Iona Moon (33 page)

Cold wind in his face made him think of his mother. The pity he felt for himself tangled with the pity he felt for her, inseparable, twisted tight. She'd told him her river story that night in the kitchen after he and Willy had imagined her dead. She told him how she swam away and his father ran down the shore. Jay's memory of this came from the body, not the brain; he felt himself pressed against his father, smelled the bitter odor of fear, tasted salt sweat. He felt the terrible heat and the damp matted hair of his father's chest.

Seeing how they shared sorrow made Jay feel less alone for a moment but more afraid. She was just a woman, a person like himself; not a mother, just sweet Delores, who was once a girl waltzing with her father, dancing on his toes, a child who wanted life to be that simple and that good always, who was amazed by the disappointments of her life, how numerous they were, how small. He stood on the bridge, looking down at the water, and realized he was amazed too.

He thought of the prehistoric flood, Lake Bonneville ripping open this canyon of river, leaving behind giant boulders, cutting sheer walls that dropped sixty feet or more, five stories—you might as well leap to cement as hit water from that height. But there were cliffs he'd climbed to jump into the swift river. He remembered clambering up the hillside, the dry grass scorched by sun, so hard it sliced his feet. Swallows had built their nests in the shadows all along the canyon walls, mounds of mud and tiny stones, little pebble caves. Eagles soared with the updraft.

Downriver, he knew he would find the fish hatcheries, trout farms; at feeding time, fish churned the water, whirled it into a frenzy, and he thought of that whenever he jumped, what it would be like to swim among them, thousands of trout, to hit water thick with fish and feel their bodies everywhere rubbing against him in the dark river.

He had a vision of himself, now, flying off the cliffs again, his body lithe and straight, never broken. He wanted to soar, wanted to leap and spin into the green water, to be sucked down toward the sharp hidden rocks, dragged underwater, spit up downstream. You had to swim at an angle, yes, just like Delores had said, at an angle against the current, steady but strong, toward the bank, toward the place where you could clutch the rushes and pull yourself to the safe shore.

His chest ached from breathing so hard in the cold; his right knee had turned rubbery, and he had to lock his left to keep from slipping on the ice. He had gotten himself too far from home.

It was noon, and White Falls was only thirty-two miles away. Iona Moon had plenty of time, too much time, and she wondered why she was trying to go home at all. Perhaps all her brothers would be in Missoula, working at the pulp mill for the winter, and she'd find her father in the house alone. She imagined knocking, then saw that the door in her mind was unlocked, open a crack—her slightest touch opened it more. She called their names, but no one came and no one answered. In each bedroom she found the bed neatly made, the white curtains washed. Who had dusted these dressers—mopped these floors—who had folded the clothes so neatly and put them all away? A Bible lay on the nightstand in her father's room. She wanted to go inside and see the last words he had read but was afraid he'd find her here, sitting on his bed, holding his book. She opened her mother's room last. The chair sat close to the bed—her chair, just as she'd left it. Leon's carvings stood in a line on the dresser: little bear, little bird, perfect man, little woman. But the bed was stripped, the closet empty. She went to the window, saw her father below her, walking from the barn to the house. She ran down the stairs to greet him, and they stood in the kitchen, face to face. His sleeves were pushed up around his elbows; blood streaked his hands and arms. He had just delivered a calf. “Where were you?” he said at last. Then he turned to the sink to wash himself.

She crossed the bridge to Route 2, where the trailer homes clustered in the park. She thought of the girls she'd known in high school who might have married already and moved here, believing they'd found freedom. But babies came fast in tin houses. Each year a trailer grew tighter until it felt like a can of people, all lying on top of one another, smothering in the dark.

She made a U-turn back toward town. The buildings seemed shrunken, with flat roofs and small windows. There was one new sign on an old store:
TATTOOS.
She wondered how business was. She cruised out to the Roadstop Bar. Maybe she'd go shoot pool tonight, throw darts and drink beer. She saw herself laughing, head thrown back, one hand on her hip, cue stick tapping the floor while the jukebox moaned and a man confessed that he'd shot his baby by the river. She might talk to some boy who knew her by reputation, one of those older boys who had noticed her long ago but had never actually spoken to her until this night when he challenged her to a game of pool. Later, they'd go out to her car for an hour or two. She wished she had the blanket from Mrs. Hagestead's. When the boy was gone she'd wrap it around herself and go to sleep. She'd have a dream and forget.

