York's Moon

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “Presents for you guys,” he said, “but there ain’t no joy in it anymore.”

  “You steal that stuff?”

  “You don’t ask me that, York. You never ask me that.”

  “See what’s happening here?” Sly said. “We’re suspicious of one another. You know that Denny steals, York, you don’t have to ask. Don’t be asking. Don’t be knowing. It’s these people, casting all kinds of suspicions around, left some lying here on the ground. Don’t be picking them up, neither one of you.” He looked up the path, knowing the sheriff and Clover were having a conversation at the door of the cruiser. “I wonder what they’re talking about.”

  “Her virtue,” Denny said, and spit again. “What are we going to do, York?”

  “We could move on down the line,” Sly said. “Or maybe I’ll just go to the beach for a while. I’ve been marooned here too long as it is.”

  “That’d be just like you to abandon York and me when the shit hits the fan,” Denny said. “Fuck, my head hurts. This whole damned thing makes my head hurt.”

  “Shhh,” Sly said. “Here comes Deputy Dawg.”

  Deputy Travis was escorting the girl back down the pathway, and he was talking and gesturing, but the words didn’t reach, just the sounds of emphasis.

  York put his head down and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to know what the deputy had to say. He never had anything worthwhile to say.

  “Hey, York,” the deputy said.

  “He’s tired,” Sly said.

  “I’ll kick his ass until he’s tired,” the deputy said. “Hey, York.”

  York opened his eyes.

  “Move on out, you hear? This is a warning, and it’s the last one you’ll get.”

  York nodded and closed his eyes again, worried. Worried.

  “You getcherself home now, Miss Clover, and don’t be trucking with rail rats like these.”

  Footsteps receded.

  “I’ll kick his ass until he’s tired,” Denny whispered.

  “You better listen to him,” the girl said. “I don’t trust him. Not at all.”

  “What did he say to you?” Denny asked, grabbed her hand and pulled her down to sit on his blanket.

  The girl was silent enough to make York really nervous. “Just don’t trust him,” she finally said.

  “Don’t trust nobody during the moon,” York said. “People ain’t what they normally are.”

  “So, York,” Sly said again. “What are we going to do?”

  “Stay and fight,” Denny said. “We ain’t done nothing. They can’t run us out of our home and off our land for no reason.”

  “Ain’t our land,” York said. “Probably belongs to the railroad.”

  “So what?” Sly said. “I think Denny’s right. We should stay and fight. We’ve been here long enough to have rights. Squatter’s rights. We should secure the perimeter. We could plant a few antipersonnel mines, get us some firepower, and just fucking hold the line.”

  “You’re nuts,” Clover said, and touched the blue bulb on Denny’s forehead.

  “No,” Denny said, pulling away from her feminine touch. “He’s right.”

  “Listen,” York said, sitting up and fixing them with what he hoped would be a riveting stare, only he wasn’t exactly sure where they were, so he had to kind of imagine where they were and take an average of their various positions. “The good lord has a plan for our lives, and the book is already written. We do what’s asked of us to do, no more, no less. If it’s time for us to up and vacate this terrain, that’s exactly what we’ll be doing. We’re innocent men, we know that in our hearts, and God knows that, too. We do what he asks of us and that’s that.”

  “I buy that, York,” Sly said, “but I don’t think Sheriff Goddard and the railroad guys are speaking for God. I’ll do what God says, but I’ll not do what Deputy Travis says.”

  “Yeah,” Denny said. “I’d like to kick his skinny ass.”

  “You’re the one with the skinny ass,” Clover said, then laughed. And she was right, of course, Deputy Travis’s ass was pumped full of steroids. His muscles threatened the seams of his uniform.

  “The key to life is accepting what comes down the chute,” York said.

  “Not from those assholes,” Sly said.

  York felt his face growing flushed. He felt his blood pressure rise. All his life, he’d spent going with the flow, as it had been said, accepting life on life’s terms, never asserting his will over that of others.

