The bus rolled up before she had a chance to decide to go home, and as she climbed the steps she figured going to school was better than staying in the house with her brothers. Sometimes she was afraid to be alone with them, afraid of what she’d do. She might stick the knife in Leon’s belly this time instead of throwing it in the river.
Jeweldeen hadn’t saved her a place. Why should she? School had started three weeks ago. She didn’t know Iona was coming back. Jeweldeen had been at the funeral, but they didn’t talk. Iona couldn’t remember if she’d spoken to anyone that day. All she could recollect was being kissed by ladies she knew and ladies she didn’t. They smelled of face powder and waxy lipstick. They said she was a good girl to take care of her mama the way she did. She nodded and they squeezed her arm, dabbing at their noses with white handkerchiefs.
Sharla Wilder sobbed as hard as she had the day they’d buried Everett Fry, and Jeweldeen dragged her weepy sister out to the car.
Iona didn’t care. She was sick of being kissed, sick of being told she was a good girl. What was so good about sliding a bedpan under your own mother’s bottom while she yelled that she couldn’t stand it, that the metal felt like a razor, that she’d piss in her bed before she sat on that damn thing again. What did the powdered ladies know. What right did Sharla have to carry on that way while Iona stood outside her own body, dry and thin as air, feeling nothing.
Maybe Sharla thought they had something in common: she’d watched her own mother die. But Maywood Wilder had had the good sense to go fast from pneumonia. She still had all her hair when they buried her. Sick as she was, Maywood Wilder stayed plump.
Mrs. Wilder’s casket would have been left open. People must have passed and whispered about how lovely she looked, how serene, dear Maywood gone to her Maker with the smile of an angel on her face.
Hannah Moon’s face could offer no peace of mind to the living, so the pine box stayed closed. Her wrinkled mouth would have said that no one leaves without screaming. Her twisted hands would have made the rosy ladies rub their own joints; her withered breasts and swollen feet would have made the men look at their wives too hard.
Iona wanted to push the women away when they bussed the air near her cheek. You haven’t seen her. But her father stood beside her, holding her hand so tightly that the tips of her fingers went numb. She thanked the ladies for their kindness. Did she really say that? Liar. Only one person knew enough to say something true. Flo Hamilton had stripped Hannah Moon at the funeral home, had sponged the skin with alcohol and dressed her again. “You took good care of your mother,” she whispered. Flo Hamilton said the same words as a dozen others, but she’d seen the sores and knew Iona had tried to keep them clean. She saw the ribbon Iona had tied in her mother’s brittle hair; she saw that each toe had been washed.
Jeweldeen sat with Bonnie Zimmerman on the bus. Bonnie was the only other high school girl who came from the Flats. They waved to Iona, but Iona pretended not to see. Kids quieted down when she passed, as if they were afraid of her. She found an empty seat near the back, hunched down and stared out the window at the ripples of snow that had blown across the fields and frozen in hard waves.
Iona was the last one off the bus. She figured she’d go straight to homeroom and wouldn’t have to talk to anybody all day. But Jeweldeen was waiting.
“Fetterhoff’s gonna be glad to see you,” Jeweldeen said.
“I can hardly wait.”
“I can hear him already: ‘Miss Moon, how good of you to honor us with your presence.’”
“Sonuvabitch.”
“Fetterhoff never had a mother—he’s just a worm that crawled out of a hole.”
“We could cut,” Iona said, “go hang out at Sharla’s.”
“You wanna be in high school till you’re twenty?”
Iona shook her head. It was bad enough to be in school at seventeen.
In February the cold broke for three days in a row. Iona and Jeweldeen and Bonnie Zimmerman sat on the concrete wall at the edge of the parking lot trying to smoke as many cigarettes as they could before lunch break was over.
“Chicken?” Iona said.
“No way,” said Jeweldeen.
“Then roll up your sleeves.”
“I said, no way.”
“I thought you meant you weren’t a chicken.”
“I meant no way I’d play chicken with someone as crazy as you.”
“What’s with you two?” Bonnie said. She was short and pudgy, cute in a little-girl way.
“Iona plays this stupid game,” Jeweldeen said.
