Carolina Moon

by Jill McCorkle

  Quee is in need of a little breather herself and has pro-claimed a day off for Smoke-Out. Ruthie is off somewhere quoting, and Mr. Radio is boasting about being a smoke-free person, and Quee is just damn glad to get a little peace and quiet, a little time to catch up with Denny and find out exactly what is going on with Tom Lowe. A day of rest; every great creation calls for one. Then tomorrow at noon a brand-new group of addicts will come calling, and it’ll be business as usual.

  “Now, this is a picture I want you to see.” Quee leads Denny and Tom down to the very end of the hall. It’s dark and she has to turn on a light for them to be able to see the little frame that she pulls from the wall. It’s a picture of the river, vines dangling into the water. She bought the picture long ago because it made her think of Rapunzel, the vines like long braids reaching to pull somebody out. Off to the side is half of a person, someone who was never even supposed to be in the picture.

  “This looks like the Braveman Bridge,” Tom says and leans down to study the photo. “Good fishing there.” He shakes his head. “You might even catch a body these days.”

  “That is the Braveman Bridge,” Quee says. “It says so on the back, though I didn’t know it when I bought it.”

  “So, is there a story to it?” Denny asks and steps right up close to Tom. If she got any closer she would be Tom.

  “Oh, my, yes,” Quee says and places the frame back on its rusty nail. “You see, something has just happened here.”

  “Yeah, we know.” Tom laughs again, and she waits until they are quiet. “I’m sorry, we’ll listen.” Tom reaches for Denny’s hand and she wiggles right up to him.

  “Well, you see, the story is about a man and a woman meeting down here at the Braveman Bridge but the story doesn’t start there, Lord, no.” She leans closer to the wall, thick nubby bedroom shoes spread apart and turned out like she might be getting frisked. “The story starts, oh, maybe a year before that, when this same young man appeared at the woman’s door to say that he was in need of her services.” She turns and grins a fake grin. “You see, he thought she was in the business of prostitution.”

  “One of the oldest professions,” Tom Lowe adds, and Quee has to sigh again. He has gotten to be a regular chatterbox.

  “Well, anyway, he wanted her services and she said, You git from my door you old dog, because the truth was that he had a very nice sweet wife at home who didn’t even know what a horrible monster she had married.” She pauses to make sure that she has Tom and Denny’s full attention. She does. My, yes. You could hear a feather. “You see, the wife was a friend of this older woman, too. The fool man just had no sense about what loyalty means and about what a good friend will do for you.

  “So he goes off in a great big huff, needing to pay city prices, you see. Go ahead and sit down there on the floor if you’re getting fidgety.”

  “I’m not fidgety,” Denny says, consciously making herself like stone.

  “And I’m petite,” Quee says. “Go on, take a load off. This is a long story. You guys can play footsie or whatever a lot better sitting than standing, too.” She waits for them to sit, both wide-eyed like the children she never had.

  “So about a year later this same fella comes back with the very same request. He needs her services, and he is prepared to pay whatever it takes. Well, she has no intentions of giving him what he wants, but still she says, All right then, meet me at the river, Braveman Bridge, and he says he will. He drives a car, she goes on foot. He parks his car, oh round about here,” she rubs her finger along the wall beyond the frame. “And there they are on the bridge. Now in her pocket she has a little old pistol that doesn’t even work but she has brought it along for effect.

  “‘I’m not in the business you think I’m in,’ she says. ‘Just what is it you want?’ He laughs and shakes his head from side to side. He pulls out his wallet and fans some money, takes out a credit card, and presses it into her hand, cool plastic in her palm.

  “‘You name your price,’ he says. So she tells him first off that she is very thirsty and does he have some liquor. Well, it just so happens that if they walk up to his car, he has a flask in his glove compartment. When she gets to the car, she takes a big slug of that liquor herself and then, when he isn’t looking, she drops some little sleep pills in and then watches his Adam’s apple chug back and forth while he drains it. She knows it won’t hit him right off, him being such a big fella, but it won’t be too long. So to kill time, she suggests that he take off his clothes. Now he resists and laughs and tries to get her to take off her clothes. They go on a bit and then, by the time that she pulls out her little gun and orders that he take his clothes off, he listens. She makes him fold every article neatly like he might work in the laundromat and then she has him put the clothes on the backseat, all but the shoes, of course; he needs those shoes to walk back down to the river.”

