Jay stood on the diving board, lean and tan, unbeatable. Willy was almost as good, some days better; but next to Jay he looked undefined, too thin and too white. Jay rolled off the balls of his feet, muscles flexing from his calves to his thighs. He threw an easy one first, a single somersault in lay-out position. As he opened up above the water, Iona gasped, expecting him to swoop back into the air.
Willy did the same dive, nearly as well. All day they went on this way, first one, then the other; Jay led Willy by a point and a half; the rest of the field dropped by ten.
Jay saved the backward double somersault with a twist for last. He climbed the ladder slowly, as if he had to think about the dive rung by rung. His buttocks clenched like fists. On the board, he rolled his shoulders, shook his hands, his feet. He strutted to the end, raised his arms, and spun on his toes. Every muscle frozen, he gritted his teeth and leaped, clamped his knees to his chest, and heaved head over heel, once, twice, opened up and twisted, limbs straight as a drill.
But in that last moment, Jay Tyler’s concentration snapped. By some fluke, some sudden weakness, his knees bent and his feet slapped the water.
Iona thought she’d see Jay spit as he gripped the gutter of the pool, but he came up grinning, flashing his straight white teeth, his father’s best work. Willy offered his hand. “I threw it too hard, buddy,” Jay said. Buddy. Iona stood outside the chain-link fence; she barely heard it, but it made her think of that dusty road, stars flung in the cool black sky, Willy pinned to the hood of the car, and Jay saying: Sorry, buddy, I’ll make it up to you. Only this way, Willy would never know. It was just like Jay not to give a damn about blame or forgiveness.
Willy’s dive was easier, two somersaults without a twist, but flawless. He crept ahead of Jay, and no one else touched their scores. They sauntered to the bathhouse with their arms around each other’s shoulders, knowing they’d won the day.
Standing in the dappled light beneath an oak, Jay Tyler’s mother hugged Willy and Jay, and his father pumped their hands. Willy wished his parents could have seen him, this day above all others, but his father was on duty; and old lady Griswold had died, so his mother was busy making her look prettier than she’d ever been.
Iona Moon edged toward them, head down, eyes on the ground. Willy nudged Jay. In a single motion, graceful as the dive he’d almost hit, Jay turned, smiled, winked; he flicked his wrist near his thigh, a wave that said everything: Go away, Iona. Can’t you see I’m with my parents? Willy felt the empty pit of his stomach, a throb of blood in his temples that made him dizzy, as if he were the one shooed away, as if he slunk in the shadows and disappeared behind the thick trunk of the tree, its limbs drooping with their own weight.
He was ashamed, like the small boy squinting under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom while his mother stripped his flannel pajamas off him with quick, hard strokes and said, “You’re soaked, Willy; you’re absolutely drowned.”
Upstairs the air was still and hot. Hannah couldn’t stand the noise of the fan and told Iona, “No, please, don’t turn it on.”
Iona said, “I’m going to town. You want anything?”
“What’s in town?”
“Nothing. It’s just too dark out here—black fields, black hills. I get this desire, you know, to see a blaze, all the streetlamps going on at once—like something’s about to happen.”
“Don’t go looking for him,” Hannah said. “Bad enough he doesn’t call—don’t make it worse by being a fool.”
“I’m just goin’ to town, Mama. You want a treat or something, maybe a magazine?”
“Take a dollar from my jewelry box and get me as much chocolate as that’ll buy. And don’t tell your daddy, promise?”
“Promise.”
“He thinks it’s not good for me.”
“I know.”
“I think I’ve got to have some pleasure.”
Iona’s father sat on the porch with Leon and Rafe and Dale. They rocked, each with his pipe, each with the same tilt of the head as if a single thought wove through their minds. A breeze high in the pines made the tops sway so the limbs rubbed against one another. The sound they made was less than a breath, a whisper in a dream or the last thing your mother said before she kissed you goodnight; the kiss on your forehead was a whisper too, a promise no one could keep.