“We play this game,” said Iona. “We play lots of games.” She nudged Jeweldeen, thinking of the summer they were ten years old, the summer they locked themselves in the cellar and took off all their clothes every day for a week. They rubbed against each other and rolled on the dirty floor. They kissed and pinched each other’s nipples. Sometimes it felt good and sometimes it didn’t. The last day Jeweldeen said, You have to touch me—here. But when Iona did what she asked, Jeweldeen didn’t want to play anymore.
“What kind of games?” Bonnie whined.
Iona wanted to tell her about the cellar so that Bonnie would run off and not bother them again. Jeweldeen saw it coming. “Don’t you dare,” she said.
“Chicken,” said Iona.
“Shit,” Jeweldeen said, pushing up the sleeves of her sweater to expose her forearms.
Iona rolled the sleeves of her denim jacket past her elbows, took one last hit off her cigarette, then laid the burning butt on the wall.
“One inch,” Jeweldeen said.
“Anybody can do an inch,” Iona said. “I bet Bonnie can do an inch.”
Jeweldeen and Iona jumped off the wall. The idea was to see which one of them could bring her forearms closer to the smoldering cigarette. Jeweldeen put one arm on each side of the butt and brought them closer and closer, until her arms were an inch apart, just like she’d said.
“I wanna play,” said Bonnie.
“This is no game for pussies,” Jeweldeen said.
“I’m not a pussy.” Bonnie’s voice was even higher than usual.
“I’m not a pussy,” Jeweldeen squealed.
“Let her do what she wants,” said Iona.
Jeweldeen backed off and Bonnie stepped up to the wall. She moved fast, thinking it would be easy to get closer than Jeweldeen, easy to hold her arms there longer. But the heat scared her and she leaped back, inspecting her arms for singed hairs.
“Told you,” said Jeweldeen.
Iona squinted at the glowing butt. “Half an inch,” she said, “half an inch between my arms.”
“You’ll never do it,” said Jeweldeen.
“I could touch it,” Iona said. “I could pick it up.”
“You’re crazier than I thought.”
“She’s not gonna do it,” Bonnie said.
“Dollar says I will.”
“I got a dollar says you’re full of it,” said Bonnie.
“How about you?” Iona said to Jeweldeen.
“I’m not paying you to burn yourself.”
Iona took it slow, focusing on that cigarette as if it were the only thing in the world, its fiery ash the only light, its sharp smoke the only smell. She watched her arms move closer and closer. They belonged to someone else. They were part of Sharla Wilder’s dream, the one where Everett Fry doused her with gasoline and lit a match, the one that became Everett’s dream in the end: so he was the one to burn and Sharla’s skin remained untouched.
A bell rang. A boy yelled. Bonnie squeaked like a pet rabbit being squeezed by a child. Jeweldeen cussed. Iona Moon didn’t feel a thing, but she couldn’t see the cigarette, couldn’t watch the red hot end because the butt was between her arms and her arms were pressed tight together.
The bell was still ringing somewhere far beyond them, in Everett’s dream.
Jeweldeen tried to pull Iona’s arms apart, but Iona had locked her hands together and wouldn’t let go. The bell stopped. Iona re
laxed her grip. The cigarette was out.
“Jesus,” Jeweldeen said.
“I’m not paying,” said Bonnie. “We never shook and I’m not paying you a friggin’ dime, Iona.”
Iona turned her arms to look at the burns. She still didn’t feel them, though she knew they should hurt, because the sores were already blistered and dark and the smell reminded her of a pig on a spit.
“You owe me a dollar, Bonnie,” Iona said.
Bonnie’s eyes were watery and red. She pulled a ragged dollar out of her purse and threw it at Iona’s feet.
“I hope you’re happy,” Jeweldeen said as Bonnie ran toward the school.
Iona rolled down her sleeves. “I am,” she said, “I’m fuckin’ ecstatic.” She plucked the money off the pavement and stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket, patting it smooth, as if that dollar were something precious, close to her heart.
