York's Moon

by Elizabeth Engstrom

“What about my face?” Eileen barked a harsh laugh, rummaged for a moment in her purse for a cigarette, then put the pack back inside. Clover didn’t allow smoking in her place.

  “You should moisturize your face, too.”

  “You got some moisturizer for my future? Some kind of spot-removing cream? Some kind of a wrinkle remover? Some kind of something magical from the pharmacy that will make me believe, or even pretend that I even have a future?”

  Clover gripped her mother’s fingers tighter to keep her from pulling them away in agitation, and kept filing. “You have a future,” she said calmly.

  “Yeah,” Eileen said, “but it ain’t pretty. Especially if it includes pink nail polish.”

  Clover smiled up at her, and Eileen, in a rare moment of honest affection, smiled back.

  “Pink is good. Give me your other hand.”

  Eileen obeyed, and Clover continued filing.

  “Who did you go shopping with?”

  “I met somebody in the diner at breakfast. Brenda. I like her. She bought shoes, too, but she bought those ugly cloggy things that are so much in fashion these days.”

  Brenda? Surely not the same Brenda. “A new friend. That’s good.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know about that. Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Know what I’m going to do today?”

  “Can’t wait to find out.”

  Clover finished filing, sat back and shook the nail-polish bottle, listening to the BB inside rattle around. She refreshed the hot water in their cups, then took Eileen’s left hand and began to paint her nails. “I’m going to find out who killed that guy. The dead guy. The guy who was pushed off the train.”

  “Oh, baby, don’t go there.”

  “I have to, otherwise York and Denny and those guys will get evicted.”

  “It’s only a matter of time anyway.”

  “York doesn’t have much time. He needs to live out his life down there. If I can figure out who killed that guy, they’d have no reason to move York to a home.”

  “They don’t need a reason, Clover. That place is a nuisance. There are laws.”

  “They’re not doing any harm. If I can solve the murder, the focus will be off them.”

  “Hey, pink’s not bad,” Eileen said. “Another ten years and it might come back into fashion.”

  “Since when are you a slave to fashion?”

  “A girl’s got to keep up. Especially if she’s almost forty.”

  “Is that bothering you?” Clover regretted the question as soon as she asked it.

  “Nah. Be nice to have a man, but I think that train has derailed, speaking of trains and dead guys.” Again, the harsh laugh, and Clover had to grip the fingers to hold them still.

  She finished the final nail, and screwed the top back on the polish. “Ten minutes and we’ll do another coat. Then you can’t smoke for two days.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe after two days you wouldn’t want a cigarette.”

  “Brat.” Eileen blew on the wet polish.

  Clover smiled.

  “How are you going to find out who killed that guy?”

  “I’m going to start with Deputy Travis,” Clover said. “He’ll know who the guy is, or was, and I’ll just take it from there.”

  “You’re a pistol,” Eileen said, and put out her hand for another dose of pink.

  ~ ~ ~

  Brenda threw the shopping bag with her new shoes in it onto her bed, stripped down to her underwear, brushed her teeth, got a cold beer from the fridge and then flopped on the couch. It was hot and she was tired and feeling a little gritty from her day shopping with Eileen, who didn’t seem to need much help feeling gritty.

  Brenda rolled the cold can around on her forehead and face, remembering Denny and the pool-cue lump on his forehead, and how he lay right here on her couch and slept. She was heartbroken that he’d gone before she got up in the morning. She was still heartbroken over it, and she wasn’t exactly sure why. He wasn’t her type; he was a bum who lived down by the tracks. Was it because he already had a girl, and she felt the competitive urge? Was it because she was so desperate that she’d throw her heart at any damaged guy she picked up off a barroom floor?

  Or was it because some other, higher, greater force was urging her onward? There were no coincidences in the universe, Brenda was convinced, and the cosmos had thrown her and Denny together in a way that was for some purpose, no matter how small. Maybe it had merely been for her to rescue him. Maybe their purpose wasn’t fulfilled yet. She certainly could not get him out of her mind. Maybe she’d have to go down there again and have a chat with him. Maybe she could get him away from his girlfriend for a few minutes.

