Turtle Moon

by Alice Hoffman

  When she meets Julian halfway across the yard, he’s illuminated by the porch light the old woman has switched on. He’s had to make his way through the mosquitoes and the moths. Lucy’s mouth is completely dry; all up and down her legs she can feel tiny pinpricks of fear. She felt this way for weeks after her parents died; she thought she had MS or arthritis, because it got so bad she could hardly walk. If she had made a fuss, and refused to stay home alone at night, maybe both her parents wouldn’t have been in the car. If only they hadn’t kissed each other for so long, if only there had been a full moon.

  “He’s gone to feed the dog,” Julian says.

  Lucy stares at him blankly.

  “Go ahead,” Julian tells her. “Scream at me. Tell me it’s my fault.”

  The scar on his forehead looks terrible tonight, and Lucy finds herself backing away from him.

  “I shouldn’t have let him go,” Julian says. “Tell me that.”

  “I don’t care what you did!” Lucy says. “I just want my son.”

  When they get in the car and Julian speeds down the rutted driveway, Lucy could swear the earth was turning to water beneath them. The car veers sharply when they reach the road, and Lucy is propelled forward; she has to stop herself by putting both hands on the dashboard.

  “Put your seat belt on,” Julian tells her.

  Everything that has ever gone wrong around him has been his fault, and now it’s about to happen again. He can feel it. If you don’t have anything, you can’t lose it. If you don’t give a damn, what difference does it make?

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Lucy says. She’s looking straight at him, her face drawn and white. “Don’t give me orders.”

  Julian Cash knows what can happen when a road is slick with strangler figs, he knows exactly what a windshield sounds like when it shatters into a thousand pieces.

  “Please,” Julian says. “Put it on.”

  Lucy reaches and pulls her seat belt over her shoulder; her hands are shaking so badly she can barely manage, but finally it clicks into place, and when it does Julian is certain of one thing: He’s not going to let it happen again.

  In the middle of the clearing, the boy finds the perfect stick, a slightly bent length of live oak smooth enough to seem polished by human hands. It is so hot this evening that even the owls stay roosted in their nests; it’s so damp that when the boy tries to light a cigarette the match disintegrates. Thin strands of fog twist around the tree roots and the air plants. The boy runs his fingers over the satiny piece of wood. Not long ago he stole eight dollars from a classmate’s locker; now he realizes that there’s nothing he wants to buy. He was like the greedy squirrels and the crows, hoarding things for the sake of it, wanting whatever he couldn’t have, especially when it belonged to someone else. If he happened to meet up with Laddy Stern now, on a street corner or in the parking lot of the Burger King, they’d have nothing in common, except that brief, hazy time spent in front of the TV drinking Kahlúa and beer, that, and the fact that everything in the universe once caused them both equal amounts of dissatisfaction and agony.

  The boy is not the same person he was before. It’s nothing to question or be afraid of; it’s a simple fact. He can practically see in the dark, he can tell the difference between a merlin and a red-tailed hawk, he can throw a stick farther than he’d ever imagined. Arrow has come to sit before him, his legs quivering as he anticipates running. It’s dark tonight, and the sky is filled with clouds, but that means nothing to the dog. He nudges the boy’s knee with his nose, just to remind him that they are in these woods for a reason, and the boy reaches down instinctively and strokes the dog’s head between his ears. The dog’s fur smells sweet now; the boy brushed him just after feeding him, then filled the kennel with clean hay. Hay is far better than the wood chips and marsh grass Julian has always used; it’s softer for sleeping, and it won’t get soggy in the rain. The dog looks from the boy’s face to the stick and then back again to the boy’s face, so that the boy will be sure to understand what he wants.

