Shoot the Moon

by Billie Letts

  While the rest of the world was moving toward the new millennium, Kyle Leander was stuck in the sixties.

  When the phone stopped ringing, Mark faked a cough, then, getting no response, tapped one of the ragged sandals, causing its wearer to jerk into action.

  “Hey, man.”

  Kyle jumped up, yanked off his headphones. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He pumped Mark’s hand and propelled him to a recliner covered with cat hair.

  “Well, I heard your phone ringing and—”

  “Phones. That’s all they’re good for, huh?”

  “Is this a bad time for you? When I called, you said . . .”

  “You ever read Einstein’s Dreams? That book says all that needs to be said about time. You know what I’m saying?”

  Mark nodded to show his agreement—to what, he wasn’t sure.

  “You want something to drink? Herbal tea? Mineral water? I don’t do coffee.” Kyle tapped a finger against his temple. “Caffeine messes with my mind.” He blinked rapidly, as if to demonstrate one of the damaging effects of ingesting caffeine. “I don’t put petroleum products on my body, either.”

  Mark let that one go without reply.

  “So,” Kyle said, “let’s hear that tape.”

  “What?”

  “Your tape. On the phone you said you were bringing me a tape.”

  “Uh, I think you’ve confused me with someone else. I’m Mark Albright.”

  “Oh, man. Forgive me. I thought you were with Groan, this band out of Memphis. Guy called, asked me if I’d give him some airtime.” Kyle, thoughtful, cupped his chin in his hand and stared into space.

  When a scruffy gray cat jumped onto the arm of the recliner, Kyle said, “That’s Brown Buffalo. If I die before he does, he inherits all this.” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the vastness of his estate, which Mark assumed would include the lava lamp and flag.

  “I wanted to see you—”

  “Yeah, I remember now. You’re trying to get some information on someone I used to know. Right?”

  “Gaylene Harjo.”

  Kyle Leander’s reaction on hearing the name was physical. His head jerked as if he were dodging wasps, his eyes darting around the room before fixing again on Mark. And then he began to sing.

  I hear a soft rain on the windowpane

  Like so many evenings before

  But there’s one sound missing

  in this time, in this place

  I don’t hear your voice anymore

  He stopped as suddenly as he’d started, his chest heaving as he sobbed.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark said.

  Kyle snuffled, wiped his face dry with the arm of his shirt. “Man, do you know what it’s like to love a woman so much that just watching her breathe stops time?”

  Mark, his discomfort obvious, said nothing. But Kyle pushed for a response.

  “Well, do you?”

  “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Makes you feel like you’ll live forever, man. Fucking forever.”

  Kyle began pacing the length of the room, agitated, arms fluttering, like a child imitating flight.

  “That only comes along once, you know. And when it’s gone, it’s like a piece of you’s been cut out.” He ran a finger down the center of his chest. “Bzzzzzt. Gone. A missing heart. Now you tell me how you live without a heart. Huh?”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  “Exactly!” He made a flying leap across the room. “So what do you do? Fill up that hole with bubble wrap? Stuff it full of newspapers? Dead leaves?”

  Mark wondered if he was supposed to pick the best possible answer, but Kyle drifted away for a while, a brief visit to his past. When he returned, he was calmer.

  “We used to go to the river together to watch the sun come up. She said each morning was like a new breath.” He stopped, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “A new breath,” he whispered.

  The sound of a door slamming somewhere in the building got him moving again, traipsing in a small, tight circle.

  “Gaylene loved life. Couldn’t stand to see anything die. Once when she was driving me home, she ran over a squirrel and . . . God, I miss her.”

  Suddenly spent, he dropped onto a bench, his head resting against the wall behind him, hands limp on his lap.

  “Tell me about her son,” Mark said.

  “Nicky Jack.” Kyle cracked a smile. “Man, she loved that little guy. You should have seen her with him. He was the center of the world for her.”

