Quarrel with the Moon (26 page)

The sun had grown warmer now and he was beginning to perspire. He removed his sweater and tied it around his waist as he approached Sophie's General Merchandise Store. Sophie liked him and she might have some information to impart. Josh took the steps two by two, and took the door handle. The door was locked. He knocked, and the inside bell tinkled. Through the window he saw a shadow moving toward him.

Sophie was in her bathrobe. Her face was pale, and her hair fell about it in limp, untidy curls. "Oh, my," she stammered. "I must look a sight, uh huh, a sight. I just this minute got up."

"You're sleeping late, Sophie."

"I haven't been sleeping well at night. I've been trying to catch up in the mornings. Come in, Josh, and have a cup of coffee." She stopped him at the doorway to her living quarters. "If you'll just give me a minute."

A lone kerosene lamp burned on the counter. Josh wondered idly if she kept it burning all night. Within a few minutes Sophie, her hair brushed and her face washed, motioned him through the curtains. "I thought you'd be getting ready for the fair," Josh said.

"The fair?" Sophie replied vaguely. "Oh yes, Summer's End. That always sounds so sad to me. I hate to see summer end. Everything begins dying then, uh huh, dying. Sit, Josh, sit. I'll pour you a cup of coffee. You're right, uh huh, absolutely right. I must prepare the store. It's the best time of the year for business." She emitted a hard laugh. "It's the only time for business anymore."

"I don't understand, Sophie. Except for you, everyone seems to disapprove of tourists. Why the fair?"

"It only lasts one day," she sighed. "And I suppose that will eventually stop like everything else."

Josh wondered how he was going to ease her into the subject he wanted to talk about. He asked brightly, "How long have the fairs been taking place, Sophie?"

"Ever since I've lived here. It used to be real lively, with dancing and kegs of beer and so many, many nice, friendly people, uh huh, friendly. They came from all around. But over the years they've stopped coming, uh huh, stopped. Only stray tourists make it up to the Ridge anymore." She spat out the words, "Backpackers, hippie kids, those with no money to spend." She offered a quick smile. "Of course I think we could get them all back. People forget ... things."

"What do you mean, Sophie?"

Sophie jumped up from the chair. "I forgot. I made some cinnamon rolls. I like something sweet in the mornings, don't you. Josh? It sort of helps you wake up, uh huh, it sort of helps."

Josh was determined not to let the subject drop. "You mean the disappearances, Sophie?"

Her hands flew to her throat. "How did you ... ah, yes, the disappearances." She puckered her lips. "It sounds so mysterious, doesn't it? Just like Amelia Earhart, uh huh, just like. Well, of course, it's common knowledge. But the plain fact is, it hasn't helped business, not at all." She cocked her head to one side. "My husband was one of the first to disappear." She cupped her hand to her mouth and whispered. "I've always suspected foul play."

"Why is that, Sophie?"

"He wouldn't leave me on purpose," she replied defiantly. "We were too much in love, uh huh, too much."

"When did this happen, Sophie?"

"It was in the autumn of 1949. I suppose that's why I dislike the autumns. Of course, there were disappearances before that."

"A bunch of college kids from Wesley," ventured Josh.

"Why, yes, I think so. We hadn't lived here for more than a season when word came that they'd got themselves drowned."

"Perhaps your husband was drowned, Sophie."

"Oh, no, not Kalem. He was a wonderful swimmer. What a figure he cut in his swimming trunks. Wait, I'll show you. I have a picture of him."

"Oh, don't bother yourself."

"It's no bother. The album's right by my bed." Josh frowned. He wondered how he was going to get her around to talking about Sissy's pregnancy.

Sophie returned, pushed the plate of cinnamon buns aside, and opened the flaking leather album. "Here, here he is. A fine figure of a man. The suit was knitted. Maroon, as I recall."

Josh glanced at the picture and stopped chewing. He held the album up to the sunlight. The camera had caught Kalem Balock admirably. Twenty-four and aware of his imposing physique, Balock had flexed his muscles as he posed. The sun was in his face, and his deep-set eyes were nearly shut. They were additionally shaded by the thick black hair which fell over his forehead. He was smiling, but it was a manufactured smile. His teeth were large and very white.

"He had the most wonderful hair and best set of teeth I ever saw on a man. Uh huh, in my entire life."

