Iona Moon (30 page)

She watched him drift around the room, stooping for the suitcase, opening all the drawers. There wasn't much to pack. “The doll,” she said. It seemed very important.

Something dry and brown flaked off her palm. Blood, she thought, and looked for the wound. She remembered the skinny little man, remembered wanting to do it.

Eddie closed the suitcase and came back to the bed. “Can you sit up?” he said. He put his hands beneath her back and lifted her; her neck was weak, a baby's neck, and her heavy head rolled. “Come on,” he said, “we just have to get to the car.” He swung her feet over the edge of the bed. They looked as if they were touching the floor, but she couldn't feel the wood: everything dropped out from under her. She giggled. The hooves struck harder, and she almost fell.

She moved one foot and then the other. Even her shoes seemed too big. She shuffled like an old woman, like her own mother the last time she got out of bed, put on her slippers and scuffed to the bathroom at the end of the hall. “The suitcase,” she said.

“I'll come back for it.”

The woman appeared in the doorway. “Your ten minutes are up,” she said.

“We're going,” the man told her.

“Not until you pay me for the mattress,” she said, “and she owes me a week's rent whether she's staying or not.”

“I have to come back for the suitcase,” he said. “I'll pay you then.”

“I'm watching you. Don't think you can sneak out of here. I wrote down your license.”

Iona and Eddie stood at the top of the stairs. She tried to see the bottom, but the stairs folded into one another. The harder she tried to focus, the sicker she felt. She closed her eyes.

“One step at a time,” he said. “Don't look at the bottom.”

Couldn't he see her eyes were closed? “That's good, baby. One more. See? See how easy it is?”

The bones in her legs bowed outward. Any second one was going to snap and she'd roll to the landing and be done with it.

“Five more steps,” he said, “that's all.”

If she fell, she'd bring him down too.

“My girl,” he said, “that's my good girl.” She had just walked from her mother's arms to her father's, three baby steps.
My good girl
.

They were passing through a doorway, into light so sharp it sliced through her closed lids, pricking her eyes. She'd be blinded if she opened them, even for a second.
Don't stare at the eclipse
, her father said.
The light will be gone, but it can still burn your
eyes
. But she did look. She opened her eyes and saw flares, bursts of yellow and green around the dark circle where the sun had been. She wanted to fall on the ground. She was sorry. She wanted her father to forgive her. When she looked up, she saw his dark silhouette, brilliant flashes exploding behind him. Yes, he was the shadow moving across the sun. Her eyes were burned blind.

“We're almost there,” Eddie said.

Now he was lifting her. She smelled the familiar leather of the seat. Daddy's truck. He was putting her in Daddy's truck. He was going to drive her home, and everything would be forgiven. She lay down on the seat and breathed in the sweet animal smell. Daddy's gun was behind the seat, with the hacksaw and the coil of rope, with the calfskin gloves and a small ax, light enough for a child to swing.

She felt dirt in her hair and between her fingers. She tasted it under her tongue and breathed it up her nose, dirt from the potato field. She'd felt the hard clumps of earth raining against her chest; now she sank deep in the ground, drifting in the dark, a room with soft walls and no doors. She was becoming a child again. She was no longer a young woman. She was only a girl, her ten-year-old self, shrinking still, becoming seven, six. She clutched the legless doll beside her and was afraid: she was almost that size.
She was so small
, Hannah said.
Why did you have to bury her?
She didn't mean Iona; she meant the other one.
She should have disappeared inside my body
. Now she was smaller than the doll, the girl child born too soon, Hannah's first and best-loved daughter. The doll rolled toward her, its wild eye spinning, its legless body tumbling into the hole, pulling clots of dirt behind it.

She woke, knotted in a sheet, arms pinned to her sides. The blankets smelled of wool and mothballs. A voice said, “You've been dreaming—but the fever broke a few hours ago.” Iona realized the sheets were clammy. “You've got to drink something. You've lost a lot of fluid.” A woman put her hand on Iona's forehead. “I'll make tea.”

“Please,” Iona said, “unwrap me.” The woman pulled the blankets down, tugged the twisted sheet free. “Who are you?” Iona said.

