York's Moon

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “You got man problems?” Eileen asked. “I can help with those.”

  Yeah, right, Clover thought, as if she’d take advice from her mom about men. Eileen, the queen of relationship disasters. “How’s your love life?”

  Eileen smiled in spite of herself, stubbed out her cigarette. “Ain’t bad. I’m seeing someone. Someone cute, who treats me nice.”

  “Good, Mom, I’m happy about that. He work?”

  A cloud came over Eileen’s face. “Smart mouth, of course he works.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” Clover picked at her cuticles and noticed that her bath had failed to get her nails completely clean. “Everything okay for you at the shop?”

  “Why are you here, Clover?”

  “I’m going to do laundry. Thought I’d take yours along.”

  “It’s in the hamper.”

  Clover thought she could smell it from where she sat. “Okay, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Good,” Eileen said, then stood up in dismissal. “I’ve got other things to do today besides laundry.”

  “What?”

  Eileen lit up another smoke, took a deep drag, and then struck a pose, looking down at her daughter. “What’s this all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Clover said. “Life is just confusing, that’s all. Sometimes I wish we were closer.”

  “Life is confusing, sweetheart. That’s why it’s life. We’re not supposed to understand it, we’re just supposed to do it. And keep on doing it, day after day after goddamned day until something happens.”

  “Like what?”

  “Fuck if I know, sis. I’m still waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?” Clover felt as though there were clues here, but it was difficult, pulling out the tiny fibers of wisdom from Eileen’s experience.

  “Either to be saved or to die, I guess,” Eileen said. “Between here and there is just daily stuff, you know?” Eileen sat back down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What’s happening in your life, darlin’? You got mysteries? You got problems? You want to confess and make it all go away?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good, because that doesn’t do anything. Confession just makes everybody feel bad. Just keep your knees together and be a good girl on a daily basis.” Eileen snorted again and took another drag on her cigarette. “Why am I telling you all this? You’re the most perfect little twit I know. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, pay your rent on time—the only thing I know about you that’s weird is that you hang down by the tracks. That’s mighty weird, Clover. Why don’t you go to school or something? Make something of those good looks and big brains?”

  “I will,” Clover said, but that plan was floating farther off into the distance.

  “Deputy Travis stopped by today.” Eileen said, then hauled herself out of the little sofa and took the two steps it took to get into the kitchen. She poured two inches of vodka into a dirty jelly glass and added a short splash of orange juice from the small refrigerator. “Want one?”

  “No,” Clover said, and then waited. There was no pushing Eileen in any direction for any reason. Eileen had a mystery, she had a secret of her own, and left to her own devices, she’d eventually spill all knowledge in order to impress her daughter.

  Eileen leaned against the counter and gulped half her drink, then closed her eyes as it went down. Clover watched her face very carefully, and it didn’t look as though Eileen liked the taste, nor did she like the way it went down or the way it fell into her probably-empty stomach. For the first time, Clover realized that her mother was an alcoholic, and she wondered how she had managed to avoid that knowledge all these years.

  That thundering realization and all the ramifications, responsibilities, and puzzlements that the knowledge brought with it almost caused her to miss the next few things her mother said, and she had to stop and rewind the unconscious backup tape that her mind always made when she was distracted.

  “He said there was going to be trouble down at the hobo place because of some murder and that you ought to keep clear,” Eileen said.

  “Travis came here?” In no way did Clover want to know how Travis knew where her mother lived.

  Eileen smiled around her cigarette. “Yeah. I think he likes you.”

  Clover grimaced.

  “You could do worse, missy. He’s got a job. With benefits.”

  “What kind of trouble, did he say?”

  “You involved?”

  “No,” Clover said.

  “I don’t know who’s got bail money if you are.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then take the deputy’s advice and steer clear.”

  “They’re my friends,” Clover said.

  “You need a higher class of friends,” Eileen said, then sucked that cigarette right on down to its filter.

  You could use some better friends yourself, Clover thought, but didn’t dare say. “Well,” she said. “I better get to the laundry.”

  “Yeah, thanks. You know where the key is hid.”

  “You going out?”

  “Got a date.”

  Clover smiled. “That’s nice. Yeah, I’ll put your clothes away.”

  “Pick up some dish soap while you’re out?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks, kiddo,” Eileen said, pecked Clover on the cheek, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Clover lifted the lid on the clothes hamper in Eileen’s tossed bedroom and almost closed it right back up again. Instead, she stripped the bed, dumped the hamper full of moldy towels and stinking uniforms into the middle of the sheets, and hauled the bundle out the door without saying good-bye.

  Clover’s heart was heavier than the bundle of laundry, though. Her man was in trouble and so was her mother. Something had to be done, and it was probably going to be up to her to do it. For both of them.

  While the three washers were going, Clover realized that being a man and being a drunk absolved people of their responsibilities, and that wasn’t fair.