"He looks familiar...." Josh began.

Sophie slipped the album from his grasp. "You're forgetting your cinnamon buns, Josh."

"Where was this taken?"

"That was from our honeymoon on Maryland Beach."

"But isn't there one of you, Sophie?"

"I'm afraid not. Kalem forgot to take one of me. Have another cinnamon bun. I thought I'd make up some for the fair. Sell coffee and buns at an outrageous price." She twisted her mouth. "That is, if anyone comes this year."

Josh casually asked, "Do you happen to remember when Orin was born?" Sophie looked at him oddly.

"In the fall. November, I think. Why would you want to know that?"

Josh shrugged. "Just curious. After all, he's my cousin, and no one seems to acknowledge the father."

Sophie's face darkened. She jerked her head away from Josh's gaze. "I don't know anything about that." She stood up. "I've got to get to work. If you'll be kind enough to excuse me, uh huh, excuse me."

Josh persisted. "You weren't around, then, when Orin was born?"

"No, no, I never - I wouldn't want to see
that!
I have a weak stomach, uh huh, a weak stomach."

"Then who attended Sissy?"

Sophie looked confused. "The granny women, uh huh. Avarilla, Faye and Jewell."

"What about the preacher?"

"The preacher?"

The bell in the front rang sharp and clear. Sophie stuck her head through the flowered drapes. There was no one there, but the bell was still shaking. She looked at Josh sternly. "Why do you want to know these things?" She gathered her robe about her. "They got nothing to do with you. Uh uh, nothing."

"Has Jewell come back from visiting her family?"

"I don't know."

"But you do know where she lives."

Sophie was breathing heavily now. "Down, down the road, opposite the Thicket. The house needs painting. Weeds all over the place." She stood next to the drapes, nervously twisting them in her hands.

Josh softened. "Well thanks, Sophie. I'll leave you alone now so that you can get ready for the fair."

"Yes, yes," Sophie muttered. "I must do that. I must - get ready."

As Josh was walking past a booth advertising "Apple Cider," he saw Alex.

"Hello, Alex," he greeted. Alex smiled broadly. "Are you in business yet?"

"I just got the sign up. Cider doesn't come in until tomorrow. You be coming to the fair?"

"I wouldn't miss it," lied Josh and continued on.

A country fair was the last thing on Josh's mind. He was trying to decide what approach to use on Jewell Runion. Josh stopped and pressed his forehead against a tree. Roma, Roma, why did everything have to get so mixed up? There's no way I'll give you up, no way.

***

The house was as shabby as Sophie had said. It needed a man's hard muscle to set it right. Josh let himself through the front gate. On the porch he knocked and called Jewell's name. When there was no answer, he entered the house. In the front hall he looked into the mirror, straightened his hair and called Jewell's name once again. He wandered into the parlor and then into the kitchen. The kitchen was cluttered with undone dishes and spoiling foodstuffs which had not been put away. Thinking that perhaps Jewell might be working in the yard, Josh pushed open the screen door leading to the back porch. The area was littered with a cracked whetting stone, unused tools, and a collection of flowerpots.

Josh sat down on the step and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The day had grown even warmer and he was thirsty. The stone well beckoned; he licked his lips at the thought of a drink of cool well water. "Just what the doctor ordered."

He got up and walked through the weeds to the well site. After spitting on his hands, Josh began to turn the crank. The weight surprised Josh. He suspected that the bucket might be caught on something. He dug his heels into the earth, ground his teeth together and continued turning. As the thick rope wrapped itself around the wooden cylinder he could hear water streaming from whatever he was raising from the well below. The sweet odor of decay began to permeate the air and, as it grew more intense, black-winged blowflies, drawn by the smell, began buzzing maniacally around the well opening.

Josh saw the top of Jewell's head first. Her hair resembled unbraided hemp. The body turned, and her eyes, protruding and opaque like the eyes of a beached fish, stared inquiringly at him from a gray and bloated face. Then he saw the rope which was wrapped around her broken neck, cutting into her rotting flesh. "Jee-sus!" Josh looked away but continued turning the handle. When he could turn no more, he secured the handle and brushed away the flies which were now attacking his sweating face.

Josh had seen dead people before, but not like this. His father had looked relaxed in his coffin. Someone had said, "He looks like he's just about ready to sit up, doesn't he?"