She passed Woolworth's and the hardware store, the Mercantile and the White Bull. She saw the Park Inn, a bright yellow shack covered with white signs, the entire menu printed outside: fried shrimp, cinnamon rolls, burger deluxe. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. She wanted to sit down with Eddie and eat a stack of pancakes, five high, a side of sausage, endless cups of coffee thick with cream. She wanted to hear him say:
You don't look like you could eat half that
. Then they'd be at the beginning, and everything could start again. But she knew there was no point—because it would always end exactly the same way.

She drove out Willow Glen Road and finally stopped in front of Jay Tyler's house. There were no footprints in the snow of his rose garden. She longed to touch his scarred legs and say:
Now I understand
. She wanted to tell him about Eddie, to explain the difference between grief and self-pity: the first makes you sad and strong, the second leaves you bitter. She wanted to say she hadn't forgotten his body, that one lover did not erase another, that no matter how much he thought he had changed, his bones were still his bones, his blood his only, and if she touched him blind, she would know him even now, the unmistakable curve of his shoulders, the exact length of his arms.

She headed back to the numbered streets. Every yard had a fence. What were people trying to keep out? The most dangerous thing in this town was drifting snow. On Seventh, she expected to see Willy's sky-blue Chevy, but instead there were two cruisers in the drive, and she knew what he'd done.
Poor Willy, you could have spared us both that night last June, and Matt too, if only you hadn't taken us to the tracks
. She knew he meant to pay for this mistake the rest of his life; he'd chase down reckless drivers and rescue children lost in the woods, find old ladies who ran away from the Lutheran Home, pull despondent drunks off the bridge—he'd save them all, but not her, and not himself.

She kept driving. There was only one place she could go, one refuge in this whole town.

“Jesus,” Sharla Wilder said when she opened the door. “I thought you were gone for good, Iona.” She wore a tattered robe. Her mascara smeared into dark circles around her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Three o'clock.”

“Tell me everything.”

“Can I come in first?”

“I'm an idiot,” Sharla said, stepping back to open the door wide. “I just woke up.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No matter.” Sharla bustled down the hall, and Iona followed. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

Maywood still hovered in the kitchen, her head floating on the yellow wall above the table. She watched her daughter scramble eggs in the skillet. She heard the kettle whistle and saw the toast jump out of the toaster, crisp and dark. Sharla slathered it with butter, scooped eggs onto a plate, stirred instant coffee in a mug of water, and whirled around to set this meal before the skinny, dirty girl. If Maywood Wilder had had hands instead of just a face, she would have covered her eyes to keep herself from witnessing her child's weary defeat: Iona Moon had laid her head on the table and fallen into quick, deep sleep.

When she woke two hours later, Iona found the plate of cold eggs and a note from Sharla:
Gone to the store. No work tonight
—
called in sick. Home soon
.

In the bathroom, she stripped without looking at her body; if she caught herself in the mirror by accident she'd be surprised by a bony girl. Water ran over her, lukewarm at first, then hotter and hotter, as hot as she could stand it, and when she finally turned it off, her arms were sore and pink.

Sharla rapped at the door. She had clean towels and a spare robe, wool socks and a long T-shirt. “Thought you might need these,” she said.

Iona rubbed her hair with a towel, roughly, the way her father had when she was small. She tried to comb it, but it was too snarled—the comb snagged; her arms ached.

She found Sharla in the kitchen again, cooking macaroni and cheese. “Sorry about the eggs,” Iona said.

“No need to be.”

“I want to be glad to see you.”

“I know.”

Iona could only eat half of what Sharla gave her before she felt too full to swallow. Later they sat together on the couch, and Sharla poured a glass of wine for each of them. “Drink up,” Sharla said, “I've got something to tell you.”

“Bad news?”

“No—a blessed event.”

Iona glanced at Sharla's belly.

