Shoot the Moon

by Billie Letts

  “Whoa! Hold on, you two,” Ivy interrupted. “He’s scum all right, but I can’t see what reason he’d have to kill Aunt Gaylene unless he was the one who got her pregnant and she threatened him with blackmail.”

  “Ivy, trust me. If the man who made her pregnant is the same man who killed her, Oliver Boyd Daniels is the last guy I’d want it to be. I just can’t quite imagine calling O Boy ‘Dad.’”

  Teeve began to cough as she fanned at the cloud of dust rising in the room.

  “You’re not much with a broom, are you, Mark.”

  “Am I doing something wrong?”

  “Have you ever swept before?”

  “Sure,” he said defensively. “I’ve vacuumed. Once or twice.”

  Teeve coughed again.

  “Here,” Ivy said to Mark. “I’ll sweep; you take out the trash. Mom, go home! We’ll finish up in here.”

  “I think I will,” Teeve said. “This cold just keeps hanging on.” She retrieved her purse from beneath the counter, then started for the door. “Don’t forget to—”

  “Empty the cash register, turn off the air conditioner, unplug the microwave and make sure both doors are locked,” Ivy said in a singsong voice, a monologue long memorized.

  “See you all at home.”

  “Bye.”

  “Where do I take these?” Mark held up two plastic garbage bags.

  “That Dumpster.” Ivy pointed through the kitchen window, then watched as Mark went out the back door and crossed the narrow strip of grass behind the café to the alley.

  He didn’t want to touch the closed Dumpster, which was filthy and reeked with the smell of decay, but he didn’t have much choice. Making a face that projected his distaste, he tossed in the bags, then returned to the café bathroom and scrubbed up like a surgeon preparing to perform a transplant.

  When he came out, Ivy said, “Think you need a tetanus shot?”

  “Hey, that thing is a receptacle for germs that don’t even have a name yet.”

  She grinned, then bent to put a can of Comet into the low cabinet, but when she stood up, she lost her balance.

  “Ivy?”

  She grabbed the counter for support but was unsteady on her feet.

  In two strides, Mark was across the room. He wrapped her in his arms and led her to a chair at one of the dining tables.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I got dizzy,” she said, her face beaded with sweat, her skin the color of eggshells.

  He placed his fingers on her wrist to check her pulse. “Has this happened before?”

  “No.”

  “What about your blood pressure?”

  “It’s been normal. One twenty over eighty.” When Mark let go of her wrist, she said, “What do you think, doc? Will I live?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt for us to get you to the hospital, have you checked out.”

  “Nah. I just stood up too fast.”

  “Ivy . . .”

  “Really. I’m feeling better.”

  “Truth?”

  “Truth.”

  “Well, you look better.” He wet several paper towels at the sink, then sat beside her and began to sponge her face and neck.

  “Oh, that feels good,” she said, letting her head roll toward him. And suddenly their faces were only inches apart.

  Later, he would wonder how it happened, why he leaned forward those few inches separating them, why he kissed her . . . and why she kissed him back.

  But at that time, he didn’t have any questions. He didn’t stop to think it through. The kiss was, pure and simple, the thing he wanted most to do.

  Then, several moments later, the reality of what was happening hit him: he was kissing his cousin. Not a “hi, cuz, how you doing” kind of kiss; not a “haven’t seen you in ages” kind of kiss; not a family reunion kind of kiss. This was a passionate kiss between a woman and a man.

  When he pulled back, he seemed on the edge of panic. “Oh, my God,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He jumped up then and backed away from the table. “Ivy, I don’t know what to say.”

  “About?”

  “I’m so sorry.” He began to pace, avoided looking her in the eyes. “So sorry.”

  “Hey, Mark, it was just a kiss.”

  “No, it wasn’t just a kiss and you know it.”

  “Then what was it?”

  He put his palms together, raised his hands beneath his chin, a prayerful gesture, like a sinner asking for forgiveness. “We can make ourselves forget this ever happened.”

  “Why? I enjoyed it! And I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

  “I think you do.”

  “No, dammit, I don’t!”

  Mark started to speak but changed his mind. When Ivy stood, he offered her a hand for support, but she shook it off.

  He followed her from the café, through the pool hall and out the front door, which she locked, the only one of her mother’s instructions she followed.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m just fine.”

  When she started toward her van, Mark said, “Good night,” causing her to turn back to look at him.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No, I’m going back to the motel.”

  “Until . . . ?”

  He shrugged.

  Ivy studied him for several moments, then said, “Why? Because we kissed?”

  “Can you think of a better reason?”

  “No,” she said, sounding less angry than sad. “I guess not.”

  Mark knocked on Lantana Mitchell’s door shortly after ten that night. He’d been in his room since leaving the pool hall, debating whether or not it was time for him to go back to California, back to his practice, back to his life.

  This trip had turned into a nightmare. He was no closer to learning who his father was than when he’d arrived; his mother’s death remained a mystery; and he was beginning to have weird feelings for his cousin. His pregnant cousin.