  And then what, Brenda? And then what?

  She shrugged. Maybe their destiny had nothing to do with romance or love. Was he the type of guy she’d be happy to bring home to introduce to her mom? Not hardly.

  Maybe it was just lust.

  Brenda grinned, gave herself a moment to picture being in the shower with Denny, soaping him up from head to toe, his slippery hands all over her, then falling, soaking wet onto her new bedspread for a good, youthful, enthusiastic hump. Then she popped open the beer and took a long, startling drink and shifted her thinking to Eileen. Man oh man, Brenda thought, I don’t want to turn out like that. Eileen was crusty and bitter, with smoker’s wrinkles pointing the way to her thin lips. But she was funny and fascinating in kind of a husky-voiced, repulsive way. She had a perspective on life and love and age that was completely foreign to Brenda. They’d never be good friends, but they could probably enjoy each other’s company now and then. Like today, for example. They’d found a good shoe sale. Brenda sipped her beer and wondered what outfits she could wear those new shoes with. Not many, but, hey, they’d been a bargain.

  She sipped her beer, but her traitorous mind kept sliding back to thoughts of Denny and his lost-little-boy face. He was no bargain, but for some reason, she had to see him again. And now.

  Before she could help herself, before she could think it through like she knew she should, before she knew what she was doing, she checked herself in the mirror, briefly and from a distance, slipped back into some comfortable shoes, grabbed her purse and keys, and went outside. Consciously readying herself for whatever she might find, or whatever he might have to say to her, Brenda walked toward Denny as if some internal compass had set her course direction. She had no idea what she was going to say to him when she got there.

  She was still working on her opening line when she got down to the head of the path, and met, head-on, a tall, gray-haired man. They made eye contact, and Brenda slowed and stopped, and so did he. It was as if they were each waiting for the other to pass so they could head down the path.

  Brenda smiled. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “I’m going down there,” the man said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Why?”

  “To see Denny.”

  The man squinted at her, and Brenda wasn’t sure she liked that look, but she looked him squarely back. He looked familiar.

  Just as she realized that, he spoke. “You’re the one who nursed the whack on his head.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “I’m Sly,” he said.

  “I remember you now. You got a haircut. I’m Brenda. Is Denny okay? Sometimes a whack like that can be a problem later.”

  “C’mon down and let’s take a look.”

  Brenda followed Sly down the path through the blackberries, aware that he kept looking back to make sure she was coming down competently. He must have noticed those ridiculous sandals she’d had on last time. About broke her stupid neck coming down here in those.

  “Denny!” Sly bellowed, startling Brenda. “Got company!” It was good, him announcing a visitor. She didn’t want to take anybody by surprise. It was always good to call first.

  Denny stood up, wavering on his feet, a pair of white socks in his hand. Brenda might have stepped righ
t on him; she didn’t even see the camp. It seemed to be sunken into a maze of short walls made of—seemed like bales of newspapers—that made it invisible from far away.

  “It’s a girl, York,” Sly said as he passed the old man, and Brenda stepped into the hardpan ground of their home.

  “Brenda,” Denny said, wincing. “Hi.”

  He was in trouble with that whack on the head, Brenda could see that before she got to him. One eye was swollen and almost completely black, and the bump on his head was like an eggplant. “Wow,” she said. “You can’t be feeling too good.”

  He sank down to his knees, and then sat back on his bedding. “Nope,” he said. “I’m for shit.”

  “I’ll take you to the emergency clinic, if you want,” Brenda said, jangling her keys. “They don’t charge you if you can’t pay.”

  “Nah.”

  “You might have, you know, like a cracked skull.”

  “Nah. I’ll be okay. I just need to let it work itself out.”

  “They’ll give you something for the pain,” Brenda said. “You must have one splitter of a headache.”

  Denny nodded. His whole body rocked back and forth with the nodding motion, and then he held his hand out to her, his eyes closed. “Help me up?”

