York's Moon

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “Did you hear those panties yelp?” Sly asked.

  Denny smiled and nodded. “Yeah. It was great.”

  “Little girls with baseball bats,” Sly said.

  “They might be back.”

  “I’ll take the first watch.”

  But Denny had slept the afternoon away, and the wild adrenaline of victory pumped through him. He put the rest of his ball bearings in his pocket, stuck the wrist rocket in the back of his pants, and sat on the bucket. He heard the van pull away, he heard the car eventually leave, and then he heard York’s labored breathing, and that was the scariest thing of the night.

  ~ ~ ~

  Steve dropped Travis off at the all-night medical clinic, but all that was wrong with Travis was that he got his pride hurt. It cost him a broken tooth, but that was no big deal. Easily fixed, probably not by the emergency-room folks, but in a few days by his dentist. Not so easily fixed was the thrashing he’d taken at the hands of an old blind bum and two weird rail riders. Even if nobody but Steve ever knew about it, Travis knew that Steve knew, and that could be enough to break a man like Travis.

  York’s little gang would be moving on down the line right soon, he figured, and so would Travis.

  Hell, he thought, the mayor ordered bulldozers for York’s place in the morning. He wondered if York and the boys knew about that. Of course they did.

  Anyway, Steve didn’t have the patience to deal with it at the moment. If he was called to go take care of the bulldozers in the morning, he’d show up there. Right now all he wanted was to shower himself clean of the grit he felt on his skin and get smooth and cool in the sheets next to Athena’s warmth.

  She was sleeping when he crawled in next to her, and it wasn’t until then that he started to laugh. He didn’t mean to laugh; the whole thing had seemed absurd, but hadn’t been exactly funny until he was in bed with his beautiful wife, and then he started to chuckle, and that jiggled the bed and woke her. She turned toward him and cocked a sleepy eye at him and that made him laugh even harder, so hard he couldn’t explain what it was that he was laughing about. He couldn’t even choke out the words that York had kicked Travis’s butt, but it was so hilariously funny that three men, armed with baseball bats, couldn’t even see their assailants. And one of the boys had even taken out one of Travis’s teeth.

  Steve had to sit up, he was laughing so hard, and the tears came down his cheeks, and he laughed with an abandon and a release of tension he didn’t know he carried in his body, in his psyche, in his profession. He laughed and laughed until he couldn’t laugh anymore, and by that time, Athena was up and into her robe, sitting on the bed, looking at him as if he was a madman, and he started to laugh all over again.

  In the end, he told her, and held her, and kissed the top of her head, and they both smiled into the moonlight, knowing that at least occasionally, justice was meted out by some cosmic force.

  Just before they drifted off to sleep together, Athena said, “I’ll be a good first lady of West Wheaton, you know. Much better than Susie Marie,” and Steve gave her a little squeeze.

  ~ ~ ~

  Denny jumped up and had his slingshot ready at the first sound of footfalls on the tracks, but it turned out to be Chris, sleepless and restless and looking for York.

  “York’s had a stressful night,” Denny said.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Chris sat on a timber and lit up a cigarette. York’s irregular, raspy breathing was loud in the stillness of late night.

  “He’s old and he’s sick,” Sly said. “What the fuck do you think?”

  “Hey,” Chris said, not expecting to be attacked by the guys in the place he felt the safest.

  “He’s dying,” Denny said, and then felt that heat of emotion crawl up his chest and into his throat. Nobody had spoken words like that ever before, and Denny didn’t like the sound of them, not at all. He waited for Sly to correct him, but Sly was silent, kicking at something.

  “Dying?” Chris said. “I thought York would never die.”

  “Grow up, kid,” Sly said. “Everybody dies.”

  “What’ll happen when he dies? Is he going to die now?”

  “Shut up,” Sly said. “Just shut the fuck up.” Sly stopped kicking whatever he was kicking, and came over close to Denny, pulled up the bucket, and sat down. “Put that goddamn cigarette out if you’re going to be around here,” he said to Chris, who immediately ground out the butt, then scooted closer to the two men.