  And what has that got you in the end, old man? Stinking socks and a dirt bed by the railroad. What have you got to lose by putting up a bit of a fight?

  “Some things are just worth standing up for, York,” Sly said. “I learned that in the Army. There are things to fight for and things to let pass on by. This may not be our land, but by God, it’s our home, and we live clean, upstanding lives here. I work now and then, and bring home a fair wage for my work, you deserve the pension you get every month. Denny’s the only one who doesn’t have a legitimate way of earning a living, but I haven’t seen anybody down here arresting him, so I guess he’s discreet. Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is, we’ve done nothing wrong, and if it was okay for us to live here before the dead guy, then it should be okay for us to live here after the dead guy.”

  “What about guys like Ed?” Denny asked. “What would happen to him if he came down here and you weren’t here to feed him and preach the good kind of stuff to him—not that Bible-thumpin’ shit you get at the mission—think he’d be okay?”

  “Ed’s not the only one,” Sly said. “Think about the guys who bunk here on an annual basis. Hundreds. It’s your ministry, York, it’s your calling. That’s what God wants you to do, not to dance to Mayor whatshisass’s whim.”

  The boys had a point.

  “I’m tired,” York said, lay back down and closed his eyes against the smoggy glare of the sun.

  “I’m going to draw my line in the sand,” he heard Denny say, and then there was some scuffling about as Sly did the same, and for all York knew, the girl drew a line, too. But York was too tired to fight, too old to mix it up with the powerful men in town. He was just a sick old bum, and he didn’t want to spend the last of his God-given energy on some ridiculous fight that he could never win.

  Maybe he ought to move to the mission, and add a little common sense balance to the hellfire and brimstone preaching the poor guys who lived there had to endure for their soup.

  Not that he could stand that for more than a minute. He had to be outside. It was in his nature.

  Maybe they ought to move on down the line.

  But the thought of hauling his old carcass up into an empty freight car one more time was too much. Riding the rails was for the young. York and Ed were too old for that game anymore, only nobody had told Ed that yet. He was still clinging to an old way of life, and it was just about to catch up with him. York doubted he’d ever see Ed again.

  If York moved away, then for sure he’d never see Ed again.

  There were a lot of people who depended upon York’s hospitality, his good sense and mild advice. What would happen to them? Well, they’d be cared for, just as they’d be cared for by somebody after York was dead. When York first threw down his bedroll on this land, he knew he’d live like the lilies in the field, just like the promise in the Bible. The lilies didn’t have to grapple for their sustenance, neither did the birds nor the gophers. Nobody did, and he had been proving that all these years. He got what he needed, and if he wasn’t there to help God give to the others what they needed, somebody else would. God had a plan for those needs after York was dead, didn’t he?

  But York wasn’t dead yet, because that wasn’t God’s plan. He still had work to do, and if he wasn’t going to do it here, then he was going to do it somewhere, but here is where he’d always done it, and he saw no good reason to move.

  Denny was right. They hadn’t done nothing wrong.

  And yet, what if they fought the system, and won t
he right to stay there, but God’s plan would have them on down the line, to meet up with some unforeseen destiny? What then? What opportunities would York miss? Would his life turn to gristle because he was rubbing on the outside edge of the container of God’s grace?

  It was a horrible problem, a decision of unimaginable consequences. He couldn’t begin to figure what would happen by simply acting or not acting.

  He was too tired.

  The concepts tumbled around in his head like laundry in a dryer while he vaguely listened to the sounds of the young ones talking. Their voices were conspiratorially low, and York knew that they were including him in whatever plan they were making. He could always bow out, but the truth was, Denny and Sly seemed to have more on the ball than he did at times, and certainly more than Deputy Travis did. Add Clover’s smart compassion to the mix, and he was certain that everything would be all right. He heard himself begin to snore, and dropped right into rest.

  When he woke up, he was ready for a battle. It just might be God’s battle.

  The Western Express breezed by, sounding its horn, and York opened his eyes. He smelled fresh coffee. “Sly?” he called, sometimes disoriented at first, a little bit afraid because he couldn’t see who was there and what was happening.