  “Kyle . . .” Mark hesitated, creating an uneasy silence. Though he had already formed the question, he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer. “Were you his father?”

  “Oh, no, man. Ours was a spiritual love. Oh, I won’t deny that I wanted her, wanted her more than anything. But that never happened.” Kyle’s eyes filled with tears. “I used to pretend he was mine, made believe I was the one. But I wasn’t.”

  “Do you know who was?”

  “Didn’t ask her, didn’t care who she’d been with. That didn’t matter to me.” Weeping again, he buried his face in his hands.

  “Kyle!”

  Arthur McFadden, a cigar clamped between his teeth, was closing in on seventy. He was painfully thin and slightly stooped, but he had a powerful voice, the voice of a man accustomed to having his way. He dismissed Mark with little more than a glance, then zeroed in on Kyle, seemingly oblivious to his former stepson’s distress.

  “I want you to take care of a problem in the control room.”

  Choking back sobs, Kyle said, “I . . . I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. The automation unit is screwing up again. Fix it.” Arthur shot him a look of disgust, then wheeled and walked away.

  Mark waited until Kyle had regained some control before he asked, “Do you have any idea who killed Gaylene Harjo?”

  “I wish I did. I swear I’d shoot the bastard did that to her and Nicky Jack.”

  “You think whoever killed her, killed the boy, too?”

  “I won’t let myself believe he’s dead. ’Cause if he’s alive, she’s alive, too. In him.” Kyle wiped a hand across his face. “He’s out there somewhere.”

  March 7, 1967

  Dear Diary,

  School today was so-so. We had a spelling test in English class. I think I failed because I didn’t study. Row always makes the best grades, but I think spelling is borring.

  I sent off for the bust cream today. Row said I could send it to her house and even if Mrs. Whitekiller sees it, she won’t say anything. I should be so lucky!

  Mom had to work late at the bank so we didn’t get home until almost seven. Daddy wasn’t too happy that we had tuna fish sandwiches for dinner, but Mom said she didn’t have time to cook the roast she thawed out. Sometimes I think he doesn’t realize how hard she has to work at her job, keep house, can stuff from the garden and help him with the chickens and goats. I think women work alot harder than men. If I get to heaven I want to be a man.

  Me and Daddy watched television tonight. We saw Gunsmoke and The Andy Griffith Show because those are his favorites, but on the news we saw a big crowd of black people in Washington protesting the war in Vietnam. I told Daddy that I would like to go to Washington and march with them, but he said that was colored people’s business not ours.

  Guess he has not noticed that we’re colored too.

  Spider Woman

  Chapter Eight

  He’s convinced that Joe Dawson buried the body somewhere on his land,” Mark said.

  Ivy laughed, momentarily drawing the attention of the domino boys. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’d like to have seen the look on his face when you told him who you are.”

  “I didn’t. I said I was an attorney handling an estate Nick Harjo would inherit. If I could find him.”

  “And he bought that?” Teeve asked.

  “He seemed to.”

  �
�Well, don’t underestimate O Boy Daniels. He might come across like a yokel, but he’s nobody’s fool. You ever watch that old TV show, detective acted like he didn’t have a clue? Can’t think of his name. Always chomped on a cigar, wore a wrinkled raincoat?”

  “Columbo,” Lonnie Cruddup yelled from the domino corner. “His name was Columbo. Damn good show.”

  “Right.” Then to Mark and Ivy, she whispered, “Let’s go outside. Lonnie’s turned up his hearing aid.”

  When they were assembled on the sidewalk, Teeve said, “What did O Boy say about Gaylene?”

  “Not much.” Mark hoped his face didn’t betray the lie.

  “That’s a switch. Never known him to pass up a chance to dish some dirt.”

  “Did you see Kippy while you were there?” Ivy asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “He was a few years older than me, but he was in some of my classes at school. His mom went to all his classes with him, sat in a little desk beside his. Helped him with his work, made sure he passed from one grade to the next. When he walked across the stage at graduation, everyone stood up and cheered. He didn’t get a diploma, but he got a certificate.”