  Sly’s voice came out low and smooth in that do-not-misunderstand way of his, the way Denny assumed men spoke in combat. It was just above a whisper, yet it carried. Denny was pretty sure that it only carried to the ears of those Sly wanted to hear. Not as far as York. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “We’re moving out in the morning. We ought to have evacuated by the time the sun comes up.”

  “York–” Denny said.

  “Clover will come by for him,” Sly said. “Don’t forget the bulldozers. They’ll be here at sunrise.”

  “You think?” This was all news to Denny. He’d thought that they were going to stand fast to defend their territory. That they’d live here forever. And now York was leaving him and so was Sly. He felt as if the rug were slipping from under his feet and all he wanted to do was swallow a few more of those pain pills that rattled in his pocket. His head was beginning to pound, his throat felt tight, and a new ache in his heart began to blossom when he thought about walking away from Clover.

  “You,” Sly punched Chris in the arm a little harder than was necessary. “You get your ass back to school, stop smoking cigarettes, and listen to what your parents tell you. Join the Navy. Go to college. Make something of yourself. York said that to you and he’s right. He’s right.”

  Chris snorted. “Let the government start a file on me?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Sly said. “That anger’ll burn you up. Don’t be forever fighting the government. Join it. Get a civil-service job and a pension. A wife and a bunch of kids. Or something. Shit, I don’t know. Be happy. Be normal. Be what York said you ought to be.”

  “He’s right,” Denny said. “I’d have liked to finish school.”

  “You still could,” Sly said.

  Denny snorted. He was way beyond that. Books. Paper. Classes. Registration. Reading. Homework. He needed stability to do that. A desk. A reading lamp. A real bed. A car. He thought he had stability, but now he had to be on the next freight out and he didn’t even know how to do that, it had been so long. The dream of his own apartment, or a dorm room, going to school, drinking coffee in the student union seemed to be bathed in golden light, a dream he knew would never come to pass. He’d wasted all those opportunities, and now it was beyond him. He was too old. “Get out of here,” he said to Chris, and kicked at him. He wanted some silence, and some privacy. He was dealing with too many things; he didn’t want to have to deal with a kid, too.

  Chris got up and moved away, back toward the tracks, and Denny could see Sly stand up and walk with him. He heard low voices, and then saw the flare of a lighter as Chris lit another cigarette and made his way back down the tracks in the direction he’d come.

  Denny pulled the pills from his pocket, rolled the little plastic bottle around in his fingers for a few moments, and knew that they weren’t going to do anything about the pain he was feeling, so he set them down. He punched up his moldy pillow and put his head down on it, visions of a different life floating before his eyes. A life with a real bed, a real desk, a bathroom, a kitchen, a girlfriend.

  Then he squinted his eyes closed real hard against that fantasy, and a tear leaked out of each eye as he did so.

  ~ ~ ~

  The emergency-clinic doctor gave Travis a couple of pain pills and a bag of blue ice for his jaw, told him to see the dentist first thing in the morning and sent him on his way. He walked all the way home from the clinic, feeling more and more pissed off with every step. The goddamned mayor had set him up, had set them all up. Travis would never be the s
ame in the eyes of Steve Goddard, maybe would never be the same in his own eyes, either. Somebody had to pay for that, even if he had to leave town and never come back here. He could get other jobs in other places.

  He got to his house, walked in the front door and saw the pile of bills sitting on the floor where they’d come in through the mail slot. Man, oh, man, when it rained it poured. Everything was coming down on his head in a big way, all at once.

  He went to the bathroom to look at his mouth. The tooth was broken and jagged, but it didn’t hurt too much anymore. His cheek was red from the ice pack. He threw the blue ice into the overflowing trash bag in the corner of the bathroom, took another look at himself in the mirror, didn’t particularly like what he saw, what with the blood down the front of his shirt and all. Travis decided he needed to see the mayor, and he needed to do it now, while the emotion was high, while he was feeling righteously indignant, while he could still say what he had to say, before the mayor broke him down further. Now was the time.

