The Slow Moon (5 page)

Eight

E. G. H
OLLIS,
a tall man, thick and uneven like a tree trunk, stood in the kitchen stirring some soup when he heard knocking at the front door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and a visitor after dark usually meant bad news. Hollis, a teacher in the local high school, had already heard the news, and it was bad. He knew all the students and had taught them, or would teach them, American and European history. He leaned his large head to look out the window and saw Charlie Post’s truck parked under the pecan tree. Charlie liked to have pecans fall into the truck and would even shake the tree to make them fall into the bed.

“You could just ask me for a bag of pecans, you know,” Hollis once told Charlie.

But Charlie shook his head. “It’s better this way.”

Hollis opened the door and motioned Charlie in. “Want to have some soup with me?”

Charlie wiped his hiking boots on the mat and stepped inside. “What’d you make?”

“Beef vegetable.”

“Sure.”

The two men took bowls and spoons and bread to the kitchen table. After tasting it to see if it was seasoned well enough, Hollis ladled the soup into two bowls and put a spoon into each one. A big man with wide shoulders, Charlie sat gingerly on a kitchen chair. The chair let out a creak as Charlie edged it closer to the table.

“Raining hard?” Hollis asked. Water dripped from Charlie’s cap and drops hung from his chin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Might hail.” He spooned soup into his mouth. He and Hollis had been friends for nearly eighteen years. They had coached Little League for ten years. The boys still called Charlie “Coach.”

“Did you hear about Sophie Chabot?” Charlie asked. “And that Crow Davenport’s been charged?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

Hollis’s fingers drifted to his scalp. He had grown slightly bald over the past year, and during that time, he’d picked up the habit of rubbing the smooth part of his head whenever he was deep in thought. “It’ll be hard to convince me that Crow did something like that.”

“I don’t think he did. Even though the evidence seems to—”

“I don’t care what it shows. It could have been anybody.” Hollis couldn’t think of many students who would be less likely to attack a girl. “Anyway, I think the sheriff should be looking for those men who’ve been hanging around the school.”

“It’s about time they looked into that. I’ve made formal complaints to the police about those guys. I’ve seen three or four of them lurking near the practice field in their leather jackets and badass construction boots. I’ve tried to talk to them, but they always wander off when I head in their direction. You can bet they’ll be brought in for questioning.” Charlie slurped his soup.

“Good,” said Hollis. “And we should ask the kids at school what they know about these guys. Could be selling drugs.”

“Could be,” said Charlie. “Smizer, down at the station, told me that Jack Canady was jobbing in some extra workers to finish up the new hospital wing on time. Which might explain why they’re in town, but
not
why they’re hanging around the high school.”

“How is Rita?” Hollis asked. Charlie and Rita had been together now for over a month.

“She’s hardly herself. She won’t even speak to me if she thinks I’m sticking up for Crow. She’s blind with rage and can’t think of anything but blame. No matter if she might be wrong.”

“She is wrong.”

“That’s not something I can tell her.”

“So we’ll stay alert to anything the students might tell us,” Hollis said. “Keep our ears open.”

“Yup.” Charlie poured himself some more soup. “This is good. Didn’t Lila used to make soup like this?”

“It’s her recipe.”

They could hear hail bouncing off the porch and roof. “Where’re your dogs? Better get them in. It’s getting bad out there.”

“They’re in the shed,” Hollis said. “They’re fine.” He looked out the back window. “I’ll check on them later.”

“You going to the jail tomorrow?” Charlie asked. “To see Crow?”

“I’ll be there,” Hollis said. “Crow needs to see us there.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Charlie drank the dregs of the soup from his bowl. “They’re questioning all the boys—Tom, Bobby. They went to Antony first.”

Hollis stopped eating, seething. “They went to Antony because he’s black.” He lifted a cigarette from the pack on the table. “They go to Louise Burden’s house?”

“I guess.”

“Damn.”

Charlie carried his bowl to the sink and rinsed it. “I better get home,” he said.

“If you pray at all,” said Hollis, “this might be a good time to do so.”

When Hollis was a young man he had struggled with the idea of becoming a priest, but then he met Lila and married her, choosing instead to teach. But since Lila’s death ten years ago, his lifestyle did not seem so far from the priesthood—the students being his congregants; this house, his abbey. Most days, it seemed enough.