  While she folded the fresh clothes, she wondered if girls were always the responsible ones. That seemed to be the way it went, women running around cleaning up after their men. Maybe that was the natural order, and those who kept doing it stayed married. Those who refused, got divorced.

  Did that mean that she’d have to clean up after Denny?

  Did that mean that her mother needed somebody to clean up after her? Who would? What would happen if nobody signed on for that job and her mom grew old and sick by herself?

  But that wasn’t something Clover needed to think about today. Today she just needed to finish the laundry.

  After she put away her mother’s clean laundry and washed the sink full of dishes and then picked up around the place a little bit, feeling weird about being in her mother’s trailer alone, she realized that while she was there cleaning up after her mother, she didn’t really have to be there, and perhaps she wouldn’t do it again. She didn’t have to be responsible for either her mother or Denny. If she had to choose, she thought she just might go to bat for York above everybody else. York seemed to be pretty self-sufficient, and so was Clover. Needy people ought to hang together, and self-sufficient people ought to hang together, but maybe that isn’t exactly the way God made the world. Maybe he meant for opposites to attract in that way as well, so there was always somebody to look after the needy ones.

  Ugh.

  Oh well, Clover thought, there’s nothing to do about all of that today. Just do the laundry and be as good at life as she could. That lightened her mental load, and doing the laundry lightened her physical load. She felt ready for some adventure, and decided to go on back down toward Denny’s place and see if anything interesting had developed.

  She looked around for a piece of paper and a pencil so she could write a little “I love you” note to her mom, but she could find neither pencil nor paper.

  Cleaning the place up is a love note all in itself, Clover, she told herself. Wit
h a sadness she was afraid to define, she closed and locked the door, and replaced the key under the pot of plastic geraniums.

  ~ ~ ~

  “The time will come,” Tecumseh Gittens had said to his protégé, “when God will test your mettle as a man. You’ll recognize that time, too. There will be no doubt. It will come in one swift and devastating realization, and you will know, just as will God, forever after, whether you are a man or a coward. You won’t see that moment coming, son, so prepare yourself, and make every decision a courageous one.”

  York found it hard to believe that it had probably been some fifty years since he’d left behind a heartbroken Reverend Tecumseh. At times, when the evening was coming on and the dust was settling after a long day of busyness, doing whatever it is that dust did to justify itself, that York thought about him, thought about that particular pronouncement that York could recite to the word, with every inflection intact, where they were when he’d said it and the profound effect it had had on himself as a lad. They used to have some talks together, about things that mattered, usually just about twilight.

  But York had just about decided, all these years later, that either the reverend had discovered that he, himself, was a coward, and placed way too much significance or blame on whatever it was that helped him come to that conclusion, or else he was just flat-out wrong. No life-determining, profound moment had ever had its way with York, not that he had always paid attention, but if it was to happen the way Tecumseh said it would, then it hadn’t happened yet. Unless it was that moment that he walked away from the reverend, but that didn’t seem all that courageous.

  But then again, he was still alive, so maybe it was yet to come. Maybe that’s why he was still alive—the jury was still out on old York’s internal mettle, and when it had been determined once and for all whether York was a man or a coward, well, then God could have him or not.

  All of this was moving around through York’s mind as the day dwindled and York became concerned about the next few days. He’d always been in charge of the camp before, but now he wasn’t. Forces greater than he had taken control, and those forces were called Ego, Fear, and Pride. This was Denny and Sly, two loose cannons, against the railroad guys, and nobody had a clue as to their agenda or who was poking them in the back with long pointed sticks. Deputy Travis probably had a hand in it, a loose cannon hisownself, and York wouldn’t be one bit surprised if Mayor Grimes held the spear that was poking Travis in the back. Travis was a suck-up, and might go to great lengths to impress the mayor, when the truth was, the mayor was just a small-time politician out for his own gain who would think nothing of slapping Travis away if he got to be too pesky after this whole thing was settled.

  Obviously, York never read the newspapers or watched television. He wasn’t political, and he wasn’t in on the community affairs of West Wheaton, but a man couldn’t be breathing within the city limits for as long as he had without having at least a passing idea of its politics. Besides that, Clover brought the news of the day down to them more frequent than not.

  Yep, this was a political problem, and York felt on the verge of war. He wished he had someone pretty, soft and nice smelling to talk it over with, but then, that had been a wish of his for many years. It had never come true before, mostly due to York’s lifestyle. Women came through camp now and then, but they were roughened and hard and not the type of woman that York would like to unburden himself to. The soft, sweet-smelling type would never live in the dust. Maybe the women York knew started out that way, but the dust got into their pores and their souls and solidified them into crusty, brittle creatures that were unafraid and therefore unresponsive to the miracles of life and the majesty of its details.

  He worried about that happening to Clover. Now there was a sweet one, and she always smelled good, even after a sweaty shift in the hot donut shop, when she smelled like raw woman mixed with powdered sugar and scorched coffee. But, of course, all the men lifted their noses when she came trotting down the hill after a shower, when she smelled like powder and perfume and little-girl sweet. That Denny. He had no idea what he had.