“It's me,” the woman said, “don't you remember old Pearl, Eddie's mama?”

Eddie, yes, Eddie came to her room and made her climb down the stairs. Eddie talked too much and had leather seats in his car.

The tea Pearl brought tasted foul, worse than the dirt in her mouth, and Iona wanted to spit it back in the cup, but the woman was so kind, holding her head up so she could drink, raising the cup to her dry lips. “All of it,” Pearl said, “one sip and then another. It goes down.”

“It's awful,” Iona whispered.

“I know.”

“But I have to drink it?”

“It will make you well.”

Pearl came with her tea again and again. Sometimes only a few seconds passed between visits, and sometimes days. Once Iona woke to find Eddie lying beside her. He was not just the man called Eddie; he was someone she knew. He kissed her face, but they didn't talk. When she woke again, he was gone. Dogs barked in the yard. Coyotes howled in the hills. She slept and Hannah died.

Days began to form in the square of window, a swell of light rising and sinking, the safe dark spreading across the sky, then the light again, thin and pink on the horizon, predictable and painful, almost insistent, a voice that called her back from the edge, demanding ordinary things, instructing her to eat and piss and speak, to walk to the kitchen when she wanted a glass of water.

Once Eddie sat on her bed and told her the weather had turned in Seattle, that it was spring in December, not warm exactly, but warm enough for grass to come up green and flowers to bud. “It's not right,” he said. “Everything will freeze.”

She thought of Idaho in winter, white and black, forever and ever, white sky and white ground, black birds and black trees in the distance, slow river running, the color of slate, the shadows of trees wavering on the surface, the river freezing white. She depended on this.

She began to count the days, to mark them in her mind. She waited for Eddie's visits. On the tenth day, Eddie's brother came instead. Joey played blackjack with Mama Pearl while Iona sat on the couch and watched the old woman cheat. Outside, the wind whipped the water into the rocks of the seawall, rippled the tall grass so it moved like waves, carried the smell of kelp and dead fish across the field; the mindless wind beat at the little house and rattled windows till Iona could hear nothing else. Still Pearl and Joey slapped their cards on the table, laughed in pantomime, spoke without voices, as if nothing were happening, as if they weren't afraid that the house would rise off the ground and spin away.

Later, Pearl went to the store. The wind died. Joey sat beside Iona. He put his arm around her. He said, “You're still sweet on my brother, aren't you?” He nuzzled her neck, nipped her ear. “You're wasting your time,” he whispered.

And she answered, “So are you.”

That night Eddie came and lay on the bed beside her. They both stared at the blank ceiling. It was dusk. The plaster looked gray and fuzzy, no longer solid, turning to sand, turning to dust, falling on their faces, a dry rain, falling forever, covering their bodies, burying them on this bed. Eddie kissed her eyelids, pressed her hand to his face and kissed her palm. He asked her what she wanted, and she only knew that she didn't want to be like him, running from one thing to another, his bird heart racing.

“I have to go home,” she said. “I have to finish something.”

She lay still as driftwood on a beach, her porous limbs bleached by years of sun. She knew this was the last time she'd lie in the hollow of Eddie's arms. The tide flowed toward her, to wash her away a second time.

Eddie stayed, but he didn't take off his clothes. Iona thought of his scarred stump, the bright ruby flesh. She imagined touching it with her fingertips, and Eddie saying, “I feel my foot—it's warm.”

Sorrow came in soft waves. She saw that the smallest sacrifices were the ones that drowned you in the end. She had never imagined a life of joy together, but she expected to see him one more time, standing by his car, waiting for her in the rain. This was the loss that buckled her, the image of Eddie's face, his hair long again, wet around his shoulders. This was the absence she could not bear.

She knew the exact moment when he slipped away in the dark. She pretended to sleep, understanding he could never leave if he thought she was awake.

In the morning, the doll sat in the chair, eyes wide open, T-shirt untied. Iona's money was gone, and there was a note:
I'll find you a good car to get you home
.

That was all.