  “This is it,” Denny says. “The murder. You’ve figured it out?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Quee says. “I’ve spent hours thinking on it. You see, he was threatening her, he knew something about her.”

  “So keep going,” Tom says. “I can’t wait for the scarecrow part.” They giggle like children, and so she waits for them to finish up again.

  “By the time they get to the bridge, he’s real groggy, slips and hits his head which pretty much does him in. Then all she has to do is roll his old naked body down onto the bank and not more than eight to ten feet, where an old farmer does his composting of autumn leaves and such. He is face down in the mud and she leaves him that way, pushes dirt all up around him so that it might be hard to move around. More and more dirt and limbs and such and then he fits right into nature.”

  “And she takes his sweater and puts it on the scarecrow,” Denny says and laughs, but the look in her eyes is saying something else.

  “But there’s evidence,” Tom says. “There’s a wallet, credit card.”

  “Gun,” Denny adds.

  “The gun isn’t important,” Quee says. “It was never used.”

  “Wallet?”

  “Oh, the wallet. Well, the card goes back in the wallet and then this woman, let’s call her, oh, Eunice; Eunice goes on home, and who is there but a good friend of hers, who has a little boy who has grown, my, yes, but he has grown, but he does still wear diapers and, oh, my goodness, he is in need of a change as soon as Eunice gets in the door.

  “Well, Eunice’s friend has been having some problems in her life, marital problems I guess, and while she’s making some calls, Eunice tells her to go on and relax, take care of her business, that she, Eunice, will change the boy’s diaper. And she does and as she’s about to wrap it up in plastic she slips the wallet in, bags it, carries it to the street and tells the trashman he better drive as fast as he can with that load.”

  “And that’s it?” Tom asks. “What about the flask?”

  “That’s it,” Quee says. “She pulled her sleeves down long enough to grab the flask with fabric. She never touched the flask.”

  “Pretty good,” Tom says.

  “Yeah.” Denny stands now and pulls him with her. “You ought to do something with all these stories you tell.”

  “Oh, I do,” Quee says. “I sure do.” They are both looking at her now, as if wondering exactly what she does do. “Your father made up some wild stories, didn’t he, Tommy?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Or so people say.” He turns to Denny. “My dad was a writer when he wasn’t drinking and screwing around.”

  “Oh, I always thought he was a nice man,” Quee says. “I always heard such wonderful things about him being kind-hearted and about how much he loved you.”

  “Yeah, right.” Tom steps up to look at the bridge picture again. “He left me a piece of underwater property, and he left my mom a shredded-up letter.”

  “Really?” Quee moves and starts walking back down the hall in front of them. “I always heard there was no note.”

  “He meant for there not to be, but there was. My mo
m found it in the trash, and she put it back in the trash, and then I pulled it out again.”

  “You have it?” Denny asks. Now they are back in the parlor, and Quee sits on the edge of the velvet ottoman and toys with the ball fringe.

  “It’s in my wallet,” he says and reaches into his back pocket. “Now don’t put my wallet in a diaper.” He waits for Quee to glance back at him and he laughs. She watches from across the room. She watches him spread out the crumpled paper, pieces held by yellowed tape; she hears him read: “‘Dear Betty, Here at the end I beg your forgiveness. I know that you will probably never give it to me but I beg nonetheless. Here I finally tell the truth for once. Don’t you see that . . .’ And that’s where it stops and then it says, ‘wish I’d seen sooner. We have a nice boy. I wish we had had a nice life.’” Tom folds up the paper and puts it back into his wallet; he takes a deep mocking bow and then nods to first Denny and then Quee. “And that, ladies, is my legacy.”

  “At least there’s something,” Denny says. “I don’t have anything from my father.” She puts her arm around Tom and kisses his cheek. “He said you’re a nice boy.”