  When the boy sees himself reflected in the dog’s eyes he knows exactly who he is. He is the boy with the fair hair, who wears a borrowed white T-shirt and old jeans and knows how to throw a stick with such a good spin on it that it sails above the trees. He is the boy who can sleep through the night without one bad dream, who can find his way over the twisted roots of the mangroves without stepping on a spider. Now he bends his arm back and lets the stick fly. Before the stick has even left his hand, the dog is running. At first the boy can hear him, leaping through the undergrowth, then he is so far that there’s no sound at all. The boy doesn’t hear anything until he bends down to tie the lace of his sneaker, and then he hears a branch crack, which is odd since the dog is so light-footed. It is odder still that the merlins in the cypress trees have begun to call and beat their wings at this late hour, when they’re usually asleep.

  The man grabs him from the rear before he has time to sort out all the sounds; he twists him around so hard the boy’s back makes a snapping sound. The man is tall, or maybe he just seems that way since he’s standing while he pushes the boy down to the ground.

  “You should have kept your eyes closed,” the man is whispering to him, as he edges his hands around the boy’s throat. “You just looked for trouble.”

  The boy realizes that every breath he’s taking is painful; every time he manages to get in any air his throat hurts under the pressure.

  “Now I’ll close them for you,” the man is telling him, and that’s when the boy feels the sharp thing poised against his throat, some kind of metal. He can hear the frantic beating of cricket wings and the fire ants moving through the dead leaves as he is pushed on top of them. The tree trunks twisted on the ground are alive with fire ants, he sees that now, whole universes he’s never noticed before. The ground is shaking, probably because he’s kicking his legs and flailing his arms upward, trying to get away from the metal, but then he hears something else, a thud like a tree falling, and that’s when he sees that he’s not the only one on the ground. Even though he’s having trouble breathing, even though he can’t move, no one’s holding him down anymore.

  The dog has charged into the clearing, and as soon as he has the man down on the ground a tornado of dust rises around them. The boy pushes himself backward, then forces himself onto his side in spite of the pain near his back, which has suddenly become as hot as fire. He can hear the dog now, like a hundred branches breaking, his growl so furious it’s shaking leaves out of the trees. The dog took the man down by the thigh, just as he’d take down a deer, but now he’s after the throat. The man’s pants are shredded and blood is seeping into the dirt and the man screams and curses so horribly, as the dog shakes him by the throat then drops him on the ground, that the boy moves to cover his ears. And then something happens, it must be something with the knife, because the dog’s coat is red and wet.

  The boy’s whole body is heaving, he can barely see straight, and somehow everything seems speeded up. The dog stands poised above the man with his red, bloody coat, his teeth bared, thunder coming out of his throat. It shakes the earth, it spirals and slams into the sky, you can hear it all through the woods and up along the driveway, where Julian Cash throws open the door of the rental car. Right away he sees that the kennel is empty. The gate swings back and forth on its hinges, and all that golden hay, so carefully spread with a pitchfork, has not yet been slept on.

  “Oh, fuck,” Julian says. He leans in the passenger door, reaching over Lucy, and gets his gun from the glove compartment. “Stay here,” he tells Lucy, but she’s out of the car before Julian swings open the back door for Loretta.

  He can hear Lucy’s ragged breathing behind him as he crashes through the woods, following Loretta, and he’s thankful that Lucy doesn’t know these woods. She’ll lag behind no matter how hard she tries to keep up, and maybe that will keep her from seeing something no one should have to see. The growl from the woods rises higher, like a fever that w
on’t stop, and then, all of a sudden, there is silence, and because of that Julian runs faster than he’s ever run before. He nearly trips over Loretta. When they get to the clearing, Julian sees that Arrow has the man by the throat. He is shaking him so fiercely that this full-grown man looks like a toy stuffed with straw. Loretta immediately begins to growl; she charges toward the man, then looks back.

  “Stay,” Julian shouts, and Loretta holds herself back, barking and circling as the dust rises up even more.

  The boy scrambles to his feet. Something in his side has been broken, a rib, maybe two, and it’s still hard for him to breathe, but he doesn’t give a damn about that. All he cares about is Arrow’s red coat. Nothing else in the world matters.

  “Stay back,” Julian calls to the boy. “Arrow, off!” he screams. But the dog doesn’t hear him; commands are meaningless. Julian runs toward the dog and tries to grab him, but all his strength is worthless. The dog’s jaws are clamped so tightly nothing could separate them.

