Iona Moon (27 page)

He parked in the clearing overlooking the Snake, the same place where he'd parked with Jay and Belinda and Iona, the same place where he'd come with Darryl and Luke and Kevin the weekend before graduation. He wanted to laugh at his former priggish self.
Boot the sucker out of his car and let's have some fun, boys
. Delores pulled a flask from her purse, and he drank greedily, grateful for the way the thick sweet liquid burned all the way down his throat and warmed his stomach. “Cognac,” she said, “for winter nights.”

She had her hand on his thigh and her head on his shoulder. He wanted to tell her about Matt Fry and his mother, about his friends who got Matthew drunk and dragged him along the tracks before he torched his shed. He knew Delores already and could almost hear her say:
It's not your fault, baby
. He thought of driftwood washed up on the bank of the river, how it heaped on the shore like piles of bone.

Snow fell on the hood of the car and melted from the heat of the engine. Snow fell on the river and disappeared without a sound in the black water. Willy felt a weight against his chest, as if he lay at the bottom of the river. He handed the flask to Delores; she didn't drink—she screwed the cap back on and kissed him instead, lightly, near his mouth.

He gasped, but the weight pressed on all sides, the air dense as water, too thick to breathe, so he grabbed her and held her tight, kissed chin, neck, nose, opening his mouth wide to feel her whole mouth inside of his, forcing his tongue between her lips. He tugged at the buttons on her coat, frantic lover, impatient child. He had never kissed anyone like this. He thought of Belinda pushing his hands away each time he strayed.
No, Willy
. A voice from his past told him to stop, warned him about adultery, reminded him of the wages of sin. But Delores wasn't fighting—she was helping him undo the buttons. The voice muttered but no longer made words. Delores whispered:
Yes, baby
. Now his hands were inside her coat where it was warm, so warm. He remembered Iona Moon's torn shirt and small breasts that night by the tracks; he remembered the day he discovered Belinda Beller's bra was stuffed with tissue. Delores Tyler's breasts were real, heavy when he cupped them in his hands. He clutched the front of her dress, wanting to rip it open.

“Slow down,” she said, taking off her coat, guiding his hands to the long zipper down the back. He tugged. No zipper had ever seemed so stubborn. His fingers felt numb, as if his hands had fallen asleep.

It was impossible to kiss Delores and get the zipper down at the same time, so he focused all his attention on her clothes. Now that her mouth was free, she laughed, and Willy knew the whole thing was a mistake. The zipper gave. She pulled her arms from the sleeves, unhooked her bra, let her breasts spring loose. She lay down on the seat with her dress bunched around her waist. Willy pressed his whole face against her chest. He thought he might smother but didn't care. He moved hard and fast. There was no time to wrestle with pantyhose, no time to unfasten his belt or wriggle out of his pants. She gripped his balls through his jeans, and he exploded, biting down on her nipple to keep from screaming. She had to swat the side of his head to make him stop.

Lying on top of the woman in the cold car, Willy Hamilton was already sorry. He covered her breasts with his hands. “I'm half frozen,” she said, so he helped her hook her bra and zip her dress. She pulled her coat around her shoulders. He remembered Iona's tires spinning in the mud and knew things could still get worse.

But he wasn't stuck. Delores had found her flask again. She didn't sit so close to him on the way home, but she touched his arm and said, “Don't worry, it's always like that the first time.”

The first time
. He couldn't look at her. He was a virgin and a fool.
The first time
. Surely she didn't think there would be a second time.

He meant to just drop her off, but she said, “Please—walk me to the door. I'm a little tight.”

Whose fault is that? he thought. And his father's voice answered:
Every woman deserves to be treated like a lady
. How could Horton believe that? Because he had never done what Willy had done, had never found himself with a woman like Delores Tyler.

Willy left the car running. He walked around the back to open Mrs. Tyler's door for her, offered his arm as she climbed out and held her steady up the long walk. “Will you be all right?” he said.

“My husband's not home.”

“I know.”

“My son's asleep.”

He felt sick to his stomach and blamed it on the cognac.

“I know it's silly,” Delores said, “but I'm afraid to go in alone. This old house is so big at night.”