He had wept when they married in the Methodist church on a bleak winter afternoon. Only a few members of his family came to celebrate the wedding, some cousins and a sister. Most had wanted him to become the priest he had promised to be. But Hollis had not wept at Lila’s funeral. Three weeks later, when the empty house made him believe completely what he had lost, the tears had come. From that time on, he had poured his love and care, his attention, onto his students—a benefit for those who grew up in South Pittsburg.

Every night he came home to his small house outside of town and cooked vegetables or made a thick soup. He rarely ate desserts but kept oranges and apples in a drawer at school. Often during a free class period, if he didn’t keep study hall, he could be seen peeling an orange and eating the sections one by one, filling his mouth with juice, working his tongue into his cheek, or cutting an apple into slices rather than eating it whole.

He read science in his spare moments, not as a precise study, but in order to understand patterns occurring in the natural world, to see how those patterns compared to rhythms in history and even human interaction. He was usually not disappointed. He used analogies, as he understood them, to explain historical changes to the students.

Students teased him about this practice, but they usually remembered the comparisons. Even years later they reminded Hollis of something he had told them about azimuth, or gravity, or magnetism. They liked him. He was attractive in a craggy, Ichabod Crane way. His skin appeared slightly pocked from early years of acne, and his eyes, round and gray, looked huge in his face. His gaze could pierce, like a shot, into the heart of a boy or girl who told a lie.

The year Hollis arrived in South Pittsburg, Charlie Post had just built a hardware store, Post Hardware. Hollis went into the store his second day in town, to find tools and materials to repair his porch. He also asked where he might find some fishing gear. Their friendship began because of a shared love of fishing, but they soon discovered how closely their values, their thinking, coincided.

Now Charlie sat in his truck, not starting it, not wanting to leave yet. He was sorry he had mentioned Antony. “I feel something coming,” said Charlie. His hand flew up into the air. “Besides this storm.”

Hollis felt it too but did not say so.

“Just a brewing in the air,” Charlie said. Then he laughed, thinking of a way to change the subject. “Did you know the boys signed up for that competition in Knoxville? The Battle of the Bands?”

Hollis nodded. “They’ve got their hopes up too much, I think.”

“Maybe that’s good,” Charlie said. “I’m just wondering though, have we taught them how to lose?”

Hollis smiled. “We taught them. I don’t know if they’ve learned it yet. Last year they were all excited about the Gulf War, you remember? They talked about it like it was a show on TV. They wanted to go over there, be heroes.”

“The way they’re looking at this Knoxville thing, they think they’re gonna get rich. They think they’ll be famous!”

“Who told them that?” Hollis shook his head.

“Damn! Who needed to tell them?” Charlie reached to straighten his side mirror, and it came off in his hand.

“When are you going to get a new truck, Charlie?”

“This one’s still good.” He put the mirror on the seat beside him.

Hollis smiled at his friend. “We better prepare those boys for something other than the unmitigated success that they expect.”

Charlie turned the ignition. “Thanks for the soup,” he said.

Hollis went back into the house and opened the curtains to see Charlie’s lights move down the driveway toward the main road. A black roach made its way from beneath the pantry door into the kitchen, and he watched it scoot across the floor before he stepped on it.

Nothing in this world had prepared Hollis for the affection he felt for his students. Laughter could be heard coming from his classroom; a lively undercurrent of interest could be felt just by passing the door, even if the door was closed. Other teachers experienced the energy that spilled out into the hall; some grew jealous of Hollis’s popularity. They claimed that the students liked him because he gave high grades. He did.

In fact, the students worked harder to earn their grades from him. They spent more time on his assignments. No one wanted to disappoint him.

After Charlie left, Hollis took food out to the three hounds, then stayed awake trying to think of a way to speak with Crow the next day. A zip of dread pulled down his spine. As he thought of visiting Crow in jail, he knew he could not let a modicum of fear show. He knew that the young lived their lives in a compartment and did not see the appearance of shadows in the corner; but a shadow had come in.

Another roach scuttled across the floor. Hollis washed the empty bowls, wrapped the bread in tinfoil, and put the leftover soup into the refrigerator. He dried his hands and shuddered.

He stayed awake long into the night preparing for class, a man with his books, trying to imagine discoveries, maybe just
one
discovery or some new question about history: trying to explain slavery, or the anger between Indians and white men—the scalping of heads, babies dashed against rocks. He dreamed of discovering the cause of civil and uncivil wars, the onslaught of epidemics, the Great Depression. Then, if he could only take back Hitler’s orders, release the cold starved bodies of Jews from the ovens, understand the Vietnam massacres, warn the students against the love of war.

