York's Moon

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  She knew a guy named Norman Cheston, and she was going to go pay him a visit and see what he’d been doing going to Sacramento on the train. Maybe he saw something.

  She borrowed the city clerk’s telephone book and telephone and gave her old friend Sylvia Cheston a call.

  ~ ~ ~

  Brenda went back to her place, her head full of Denny and Sly. She could not believe how intrigued she was by those guys living down there like that. There was something about it that made her want to take them books to read, or make them pillows for their comfort. They had kind of a weird little place but it was kind of cool, too. But what the hell did they do when it rained real hard? Wasn’t life sucky beyond imagination when that happened?

  She wondered if they ever had a roast beef to eat, or a pumpkin pie.

  She took off her shoes and rubbed the sore spots on her feet. They were nothing compared to the sore spot on Denny’s head, poor guy. She turned on the stove and started to heat some water for a cup of tea, and then turned it off again. Those guys kept a fire going all the time, and a raggedy old bent-up coffeepot set on some kind of a grate. That was their hot food. Coffee. That’s all they had to keep them warm.

  Something about all that wasn’t right, and didn’t set right with Brenda. She had her hands full just trying to keep her bills paid, keep her own head above water. She didn’t have anything left over for charity cases, and yet . . .

  If what Denny said was true, they were all going to get evicted that night. Denny, as much as she was attracted to him, had Clover, his girlfriend, as he so mildly pointed out. York, well, he was an old man, and they’d have to put him somewhere, but what about Sly? Where would he go? What would he do?

  Maybe she could offer him something. A couch to sleep on for a couple of weeks or something.

  Brenda fired up a cigarette and sat at her kitchen table, thinking about him. She hadn’t done much of any consequence with her life. Maybe it was time for her to do a good deed. Maybe she ought to go down there and get acquainted with Sly a little bit, and if it worked out, she could offer him a place to stay until he figured out what he was going to do. He’d no doubt want to stay in West Wheaton and see to York, but he’d need a job, and all that was hard to find without a telephone, a warm meal, and a place to sleep. Maybe she could do that for him. It would be a nice little bit of energy to throw out into the universe, she thought. Secure a little good karma.

  She washed her face and her feet, then put on some more-sensible shoes to go down and talk to him, but as she did that, she had a few second thoughts.

  Brenda knew she didn’t always make the right decisions, particularly about men. She was a little too gullible, and a little too generous, and that usually got her hurt and sometimes worse. Maybe she ought to bounce this idea around with one of her girlfriends. Living alone can skew one’s thinking.

  Maybe she’d pop by Eileen’s place on the way. Eileen would certainly have an opinion about what Brenda was about to do. Perhaps Eileen’s take on it would be more balanced. Perhaps not, but regardless, Brenda wouldn’t be making a stupid decision blind. Nope, if she was going to be making a stupid decision in spite of girlfriend counseling, she’d only have herself to blame for it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Stealing the hand-held spotlight was more difficult than Denny had anticipated. They didn’t have one at Walmart, so he had to hitchhike all the way to Bonita and go to the sporting goods store there. That place was crawling with security, so he had to be damn clever. But clever was his profession, and he got away clean, the big damn light safely stashed in the Walmart sack he’d brought folded up in his hip pocket for the purpose.

  Rides were hard to get going back, so he spent some time walking, some time thinking, and some time practicing with his slingshot and roadside pebbles. It didn’t take him long to get the feel of it, and he could hit the five on the speed-limit sign with no problem at thirty yards. And of course, he wasn’t going to need no thirty yards come nightfall.

  Denny had a lot to think about, and he didn’t like it much when he had too much solitude on his hands, because that gave him time to think about it.

  He thought about Clover, and Brenda, and York, and Sly, and the pending situation with Deputy Travis and the railroad guys. He thought about the dead guy, and how Clover wanted to tell his family, and that made him smile. There wasn’t a better soul anywhere on the planet than the one inside that Clover. And her outsides weren’t so bad, either.