  He pulled off his shirt and threw it in the corner, then grabbed a fresh one and put it on, picked up his keys and headed for the mayor’s house. He’d get that sonofabitch out of bed and clue him in on the consequences of using people the way he did.

  ~ ~ ~

  Clover woke and stared, disoriented, at the darkness. She was in the living room of her little apartment, on the couch, fully dressed. The corners of her mouth were sticky and her eyes were swollen from crying. She remembered now.

  She got off the couch and went to the kitchen for a big glass of water. Then she took off her clothes and let them stay where they dropped on the floor. She climbed into bed, her heart aching over Denny. She was certain that he had skipped out on her and York just when York needed him the most. At least York and Sly had Sheriff Steve to protect them. He’d do a good job.

  Clover didn’t need Denny, and maybe it was a good thing that it all happened this way, because it was probably time. Denny wasn’t good for her, and it was only a matter of time before she got pregnant, she knew it. No birth control was a hundred-percent effective.

  But to have him sneak out like that was really low, and it hurt Clover’s heart to think Denny was even capable of such a thing.

  Perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he got tied up in traffic. Maybe he got arrested. Maybe some blood clot burst in his brain and he died by the side of the road. Or was back in the hospital.

  Perhaps. Perhaps she needed to think he’d run out on them all in order for her to have the courage to move on.

  She curled up in her little bed, wearing only her underwear, balled her hands into fists and stuffed them up under the pillow, under her head. This would be the end of it for them, she resolved. No more Denny. No matter what happened down at York’s place, she needed to move on.

  In the morning, she’d go down there, get York and take him someplace. She’d bring him back here, if nothing else, while she found a place for him to live.

  No more Denny.

  The thought of never feeling his hands on her again brought up a hiccup, and another tear leaked out of sore eyes. Could she ever find another man who kissed like that?

  Yes, she thought. Her new guy would kiss like that, after he brushed his teeth in his own bathroom sink. She squeezed shut her tear-duct faucet. He’d be better than Denny in every way. Especially after, when Denny’s mind bounced around to something different immediately, her new guy would kiss her and caress her, and they would lie in a comfortable bed in soft sheets, not in some weed field. Nope. No more Denny.

  Just York. And then she’d never go down there again.

  Sick, grieving, but resolved, Clover closed her eyes and thought of York in a clean place with pretty nurses and good food. It settled her a little bit. Enough, she hoped, to keep her mind off Deputy Travis, Sly and Denny and what all was going on down there, and get to sleep. No more Denny. No more Denny. She whispered it to her pillow and she repeated it in her mind until she drifted off.

  ~ ~ ~

  Milo Grimes missed the light switch the first time he tried to turn out the light in his office. He knew he was too drunk to drive, but since it was in the middle of the night—or, more accurately, midnight or later—there wouldn’t be any traffic. Besides, he was the mayor. No self-respecting policeman would pull him over and give him a ticket. Certainly not Steve “my shit don’t stink” Goddard. And not his ass-wipe deputy, either. This could very well be his last official act as mayor, this turning out the light in his office, .32 in his pocket, the Jack Daniel’s in his left hand, the keys to his Mercedes in his right.

  He made his way crookedly down the hall, out to the parking lot, awash with the silver light of the full moon high overhead, and into his car. He breathed in the smell of leather. It almost brought tears to his eyes, but he knew that was Jack Daniel’s emotions, not his. He had but one thing left to do tonight, and that was to find a place where he could shoot himself in the head.

  The office wasn’t good. His secretary would find the gooey mess, and that wouldn’t be nice, although being nice wasn’t exactly high on Grimes’s list. But she’d unbuttoned her blouse regularly, and let him take a tiny lick, suck, and nibble, and that was worth a little respect. He didn’t want to do it at home, because Susie Marie was going to have to sell the mansion sometime soon, and he didn’t want her to have to clean up gore first. Maybe he could stage it as an accident. Or as a murder. Give Steve Goddard some real goddamn work. Maybe he should do it down by York’s place and give the railroad guys a run for their money.

  Fucking Ashton.