Hollis tried to imagine what had happened to Sophie Chabot and why. He could not believe anyone could do it, not even the Walker brothers, who had been caught breaking into Smizer’s Mobil station. It was easier to picture those strange men in town as the culprits, bringing dark destruction to their good, simple community. He wondered if the parents in South Pittsburg had been warned about this new danger. No girl should be out after dark alone until this had all been sorted out. That night Hollis fell asleep in his chair amazed, disheartened by the thought of all he would not understand.

Nine

O
N THE DAY
Crow went to jail, Louise Burden drove to Helen’s house in the late afternoon. The sheriff had already talked to some boys who had been to the Fairchilds’ house. Antony had gone to that party, and rumors of drugs and heavy drinking were circling the town. Louise hoped Helen would be alone, and was glad when she saw Carl’s car gone.

Helen saw Louise get out of her big gray Chevy and ran to meet her. “Oh, Louise.” They walked back into the house and stood in the hallway. “I needed somebody today.” Helen seemed about to fall over—as though if someone had pushed her with one finger, she might topple.

“I was at the hospital when Sophie came in last night,” Louise said. “I wanted to call you, because rumors were flying around like crazy.”

“How is Sophie?” Helen asked, keeling to the left, then balancing herself on a hall table. “I wanted to call Rita Chabot this morning, but wondered if I should.”

“Nobody knows exactly how Sophie is, not really. I mean, she’s bruised up, but she’s not saying anything about what happened. Or can’t remember. Breaks my heart to see that girl.”

“Oh, Louise.”

“Don’t worry about Crow, Helen. I know he’s not in on this. I don’t care what they’re saying, I don’t believe it. I’ve been watching him grow up for a long time, him and Antony. Now, I can think of some other boys who might’ve done something like this, but I swear, Helen, no one with any sense could think it was Crow. Oh, God. That poor girl.”

“Crow can’t quit talking about Sophie. All he wants to do is see her.” Helen began to cry uncontrollably. “Don’t let me cry,” she said. “I don’t want to be crying when Carl comes home.” They walked through the dining room into the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll make us some coffee. Louise, you are the answer to a prayer.”

Louise laughed through her nose.

“How’s Antony?” Helen asked. She wanted to speak of something different.

“He’s working at the diner, washing dishes. His hours, they’re not regular. I never know when he’s gonna be working, or gonna be home.”

Helen stopped, her back to Louise. “I’m so worried, Louise. I don’t know what to do.”

“Listen, Helen, Crow wouldn’t have the
ability
to do something like this. I know it as well as I know Antony wouldn’t be in on it.”

“Who mentioned Antony? Did someone say something about Antony being there?”

“He went to that party.” Louise plopped down into a straight-backed chair, as if she had walked the whole way to Helen’s house. “Just being black could make them blame him.”

Louise and George were raising their grandson as a son. Their own son had left town, leaving Antony with them—not returning. “I just hope his bad luck has run out,” she said. “You know how good luck can run out? Well, in the case of Antony, his bad luck could use a break.”

They had talked in this kitchen before. Antony was three when his father left, and from that day these two women had come together to talk while their boys played ball in the yard.

Helen reached for some cups in the drainer. She measured coffee. “You still like it strong?”

Louise nodded. “Where’s Johnny?”

“Carl’s gone to get him at that survival camp. He wanted to come home.” She turned the coffee grinder on, and the noise drowned out their voices. They waited for quiet.

“Louise, why do you think Sophie’s not saying anything?” She measured the coffee and water and sat, waiting for it to drip. “Why won’t she talk about it?”

“Sophie’s scared.” Louise was thoughtful. “I’m thinking her mind won’t let her remember. She’s in shock. Or maybe Rita just doesn’t want to push her too hard.” Louise shook her head. “One thing I know, something ugly has reared its head in this town. That girl won’t feel safe for a long time.”

Antony had not felt safe for years after his daddy took off. Louise had to promise him every day that she and George wouldn’t leave him, would never leave him. Louise had been on the porch when her son drove up with Antony. He kissed her and said that his wife, Antony’s mother, was at work and that they would pick up Antony later in the afternoon. He waved from the truck, and a flicker of sadness came over his face, just a fraction of a second of sadness—then he was gone. Mother and father, both gone.