  “They should have given Carrie a diploma,” Teeve said. “She was devoted to him. Still is. Didn’t get a bit of help from O Boy, but she—”

  Teeve stopped in midsentence as a white Impala drove by, the driver staring at the trio gathered in front of the pool hall.

  “Arthur McFadden,” she said. “The guy I told you about who owned Gaylene’s trailer.”

  “I saw him this morning,” Mark said.

  Teeve looked puzzled. “Where?”

  “At the radio station. I talked to Kyle Leander.”

  “You’ve been busy, haven’t you.”

  “I was curious to see what he had to say.”

  “Guess you could tell he’s burned out a few circuits. But all in all, Kyle’s not a bad guy, though Arthur doesn’t see it that way.”

  “I got the feeling they’re not overly fond of each other.”

  “Arthur’s ex-wife was loaded, just what he was looking for. And Anne needed someone to help her deal with Kyle after his father died. Left her with a ton of money and a real messed-up son.”

  “Did she live here?” Mark asked.

  “She was from Atlanta. She met Arthur when she came here for her aunt’s funeral. Came for the funeral one week, married Arthur the next week, then moved here the week after that. Well, sort of moved.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She kept her big house in Atlanta, bought a smaller one here, not her kind of place, from what I heard. But see, I don’t think she ever intended to stay. Doubt she planned to celebrate many wedding anniversaries with Arthur.”

  “Then why did she marry him?”

  “Kyle. She wanted to get him out of the city, believed he wouldn’t have access to drugs in a little town like this. Of course, that didn’t stop him, didn’t even slow him down. But Kyle loved music almost as much as he loved drugs, said he wanted to be a DJ.

  “So when Anne met Arthur, found out he worked at the radio station and dreamed of owning it, she bought it. Actually, the station wasn’t for sale, but she had the money.

  “Six months later, she was gone. Back to Atlanta. Arthur got to keep the station, but according to their divorce settlement, he had to keep Kyle, too, so they’re pretty much stuck with each other. Seems like—”

  Teeve was interrupted by Lonnie rapping on the window, holding his coffee cup so she could see it was empty.

  “If those old bastards don’t die soon, I’m gonna have to shoot them,” she said as she went back inside.

  “Look, I know you’re busy,” Mark said to Ivy, “so I’m going to get out of your way.”

  “Nah. Kids have other places to go on Saturday. What’ve you got in mind, Nicky Jack?”

  “Thought I’d take a drive.”

  “Where?”

  “I’d like to see where she lived.”

  “You mean the trailer where Aunt Gaylene—”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll be easier to take you than to tell you how to get there. Come on.”

  Mark followed her across the street to her old Ford Aerostar. The van was a patchwork of bumper stickers, their messages a plea to save everything from the Key Largo cotton mouse to humpback whales. Inside, it looked like home to a nation of pack rats.

  Floorboards were inches deep in running shoes, birdseed, mildewed towels, newspapers, tools and telephone books. The back held cardboard boxes filled with corn shucks and tree bark, empty wire cages and bulging garbage bags. The front seat was a jumble of books, binoculars, unopened mail, dog biscuits, maps, a canteen and a tangle of animal leashes.

  Ivy dug out the books, handed them to Mark. “Hold these,” she said, then swept the rest of the mess into the floor.

  While she watched her rearview mirror, waiting for a break in the traffic, Mark glanced at the titles of the books in his lap: How to Grow Fresh Air, The Natural Habitat Garden, Sacred Depths of Nature and Drum of the Earth.

  Ivy gave a thank-you wave to the driver who let her pull out of the parking space, then squeezed the van into the line of vehicles waiting for the light to change at the corner.

  “Everyone still comes to town on Saturday. They spend their money at Wal-Mart, have burgers at McDonald’s, then drag Main.”