His mother, carefully made up, appeared to be sleeping. "She never looked so good."

Once, in New York, he had walked by a man who had been hit by a car and had suffered a heart attack. There had been no blood. The man's eyes were closed and he was peaceful. "Move on. Come on, buddy, take a walk."

Josh forced himself to turn. He grasped his throat as his eyes flooded with tears and he began gagging.

The body held but half its flesh.

The top half of Jewell Runion was still intact. The flesh was spongy and close to falling from the bones, but still whole. Josh staggered backward in horror. Except for the white and thoroughly picked bones, the bottom half of her body did not exist at all. The crawfish had done their work.

Josh could not look at Orin's face. Instead he concentrated on his brother's hands, watching them while Orin worked. They were large and capable, clearly the hands of a person who had spent most of his time out of doors. A network of veins covered the backs and stood out in harsh relief. And as Orin reached for the hammer, Josh saw that his palm was as tough and calloused as the paw of an animal. He became self-conscious of his own soft-blistered hands.

"You do nice work, Orin." Josh leaned against the sawhorse while his brother put the finishing touches on Jewell's casket.

Orin took a long time to answer. "I do better work when I have more time."

"You mean when the body doesn't have to be buried in a hurry?"

Orin turned to look at Josh. "That's right," he replied evenly. "When the body doesn't stink."

Josh had already decided he didn't like Orin. The fact that they were brothers - twins - didn't alter that. And the knowledge that he had slept with Roma increased his dislike. "Do you ever think about dying, Orin?"

Orin grinned crookedly. "At thirty-two? That's a little early to be thinkin' about such things."

"Not so early. People die all the time. From the cradle on."

"Not up here. They mostly die of old age."

"Jewell Runion didn't die of old age."

"She sure as hell smells like she did."

"I thought you liked Jewell."

"I did ... when she was alive."

"I guess you don't have many suicides up here."

Orin shook his head.

"An ugly way to do it."

"Well I guess it isn't as easy here as in the big city. There you got gas, you got pills, you got high buildings." Orin laughed and continued working. "Jewell, she had her well."

Josh persisted. "Being so close to death sort of makes you feel vulnerable."

"I never thought about it," replied Orin.

"You expect to live forever?"

"I'm livin' now. That's what counts."

"But at our age, we begin to experience death. It comes to friends, relatives," he paused, "parents."

Orin stopped work, pondered the meaning of Josh's words but said nothing. Josh went on. "Don't you ever think about your parents dying?"

Orin spat onto the sawdust which covered the floor. "I only got one parent."

"That's right. You never met your father."

"I'm a bastard," Orin said evenly, then he grinned. "You knew that, Josh. What are you fishin' after?"

"Nothing. I just wondered if you were ever curious about ... your father."

"Why should I be? I'm here, he's not."

"How do you know he's not here?"

"If he were here, I'd know it," Orin replied softly. "An' I'd kill him."

"Yeah," admitted Josh. "I guess I'd feel the same way." He looked back to the casket. "Nobody makes out a report, anything like that?"

"Not up here."

"Just bury them as quickly as possible?"

"When they smell, yes. If you want to be useful, you can help me load the coffin onto the cart."

"There's to be no wake, no service?"

"Got to get her in the ground as quickly as possible."

"Are you going to take her to the graveyard?"

Orin nodded.

"I'll come with you."

"Don't need no help," Orin replied quickly.

"I'll come anyway."

***

A tuft of dry grass moved in front of a stained headstone. A fieldmouse, brown and sleek, emerged and scurried toward a berry bush several graves away. The snake, a copperhead, tracked the rodent's movements. Slowly it unwound its sinewy body and slid through the grass until it, too, reached the berry bush. The fieldmouse was standing on its hind legs, reaching for a low-hanging treat. The copperhead hissed and struck. The mouse squealed, but it was too late. The snake dove forward and swallowed it whole.

Reverend. Hooper turned his head away. He should have shouted to warn the fieldmouse. The preacher railed at himself. The incident reminded him all too clearly of his impotence in other matters. As he was returning to the church, he saw two figures approaching in the distance, a horse-drawn cart between them. He ran up the front steps of the church and disappeared inside. He kept the doors open a crack and watched.