In early March, the ground began to thaw. Mud oozed up through the melting snow until the Kila Flats became a bog. The smell of it made the cows impatient. They butted against their stalls in the morning. Ruby stamped on Iona’s foot when she came to milk her, and Iona had to slap the cow’s flank to make her move.
Frank Moon grew impatient too. It was too soon to plant; they were sure to have another freeze—might last two nights or two weeks. He remembered the year the thaw came in February. It got so warm the sap started to run in the apple trees. When they froze again, they froze dead. By spring their limbs were dry and black. He and his father chopped them down, sawed them to pieces. His mother wept for the trees, though she’d seen many things die.
Iona’s brothers were anxious in their own way. They wanted to enjoy the last of their idleness. Night after night they loaded their .22s, piled into the truck, and drove to the dump. The shadows writhed with rats. The boys kept score by the squeals they counted, and Rafe always won.
Iona didn’t like being in the house alone with her father. They couldn’t look at each other without thinking about all those nights they’d stood over Hannah’s bed or at her window. After supper, Iona went to her room, and Frank sat on the porch, smoking his pipe until the boys came home.
Frank Moon and his sons planted the potatoes the second Saturday in April. Iona scrubbed the kitchen floor. Even after the mud was gone, the tiles still looked gray. She scraped at the splatters on the stove and scoured the sink. One room every Saturday; she’d be done in June and could start over.
She thought about the soil, loose and grainy from ancient volcanoes, how potatoes grew to huge perfection in the dark earth. Not like those puny lumps from Maine, her father always said, crushed by clay and pocked by stones. When the men came back from the field, she caught them at the door and made them leave their boots outside. The brothers laughed at her, but Frank told the boys to do what she said.
Later, she looked at the four pairs of boots, soles crusted with dirt, old leather cracked, laces knotted where they’d frayed and broken. Each pair was unmistakable, leather worn to the shape of one man’s feet, rubber heels rubbed down from his weight and stride. They were part of the men, her brothers, her father. They seemed almost conscious, and Iona had to close the door.
7
“Sharla said she’ll buy the wine,” Jeweldeen said. “Cash in advance.
She and Iona were planning a little party for themselves before graduation. Iona still hadn’t told Jeweldeen that she had nothing to celebrate. She couldn’t decide whether to go to school this summer or next fall—or whether to forget the whole thing and try to get a job at Woolworth’s.
“How many bottles?” said Iona.
“She won’t buy us more than two.”
“We’ll barely get a buzz.”
“Don’t worry,” Jeweldeen said, “we won’t go thirsty.”
Iona convinced Sharla to buy three bottles of wine. In case we make some friends. Jeweldeen stole a pint of her sister’s rum and five packs of cigarettes from a carton in the refrigerator.
Sharla insisted on taking them to the river. “I don’t want to hear the sirens,” she said. “Bad enough I know what you’re doing without worrying about you sailing off the bridge.” She looked like the photograph of her mother: hair curled tight to her head, lipstick much too dark. Maywood hung in Sharla’s kitchen now, and Iona wondered if Sharla had swiped the picture from her father’s house or if he’d given it up gladly. Maybe he got tired of his wife watching over him every time he plunked down to have a look at the news. If he thought the woman knew what he’d done to his daughter, he was probably relieved to get them both out of the house. Remembering what Maywood knew made Iona ashamed: she should have gone back that day, despite Jeweldeen’s threats.
“You meet me right here at midnight,” Sharla said when she dropped Jeweldeen and Iona. “And don’t keep me waiting.”
“Yes’m, Miss Sharla.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Jeweldeen. I’m doing you a favor.”
“If she only knew,” Jeweldeen whispered, cradling the stolen rum under her jacket. Yes, thought Iona, and she wanted to tell Sharla but wanted to get drunk more. She started down to the water. Sharla rolled up her window, and Jeweldeen waved.
They weren’t alone. Lots of kids had the same idea. Today was Friday; they’d survived the last day of school. Monday was graduation. Iona didn’t give a damn. None of them had anything to celebrate. Who was leaving town to start a new life? Half the girls would be married by September. The first child can come anytime; after that it takes nine months. Jeweldeen had had a few boyfriends but no real prospects. She could stay on at the farm and cook for her father the rest of her life, or she could try to get a job at the phone company and live in town.