  “Have you lived here all your life, Ivy?”

  “Hell, no! Left as soon as I could. Swore I’d never live in this town again. But I came back after I started growing this kid.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “I’ve moved around. Spent two years in Honduras with the Peace Corps, worked in California with the Forestry Department. Did a stint as a river guide in Wyoming. Taught organic gardening at a community college in Vermont. Managed an animal shelter in Chicago. Guess I haven’t found where I fit yet. What about you?”

  “I’m a veterinarian. I have a clinic in Beverly Hills.”

  “Ah, physician to the stars’ pets.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “Well, the animals are a lot like their owners . . . primped, pampered and shivering, terrified that somebody might not be paying attention to them.”

  When Ivy turned off Main, they lost most of the traffic, the two-lane road winding through the edge of town.

  “You married?” Ivy asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither am I, but I was in love for a few hours one day when I was in the fifth grade. I have a short attention span, Nicky Jack.”

  “Would you mind very much not calling me Nicky Jack?”

  Ivy grinned. “I guess Nicky Jack does sound like one of those names little kids give to their imaginary friends. I called mine Fluty Marie.”

  “Mine was Wallace.”

  “Wallace?” Ivy made a face. “Sounds like some disapproving old man.”

  “Wallace wore a gray three-piece suit, dark tie. Very conservative. And he didn’t like me much.”

  “Nick! The whole point of a make-believe friend is to create someone who is . . . well, a friend, someone who’s always on your side.”

  “Guess I had a better sense of fashion than fantasy.”

  Ivy laughed. “You know, I’ll never forget something that happened when you were a baby, maybe five or six months old, so I would’ve been, oh, three or four.

  “You were asleep on Mom’s bed; she was in the kitchen with Aunt Gaylene. Now I’d watched them change you, and I’d seen that equipment between your legs and wondered why I didn’t have what you had. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me.

  “I’d asked about it, but I suppose Mom had dodged the question, so I sneaked into the bedroom and took off your diaper to try to figure things out for myself.

&n
bsp; “You woke up, but didn’t cry. As a matter of fact, I think you enjoyed the examination. But then you started to pee. That little job popped up, sprayed like a damned fountain. I clamped my hand over it, but it was like one of those cartoons where a hose gets loose, squirting water all over the place.

  “You peed in my face, on my hair, the bed, the floor. And I started to cry, which, of course, brought Mom and Aunt Gaylene running.

  “Mom was furious, ready to paddle my butt, but Aunt Gaylene wouldn’t let her. She thought it was funny. Threw her head back and howled while she hugged me. And that’s the way I remember her. Laughing.”

  Mark gave Ivy a weak smile, then turned to look out his window.

  “Nick, does it bother you when I talk about Aunt Gaylene? Because if it does . . .”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Mark said.

  “What?”

  “Nick.”

  “Oh, I thought you meant for me not to call you Nicky Jack because it sounds, well, childish.”

  “It does.”

  “So you’re not going by the name Nick, either?”

  “No.”

  “Guess I misunderstood. I thought—”

  “Please. Call me Mark.”

  “Okay,” Ivy said.

  For the next several miles, neither spoke. Not until a red pickup with teenage girls blew past the van, a McDonald’s box sailing out one window, a Styrofoam cup from the other. Ivy hit her horn, yelled, “You dumb shits!” then swerved onto the shoulder. She left the motor running while she retrieved the litter from beside the road.

  When she slid back under the steering wheel, she tossed the trash into the backseat, then pulled a notepad and pen from over her visor. Mark watched as she wrote down the pickup’s tag number.

  “Was that a ’97 Chevy or a ’98?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about trucks.”

  “I think it was a ’98.”

  “What do you do with that information?” he asked.

  “Turn it in to O Boy. He probably throws it in the wastebasket as soon as I walk out. If it was up to me, I’d stick the bastards in jail.”