  Denny let his mind wander as he shuffled down the side of the highway, and his mind went to a sprout of a growing hunger inside him, something that told him to make something of himself, to do better. He’d like to keep Clover around for a long time, and do good by her, but he knew deep in his soul that he’d end up disappointing her, and he’d hate that. She was too good. Too good for him. Maybe if he got to the place where he stopped disappointing himself, then he could see his way clear to a fine girl like Clover, but that was a long ways down the road. He knew he’d never get there if he never started, and he didn’t see himself starting anytime soon.

  The heaviness on Denny’s chest started to throb with the pounding of his head, and his fingers went to the knot on his forehead that still hurt. He fumbled a pain pill from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, wincing at the bitterness of it, and then stuck another in there to follow it. One for his head, one for his innards. He was a little bit afraid, York tearing paper and talking about dying, and Sly pacing and talking about perimeters and enemy incursions and such. He had to be clearheaded if anybody was going to be. He couldn’t afford to go to pieces when the shit hit the fan. He couldn’t take too many pain pills—he fumbled another one out and stuck it in his mouth—and he couldn’t let the guys down.

  But life was going to change, no matter what happened that night. People didn’t ride the rails much anymore—it was too dangerous. Camps like York’s place were obsolete. York was obsolete. They’d all have to move on, and that, Denny knew, was what was eating at both York and Sly. And maybe that was his problem, too. More of the same? Find another place like York’s and settle in? Lose all his teeth, get some itchy skin disease and rot? Or what?

  A black rusty pickup truck with some kind of cages in the back pulled off the side of the road and stopped. Denny trotted on up to it, made eye contact with the old Mexican guy who was driving, and said “West Wheaton.” The Mexican nodded and pointed his thumb back toward the truck bed. “Can I sit in the front?” Denny asked. “I’d like to charge my battery here”—he held up the sack—“in your cigarette lighter.” The Mexican looked squinty eyed for a moment as if he was thinking, or trying to figure out what Denny was saying, then he pointed with his chin back toward the truck bed. Denny sighed, walked to the back, loaded himself, settled among the cages—chicken cages, they were and very recently vacated as evidenced by the fresh chicken shit and multitude of feathers—and he was on his way home.

  It would be nice to ride in the front of the pickup someday, he thought. Or to have his own pickup and give Mexican hitchhikers a ride. Could that ever happen?

  Not likely. Not in this lifetime. Denny slammed the lid down on that familiar longing before it consumed him the way Sly and York were being eaten alive by their demons.

  ~ ~ ~

  Athena Goddard put on her gardening gloves and surveyed the vegetable garden. For the first time in a long time she had no taste for digging in the dirt. She always got this feeling this time of year, when everything was thirsty and hot, but knew that it would go away once she lost herself in the cool soil and the plants. She longed for the cold nights and the crisp air of fall. She wished she could look forward to a forgiving blanket of snow to cover these beautiful raised beds and let them rest while she took a long winter break in front of the fire with a lap robe and cup of hot chamomile tea with honey and a fast-paced novel with lots of sex. Those were the memories of her mother, the memories of her youth in South Dakota. Then she got caught up in the fast lane of beauty pageants, college, and
marriage to a young criminal-justice student. They moved to the job, and she embarked upon a career as a sheriff’s wife, started their family and started the perpetual garden. The perpetual dirt under her fingernails. The perpetual work.

  Athena was ready for a rest.

  The tomatoes were blushing, and growing heavier, so she decided she’d start the day’s work with tending them, pruning and propping them up as needed. The beans were full on, so that would be a major part of the evening meal. She’d end her day in the garden harvesting beans for dinner.