Iona buzzed up and down Main, feeling strong riding up high in the cab of the red truck, looking down on cars and rumbling over potholes too fast. Her father kept a coil of rope, a hacksaw, and a rifle in the back behind the seat. She had no intention, no intention at all, but she swung down Willow Glen Road, past Jay Tyler’s house. She honked her horn at imaginary children in the street, stomped on her brakes and laid rubber to avoid a cat that wasn’t there; but all that noise didn’t lure anyone out of the Tyler house, and no lights popped on upstairs or down. In the green light of dusk, the house looked cool and gray, a huge, lifeless thing waiting to crumble.
She sped toward Seventh, Willy Hamilton’s street. She might just happen to roll by, and maybe in the course of conversation she’d say, “Are the Tylers out of town?”
Sure enough, Willy stood in the driveway, hosing down his sky blue Chevrolet. Iona leaned out the window. “Hey, Willy,” she said. He wrinkled up his forehead but didn’t answer. She was undaunted. “You wanna go get an ice cream with me?” The spray from the hose made a clear arc before it splattered on the cement and trickled toward the gutter in muddy rills.
He still didn’t like her, and he didn’t think he could stand the smell of her truck; but he told himself to be brave—it wouldn’t last that long, and it was the right thing to do, a small, kind gesture.
When they’d finished their cones, Iona headed out the river road. Willy said, “Where are you going?” And she whispered, “The river.” He told her he needed to get home; it was almost dark. She said, “I know.” He told her he meant it, but his voice was feeble, and she kept plowing through the haze of dusk, faster and faster, till the whole seat was shaking.
She swerved down to the bank of the river where all the kids came to park; but it was too early for that, so they were alone. Willy stared at the water, at the beer bottles bobbing near the shore and the torn-off limb of a tree being dragged downstream. “I’m sorry about Jay,” he said.
“Why’re you sorry? He’s not dead.”
“He didn’t treat you right.”
Iona slid across the seat so her thigh pressed against Willy’s thigh. “Would you treat me right?” He tried to inch away, but there was nowhere to go. Iona’s hand rested on his knee then started moving up his leg. Willy batted it away. “You still think I’m a slut?” She touched his thigh again, lightly, higher than before. “I’m not a slut, Willy; I’m just more generous than most girls you know.” She clutched his wrist and tried to pull his closed hand to her breast. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You won’t be fingering Kleenex when you get a grip on me.”
Willy felt the pressure in his crotch, his penis rising against his will. He thought of his mother putting lipstick and rouge on old Mrs. Griswold after she died, but even that didn’t help this time.
Iona pounced, kissing his mouth and locking the door at the same time. She fumbled with his belt, clawed at his zipper. He mumbled no, but she smothered the word, swallowed it up in her own mouth.
Willy thought of his sisters, Horton saying: Careful, son. Even if they both jumped him, Willy was the one who was supposed to go easy.
He clamped Iona’s arms, but she broke his hold. “You know you want it, Willy,” she said. “Everybody wants it.” But he didn’t, not like this, not with Iona Moon. She bit at his lips and his ears, sharp little nips; her fingers between his legs cupped his balls dangerously tight.
He shoved her back and wasn’t careful, flung her hard against the dashboard—stunned her. He had time to unlock the door, leap from the truck, and flee. But he didn’t get far before he heard the unmistakable sputter of tires in mud, an engine revving, going nowhere. Slowing
to a trot, he listened: Rock it, he thought, first to reverse, first to reverse.
He heard her grinding through the gears, imagined her slamming the stick, stamping the clutch, thought that by now tears streamed down her hot cheeks. Finally he heard the engine idle down, a pitiful, defeated sound in the near darkness.
Slowly he turned, knowing what he had to do, hearing his father’s voice: A gentleman always helps a lady in distress. She’s no lady. Who are you to judge?
He found small dry branches and laid them under the tires in two foot rows. One steady push, his feet braced against a tree, one more, almost, third time’s charm; the front tires caught the sticks, spun, spit up mud all the way to his mouth, and heaved the truck backward onto solid ground. He wiped his hands on his jeans and clumped toward the road.