  When he’d returned to the motel earlier in the evening and read the note Lantana had slipped beneath his door, his first thought had been to ignore it. He figured his life was complicated enough already.

  But later, his curiosity kicked in, so he decided to take her up on her invitation.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said as she led him inside. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Why? Because you ambushed me yesterday?”

  “Well, just so you know, I don’t make a habit of hiding in motel bathrooms.”

  “I doubt you’ve even been in many motel bathrooms.”

  “More than you can imagine, dear.” She smiled, revealing a set of porcelain veneers that had cost her—or somebody—a hefty price. “Drink?” She held up her own glass, which was almost empty.

  “Sure.”

  She was wearing a blue silk peignoir, but she hadn’t removed her makeup, which had been artfully applied and recently touched up, an indication that she’d been pretty confident Mark would show up. When he’d seen her the previous day, her hair—the color of champagne—had been swept back and held in a tight chignon. But now it was loose, falling gently around her face.

  She was just one side or the other of fifty, but either way, he thought, she made fifty look good.

  “What would you like?” She gestured to the top of the TV console, where she’d set up a small bar—vodka, Scotch, bourbon, a bucket of ice.

  “Scotch, please.”

  Mark took a seat on the far side of the coffee table, which held a basket of fruit and a vase of long-stemmed yellow roses. A desk at the side of the room held a laptop, several leather-bound notebooks and a couple of Mont Blanc pens.

  When she handed him his drink, she said, “So, how are you dealing with this Oklahoma culture?”

  “Not particularly well.”

  “You’re pretty much a fish out of water here, aren
’t you.”

  “There’ve been a few surprises.”

  “Like discovering that ‘public transportation’ here means pickup trucks?”

  “Well, in Beverly Hills it means Jaguar convertibles.”

  “I know. I lived in L.A. for several years.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Eldorado.”

  “Just east of Sacramento. Right?”

  “No. Just east of Elmer.”

  Mark looked puzzled.

  “Eldorado, Oklahoma,” she said. “Born and raised.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were from this part of the country.”

  “’Cause I don’t speak Okie?” she asked, switching to a dialect marked by drawn-out vowels and a nasal twang. She went back to the bar, where she poured herself another drink. “Now that voice didn’t cost a penny,” she said, reverting to the delivery she had cultivated years earlier after working with a voice coach. “But this one cost my ex-husband some money.” She laughed then, a deep, throaty laugh fueled—in part—by vodka.

  “Do you have two personalities as well?”

  “Of course. I’m a Gemini. And I happen to know you’re an Aries.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “I’ve done some research.”

  “Then I’m at a disadvantage. All I know about you is that you’re a writer and you have an ex-husband.”

  “Actually, I have two ex-husbands, but one of them didn’t have any money, so he doesn’t count.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” Mark said.

  “How far back do you want me to go?”

  “Why not start with Eldorado.”

  “Hardscrabble town. Population five hundred, give or take a few dozen. More churches than bars, but more drunks than preachers. My dad was both. I couldn’t wait to get out.

  “After graduation, went to Tulsa, got a job as a secretary at a television station, worked my way up to the evening news. Stayed with that until I found a man with money and power.

  “He moved me to L.A., remade me for big-time TV, put me on the air, and I was a hit. When he dumped me for a twenty-year-old, I came back to Oklahoma and started to write. End of story.”

  “And now you’ve had three books published.”

  She faked a look of chagrin and held up one finger.

  “You told me yesterday that you’d—”

  “I lied. I was just trying to impress you.”

  “Why did you feel the need to impress me?”

  “Because I want you to agree to let me write your story.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose I could prevent that. Not legally. Besides, you seem pretty damn intent.”

  “You can’t . . . and I am. But I’d prefer your cooperation. It’s easier to write true crime when someone involved is willing to help.”

  “I’m curious.”

  “About what?”

  “Why are you so determined to write this story?”

  She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and put her hand on Mark’s, a gesture intended to convey comfort. “Mark, what happened to you, your mother . . . that’s a tragedy. I’m sympathetic to that.” She withdrew her hand, drained the last of her drink, then returned to the bar. “But from a writer’s point of view, this is a hell of a story. Sure to be a best-seller.”

  “So it’s the money?”

  “It doesn’t have a damn thing to do with money.”

  “Then what?”

  “O Boy Daniels.” She filled her glass, took a long, slow swallow. “I’ve despised the man longer than most marriages last.”

  “Do you want to tell me why?”

  “Have you ever hated anyone, Mark? Hated with pure, sweet passion?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should. It’s fun. You can entertain yourself for hours thinking up the most punishing schemes.”

  Mark smiled, shook his head, then put his unfinished drink on the table. “Look, Ms. Mitchell, I don’t know what kind of game you’ve got going on in your head, but I’m not going to play it. Whatever your reason is for wanting to get even with O Boy Daniels—”

  “Oh, I don’t want to get even. I want to get ahead.”

  “Then you’d better count me out.” He stood, started for the door.

  “But you want to know who your father is, don’t you?”

  She spoke softly so that Mark, unsure of what he’d just heard, stopped and turned to face her.