  “Sly’s in town,” Denny said.

  “What did you all decide?”

  “To hold fast.”

  “I’m with you,” York said, with a strange certainty that made him suspect that work had been taking place in his mind while he slept. Holding fast was indeed the higher road to take, and so for better or worse, for the greatest good of all concerned, he was going to stand fast with them, and see if the righteous would indeed win out. How could he imagine that he could do anything other than God’s will? He wasn’t that strong. “Hold on to your hat,” he said.

  “We’re all holding on to our hats,” Denny said. “Want some coffee?”

  “Yeah,” York said with the excitement of a new adventure growing in his belly. “I don’t want no conflict, though.”

  “We’ll take what we get,” Denny said, and York thought that was pretty true about life in general.

  ~ ~ ~

  “They’re harmless,” Sheriff Goddard said. “They’re relics from another time. I know York, he’s been there since I was a curious kid. There’s never any booze or drugs down there. He runs a clean camp.”

  “I want them gone.” The mayor stood in the sheriff’s office with his legs spread and his arms folded across his chest. He meant to be taken seriously, and if anybody held the keys to the sheriff’s reelection campaign, it was the politically hefty mayor. He wanted to summon the sheriff to his own office, but thought that might be a little bit too heavy handed. Goddard didn’t like to be pushed around.

  “Sit down, Milo,” Sheriff Goddard offered. “Let’s talk about this for a minute.”

  The mayor was no fool, and knew that it would be expedient to turn Goddard’s mind around until cleaning up that homeless dump was his own idea. Then he’d be motivated. If it was just taking an order from the mayor, there was no telling if and/or when the task would be accomplished, and Milo wanted those bums out of there, right now. He sat. “I don’t know what there is to talk about, Sheriff.”

  “They had nothing to do with the murder of that sleazeball, and you know it as well as I do.”

  “But the townspeople . . .”

  “The townspeople will know it as soon as you and I tell them.”

  Mayor Grimes decided to take a different tack. “That place down there is a disaster waiting to happen, Steve.”

  The mayor hardly ever used the sheriff’s first name, and the ingratiating effect of it was not lost on the sheriff.

  “I’ve got my priorities,” the sheriff said.

  “I need you to rearrange them. Cleaning up the scene of a crime and its scummy, disease-ridden neighborhood should be one of your top priorities.”

  “There’s no disease down there.”

  “Where do those guys shit, Steve? Can you tell me that? When was the last time this blind friend of yours took a bath? You know that whole place is a major health violation, and for the life of me I can’t imagine why you’re giving me such a hard time about this.”

  Steve Goddard knew all about the effective latrine system Sly had designed, dug, and maintained down there, but there would be no telling the mayor about it. Steve Goddard had learned a long time ago to pick his battles, especially with the mayor, and this was not one he was going to win. He only had a certain amount of political credits in his account and as much as he liked York, he didn’t want to spend all his political cash on him. He looked at the stack of paper in his in-box and sighed. “Give me a couple of days, okay?”

  “What’s the big deal? Go down there with a bulldozer and give them thirty minutes to vacate. Need a dozer? I know a contractor–”

  Sheriff Goddard stood up, ending the meeting. “I’ll take care of it, Mayor Grimes, but I won’t do it with any bulldozer. Keeping the peace is my job. Now, you can just cross this item off your list and let me handle it the way the townspeople elected me to handle things like this.”

  “I know you will,” Milo Grimes said. “Thank you for your time.”

  The two men shook hands, and Grimes left, leaving a bad taste in Sheriff Goddard’s mouth. He didn’t like the mayor, didn’t like his politics, didn’t like his sleazy way of lining his pockets at the public expense, just flat-out didn’t like his way of doing business. But politics makes strange bedfellows, and both of them had to compromise their would-be steadfast positions in order to serve the people of West Wheaton.