It's a man's duty to protect a lady
. Willy hated the ring of Horton's words and wanted to ask:
Who will protect the man?
But he knew his father could never understand that question.
What kind of man needs protection?

So, he was going to see her inside, flick on a few lights, blow the ghosts out of the corners. It was past midnight. Halloween was over. He thought of the Dracula mask. He couldn't remember where it was—in the car or still on the table. Jay might have discovered it already. Perhaps he knew everything and was sitting on his bed in the dark, wearing the rubber face, waiting to scare his mother.

The mask was on the table. Delores was safe, moving down the hallway, hitting every switch she passed. “Let me make you some tea,” she said.

“I left the car running.”

“Just a quick cup.”

He looked at her smeared lipstick, her wrinkled dress. He had done this. He had bitten her nipple, much too hard.

“Please, Willy, sit with me for a minute or two.”

He nodded. He owed her this.

They didn't make it to the kitchen. Jay wobbled down the stairs. Willy stared at his friend, and thought he might not have recognized him on the street. Jay's dirty-blond hair was pulled into a scraggly ponytail. He clenched the banister with one hand and his cane with the other. Willy wanted to embrace him so that he wouldn't have to see Jay's squinting eyes and furrowed brow, so he wouldn't know how much each step hurt him.

“Has my mother been filling you up with her sad stories, Willy Boy?” Even his voice had changed, had turned thin and cruel. Did the pain in his legs cause that too? Jay looked from Delores to Willy. He knew where they'd been and what they'd done. He probably even guessed that Willy hadn't managed to get his pants off. “How the mighty have fallen,” he said.

Delores Tyler's face crumpled; every line deepened.

Jay limped down the last steps, into the light of the hallway. He had aged too, in a sudden, brutal way. He was red-eyed but not drunk.

Delores covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders heaved, but there was no sound. “We've upset my poor mother,” Jay said.

Willy touched Delores's arm, and she batted him away with one hand, revealing half her face. Mascara ran down her cheek in gray streaks. “Go,” she said. “Just go.”

He drove too fast, slammed the brakes too hard, skidded at every stop sign. He was halfway home when he saw one of those damn kids sprint across the street, a stolen jack-o'-lantern tucked under his arm. He longed to hit the siren and scream out after him, but of course the Chevy had no siren. The kid was fast, climbing fences, cutting through backyards, but Willy kept catching him, a narrow shadow moving through the long beams of his headlights. He spun into a curb and leaped from the car to chase the boy down an alley. One block nearly finished him. He was stiff, out of breath, no match for the lithe child. But he had luck on his side, his father's just god. The boy stumbled and the jack-o'-lantern flew from his arms. He sprawled; the pumpkin burst, an explosion of orange shards and splattered seeds. Willy was on the kid in a second, straddling his backside. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Willy said. He gripped the boy's neck and pushed his nose into the snow.

“I didn't do nothin'.”

“Goddamn thief.”

“It was mine.”

“Then why you running?”

“I'm late,” he said. “My pa's gonna whup me for sure.”

Willy wondered if this might be true. The child was younger than he'd thought: ten—twelve at most. Halloween was over and it was just a jack-o'-lantern, after all. “Come on, kid, I'll give you a ride.” Willy stood and the boy scrambled to his feet.

“No fucking way,” the kid said. He looked older again, mean, a thief for sure. “You're a crazy motherfucker.”

Willy wanted to choke him for that, but the kid was off; Willy didn't have a chance. The car door had swung open. From a distance, the yellow light of the dome made the Chevy look submerged in murky water.

He sat on the cold seat rubbing his knee. He must have bashed it when he jumped the boy.
How the mighty have fallen
. Now he remembered the mask lying on the table in the Tylers' entryway.
Motherfucker
. He'd forgotten it a second time, left it for everyone to see: Delores, Jay, Andrew Johnson Tyler. His frightening disguise was false and harmless, his own face ridiculous.