  Fucking Norman! He could have killed that little pussy Haas all the way back in Sacramento! Why did he have to wait until the train got to West Wheaton, for Christ’s sake? He’s the one who screwed everything up. Good thing he was dead, or Milo would go over to his hovel right now and put a bullet in his skull. In fact, he’d like to go find his corpse in the morgue and put a bullet in his skull just for grins.

  Note to self: Never send a junkie to do a man’s work. Never again.

  Milo snorted. Never anything again.

  Maybe he ought to just drive out into the desert weeds and do himself in out under the stars. It might take a couple of days for them to find his body if he didn’t leave a note somewhere, and that might be ugly, too. Not the best way for Susie Marie to remember him, after identifying his body all bloated and buzzard-pecked.

  Shit. This was a lot harder than it seemed at first. Maybe he ought to just go home. Go home, take a little rest, sleep off the booze, and then with a clear mind, he could make a clear plan.

  He wouldn’t show up at the council meeting. He’d be dead by then and they could put that little item on their agenda. That was the best plan. He ought to at least stop by the house to tell Susie Marie that . . .

  Tell her what? That she had been a good wife? She hadn’t. That she had made him happy? She hadn’t. That she’d been good for his career? She hadn’t. She’d been a runaround little gold-digger bitch, and he ought to just take her with him.

  Oh man, am I drunk, he thought to himself. I need to get home.

  With one eye closed in order to focus, he slowly moved the Mercedes out of the parking lot and weaved his way through West Wheaton’s deserted streets toward his mansion on the hill that Haas had helped finance.

  He should have left well enough alone and let his suspicions ride, the little jerk. He could have been useful over and over again, if he hadn’t gotten so greedy and/or pious. Whichever it was, it had got him dead in Yorktown, and now Milo Grimes was going to have to pay that bill, too.

  ~ ~ ~

  Brenda’s eyes snapped open and she was instantly wide-awake. She looked at the clock. Two-fourteen a.m. Her first thought was that Sly was not the type of guy she could take home to meet her parents at Thanksgiving. Her second thought was that it was probably just exactly that type of thinking that had led her to her current pitiful life. She only saw her parents one day a year. It was probably time for her to stop using them as her y
ardstick. They weren’t such great role models themselves.

  She thought about Sly living in her apartment, sleeping on her couch—or her bed—showering in her bathroom, leaving wet towels on the floor. She thought about him getting a job. She’d get up every morning and make his lunch, and rub his sore muscles when he came home at the end of the day complaining about the boss. She thought about making a menu and fixing good meals. She thought about taking his dirty work clothes to the Laundromat, bleaching them clean and folding them just right. She thought about cleaning out a couple of drawers in her dresser for his things.

  She wanted this thing. She wanted the family life. She wanted a man, and it wasn’t all about sex. It was about making a life with someone. She could be, would be, a good, loyal, devoted woman to some man, and God knew Sly needed a woman to tend him.

  She slipped out of bed and turned on the light. She walked through her small apartment, turning on the lights and looking at the whole place through what she imagined would be Sly’s viewpoint. It was adequate. Maybe they’d move to a bigger place someday, when he got a job, but for now it was okay. Plus, there was always the safety valve in case it didn’t work out. She didn’t want to be stuck in a place she couldn’t afford. She could afford this. She could afford to help Sly get on his feet.

  She washed up the few dishes that were still in the sink from the day before, dried them and put them away. She threw the dishcloth into the hamper and hung a fresh one on the door of the oven. Then she showered and put out fresh towels, and changed the sheets. She did her hair, called in to work and left a message on the answering machine that she still wasn’t feeling well and would be taking another day.

  And then she sat down to wait for the sun to come up, so she could go rescue Sly from the bulldozers, from the weeds, from the train tracks, from his misguided and lonely freedoms.

  ~ ~ ~

  Eileen’s alarm went off as it always did at three a.m. She sat up, scratched around in her hair, and looked out the window. The full moon looked back at her and she rubbed her eyes, then realized that she’d gone to bed without washing off her mascara.