Iona Moon (15 page)

Flo was already downstairs. Her glasses hung on a chain from her neck, bouncing against her chest as she bustled around the kitchen. She still wore her pink robe over her nightgown, but she'd taken the time to paint her eyelids blue and her lips red. She was fleshy—not fat like her daughters, but full. She had a nice waist, and Willy wished that he were still young enough to fling his arms around her from behind and feel her soft bottom against his body.

“You're up early,” she said.

“I heard the phone.”

“Me too.”

“Who was it?”

“Just Fred. Fire east of town, thought he might need help.”

“Whose place?” He was relieved. A fire. It had nothing to do with last night or anyone he knew.

“No one's. I don't know why Fred bothered to call. Just a brush fire along the tracks.”

Willy stood up so fast his chair toppled and crashed to the floor.

“What is it, Willy?”

His mother was moving toward him, his mother was going to touch his cheek or sweep the hair off his forehead. He couldn't stand it if she did that. “I gotta go,” he said, backing away. He was out of the kitchen and up the stairs before she had the chance to ask another question.

The shed had burned to the ground and the flames were out by the time Willy got to the tracks. His father and Fred Pierce walked in circles around the place, wider and wider, looking for clues. Officer Pierce was a twitchy little man with a mustache. So far all they'd found was a broken rum bottle and a crumpled cigarette pack. Willy prayed that his friends hadn't dropped anything else. A wallet would finish them all off. He remembered Darryl saying:
We should burn it down
. But Willy had taken Darryl home himself, dropped him at his front door. When they left the tracks, Matt Fry was out cold and the shed was still standing. Darryl was too drunk to get back here on his own. That meant the kid did it himself.

“What are you doing here?” Horton's voice was soft, but Willy could tell his father wasn't glad to see him.

“Mom told me.”

“That wasn't my question, son.”

“Matt F-fry …” Willy stuttered. “Matt Fry's been living up here.” He was too scared to ask if the boy was in the shed, burned to his bones. Maybe he crawled back up here, lay down on his plank bed and lit a cigarette, passed out again and woke in flames.

“Did your mother say that?”

“No.”
Just a brush fire
.

“You get on home. Tell her it's nothing.”

“Is he?”

Horton shook his head. “No sign.”

“Over here,” Fred called. He'd found something in the grass: empty beer bottles and the yellow lighter. Willy followed his father to look at the evidence.

Horton Hamilton held the lighter. “Cheap,” he said, “a hundred of these in town.”

“Kid probably stole it,” Pierce said.

Willy almost said it was Iona Moon's. It would have felt good to put the blame on her.

“Must have set it himself,” said Horton.

“Why would he do that if he was living here?” Pierce said.

“Crazy boy. Who knows what went through his head in the middle of the night?”

“Looks like he got himself good and drunk,” Pierce said.

Horton shaded his eyes and looked down the tracks.

“You don't have any ideas about looking for him, do you Horton?”

“Have to.”

“Long gone by now.”

“Maybe not so far.”

“You're on your own with this one.”

“I know.”

“As far as I'm concerned, this case is closed,” Pierce said. “An abandoned shed burned down last night. No surprise. It's caught fire before. No one's been living here since old man Hardy lay down to rot. You hear what I'm saying?”

“I hear you.”

“Let it go, Horton. Even his parents wouldn't want you looking for that boy.”

“You're right.”

“I'm getting in my car, Horton, and I'm driving back to town. I'm gonna tell the guys they did a good job dousing the fire, but it was too late: every scrap of evidence—burned. I'm gonna write a report that says, ‘no suspects, no injuries.' Go home, buddy. Get yourself something to eat.”

Willy wished his father would do what Pierce said. But Horton Hamilton meant to stay all day. At five, he'd go on duty. He might catch a few hours sleep after one, but by daylight he'd be climbing these hills again. He'd use hounds if it came to that. He meant to bring the boy home: dead or alive, skinny and wild or zipped in a body bag.

Horton Hamilton felt all his failures slip down around him like the weight of his own belly. He remembered how he'd put his hand on Flo's hip in the kitchen one night after dinner, an old signal. How long ago? But she ignored him, as if she had forgotten. Years now, this absence. He heard himself scolding Willy for the C minus in math and realized his voice had become the voice of his own father, the shamed boy himself. Apples were stolen again after the raccoon was dead, so he knew the animal he'd killed was innocent. And Willy saw this too but never spoke of it.