  Goddard would move the hobos. But he hated like hell to do that, especially at York’s advanced age, and he wondered what kind of a dangerous element would take their place down there in that hole. Or would a new railroad shopping center go up on that land, owned by one of the corporations that seated Milo Grimes on its board?

  What the hell. Maybe it was time York went to an old-folks’ home, where he’d be cared for anyway. Regardless, it seemed to be out of Goddard’s hands.

  He looked out the window at the nice park across the street and all the kids who were playing on its bronze dinosaur sculptures. Milo Grimes had donated that land, and one of his corporations maintained it. Nothing there for the townspeople to pay for; they just had to enjoy it.

  The mayor was a wily one for certain.

  Everybody liked Grimes’s big-budget way of running the city. He funded all the social programs, kept taxes down to a decent level and showed up at all the fund-raising events for all the school kids. Parents liked that, and they didn’t care that his behind-the-scenes personal financial structure was fueled by their tax dollars as well. They turned their heads, and chose not to see, electing him over and over and over again. Some people talked of paving his road to the state legislature, but Mayor Milo was no fool. His bread was buttered right nicely right there in West Wheaton, and he wasn’t about to take his show on the uncertain, ungreased highways of Sacramento. Nope, he’d fight his little battles and fill his little savings account right there in town.

  Steve Goddard looked back down at his stack of paperwork and decided he needed caffeine fortification to tackle it. He picked up his coffee cup and walked out of his office, just in time to see Milo Grimes shake hands in the lobby with Deputy Travis.

  That was not a good sign. Whatever they’d been talking about, it wasn’t good.

  Just before Grimes turned to leave, he glanced back and saw the sheriff standing there, watching, coffee cup in hand. Their eyes met, then the mayor left the building.

  The gauntlet had been thrown. The sheriff had been challenged. Take care of this, or I’ll have your deputy take care of it for you. Doing business that way didn’t set well with the sheriff. He didn’t like being given that type of covert ultimatum.

  Don’t fuck with me, Milo Grimes. Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.

  Deputy Travis swaggered in, and Goddard hated th
e sight of him. He filled his coffee cup and went back into his office, closing the door behind him.

  It’s just about three bums, he told himself, trying to believe it. This is nothing to jeopardize your career for. Not worth bringing down City Hall over. Relax, take care of today’s work today, and think about York and his buddies tomorrow.

  But the finely tuned intuition of a more-than-competent lawman told him that Grimes was setting a lot of metronomes, pendulums, and ticking bombs into motion as he swept through town, and the sheriff better be either following along behind diffusing them, or else taking care of the mayor’s business, and on Grimes’s timetable, at that.

  He looked down at the big calendar on his desk blotter and filled in the four of the date, July fourteenth, with his pen. That’s when he noticed. Tomorrow was the full moon.

  Great, he thought. Just what I need. Full-moon lunacy on top of it all. He doodled a few arrows around the full-moon symbol and then threw his pen down in irritated frustration.

  He had been proud indeed when first his eldest, and then his second son left for the University of Oregon to major in criminology. Troy-the-idealist wanted to be police commissioner in some crime-ridden sewer of a city, where he could make a real difference. Zach-the-realist was studying criminal law, and would probably end up a rich trial attorney. Regardless, they had both been inspired by their dad’s ethics, and his belief in the system.

  But that pride in his boys had slowly turned to pressure. When there were certain things Steve could do to expedite matters, he kept thinking of those boys, and what opinion they would have if they were to discover his not-quite-above-board actions. And how that opinion would shape their love for him, and how they would one day sit around, the two of them and their baby sister, all grown up, and they would talk about their dad, the sheriff, and the way he dealt with things. Would they be proud of his entire record, or would one tiny black mark overshadow all the good he’d done, the way those things sometimes unfairly happened?

  This was just exactly one of those situations. He could do as the mayor insisted, infringing upon those men and their civil liberties. Their freedoms. The owner of the land had no complaint; the men weren’t doing anything but camping. There was no reason for them to be uprooted like that, especially since York . . .