  “Gaylene Harjo was arrested nine months to the day before you were born.” She looked, for the moment, like a woman accustomed to conquest. “She spent some time in jail, Mark. O Boy Daniels’ jail.”

  June 23, 1968

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve been out of school for four weeks and I’m already bored. Nothing to do out here but work. Mom leaves me a list of chores every day and Daddy expects me to work in the garden all the time.

  Row can get her drivers license in August if she passes the test, so maybe the end of summer vacation won’t be so bad. If she fails her test, I’ll kill her.

  The only good thing about being out of school is that I can work on my art, at least when Daddy’s not around. He thinks it’s a waste of time, so I don’t draw or paint unless I’m sure he’ll be in the fields all afternoon. Mr. Duchamp bought me a set of charcoal pencils for my birthday, so I’ve been working in my sketch book. Last week I started on a self portrait, an abstract I’m going to call “The Girl in the Looking Glass.”

  Oscar called today. He starts baling hay next week and he says he can’t wait to get out of his aunt’s house. They had another argument last night because he was playing his radio past ten o’clock. She says it keeps her awake, but he says she gripes about everything he does. He wants to make enough money this summer that he and his mom can move out and get their own place, but he said she’s drinking again, so she might lose her job at the grocery store.

  I guess I shouldn’t complain about being so bored.

  Spider Woman

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mark had passed only one car since leaving the outskirts of DeClare some thirty miles back, but at three in the morning, he hadn’t expected much traffic.

  Even though his directions had been exact, he missed the final turn to the cabin. As he turned to double back, three empty Chocolate Soldier bottles rolled across the back floorboard and banged against the door. When he approached from the opposite direction, his headlights had picked out the PRIVATE DRIVE sign Kyle Leander had told him to watch for.

  After leaving Lantana Mitchell’s room and returning to his own, Mark had phoned Hap to tell him what he’d just heard. But because of the late hour, the answering machine took the call. He didn’t leave a message. Then he drove to Teeve’s, hoping to find Ivy’s light on. It wasn’t.

  The phone was ringing when he got back to his room. He half expected it was Lantana calling; he figured her for a drunk who didn’t like drinking alone. But the voice on the other end of the line belonged to Kyle.

  Now, less than an hour later, Mark was parking in front of a rough-hewed cabin covered with a tin roof, an ancient air conditioner rattling in one of the windows. In the yard a NO TRESPASSING sign was partially hidden by the jimsonweed and Johnson grass. As he waded through, his Howdy Doody jeans picked up the spiny seeds of sandburs.

  Just as he reached the narrow plank porch, Kyle burst through the front door and crushed him in a bear hug.

  “Oh, Nicky Jack. Didn’t I tell you that you were alive? Huh? You remember what I said? ‘He’s out there somewhere,’ I said. You remember that, little man?”

  Hoping that a positive answer would gain his release, Mark, his mouth buried in Kyle’s beard, his breath restricted by the pressure on his ribs, managed to nod.

  “And here you are. Gaylene’s baby.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said, though he had no idea what he was thankful for until Kyle let him go.

  “Everyone at
the hospital was talking about you, Nicky Jack. The nurses, the staff. Then someone left a newspaper in the day room and I saw your picture.”

  “Kyle, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was the day we met, but it just didn’t seem to be the right time.”

  “If you want to understand time, read Einstein’s Dreams.”

  “Yes, I think you mentioned that before.”

  “Well, come in.” Kyle nudged Mark toward the door. “Let me get you a beer.”

  “Sure.”

  The low-ceilinged room was furnished with bunk beds, a threadbare couch, an empty gun cabinet and two folding chairs at an unfinished pine table, its surface scarred and scorched by decades of burning cigarettes.

  Part of the space included a kitchen with open shelves, an avocado-colored refrigerator and a yellowed, apartment-size gas range.

  “Is this your place?” Mark asked.

  “It’s Arthur’s, but he doesn’t come out here anymore. Hasn’t been here in years.”

  The walls held cobweb-covered trophies and dusty framed photographs: mounted heads of bear, leopard, antelope and pictures of a much younger Arthur, rifle in hand, posing with his kills—a gutted deer hanging from a tree; an elk, its sightless eyes open; a gazelle shot in the neck.

  “Looks like your stepfather’s quite a hunter.”

  “Pretty gross, huh?”

  “I suppose some people would be impressed.”

  “Not Gaylene. She was an animal lover, you know. She hated this place.”

  “Did she come out here a lot?”

  “Only once. We came out to go swimming on the day she graduated. The river runs through the back of the property. She saw these”—Kyle gestured toward the heads—“said she’d never come back. And she didn’t.”

  Mark paid special attention to a photo of Arthur and O Boy standing on either side of a two-hundred-pound marlin dangling from a weighing hook, each toasting the other with a bottle of whiskey. Someone had scribbled a date at the bottom of the picture: “June 1974.”

  “How about you? Do you hunt?” Mark asked.

  “Man, I don’t even eat meat.”

  Kyle finished a beer he’d left on the kitchen counter, then got two more from the fridge, popped the tops and brought them to the table.