17

Jay sat on the edge of his bed, wondering if Delores had told Willy how pretty she used to be, and slim. He imagined her crying softly, explaining how the doctor carved her belly to get him out. Perhaps she showed him the scar Jay had never seen. He wished he knew Muriel's god and believed in this night of prayer and hope, the eve of All Saints' Day. He remembered Muriel lighting candles for the dead trapped in Purgatory, saying her Hail Mary's and Glory Be's, whispering:
Our Father
.

He felt a flutter in his chest, his heart a flame, guttering in a drafty room. Muriel said:
He won't ever look at me again if I do this
. She had one Jesus small enough to hold in her hand at night under her pillow. His pinpoint eyes revealed neither grief nor rage. But the tiny body twisted, rising off the copper disk, full of misery. She lay awake in the dark, feeling that body, touching Christ's little hands and perfect feet, fondling the piece of cloth, a thin wrinkle of metal that hid his sex and kept him safe and separate even in death.

On the lawn in front of her house a plaster Mary draped in blue stood watch, nose chipped, fingertips broken. She bowed her head as if to confess:
Even I have not been chaste
. Jay believed the child of his sin was trapped in Purgatory, waiting for his candle to be lit so his soul could rise up to God, waiting to be born again, to the right mother at the right time.

To the right father
. Jay couldn't make himself say those words. He was never going to be a father to any child except the one she gave away. Sometimes he was hard when he woke, but when he touched himself he felt a pain shoot down his thighs, all the way to his torn knee and cracked shin. He imagined his mended bones splitting and knew that if he made himself come he would break apart again and again.

Delores stayed downstairs; Jay imagined her in the kitchen, drinking from her silver flask. He knew all about his father's
business
in Boise. He'd heard the argument that morning, heard Andrew say:
I'm going;
heard Delores answer:
Someday I might not be here when you come home
. That made his father laugh, and Jay wanted to fly down the stairs, bash him with the cane to make him stop.
Sonuvabitch
. But he knew his father would turn on him, cool and mocking, knew just what he'd say, smirking with the pleasure of his own joke:
Actually, you're the son of a bitch
—
literally speaking
. Now he felt the vast empty space between his dark bedroom and the bright kitchen; he heard the rush of air like wind whipping down a gorge in this fatherless house.

Horton Hamilton was awake, waiting for his son to come home. Willy saw the light and knew he was in for it.
You worried your mother half to death
. He slid as he hit the brakes and almost missed the turn. For once he wasn't afraid to face his father. What he'd done tonight was much worse than anything Horton might imagine. He felt giddy, freed by his secrets, like the boy who had stolen money from his mother's purse but was punished for tracking mud on the living-room rug. The five-dollar bill burned in his pocket. He was eleven years old, elated and full of guilt.

He'd bought a G.I. Joe with the money he'd taken. By Christmas it was abandoned, given to the Salvation Army so that some younger, poorer boy would find it in a box under a tree. Flo touched his cheek, and Horton whispered,
My little man
. They couldn't read his mind. He was relieved, then disappointed. Only God knew everything. God made him hate the doll. Serious and firm, the god of childhood forced him to give it away but did not demand that Willy expose his crime.

He wouldn't have to tell them about Delores Tyler either—or the boy in the alley—but he wondered what penance his old god might exact.

He remembered Flo, sitting beside her mother's bed, weeping.
I'm sorry, Mom
. Over and over—
sorry
—though his grandmother couldn't hear. What had Flo done? He couldn't imagine. But he saw his grandmother's teeth in a jar of blue water and knew this was the small white room of his own future, knew for certain he would find himself saying the same words.

He stood on the steps stamping snow off his boots, watching Flo and Horton through the window. As soon as he was inside, Flo said, “Your father found him; he's okay. No gloves or hat, just a thin jacket—who knows how he got here—but he's all right. He was walking back and forth across the bridge, as if he couldn't decide whether to come to town or head out to the Flats.” Willy wished he'd seen Matt Fry. There would have been no visit to Delores Tyler, no drive to the river, no vision of Jay hobbling down the stairs, no skinny kid sprawled on his belly.

“And do you know what your father did?” She waited for Willy to shake his head. “He drove Matthew straight out to his parents' house.” Her throat tightened. She couldn't finish the story.