tell me what you know or I’ll charge you with withholding evidence.”

  “How could I withhold evidence in a case that was closed thirty years ago?”

  “Listen here, you son of a bitch, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “It’s a little late for you to be threatening me, Sheriff Daniels. Way too late. Because I’m already into it.”

  O Boy said, “And you think I’m not? That’s my brother in there.”

  Mark reached Teeve’s after two, but even at that late hour, he’d had to shoulder his way past the crowd gathered in front of her house. All but a couple of reporters could tell he was not in the mood to chat, but finally even the two of them backed off when they sensed he was furious, confused and exhausted.

  O Boy had driven away from Arthur’s condo alone, leaving Mark to walk, but he’d hitched a ride with a couple returning home from a late night of bingo at the VFW.

  Ivy, who’d been waiting up, ran to the back door when she heard him knock, yanked him inside and into her embrace.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “No. I’m not okay.”

  “Here, sit down.”

  She pulled out a chair for him at the kitchen table.

  “Can I fix you something to eat?” she asked. “We have some split pea soup or some leftover meat loaf and—”

  Before she finished her list of possibilities, Mark was heading for the bathroom with the dry heaves.

  When he returned to the table, Ivy had fixed him a cup of hot tea, but he pushed it away.

  “Where did O Boy take you?” Ivy asked. “I went to the courthouse, even made them take me down to the jail. Thought they might be hiding you, but—”

  “Jail? No, that would have seemed like a luxury spa compared to what I saw. He took me to Arthur’s condo.”

  “Oh, my God. You mean you saw . . .”

  “You don’t want to know what I saw. Trust me. It was horrible. Kyle must have been out of his head. And I caused it, Ivy. If I hadn’t gone to see Kyle today, hadn’t planted the idea in his head that Arthur was the one who got Gaylene pregnant . . .”

  “You can’t take responsibility for that. You couldn’t have known what Kyle was going to do.”

  “But here’s the thing. I don’t even know if it’s true that Arthur got her pregnant. For all I know, it could have been O Boy, one of the deputies, a boyfriend, a stranger from the bar.”

  “You ca
n’t let guilt kick your ass, Mark.”

  “Listen, I know you want to help, but I don’t really feel like talking about this tonight. I’m beat.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I’d like to take a shower, then try to get a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Okay,” Ivy said. “But if you need anything in the night, what’s left of it, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m a pretty light sleeper.”

  Mark stayed in the shower as long as he could stand it, trying not to let the scene from Arthur’s bedroom replay in his head. Every time a fragment of that picture nudged its way into his thoughts, he’d turn the water hotter until, when he finally stepped out of the stall, his skin was more red than brown.

  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

  Teeve 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.�
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  “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.