  “Wow.” He put one finger in his mouth and pulled with a loud pop. “Whoopee-gee, as we used to say in about the eighth grade, which is how old I was when I read this the first time.”

  “Did you show your mother?” Quee asks as she goes around filling each candy dish with M&Ms.

  “Tried to. She said that she didn’t want to see it. If he loved her or if he hated her, she didn’t give a damn.”

  “How sad,” Denny says. “I’d want to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think I would,” Quee says and turns just in time to see the two of them kiss.

  Quee stands in the darkness of her hallway and watches Denny and Tom slip up the stairs to the garage apartment, Denny’s ponytail all straggly, his hand on her hip as she climbs. Quee can hear their whispers but can’t make out the words, just a rising and falling like waves. She will never forget the day that Tom Lowe appeared at her door, right around at the back of this very house. He was in high school, and she gasped to see him there, expecting a confrontation of some kind. He was his father’s son, physically at any rate, the deep blue eyes, the dark straight hair that had always put her in mind of an Indian brave—lean body in a leather thong skimming the forest floor without a sound. But there he was, a boy in blue jeans and Converse sneakers, a plain white T-shirt that looked like it had been bleached and pressed. She thought that maybe he had found the other part of the letter, the part with her name written. Maybe his mother had sent him, to blame her, to charge her, and she was preparing herself as she reached for the door handle. She would go outside where Lonnie wouldn’t hear them.

  “Yes?” She opened the door and stepped onto the porch. It was hard to look him in the eye, and she caught herself focusing on the car on the street, Cecil’s old car, the dirty white Chevrolet that he had left with his wife. There was a girl sitting there where she herself had sat on so many different occasions.

  “Yes?” she repeated, and now she looked him in the eye. He glanced over at the girl in the car, and then she understood. He knew nothing of her except that she was the witch doctor, the magician, the eraser, and a host of other names that filtered through the safe reign of the parents and into the ears of their children.

  “I’m Tom Lowe,” he said. “I think I need your help.” He reached in his back pocket. “All I’ve got is fifty dollars right now, but I swear I’m good for the rest. I get paid Friday. I bag groceries.”

  “What do you want?” Quee lowered her voice, looked behind her to make sure that Lonnie hadn’t come into the room.

  “Please.” He looked up at her, and for a split second she would have grabbed and pulled him to her. “She’s a nice girl. A nice, nice girl. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Bring her in,” she said, wishing so much that his father had said those very words.

  “She’s scared.”

  “Tell her it’s okay. I don’t bite.” Quee waited while he opened the car door and took the young woman’s hand. She was wearing what looked like a band uniform, short black satin shorts with a gold sash and tassel. Her face was pale, tear-streaked, and she watched Quee the whole time they approached.

  “Young man, why don’t you go out there in the TV room.”

  “No!” The girl reached for Tommy but Quee put her arm out to separate them.

  “Really, honey.” Quee patted her hand. “It’s okay. You are okay.” She nodded toward the next room where they could hear the music of The Big Valley. Every day Lonnie watched The Big Valley and Bonanza. “I’ll be sewing a bit, honey,” she said and led Tom Lowe in there to the couch. “This is . . .” She paused while Tom introduced himself. “Another little girl, Tom’s friend, needing a prom gown pinched in a little. Gonna close this door.” When she turned back, the girl was crouched there at the edge of the table, her body all curling into itself like she was trying to disappear.

  “Lie down, honey.” Quee went and put the kettle on. “It’s real, real simple what I do. My husband doesn’t even know what I do. It’s called digital irritation. There’s no coat hanger or shish kebab stick. Just a digit, one little finger; you could do it yourself, but I don’t think you’re able. Here, I’ll get you some tea, special tea. There are all sorts of herbs that have some ways of working on the body.” She stopped by her sewing machine and pressed the pedal into a frenzied whirr. Lonnie knew that she did alterations for the kids around town. She washed her hands with alcohol right there so that the girl could see and then put on some rubber gloves on top of that.