Catholic girls were lucky: they had other choices. They could always go to some convent and spend their lives doing kind deeds for sick old women and neglected children. If they were smart enough they could teach school, floating between the rows of chairs in their black habits, knowing exactly who they were. But most of them weren’t smart. They got married like everyone else, had six kids by the time they were twenty-five, then bought a single bed.
“Wait up!” yelled Jeweldeen, trotting to catch Iona. “You trying to ditch me?”
“Just trying to get away from the crowd.”
Jeweldeen stumbled in a rut and swore.
“Better let me carry the rum,” Iona said.
“Not a chance.”
Iona recognized most of the cars. Twyla Catts had brought the drill team. She was Catholic but didn’t have a hope of being a teacher or a nun. She thought she was lucky: she could take her pick. Half a dozen guys had already lined up for the captain of the drill team. But Iona knew that no matter who Twyla Catts married, her life was going to end up just the same.
Twyla’s friends sat on the hood of her Pinto, guzzling beer. How all eight of them had ever crammed in the car, Iona couldn’t guess. But they wouldn’t have to worry about stuffing themselves back in to get home. Already the boys were circling.
Iona spotted Willy Hamilton’s Chevy near the end of the road. She knew for sure that Willy wasn’t drinking. But he still took his pals wherever they wanted to go. Except Jay. Nobody drove Jay Tyler anywhere now. Iona was glad she knew one other person who wasn’t going to graduate. She wished Jay were here. She remembered his hands on her ribs and thought they’d feel good even now—whether or not he liked her at all. Darryl McQueen leaned against the trunk of Willy’s car. He was too lanky to be a strong diver, too tall to lock his limbs and go down straight the way Jay did. But that turned out to be Jay’s whole problem—being able to lock his legs.
Luke Sweeney and Kevin Burch sat in the backseat of the Chevy with their doors open. Willy was in front with his door shut and his hands on the wheel.
In his boots and black jeans, Darryl McQueen didn’t look half bad. Maybe his knees bent when he tried to do somersaults in layout position, maybe his narrow white feet slapped the water like fins, but he looked just fine tonight, much better than anyone else Iona
had seen. At least he wasn’t making a fool of himself, skulking around Twyla’s car, drooling like a dog.
“Hey, Darryl,” Iona said as she passed.
“Hey,” he said, “what’ve you got?”
Jeweldeen jabbed Iona. “Don’t you go making any trades,” she hissed.
“Not enough to share,” Iona said.
“That’s not what I heard.” Darryl grinned. He had a big mouth—and big hands. The bottle of beer he held looked small. “I hear you’re a generous girl.” He was still smiling.
“You’ve been misinformed.” Iona stopped ten feet in front of him.
“I don’t think so,” said Darryl. “I have a very reliable source.” He looked serious now. “At least you could spare a cigarette, couldn’t you?”
Iona pulled a pack from her jacket pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it with his left hand. “Got a light?” he said. She threw a plastic lighter and he caught that too.
Iona and Jeweldeen started down the path to the water.
“Hey,” Darryl said, “don’t you want the cigarettes?”
Iona waved. “Keep them.”
“How about the lighter?”
“It’s your graduation present.”
“I owe you,” Darryl said.
“Yeah,” Iona said to Jeweldeen, “he owes me.”
“You started it,” said Jeweldeen.
“I always do.”
At the bank of the Snake River, Jeweldeen and Iona crouched under a weeping willow. Its thin branches trailed in the water, rippling the surface. Iona knew she could have Darryl McQueen if she wanted him, exactly the same way she’d had Jay Tyler: in the backseat of a car or the back row of a movie—as long as she bought her own ticket and met him after the lights went down, as long as she could find her own way home and keep her mouth shut, as long as she didn’t have some stupid romantic notion that they’d walk out of the movie together holding hands. If she remembered all that, she could meet him five Saturdays in a row and then forget the whole thing. She thought of Darryl standing there on the high dive in his scarlet swim trunks. He wasn’t so hot then. He was as scared as anybody and might as well have been naked for all his suit could hide.
Iona Moon Page 9