“Hey,” Iona said, “don’t you want a ride?” He kept marching. “Hey, Willy, get in. I won’t bite.” She pulled up right beside him. “It’ll take you more than an hour to get home. Your mama’ll skin you. Now get in. I won’t lay a hand on you.” He didn’t dare look at her. His face felt swollen, about to explode. “What I did before, I didn’t mean anything by it. I never would have tried if I thought you wouldn’t like it. Willy?” He glanced up at her; she seemed no bigger than a child hanging on to that huge steering wheel. “Willy, I got a gun. Right here behind the seat, I got my daddy’s gun.” Don’t you be gettin’ any ideas of makin’ like a jackrabbit, boy. He knew there was no real threat, no reason not to get in the truck—except his pride, and that seemed like a small thing when he weighed it against the five-mile trek along the winding road, his mother’s pinched face, the spot of grease from her nose on the windowpane.
White Falls lay strung along the river, a fearful band of lights drawn taut for the night, a town closed in on itself. Iona said, “I almost died once. My brother Leon and I started back from town in a storm that turned to a blizzard. Everything was white, like there was nothing in the world besides us and the inside of this truck. Leon drove straight into a six-foot drift; it looked just the same as the sky and the road. We had to get out and walk, or sit there and freeze like the damn cows. We stumbled, breaking the wind with our hands; then we crawled because the gusts were less wild near the ground. I saw the shadows of houses waffling in the snow, right in front of us, but they were never there. A sheet of ice built up around my cheek and chin, and I kept stopping to shatter it with my fist, but it took too long; Leon said: ‘Leave it, it will stop the wind.’ I thought they’d find me that way, the girl in glass, and they’d keep me frozen in a special truck, take me from town to town along with the nineteen-inch man and the two-headed calf. But Leon, Leon never thought for a minute we were going to die on that road. When I dropped to my belly and said I was warm now, he swatted my butt. ‘Not this way,’ he said, ‘not this way, God.’ And then I wondered if he’d whispered it or if I heard what he was thinking. Leon talking to God, I thought; that was more of a miracle than surviving, and I scrambled back to my knees and lunged forward.
“Just like a dog, Leon knew his way. I forgave him for everything. I swore in my heart I’d never hold a harsh thought against him, not for anything in the past or anything he might do later on, because right there in that moment, he was saving our lives.
“When Mama wrapped my hands in warm rags and Daddy pulled off my boots to rub my toes as hard as he could, I knew that nothing, nothing in this world was ever going to matter so much again.” She punched the clutch and shifted into fourth. “Do you know why I’m telling you this?” Willy nodded, but he didn’t know; he didn’t know at all.
It wasn’t until Iona Moon eased into her driveway and shut off the engine that she remembered the chocolate, Hannah’s last words, the ragged dollar bill still crumpled in her pocket. She thought of her mother awake in the dark, waiting for her. I think I’ve got to have some pleasure. A single sob erupted, burst from between her ribs as if someone had pounded his fist against her chest. She fought her own cry, choked it dry, and was silent.
4
Muriel Arnoux didn’t even like it, that was the shame of this whole mess. Not that she’d put up any fight. All summer long she’d watched Jay Tyler throw perfect somersaults off the high dive, leaps that made girls gasp. When the water closed around him, tears welled in Muriel’s eyes, as if she’d seen him jump from the bridge over the Snake River. He surfaced, hair plastered flat, the laughing boy, and Muriel clapped, brought to ecstasy by this small miracle, a man spared by the grace of God, his body not broken on the rocks or dragged to the reservoir.
In August, a girl might cry when she imagines you’ve risked your life for her delight, but she won’t like you half as much when you’re parked down by the river, shivering in November. No, in the back seat of the Chrysler, there was no clapping and no ecstasy, no double twists in layout position, no graceful entries. There were only rough hands and stubborn zippers, grunts in the dark and the terrible silence when he was done.
Plenty of girls had hopped in the car with Jay Tyler. They wanted to be seen dragging Main, but only one ever liked Snake River, only one ever unhooked her own bra. Here, baby, let me help you. Iona Moon wanted it. Too bad they never got the chance. Jay didn’t have his license back then, so Willy was at the wheel, with Belinda Beller in the front seat saying no. Belinda’s mother was one of those women who thought boys only married virgins. A virgin takes what you give her and doesn’t complain. Guys said it all the time. They didn’t like the idea that a girl might have some basis of comparison. But when you thought about it logically, the best you could hope for was a girl who had the good sense to lie. Most guys said they’d done it and most girls said they hadn’t. That meant a couple of girls were getting an awful lot of action. It was possible but not likely.