  “How do you know all this?” the girl whispered, her voice suddenly much stronger than before.

  “I was once a desperate young woman.” She paused and smoothed back her hair. “Hard to believe, huh?” She went and peeked out the door, glimpsed Tommy; he could have been hers, some version of her, as he sat there straight as a stick, his eyes focused on the TV. She latched the door and then pulled down all the shades.

  THE LATE AFTERNOON sun was strong enough that she didn’t even need a lamp and chose not to use one. It would be easier for the girl in low light, more like a little nap, a bad dream. Quee draped a sheet around her and then felt to unsnap and unzip her shorts. There were gunshots and horse whinneys in the next room. She watched the girl stare at the ceiling, biting her lower lip, pretending that she was anywhere except here. Not once did the girl look at her but continued to stare upward as if she was praying or having to answer to somebody. “This is as natural as can be,” Quee whispered. “It’s as natural as what got you this way.” The girl nodded. “There are no guarantees with this way. Sometimes it takes several tries. Sometimes it never works at all. A good friend of mine who is a doctor taught me, and if this doesn’t help you, dear, then you come on back, and I’ll get hold of him.”

  “What will happen?”

  “Cramps. Just like normal.”

  “Okay.” The girl sighed and closed her eyes.

  “What’s your name?” Quee asked.

  “Do I have to tell?”

  “Not at all, honey. Not at all.” Now she knew who the girl was. She had seen her picture in the paper for good grades, for pep rallies. She held her left palm firmly on the abdomen while her right finger stretched and moved, the girls eyes clenched in discomfort. “Cottonroot, mistletoe, tansy.” She whispered the words like a jump-rope rhyme. “These are things that can help, too, but you can’t rush, can’t take in too much because they can also kill you, okay?” She paused with her work and waited for the girl to look at her. “I mean it now, honey. And what’s more there are folks you can go to with the same promise, and they will kill you. You go to a doctor or you go to somebody who knows what she’s doing. Somebody like me.”

  “This never should have happened,” the girl whispered. “It’s my fault.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault,” Quee said. “It’s called life. It’s called biology. Here now, get dress
ed, and I’m going to fix you a little tea. We can join the gentlemen.” She stepped on the sewing pedal again and then opened the door. In the next room the boy was sitting forward in his chair, hands clasped while Lonnie explained what he’d read about the horses falling down in Westerns; a lot of the horses did get hurt, and this was concerning him greatly. Lonnie Purdy did not believe in pain of any kind, even if it was applied to bring about good.

  Four days later, Tommy Lowe was at her door with more money and a quiet thank-you. It had worked. They would be okay.

  “You know there’s a chance,” she said and pushed the money back in his hand, “that she was never pregnant at all.”

  “There is?”

  “Oh, yes.” She gently pushed his hand away, watched as he put the money back into his pocket. “Just try not to let it happen again. If Cleopatra knew about birth control, ain’t no reason why smart kids in the nineteen-seventies shouldn’t.”

  “Thanks.” He backed out, easing the screen door to before turning and running back to his car. She could see his breath as he got in and she wanted to call out to him, to say, “You’re Cecil’s son aren’t you?” but what purpose would that serve, except to get Lonnie’s attention?

  When the engine turned over and his car had disappeared around the corner, she went to her glass table and lifted out a little antique pillbox. She had found the scrap of paper on the very day that he died, a scrap trapped in the dampness of the garbage bin beneath his house. It was dusk and she was surprised to find that people were no longer circling the house, it was no longer closed off. She had parked at the pier and walked the distance, climbed up through the dunes, past the outdoor shower. There the smell of creosote and ocean air was like a heady elixir she could breathe, the mildewed dampness of the earth conjured every indiscretion, sandy sheets and soured sweat, the lingering yeasty residue. She wanted to go in, to see the spot, to touch his things, but she was left with what had been tossed out, garbage and old papers. They said he had gone into a frenzy, shredding papers all over the house, out the windows, into the toilet. And she had come looking. “I loved you. I love you. Only now do I know how much. Only now do I . . .”