19

The three little girls pranced around Jay Tyler, touched his hand, his sleeve. He had the bottle tucked under his jacket, and they grabbed for it. They had violet lips and green eyelids. They looked ghoulish under the yellow streetlights and weren't really so little, but Jay thought of them that way because he felt so far beyond them, decades older, living in another country.

They ran away as soon as they had what they wanted, the pint of brandy to mix with their soda. He'd only made two bucks buying their booze for them. Next time he'd charge them double. Business, after all. And there was some risk involved.

He'd bought a pint for them last Saturday, and they were waiting for him this week, sitting in the parking lot of Marty's Liquor—Tina and Dory and Kim, blowing on their hands to keep warm. That first night he limped away and heard one girl say, “He gives me the creeps.”

“How old is he anyway?” This voice was higher.

“Eighteen.” That was Kim, Kim Beller, who was nothing like her sister, Belinda.

“Bullshit.”

“My sister knew him.” Past tense. No one still knew Jay Tyler.

They'd flirted in the beginning.
I'm Dory, I'm Tina, I'm Kim
, smiling, pulling their hands through their long hair so he'd notice and want to do the same.
We forgot our I.D.'s
. He nodded.
Do you mind?
Kim took care of the negotiations. She was tall and slender, her jeans so tight she must have put them on wet and let them dry to fit her shape and no other. She had a nice butt, high and round, a little too big, perhaps, considering how slim she was; maybe her fine ass would be her undoing when she was older and heavier, flabby instead of fit, but right now her bum was perfect and she knew it. She was leaning against the car, backside turned toward him when Jay returned.
Keep the change
. That's what she'd said. Tip for the errand boy. Three dollars that night and only two tonight. He was slipping. Next week he'd make new rules. Next week he'd tell them:
Stay in the car
. He didn't want them twittering and tugging, didn't want to see Kim's long legs or Tina's little white hands. He didn't want Dory to stare at him with those wide dark eyes. Maybe he'd tell them to forget it. He'd say, “Listen, I can't take the risk. My I.D.'s a fake.” They'd laugh.
Who'd card an old cripple like you?
He didn't need the money, so why bother?
He gives me the creeps
. Little bitches. He'd like to really give them the creeps. He thought of them parked out on the Flats, some deserted road, half-moon reflecting on snow the only light for miles except the distant glow of farmhouse windows. He contemplated following the girls, headlights off. He knew their stories, how terror brought delight when it didn't press too close. But he meant to press close. Very.

He imagined them this way: Kim telling the one about the man with a hook for a hand. He came after pretty girls, just like them, threatened to put the hook through their throats if they didn't do exactly what he said. Kim swore she knew some girls he'd almost caught. They were on this very road, telling this story—a mirror reflects a mirror endlessly. They got scared and drove away, those girls in the past. Kim said, “When they got home they found his hook hand hanging from the door handle. He was that close.”

The girls all saw the same image, a man on his knees in the snow, howling in the night with the pain of the bloody stump and the anguish of thwarted desire.

Tina locked the doors and peered across the white fields. Dory saw a dark shape rolling into the ditch. They pleaded. “Let's go.” Kim took a long pull of brandy straight from the bottle. “Please.” Jay could see her now, head tilted back, golden hair frosted white at the tips, bristling like fur.
Sissies
. And just as she said it, he'd put his face to her window, smash his nose and mouth and cheeks flat so she wouldn't know him. He'd shatter the glass with a rock, unlock the door, drag the girl out of the car, pull her kicking and screaming into the snow.

Of course he wasn't really going to do this—even as a joke. It took far more energy than he had. And what did he care about three giggling girls—what did he care that they reached inside his coat, trying to grab the bottle with their cold hands?
I'm Dory, I'm Tina, I'm Kim
. Cheerleaders.
Keep the change
. Old man, that's what they thought. Pathetic cripple.
Creep
. Men with canes, men with metal plates in their heads or hooks for hands; men with knots of scars on their backs, bits of shrapnel forever surfacing, leaving spots of blood on their shirts: the maimed have nothing left to lose, he thought, and are always dangerous.