Louise snapped her fingers. “Something can happen just like that.” She snapped them again. “And everything’s different.”

Helen poured them each a cup of strong coffee and pushed cream and sugar toward the middle of the table. “Now, Helen, Antony’s a friend of Crow’s. Part of that rock band and everything. And when suspicion falls on Crow, it falls on my Antony too, more than on the other boys.” Louise looked at Helen with her neck drawn back slightly, as if she might be preparing herself for some unexpected onslaught of racial bias.

“Louise, that makes no sense.”

“Listen.” Louise’s voice was stern. “I’ve seen it time and again. Things can turn on a dime when you’re black.”

“Don’t even think about that, Louise,” Helen told her. “Don’t even let that worry come in.”

“I do worry,” said Louise. “And you should too. I heard that Rita was pushing to get the D.A.’s office to go after Crow, get him convicted. She’s afraid somebody might accuse Sophie, you know, say she asked for it because she’d been drinking.” Louise leaned in. “Helen, I came here to ask about Crow, but I’m here, too, to say if Antony’s accused of anything, you got to help him.”

“I’ve got to help Crow first, Louise,” said Helen. She looked as though she might stand up.

“You and Carl can help him.” Louise was not listening to Helen. “Antony won’t need any more bad luck in his life.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” said Helen. “Good or bad. Just things happening and God looking over all of it.”

“Where you think God was when Sophie needed help?” Louise spoke, her anger spitting out. “If you take care of sick people like I do, if you see people come in in all kinds of torment, a person begins to wonder who’s in charge. I know you have a strong faith, Helen. I used to have it too, but things come in sideways and take it away. And if something happened to my Antony, I think I’d curse God.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Yes. I would. I would do just that. I would fight tooth and nail for that boy.”

“He’s not in trouble for this, Louise.”

Louise drank the rest of her coffee; she didn’t look comforted. “Sometimes I can’t tell the difference in a misfortune and a blessing. Sometimes it seems like one thing, sometimes another. Like my own big son leaving his baby boy and not coming back. Saying he’s coming back, telling his boy he’s coming back, but not doing it. Was that a misfortune or a stroke of good luck? Hard to tell from where I stand. Sometimes I get ashamed thinking about what he did—leaving in a truck, smiling like he was a good person, a father. Damn him. George won’t even say his name in the house, but that’s less from any anger and more from just being hurt. I haven’t said my boy’s name in thirteen years, Helen, not out loud. I say it sometimes in a whisper though. Just let my mouth form his name soft, like I’m kissing him.”

“I know, I know,” said Helen. But she didn’t know. “God’s ways aren’t always known to us.”

Louise laughed. “He does have some strange ideas about things, God does. But Antony, now, he is certainly my alternative blessing.”

Both women put their cups into the sink and walked back through the house to the front door. As they opened the door, Carl drove up. Johnny got out, but someone else was in the car, a woman. Louise saw who it was, but Helen saw only Johnny coming toward her, and Carl’s face. She searched it for clues.

Louise said goodbye. Helen let Carl get into the house, then held him tight. He let her hold him, his arms down at his sides, pinned, his body stiff as a tree.

A few days later Antony came home at suppertime talking about his surprise interview with Deputy Canton and what people at school were saying, and what the police were asking the other boys.

“Back up,” said Louise. “Officer Canton interviewed you at school? George, put down the newspaper and listen up.”

George did as he was told. “Go on, son.”

“Not school,” said Antony. “He came by the diner.”

“That is outrageous,” said Louise. “If that ever happens again, you are not to speak with the police until you get me or your grandfather down there. What did he ask you?”

“He asked me what time I got to the Fairchilds’, who I hung out with, and when I left. Wanted to know did I drink or take drugs at the party, and which kids were drinking or drugging. He wanted a list of Crow’s friends and a list of who’s in our band. Asked me if Crow had a bad temper. How long he’d been dating Sophie and how he treated her. Asked me if I knew anybody who might want to hurt Sophie. I don’t like that Officer Canton. He kept twisting what I said and misunderstanding me on purpose, saying stuff like, ‘So you and the rest of the boys got Sophie to take a drink or two, right? And then you invited her to take a walk—into the woods?’”

“And what did you say?” George asked.

“I said no way. I just kept my cool, like you always taught me.”

“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” said Louise, a tremor in her throat. “They’re singling out our Antony because of his skin color.”