Horton believed that what had happened to Matt Fry was his fault, just as Flo said, because all those years ago he'd cuffed a child like a man and told his parents:
If your son were eighteen, he'd be on his way to prison for grand larceny
. He told himself that some boys longed to be punished. And he believed it until he saw what they'd done to Matt Fry up in Cross City.

Willy stayed with his father. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he kept his eyes on the ground. He found a ragged piece of blue cloth that he thought might have come from Iona's shirt. His father got a plastic bag from the trunk to hold the evidence: yellow lighter, blue material, broken bottle.

They searched in wider and wider circles. Willy felt lightheaded. He should have had breakfast before he left the house. He thought of his mother in her pink robe, the warm kitchen. If only he had put his arms around her the way he'd wanted, just for a few seconds—now there was no chance of it. He saw her in the hours to come, hovering over the stove with her back to him and his father, holding her tongue but hiding none of her scorn.

Willy hoped that his father would see that Matt Fry didn't want to be found. As he climbed through the woods, Willy was certain Matt watched him. The forest was noisy with birds—chattering jays and chickadees. But Matt Fry was an owl, silent, invisible by day though he perched right above your head. In the dark he swooped to the ground, and you still didn't see him until you felt the air move.

Horton called to his son. Willy didn't like the sound of his name as it echoed through the trees. When he got his badge, he was going to call himself Bill. If children stopped him on the street and asked his name, he'd point to the badge and pat their heads.

He met his father at the shed. “Four o'clock,” Horton said. “Let's call it a day.”

Flo had already heard the news from Fred Pierce; he'd called to let her know where Horton was and not to expect him back any time soon. She had dinner ready: roast beef and boiled potatoes, green beans and chocolate cream pie. She wore a pair of tight lime pants, a stretchy material that made a scratching sound as her thighs rubbed together. Willy saw the lines of her girdle. She was packed in tight, not like this morning when she'd scurried around in pink disarray. Even her hair was pinned up on her head, and her glasses hid her eyes.

Horton shoveled down his food as fast as he could, gulping his milk. He had to swallow hard because he wasn't taking time to chew. Flo served him and let him suffer. She didn't say,
Slow down, honey, you've got plenty of time;
she poured him a second glass of milk, then went to the living room. Willy could see her through the doorway, flipping the pages of a magazine too fast to read or even see the pictures.

He picked at his food. He was hungry, but every bite stuck. He wished he liked one of the guys well enough to pick him up and go for a long ride. One beer wouldn't kill him. He supposed Luke was the best of the lot if it came to that. His father's hat was on the table. His plate was empty. He was lucky. The cruiser was in the drive and he had somewhere to go.

Horton wiped his mouth. “Gettin' to be that time,” he said.

Willy cleared his throat. “Dad?” Horton waited and Willy realized he didn't know what he wanted to say.
I
know who did it
. “Can I come with you tonight?”

Horton nodded and they left their dirty plates on the table.

It was a quiet Saturday, despite the fact that graduation was only two nights away. Kids partied all over town, but Horton Hamilton wasn't interested in catching them. He did break up a fight at the Roadstop Bar. Usually he would have hauled the men downtown and locked them up till they cooled out, but tonight he let them off with a warning, said he was coming back in half an hour and they better both be gone.

Horton and Willy were up at six Sunday morning. They ate toast and eggs and drank coffee at the Park Inn. “Don't want to wake your mother,” Horton said. They headed back to the shed, but there were no more clues than the day before. The boys must have left Iona's shoes somewhere else. A crew had doused the embers a second time, and Horton stomped through the soggy ashes, poking at them with a stick. He and Willy walked up and down the tracks. Willy knew exactly where he'd left Matt Fry, but the grass had sprung back: there was no imprint of a boy's body on the ground.

At night the stars seemed dangerously close; Willy swatted the air with his hands as if sparks flickered against his face. He thought about his mother whispering to God in the dark. Her god would shelter the boy, hold him in his arms, keep him warm at night and invisible by day. The god Horton knew would be stern and still forgive, would call Matthew out of the woods and make him face all that he had done. Only Willy's god could remain hard, impassive to argument or explanation, absolutely certain. His god would chase Matt Fry into the clearing and say:
So, you add rebellion to your sin
.