  There are bubbles of spit coming out of the man’s mouth, and a scream so high-pitched it’s terrible to hear. From where she is in the woods, lost in a grid of branches and leaves, Lucy hears that scream and knows this night will never end for any of them; they will be in this together for the rest of their lives.

  “Get off,” Julian is begging the dog. But it’s too late for that. Arrow doesn’t hear him anymore. He couldn’t if he tried.

  Loretta shows her teeth and circles closer, as if she’s about to charge. “Stay,” Julian warns her, and she does. Julian is down on his knees, wrenching on Arrow’s collar. “Get off!” he cries.

  The man is reaching into the air, clutching at nothing as he slips away. In the center of the clearing, surrounded by blood, Julian Cash finally lets go of the dog and backs away before he reaches for his gun. He shoots quickly, before the dog has time to turn and recognize him, before the boy can get in his way.

  “No,” the boy screams.

  The dog falls to the ground slowly, letting go of the man’s throat at last. Julian can see that the man is no longer moving. He can see Arrow leaning into the earth as the boy races to him, doubled over, weeping, coated with blood as soon as he throws himself across the dog.

  “You killed him!” the boy screams. “Why did you have to kill him?”

  The boy’s T-shirt has turned a dark red. He’s hunched on his knees, weeping, his face buried in the dog’s coat.

  “Why did you?” the boy wails, as he rocks back and forth, his arms around the dog’s neck.

  Julian signals for Loretta to come to him, but for an instant she hesitates. She points her head toward the sky and then she howls, far back in her throat, before walking to Julian and lying at his feet. All Julian can do is stand and be a witness; he hasn’t the right to intrude, since Arrow isn’t really his to mourn. But standing there he feels as if he’s just shot a hole in himself; it’s the kind of emptiness the wind can sweep right through. He takes off his shirt and finally walks back to the clearing so he can place it over the dead man’s face. How could he ever explain why to this boy, who is soaked in blood and grief? Does Julian tell him that some things are right and some things are wrong, even if it tears you apart? Since it will never be possible to explain that, Julian goes to the boy and puts a hand on his shoulder. The boy rises to his feet, wailing, and Julian lets the boy hit him again and again, cursing and moaning, until he gives up and lets Julian put his arms around him.

  And that is what Lucy sees when she gets to the edge of the clearing. She sees her son step aside so that Julian can lift the dog and carry him back through the woods. She sees Keith turn away from her as she runs to embrace him. He is safe, he’s alive in this clearing, but he doesn’t look at her or anything else. He follows far behind as they all make their way through the woods; he doesn’t care if anyone sees that he’s crying and he doesn’t give a damn about his cracked ribs. As he stumbles over tree roots, he makes a high-pitched sound that won’t go away. The sound is what he feels inside, and it’s already changing him. When they reach Julian’s yard, and Lucy checks to see if he’s kept up with them, she has to blink to make certain she’s seeing right. He no longer looks like a boy.

  Lucy goes into Julian’s house and turns on all the lights. She takes the blanket from the bed, then goes back outside. It’s over now, she can feel that inside her, and there’s not one thing she can do about it. Maybe she should have guarded him more carefully. Maybe she should never have let him out of her sight.

  “Keith,” she says, when she goes outside with the blanket.

  Standing beneath the black sky, he doesn’t answer her. She could swear that he hasn’t even heard her.

  The dog’s body is already stiffening when Julian kneels to wrap him in the blanket, but the wound in Arrow’s side continues to bleed. Julian quickly passes his hands over the gash. He won’t wash the blood off until morning, and even then he’ll find blood beneath his fingernails for days afterward.