“Mama,” said Antony. “You don’t know that. Everybody who knows Crow is getting asked stuff. They pulled Bobby and Lester out of math class today and were talking to them for a long time. They talked to Sophie’s girlfriends too.”

Louise went behind the chair where he was sitting and put her arms around his neck, hugging him hard.

“You trying to choke me to death, Mama?” he said, making an exaggerated choking sound.

“Won’t be such a hard way to go,” said Louise. “Being loved to death by your grandma.” She let him go as quickly as she had taken hold. “I talked to Helen the other day, and I was there when Carl came back home.”

“Maybe I ought to go see Crow,” Antony said.

George looked at Louise and shook his head.

“Better not,” said George. “Better give it a little time. No sense asking for trouble. They’ll be looking for people—other than the Davenport boy—to blame this on. Just keep to yourself for the time being.”

“Why would anybody want to hurt that girl?” Louise asked no one. “I tell you, I don’t believe Crow Davenport did any of it. I don’t believe he could. Now, Casey or that Tom Canady—either one has enough meanness to make me believe anything.”

“They’re all right,” said Antony. “A little crazy at times, but all right.”

“Well, I know you like ’em, but that won’t mean I have to.”

George sat with his back to them but turned now to ask, “What’re they saying happened exactly?”

“They’re saying rape,” Louise told them. “But the girl herself, she’s not saying how it happened—can’t remember anything.”

“If she won’t talk, then Carl Davenport probably had something to do with keeping her quiet,” said George. “A son of Carl Davenport won’t have to play by the regular rules.”

“Well, they did the rape kit, but results won’t be back for a while,” said Louise. “And if that rape kit comes back positive, and Crow’s involved, won’t be much Carl can do. DNA doesn’t lie.”

Antony’s eyes grew wide, and Louise instantly regretted her words.

“Antony, if you repeat what I just said to anyone outside this kitchen…”

“I won’t!” said Antony.

“I saw somebody else over there today,” Louise told George. George looked at her, guessing with his eyes. Louise nodded. “Ava. She was in the car with Carl when he came home. Carl must’ve called and told her to come. He went to get Johnny, then must’ve picked up Ava at the train.”

“That’s either good, or the stupidest thing he could’ve done,” George said. “I don’t know which.”

“Crow and Johnny like her,” said Louise. “And I think she might be able to comfort Helen.”

“That’s pretty hard to see from where I’m sitting,” George said.

The first time Louise saw Ava was when Helen got so ill after Johnny’s birth and Carl hired Louise as a nurse to come to the house four times a week. He brought Ava in to help look after Crow, who was four, and the new baby. Ava lived in south Georgia. She had no children, had never been married, and when she arrived to take over the rituals of the house, she got so comfortable she stayed for two months. Louise stopped going to the house after three weeks, but she could already see what was taking place. Carl came in the house looking not for Helen, but for Ava. Ava was lively in ways Helen had never been. She wore shorts and sunbathed in the backyard. She wore her nightgown until ten o’clock on Saturday mornings. And she kept Crow up late, which made him ill-tempered the next morning.

Helen got better, then worse, then better, worse. Louise could see how hard she was trying to get back to her duties—so that Ava could leave. Carl began to come home in the middle of the day—ostensibly to check on Helen. He spoke to Helen, then went to the kitchen to eat lunch with Ava. Helen and Louise could hear them laughing from her bedroom.

“Maybe you need to go to sleep,” Louise suggested.

“How can I sleep with all that racket?” Helen sat up in bed. “Anyway, I’m not tired. Bring the baby in here, let me hold him awhile.”

Louise went into the nursery and lifted Johnny from his crib. She looked at the schedule Helen had written out for Ava and saw that it was time for Johnny’s bottle. She brought the baby to Helen and went to the kitchen to get the bottle ready. Ava and Carl sat with their faces very close to each other; they seemed to be whispering. Louise’s presence startled them.

“I’m just getting Johnny’s formula,” Louise said.

“You eaten lunch, Louise? Ava’s made some tuna salad with grapes and apples.” Carl seemed to be bragging.

“I’ve eaten,” said Louise. She lifted a prepared bottle from the refrigerator and warmed it in the bottle warmer. The room grew quiet as the bottle heated; Carl seemed to be waiting for her to be finished and leave.

“I think Helen’s getting better,” Louise said. “I mean, I think she’s gonna be up and about very soon. Very soon.” She turned and gave them a smile.

“That’s good,” said Ava. “You think she’d like some of this salad?”