  She braced her foot against his, then grabbed his hands and helped him to his feet. He kept his eyes closed, and even so, she saw him wince with the pain of the movement. “I’m taking Denny to a doctor,” she announced to nobody, or to everybody, and then he put his arm around her shoulder and they started awkwardly back up the hill on the path that was only wide enough for one. Denny leaned on her heavily, and she wondered if he had his eyes open at all. He was one damaged dog. Brenda congratulated herself on following her instincts. This guy needed to have some medical attention, and right soon.

  She successfully pulled them both out of reach of the blackberries that snagged them with every step. When they got to the top of the hill, Brenda turned and looked back down at the train tracks, and there stood Sly, standing hip deep in weeds, or so it appeared, although he was probably standing in what served as his bedroom. He was watching them; he had probably watched them all the way up the path. He looked different to Brenda. He was clean. His hair was freshly cut, his face clean-shaven of those gray whiskers. He looked tall and thin and almost fit. He was almost handsome. If he’d put on a few pounds to fill out his cheeks, it would make his hawkish nose a little less obvious. Then he’d be right nice-looking.

  “Watch out for the curb here,” she said to Denny. She guided him into the street, then stopped thinking about Sly at all and concentrated on the task at hand.

  The emergency clinic wasn’t busy and they took Denny right in. Brenda picked at her cuticles, then looked at a few children’s magazines, and then paced back and forth for a while. She doubted they’d give him anything more than a Tylenol until they ran a bunch of tests, but that was okay, too. She didn’t have anything better to do than wait for him, but she wished she had brought something to read.

  Then the nurse opened the door and crooked her finger, and Brenda was ushered into Denny’s curtained cubicle, where he sat with a cold pack on his head, warm blankets on the rest of him and an IV running into his arm. He had a paper cup of juice in his hand.

  “They’re going to x-ray my head,” he said.

  She nodded. He looked so vulnerable she felt like crying. Instead, she busied herself with bringing over a chair, and then she sat down and picked at the edge of one of those blankets.

  “You were good to bring me here,” Denny said. “These warm blankets, I gotta get some of these.”

  Brenda nodded. She wanted to hold his hand, but was afraid he might misinterpret the gesture. Or, in fact, he might interpret the gesture rightly.

  “I might could use your help with Sly,” Denny said, his eyes closed.

  “Sly?”

  “He’s headed for a bad time, we think. You know, inside his head.”

  “How could I help that?”

  “Just be nice to him, you know, like you are. Maybe take his mind off himself for a little while.”

  “You trying to get rid of me?” Brenda regretted the words the minute they were out of her mouth, yet she couldn’t help herself. His words stung. “You trying to line me up?”

  “No,” Denny said, opening sick eyes and looking at her for emphasis. “You’re a good friend.” He closed his eyes again. “Sly needs a friend, too. A new friend, somebody . . . not one of us. That’s all I meant.”

  “Okay. We’ll see.”

  “Thanks. Thanks again.”

  Brenda lifted the cup of juice out of his relaxing grip before he spilled it. A moment later, he was snoring softly. She sipped the juice and watched him sleep. She didn’t know how she could be a friend to Sly, but if Denny asked her to, she’d try. It sounded kind of weird.

  Be careful, girl, she told herself. Don’t get too mixed up with these guys. And do not forget that Denny already has a girlfriend. A young girlfriend, someone close to his own age.

  Yeah, yeah, she told herself, and finished the juice.

  ~ ~ ~

  Athena Goddard wiggled into her panty hose, cursing the whole time. The last thing she wanted to do was go to this damn meeting. Wearing a dress and panty hose, no less. She had work to do in the garden, and was looking forward to digging in the dirt and transplanting a whole flat of impatiens. The tomatoes were ready for canning, and the cukes were perfect pickling size, and here she was, dressing up to go hobnob with that slut Susie Marie Grimes.