Matthew hid himself for another night and another day. Late Monday afternoon, he let Horton Hamilton find him. When Horton came out of the woods to beep his horn and wait for Willy, he found Matt squatting in the coals.

Willy was less than a minute behind his father. Horton moved slowly, too weary to chase a scared kid. “Come on out o' there,” he said. But the shed had no roof and no walls, no doorway and no windows. So how could Matt Fry come out? He looked at Horton Hamilton, his face and hands covered with soot. “I'm not gonna hurt you.”

Matt stood up. He was three years older than Willy but looked younger, fifteen at most. His sleeves were too short, and his hands dangled at his sides, big and strange. His loose pants flapped around his legs.
Jesus
. Willy barely heard the word his father breathed.

The three of them stood there, just like this, waiting. Willy wondered why the sun didn't set. Why didn't it get dark. Why didn't the scrawny boy run or blow away. “I want to help you,” the man said. Only a few seconds had passed. Why should Matt Fry believe that?
I got a gun
. Willy wished the boy would charge his father, teeth bared and snarling. Self-defense. Horton Hamilton would have to shoot. Willy was his witness.

And Flo Hamilton would wash the body of Matt Fry as she had washed the body of Everett Fry and the body of Hannah Moon. She would weep for the boy who died, for his scabbed knees and bony butt, for his hands that revealed he was a man, for his wrists that were thin as a child's. She would weep as she swabbed his dirty ears and clipped his broken nails.

Horton saw that Matthew wasn't going to bolt. He didn't have to step inch by inch or lull the boy with soft, repeated words. “Let's go, son,” he said. Horton tried to lead him out the back of the shed, straight to the car, but Matt wrenched free and pounded at the air. “The wall,” Willy said, “he thinks there's still a wall.” Horton turned and Willy pointed to the place where the door had been.

There was nowhere to take him except jail. “But he hasn't done anything,” Willy said.

“What do you suggest?”

Willy slumped in his seat.

“What the hell is that?” Pierce said when they brought the boy into the station.

Horton gripped Matt's arm and led him down the back hall to lockup. Willy watched them: the big man in uniform, the skinny kid in torn pants. The boy had a limp, and the man moved slowly, as if his whole body ached.

“Your mother's been calling,” Fred said to Willy. “She said to tell you two fools to get your butts home. Graduation's at seven.” Willy looked at the clock: 5:45. Fred laughed and pulled at his mustache. “It's gonna take you an hour just to get clean. You better scoot on home, boy.”

Willy heard a yell from the hallway, one short bark, then a long, high-pitched wail.

“What the bejeezus?” Pierce muttered. “You need me, Horton?” he called. He had his hand on his gun.

The wailing stopped for a few seconds, then started up again in waves, rising and falling. Horton appeared at the end of the hall; his body waffled beneath the throbbing fluorescent lights as if he were under water. Left foot, right: he had to think to walk. Why didn't he get any closer? The cries washed over Horton's body, pushing him forward, pulling him back, while Willy waited and waited.

“Your wife's been calling every ten minutes,” Pierce said when Horton finally stood in the front office, when the door to the hall was closed tight, the howls muffled. “Your kid's graduating tonight. Did you forget?” Fred smirked. “You're gonna be looking at one furious woman. I wouldn't want to be in your boots tonight, buddy.” Willy pictured the stupid little man teetering in Horton's huge black boots.

“Willy?”

“Not till seven, Dad—there's time.”

But there wasn't time, not really. At home, Flo buzzed from room to room, half dressed, wearing her slip and skirt but no blouse. She said: “What are you wearing tonight, Horton?” She whispered: “Did you find the boy?” She clicked her tongue and hissed: “Fine thing dragging Willy around with you for three days and now this.” She turned to Willy. “And you,” she said, “you get yourself in the shower—make it quick so there's time for your father.” Willy looked at his hands, mud under the nails, soot in the fine creases of his palms. It would take days to wash all this away. “Now, Willy,” his mother said, and he felt the burn, the old shame,
not again
, his bedclothes stained; he was that dirty.