  As soon as she got to work with the tomatoes, pinching off the little yellow flowers so the plants wouldn’t set more fruit, but would ripen what was already there, Athena’s thoughts roamed back to Susie Marie, Steve, and that nervy little Clover. There were no thoughts to be wasted on Susie Marie. West Wheaton wasn’t a big place, and Athena wouldn’t run her life to avoid Susie Marie, but that was the last person Athena was interested in seeing again. Ever. Athena suspected that Steve’d had a fling with Susie Marie at some time in their past, but Athena wasn’t worried. Steve had never shown himself to be anything but faithful. A perfect man, a model husband and father, but maybe not quite smart enough to go head-to-head with Milo Grimes. Milo was not only smart, but ruthless and wily, so Athena hoped that Steve really wasn’t thinking of running for mayor. Ruthless and wily could be dangerous. Sheriff was a good thing to be, and perfect for Steve, especially in West Wheaton, where up until now, graffiti was the worst crime committed.

  Steve would make a good mayor if he didn’t have to face Milo Grimes in the election. He had the right kind of heart and a populist view. Athena knew she’d make a great mayor’s wife. If there was anything being a beauty queen had taught her, it was how to live appropriately in the public eye. Something Susie Marie had never learned. Neither had her disgusting husband. Regardless. Athena didn’t strive for the public eye; she didn’t crave it—she didn’t even want it. But if she had it, she would do a good job. She knew that for certain. She’d use her station for good purpose.

  Then there was that little Clover. Wasn’t she something? Athena knew Steve would like to have had another child, maybe a girl, but two children had been enough for her. Maybe that’s what Steve saw in that Clover. Athena knew what Clover did for those tramps down by the railroad. Maybe Athena could help channel Clover’s altruistic endeavors into more productive avenues. Hell, Clover should be in school. She should be going to the community college over in Bonita. She should be bettering herself, she was certainly attractive enough. She could land herself a fine husband if only she tended to herself a little better. Shaved her legs, plucked her eyebrows, put on a little makeup.

  The thought made Athena smile. Perhaps Steve wasn’t the only one who felt cheated out of a daughter. She knew that Clover had a mother, but not much of one. Maybe Athena could make a difference. Maybe Clover would like to come help her in the garden someday. She could take some of the leftover produce to the guys down by the tracks.

  Oh. No, the guys wouldn’t be down by the tracks after today. They’d be somewhere else. Well, that would be the perfect time for Athena to extend the invitation to Clover. Take her mind off other things.

  Take Athena’s mind off other things.

  Athena attached the soft-sprinkle watering wand to the end of the hose and carefully gave each tomato plant a healthy drink.

  ~ ~ ~

  Whenever Travis thought about what he had to do later, at sundown, down by the tracks, he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was afraid that his little indiscretions with Susie Marie had queered his immunity. In fact not only queered it but stamped “PAID IN FULL” on it, and stapled it to an invoice for services rendered. The mayor knew about them. Of that, Travis had no doubt. What the mayor would do about it remained to be seen.

  And that was the thing that scared Travis the most. If one of those bums got hurt real bad, Travis would be the one they’d string up, because those railroad guys, they had no names. They were just thugs.

  A man is known by the company he keeps, his grandmother’s voice rang loudly in his head. So he was a thug. He knew it. And he also knew that his time in West Wheaton was growing short. And he knew that his time as a deputy was even shorter, his little dalliance with Susie Marie was probably over, and Eileen was the only thing that kept his ego going, and only if he saw her in very dim light indeed.

  He needed to get himself some space and to think through what was going to happen down there by the tracks.

  He knew what the mayor wanted him to do. The mayor wanted him to beat those three bums within an inch of their lives, but Travis didn’t know how much they could take. The old blind one, he couldn’t take much, that was for sure.

  He also knew what the sheriff wanted him to do. The sheriff wanted him to leave well enough alone, and not hang with the railroad thugs and their strong-arm, baseball-bat tactics. The sheriff was a good man, with a good heart and a good mind, and if Travis were at all smart, he’d listen to the wisdom of Steve Goddard. But that wasn’t going to happen, because Travis owed the mayor, and the mayor also put a few folded hundreds into Travis’s jeans, and that never hurt, either.

  And he knew what he himself wanted to do. Travis wanted to kill those fucking bums, bash their skulls in, smash their bones to dust, just because he wanted to smash something.

  He was pretty sure that come sundown, nobody was going to get his wish. And that might be a good thing.