  “This is the last year,” she said to herself in the mirror as she started with the foundation makeup. She hated the way the stuff smelled, and she hated the feeling of it on her skin, but she knew that being the sheriff’s wife brought with it some social obligations. She couldn’t go to the palatial home of Mayor Grimes, wearing her gardening clothes. It was bad enough she didn’t dye away the gray streaks in her hair. She wasn’t really cut out for this type of stuff, but she did it for Steve.

  She stroked on the blusher and eye shadow, highlighted her eyebrows just a little bit, and then applied mascara. She’d go to all the fund-raisers Steve wanted her to go to, but this was absolutely the last year she’d serve on any committees. She’d done her duty. She’d paid her dues. She was finished. She’d rather work on the 4-H fair, or something hands-on with the kids. Not this socialite crap.

  She slipped into her dress, belted it, stepped into her pumps and surveyed the impression. Good. This was the last meeting before the event, and this would be a good time to give notice. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed to Susie Marie’s house.

  The meeting was in full swing when Athena got there. She unapologetically helped herself to coffee, heavy on the cream and sugar, and took a seat that allowed her the sweeping view of West Wheaton. The Grimes mansion was up on the hill overlooking Milo’s domain. It was a stunning view on an achingly beautiful day. While Athena would someday like to have a house with a view like this, the plastic-perfectness of the rest of the place reflected a little bit too closely the plastic-perfectness of Susie Marie. This was a nice place for a house; too bad Milo and Susie Marie got the site.

  Athena and Steve would have a completely different house on this hill. Earthy, with lots of wood and quilts and a big pot-bellied stove instead of the glassed-in, never-used gas fireplace at the end of the decorator-perfect, never-used living room. She’d have a magnificent garden, up here with all the sunlight, and there would be profusion of color everywhere. Milo and Susie Marie had red-cinder landscaping with junipers. The whole place, in the hands of the Grimeses, was about as functionally sterile as it could get. Pity.

  “Hi, Athena,” Susie Marie said. “We were just talking about the entertainment. That’s your committee, right?”

  “Right,” Athena said, and launched into her report of what was going to happen at the local celebrity auction, which this year, would benefit the local Special Olympics. Athena had no passion for the Special Olympic
s, and had voiced her suggestion for a different charity, but had been overwhelmingly outvoted. Another reason to get off the committee. She was certain Special Olympics was a good thing, it just wasn’t her thing. She’d not only get off the committee, but she’d get out of this stupid women’s group altogether. The extension office was starting to donate labor, materials, seed and education to lower-income folks to help them start their own vegetable gardens. Athena was far more suited to that type of project. Watching rich women bid against each other for dates with the handsome local radio personality wasn’t her idea of fun.

  “And,” she finished, “this is going to be my last year on this committee. I have too many other commitments, and I don’t want to give anything but my best to any of them. Unfortunately, something has to give, and I’m afraid it’s going to be this project.” She looked around. “Obviously, there is no lack of support for this fund-raiser, so I’m sure it will be easy to find my replacement.”

  There was polite applause, and a queer look from Susie Marie, and then the meeting went on. Athena tried to listen, but instead, she enjoyed the view and the relief she felt with giving up the responsibility.

  While most of the women stayed after the meeting to gossip and probe into the mayor’s financial situation via his loose-lipped wife, Athena made her apologies and a quick exit. Susie Marie saw her to the door, and as they stood on the outside, Susie Marie pinned Athena with a predator’s stare. “Sorry you’re leaving the committee,” she said, “but I understand, considering the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “I know it’s not official yet, but you need to know that you’ve got one hell of a fight in front of you. Milo and me, we’ve got our allies.”

  “What?”

  “Steve, running for mayor.”

  “Steve’s not running for mayor.” Athena had no idea what Susie Marie was talking about.

  “Not if he’s smart, he’s not. But smart isn’t one of Steve’s better qualities, is it? Not like the size of his dick. Now there’s quality.”

  Athena was so appalled she didn’t even think to slap the little twit. Instead of standing there with mouth agape at Susie Marie’s horrifying innuendo and lack of couth, Athena just turned and walked away, her face red hot, her guts on fire.