“Not me,” Sharla said. “That
would
be bad news. Jeweldeen. Your old friend Jeweldeen is going to have a baby. Got married last summer—August—baby's due in February.” Iona counted the months on her fingers.
First one can come any time
.

“Who?” Iona said.

“Leon.”

“Leon who?”

“Leon, your brother.”

“No,” Iona said, “she wouldn't.”

“Well she did.”

“Where are they living?”

“With your father.”

“Where do they sleep?”

“I don't know. Does it matter? Leon's room, I guess.”

But Iona knew they wouldn't sleep there. Jeweldeen wouldn't stand for it, that cramped, cold bedroom with its single bed and thin northern light. No, why would they sleep there when Hannah's room was bright and twice the size?

“What's wrong?” Sharla said.

“Nothing.”

Iona lay awake in Sharla's bed thinking of her brother and Jeweldeen.
Dangerous
, Leon had said. Did he think of that the first time he lay down with her? Did the word echo weeks later when she said:
I've got one in the oven?
Iona remembered Jeweldeen's body the summer they were ten, how they rubbed against each other, naked on the floor of the cellar, the very place where Sharla lay, years later.
Dangerous
. Leon had it wrong. A man's danger was a small thing. But she figured Jeweldeen and Leon were a good match: they both thought of sex the same way. She hoped they'd each learned something since they'd been with her. Still, Iona preferred Jeweldeen to Leon—at least her skin was smooth, her hands clean. Maybe Jeweldeen had taught him to feign kindness. Maybe he wouldn't have to move so fast or rub so hard if he took the time to get his pants off. And he'd done that. But she wondered anyway. Did Jeweldeen lie beneath him in the hayloft, as stiff and scared as Iona? That summer in the cellar, Jeweldeen said:
This isn't so great
. Her body was pale, much softer than Iona's. She was plump and almost had breasts; her hair smelled sweet as sugared apricots. Boys already liked Jeweldeen, and the man at the candy store gave her licorice whips.

Later, Iona learned that even boys who didn't like you much might want to suck your lips and leave red marks on your neck. Boys were all knot and bone, push and shove; boys were sharp elbows, hard thighs. Their wet hair smelled like dog fur; their hands smelled of gasoline. They whispered names. But not your name.

Iona Moon
. He thought he had seen Iona Moon today. He sat by the window watching dusk come, then dark. He didn't take a Darvocet. His body ached: from shin to thigh, across the pelvis and up the spine, down the arms all the way to his fingers—pain cut to the bone and had no prejudice, no part of the body it preferred. He didn't take a hit of whiskey, though his throat was dry and he longed for it. He wanted to remember—the smell of the car, her hands on his chest, the sound of the river. He wanted to stay awake and fully alive.

22

“Two conditions,” Sharla said, “if you want to stay here with me.” Iona figured that number one was a job so that they could split the rent, and number two was doing her share around the apartment. Later there might be other conditions: not drinking too much, not having boys in the bed while Sharla was at work.
You wanna do that shit, use the couch
.

“First thing—you have to drive out to the Flats and tell your father you're living with me,” Sharla said. “I don't want Jeweldeen finding you here by surprise.”

Iona hadn't expected anything like this.

“Number two—you stay here, you go back to school.”

“They can't teach me anything I need to know.”

“Didn't say they could. But they won't even hire you at the phone company if you don't graduate. You look at me, you say Sharla Wilder don't have any kind of life you want. I say,
fine
. You don't care about making a living, you can get married instead, go hide in one of those trailers over the bridge, put a herd of plastic deer in the yard, have one baby after another until you're too sick to do it anymore—or too fat, and your husband leaves you alone. Who knows? You might get lucky like your friend Jeweldeen. Get a farm instead of a mobile home. Four men to take care of instead of one.”

Iona nodded. “I get your drift.” She tasted Mama Pearl's foul tea and felt the sting of kerosene after Hannah shaved her head; she smelled the iodine as her father painted her scraped legs. And she heard every one of them say:
It's for your own good
. Now this. One more thing.
And one more
, Hannah whispered. “I want a job,” she said. “Pay half the rent.”