  All that time Arrow spent pacing in his kennel he was dead, and whether or not the boy will ever believe it, he’s the one who’s set Arrow free. It’s their duty to do this together, no matter how much the boy hates Julian. They get two shovels from the back shed, and they bury the dog beneath the cypress trees, and after that Julian can’t get the scent of cypress out of his throat, and it just about breaks what’s left of his heart. Keith stands beside him in the dark, shivering. There will never be another dog like Arrow, they both know that. Not if they search for a million years. And it seems somehow terrible that as they stand there, the center of the black sky is cleared of clouds, and a white moon rises to remind them that they are both still alive.

  Twelve hours later, Walt Hannen is standing over the body of the dead man. Unfortunately for Walt, he quit smoking last night and his wife will kill him if he starts up again after spending two hundred dollars on acupuncture down in West Palm Beach. He hates it when people die inside the Verity town limits; he takes it personally. Julian is standing right next to him as they study the body.

  “He’s definitely dead,” Walt Hannen says.

  There are masses of flies on the body already, and it says a lot that Julian has so quickly buried that killer dog of his and left this man out in the hot sun.

  “There’s no ID,” Julian says. “I checked.”

  “Of course, you didn’t bother to wait for me before you searched him.”

  In spite of all the visualization techniques Walt has learned from the acupuncturist, what he wants is a cigarette. He and Julian have walked down from the house with mugs of coffee, which Julian pretty much ruined by adding Cremora, and they’re both careful not to get too close to the body, because of the flies.

  “So what do we have here?” Walt asks. He sits down on a tree stump and sips his coffee. He knows this is going to be good.

  “I figure he was a vagrant. He killed our lady on Long Boat Street, then swiped the daughter, thinking she was worth something to somebody.” Julian crouches down. “I’ve got the little girl. Over at Miss Giles’s. Did I tell you that?”

  “You mentioned something about that,” Walt says. “What’s interesting is that the dead man wound up on your property. Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t own this,” Julian tells him. “State conservation land.” Julian takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. “This heat is really doing something to that guy. Maybe I’d better call Richie.”

  “And what are we planning to do with the little girl without some next-of-kin?”

  “Leave her with Miss Giles,” Julian said. “I’ve taken care of all that.”

  “You sure have,” Walt says. “Give me a cigarette,” he adds.

  “I can’t,” Julian says.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I quit,” Julian says.

  “Just like that?” Walt says. “Jesus.” He narrows his eyes. “Are you sure Rose didn’t call you and put you up to this?”

  “She didn’t cal
l.” Julian notices that Walt has shifted his gaze back to the body. “How is Rose?” he asks.

  The dead body stinks like hell and the flies are now buzzing over their heads, too.

  “You want to talk about Rose?” Walt asks.

  “Well, no,” Julian admits.

  “So is this the story you expect me to believe?” Walt asks.

  Julian gulps down what’s left of his coffee, even though it’s now cold.

  “We just forget that our lady from Long Boat Street had a false identity, and we don’t try to find out who the hell she was? And the kid who was missing? We forget about him, too?”

  “I already told you,” Julian says. He’s extremely careful now, since this is the moment when he’s more than likely to screw up. He knows the boy will never forgive him; he doesn’t expect that. The truth is, he’ll never be able to forgive himself. He’ll never know if he did what he had to do or only what he thought he had to do, and it doesn’t make much of a difference since the result is the same. He killed a dog the like of whom he’ll never see again, because of a worthless man whose name he doesn’t even know. It was the right thing, he knows that; you have a dog who makes the decision to attack all on his own, and he’ll probably do it again. But doing the right thing doesn’t mean you can sleep at night. It doesn’t mean you won’t regret it for the rest of your life.

  “The kid took off after some trouble in school. Miss Giles found him hiding out in the woods and took him in. She figured he needed some time before going back home. You know how Miss Giles is.”

  “That’s all of it?” Walt asks.

  “That’s what went on,” Julian says.

  They stare at each other, and neither one blinks. Walt Hannen has a real good stare; he’s been perfecting it for nearly twenty years.

  “It’s not a bad story,” Walt says thoughtfully. “I just wish it were true.”

  Those brown buzzards that some people mistake for red-tailed hawks have begun to circle above them; they’re already fighting over the feast laid out below.