  Then again, maybe he did. He seemed to treat her with great respect, and that’s the only reason York allowed their dalliance to continue. If Denny ever raised his voice or his hand to that girl, York would kick his ass all the way to the other side of the Mississippi and make sure he never came back. But Denny had never mistreated Clover, and York discovered that aside from a personally felt twinge of envy, he had no objections to their young love. He hoped for Clover’s sake that Denny stopped the stealing and became a righteous man, but York held out little faith that that would happen. More likely, he’d knock Clover up, get arrested for grand theft, and go off to prison, leaving Clover destitute and heartbroken.

  Wasn’t much York could do about that, if it happened.

  And there wasn’t much York could do about what was about to happen to himself, either. This land belonged to the railroad, and if they wanted him evicted, well, they would flat-out evict him. York felt bad about his prospects, but he didn’t want to dwell on any bad news until it actually came about. A pot of coffee was a far better idea.

  “Sly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  York heard him pour water from the big jug Denny or somebody filled up every morning from the hose at the gas station up the road, shake the last of the coffee out of the can and set the whole works on the fire. York could see the low flame grow a little brighter as Sly fed it some bits of fuel. York pulled a bag of beef jerky from under his pillow and broke off a piece to suck on, his teeth being store-bought and not much good for things like jerky, though he loved the taste of it, and offered the bag to Sly.

  Sly sat down next to York, took the beef, and they both chewed in silence while they listened to the poor coffeepot begin to boil, and then, to perk.

  “Denny thinks we ought to fight them off,” Sly said.

  “He’s a hothead,” York said. “I’m saying no violence.”

  “You want to just lie down and let them beat us to death with baseball bats?”

  “If they come down here bent on violence, then I guess we ought to try to defend ourselves,” York said. “Sometimes I think turning the other cheek isn’t prudent in this day and age. But if they say ‘get on out,’ then I think we should get on out. It’s their land, after all.”

  “We didn’t do nothing. It’s just a farce. They’re just throwing their weight around. Government-like.”

  “Don’t matter. We’ve been living here rent free for a lot of years now, and that’s more than we’re entitled to.”

  “Seems to me that if we’ve been here this long that we ought to have some rights.”

  Footsteps sounded on the path, and York knew by the cadence that it was the girl. “Ask her,” York said. “She’s the one with the library card.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Clover said when she heard their idea. “It’s sort of like common-law marriage. You live long enough on a piece of land, it ought to be yours.” She poured coffee.

  “But that don’t help us tonight,” Sly said.

  “It might,” York said. “You better go on home, girl. It’s getting dark.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “There’s going to be trouble, and you oughtn’t be here.”

  “I’ve gotta be here, otherwise it’ll get ugly.”

  “You being here ain’t going to keep it from getting ugly,” Sly said, and bit off another hunk of jerky.

  “We’ll see.”

  Denny showed up about an hour later, with a high-powered slingshot in his hand and a pocket full of ball bearings. He let Sly inspect the weapon, kissed Clover, accepted the cup of hot coffee she poured for him, and the piece of jerky that York handed him.

  “Man,” Sly said, handing him back the slingshot. “That’ll do damage.”

  Denny frowned at him and tipped his head toward York, who pretended not to have heard. />
  “I ought to have something,” Sly said, and he got up to go look for something he could use to defend himself and his territory. He came back moments later with a hefty, evil-looking splinter from one of the black, creosote-soaked railroad ties.

  “You shouldn’t be here, honey,” Denny said to Clover.

  “Too bad,” she said. “I’m staying.”

  “No women in combat. It ain’t right,” Sly said. “The kid there will be thinking of you instead of tending to business.”

  “No combat,” York said.

  Sly nudged her, but she crossed her arms and held firm.

  Denny wished she’d leave, but admired her grit. On the other hand, maybe somebody fixing to do them harm would think twice when they saw that a woman was among them.

  “Ain’t nothing going to happen anyway,” she said.

  “You work tomorrow?” Denny asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “So I can stay all night long.”

  “Good,” he said. Then he scraped a little hole in the dirt by the fire and emptied his pocketful of steel peas into it.

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Sly said. “You all get yourselves some rest.”

  Denny nodded and scooted around until he was lying down, his head on a stack of old newspapers they used to kindle the fire on the rare occasion it went out. He wanted to be comfortable enough to nap, but not comfortable enough to sleep sound. Clover lay next to him, her head on his shoulder. But there was no sleep in the camp. Sly might be taking the first watch, but it was early, and Sly was overly dramatic anyway, military history and all. Denny still had an aching leftover in his head from the crack of that pool cue, and wasn’t eager to repeat any sort of a performance that could get him hurt. Or Clover. He didn’t want anything to happen to Clover while she was under his care. Nobody would hurt York, and Sly could take care of himself. Denny had to worry about himself and this woman, and that was plenty.