  Travis pushed the door open to the sheriff’s office men’s room, secured a stall and sat down. He put his face in his hands and tried to figure out how to put a throttle control on the situation so it wouldn’t scream out of control and get people seriously hurt. He didn’t know how to do that, even though he was an educated lawman. Threats weren’t going to work again; they hadn’t worked the night before. They’d made the threats last night, they had to follow through tonight, but Jesus Christ, he didn’t want to. Not in the tiniest least little bit. And he resented the mayor for making him. And he resented Susie Marie for putting him into this particular position.

  He checked his watch. Five o’clock. Way too many hours until dark. He stood up, flushed the clean toilet, and exited the stall. He smoothed down his hair in the mirror, and then went to punch out. Maybe he’d drop by Eileen’s come twilight. Maybe this time she’d induce him to stay with her for a while, and he could lie in her nasty, swayback bed, arms behind his head, eyes staring up at the stained ceiling while she snored vodka breath next to him and he envisioned the railroad guys taking those baseball bats to those defenseless bums. And he could be completely innocent of the whole mess.

  Or would he be innocent? By not being there, he didn’t prevent it, right? Is that complicity?

  It was. He knew it was. He was up to his eyeballs. The only thing, then, was for him to show up and minimize damage. He could do that.

  As he walked past the sheriff’s office, he waved good-bye, and was dismayed to see the sheriff, phone to his ear, hold up his hand, and then wave him in.

  Crap. Travis opened the sheriff’s door and stood there, head barely inside, and waited. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to have a long conversation.

  Sheriff Goddard motioned for him to come in and close the door.

  Shit. He did as he was told.

  The sheriff finished his phone conversation and hung up. “Going to be no trouble at the tracks tonight, right?” he said.

  Travis shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  “You’re sure,” the sheriff said. “I’ve heard of a little planned assault down there.”

  Travis almost asked him who he heard it from, and almost asked him who was planning the assault, and then decided he didn’t want to know the answers to either of those questions, so he just shrugged again.

  “If you’re in on this, Travis, I’m telling you, you’re on your own. I can throw you in jail as easily as I can anybody else.” He stretched out the an-y bod-y else part so it had a little rhythm of its own.


  “Be no arrests down there tonight,” Travis said. “Gotta run.”

  “Have a nice night,” Sheriff Goddard said and turned to the stack of papers on his desk.

  ~ ~ ~

  Clover walked up the front steps of Sylvia’s house like she had a thousand times when they were in school. The house looked the same. Kind of an average place on an average street. Nothing special, but nothing dumpy like the old trailer Clover had grown up in. Sylvia’s dad had a gas station, and her mom worked at the hospital over in Bonita. Sylvia still lived at home with her folks.

  Clover felt good about having her own apartment.

  Sylvia answered the door, and she looked just the same, too. It had been only a couple of years since they’d seen each other, and Sylvia gave the expected girlie squeal and dance before enveloping Clover in an all-consuming and very-well-padded hug. Sylvia smelled like nail polish remover, and the living room smelled like unwashed dog.

  Clover got the impression that Sylvia didn’t have many friends. They sat down on the broken, stained brown couch, where Sylvia had been painting her toenails blue, and chatted about classmates. Clover, who didn’t keep in touch with anybody, knew lots more about them than Sylvia did. Clover worked in the donut shop, and she saw people periodically, and she got to hear things, too. Sylvia worked as a file clerk for an insurance company and didn’t see anybody during the day except the file room, which was, as she put it, “nothing but a million paper cuts waiting to happen.” Sylvia had put on weight, and her complexion was still bad. She had never been popular in school, but for some reason, Clover always liked her. She liked Sylvia’s spirit.

  Sylvia went to the fridge, walking carefully with toes up so as not to catch carpet fibers in the new polish, and came back with two Cokes, a box of saltines, two knives and a jar of peanut butter. “Snacks,” she said, and set the whole mess down on the table. Then she peanut-buttered herself a cracker and stuffed it, whole, into her mouth. “Tell me about you,” she said around it, then started filing her fingernails.