Iona Moon was all elbow and knee, bony ribs and hardly any breasts at all. Her dark hair held the odors of the barn: sweet, grassy scent of cud and sting of cow piss. Willy was right about one thing: country girls had a dangerous grip, the strength to break a chicken’s neck and no qualms. Iona’s skin was yellowish, the color of a sick baby. She was nothing to look at, but she knew what to do in the dark, and her nipples felt hard as stones in your mouth.
Muriel Arnoux had a soft belly and clean fingernails. Her hair caught the light; her skin smelled of soap. You could take a girl like Muriel home to meet your parents even though she was only fourteen. Willy would cuss over that. Shit, Jay, you can go to jail for foolin’ with a girl that age. Sanctimonious bastard. My father said he’d string me up by my balls if he ever heard I was baby-snatchin’. Horton Hamilton was a man of his word. Now Willy was talking about following in his father’s footsteps, being a policeman, but he was never going to fill his daddy’s size twelves. Jay got a kick out of that. Good joke, but Willy didn’t laugh when he heard it. Pain in the ass. Jay was glad he didn’t have to depend on Willy anymore. He had his own license and his mother’s car.
Jay regretted the missed chance with Iona Moon. Her fingernails had left red marks on his back. She sucked up little pieces of flesh on his neck and he had to wear his shirts buttoned to the top for days. But she wasn’t the kind of girl you wanted to eat lunch with in the cafeteria; kids still remembered her shaved head in sixth grade, how three boys pushed her down in the street and stole her scarf. Girls shrieked and ran away. All day the boys chased them, saying: I touched her, now I’m gonna touch you. And you couldn’t take her home to meet your folks. She had bad teeth for one thing. Show me a mouth like that and I’ll show you a farmer’s daughter. That’s what Jay’s father would say, and he should know. He’d seen the insides of enough mouths. Jay knew what Andrew Johnson Tyler would say about an abortion too. He was a medical man. After all. Nothing but a cluster of cells at this stage. He’d pull on his pointed beard and think so hard that his hairless scalp would wrinkle halfway back his skull. I know a doctor in Boise. Owes me a favor too.
But it was no use thinking about what his father would say, because Muriel Arnoux wasn’t going to have any aborti
on. Jay had waited for her outside the church. She never did get up the nerve to talk to the priest. She said, “I confessed to God and he gave me his answer.” Jay looked at her white ankle socks, her thin, pale calves. “I was praying, Jay; when I opened my eyes, I saw Jesus hanging on the cross behind the altar and he couldn’t see me because his eyes were carved. Jesus has wooden eyes and won’t ever look at me again if I do this.”
Jesus. Jay heard his father’s words on that topic. The Catholics drive their girls crazy, all that muttering and confession, fondling beads and crawling into a little black booth with a priest, being forgiven so they can go out and sin again. I never knew a Catholic girl who wasn’t touched, half in love with her priest or ready to die at the feet of Jesus.
Muriel called and told him to come by at eight. “And bring the money.” Her parents had found a place for her to stay till the baby was born. She wouldn’t tell him where it was. “Out of state,” she said, “no one will know me.” He had two thousand from his grandfather in Arizona, but he told her he only had five hundred. “Bring it all.”
“You’re getting off cheap,” Muriel’s father said. “I’d take it out of your hide if I had my way.” He had a potbelly and pug nose, burly arms from loading freight for thirty years. Muriel’s mother sat in a blue armchair, blowing her nose. The chair was covered with plastic that made farting noises when she moved. She looked like Muriel: all the curves turned to rolls of fat, milky skin gone pasty, ankles swollen, but the same clean, small hands. The girl was locked in her room, forbidden to come downstairs while he was in the house. Jay imagined her, kneeling, fingering beads, naming the sorrowful mysteries, seeing her Jesus nailed to the cross. For me, Jay, he died for me, for my sins. And look what I’ve done.
Iona Moon Page 4
