by John Farris
"Am I going to faint?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. Brenda McClanahan gave Darden back his ring."
"You swear! Was it that tacky?"
"I don't have a clue. When I called her up about Darden, all she said was 'He was it, and now he's not it.'"
"Maybe Darden is getting a break and doesn't know it. Brenda's always been mean enough to kill Jesus."
"Here comes Duane," Boyce said, and Marjory glanced up and back before sliding over in the booth. At first she thought Boyce was putting her on, because the guy who was joining them didn't look at all like she remembered. He was a lot taller, for one thing. His sandy hair was cut short and his complexion was okay, just a couple of insignificant spots on his chin. He wore glasses with aviator frames that suited his squarish face, which didn't have much going for it. But his eyes were sharply blue; he didn't just look at Marjory, he nailed her. It was a little startling. Marjory also managed to notice that Duane had a good build, almost as good as Boyce's, and Boyce worked out religiously.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You two remember each other, don't you?" Boyce said.
Marjory was doubtful; Duane smiled and shrugged. "Sure. You still good at playing ball?"
Marjory took a breath and said, "Fair."
"Don't let her kid you," Boyce said. "She hits them out."
"Out of what?"
"Are you a baseball fan?" Marjory asked Duane.
"No." He looked carefully at her for a few more seconds. "Are you protesting Kent State?"
"Yeh. What about you?"
"It made me sick to my stomach. I would, but I can't."
"Protest? Why not?"
"Well—"
"He'd get in trouble," Boyce said. "He's on probation."
"What kind of probation?" Marjory asked, thinking it was probably some school thing.
"For Grand Theft Auto," Duane said. "I stole a car. Me and two other guys."
"You did? What for?"
"Oh—it seemed like a good idea at the time. You know. It was one of those things you don't think about, you just do. We rode around for about thirty minutes and then started to take the car—it was a Cadillac—back where I hot-wired it, but the cops—"
"You hot-wired a car? Where did you learn how to do a thing like that?"
"Isn't hard. Maybe we shouldn't talk about this anymore. I just feel kind of dumb. It's not something I'll ever do again."
Rita Sue said, "Tell her about all the psychological tests you had to take."
"They found out he was a genius," Boyce said, "so they didn't put him in reform school."
"Lucky for you," Marjory said. She couldn't look away from Duane, and he was smiling at her, ruefully, and it was as if Rita Sue and Boyce had disappeared from the booth in Dairy Queen; Rita Sue was saying something but Marjory couldn't be bothered.
"How long are you—"
"Oh, I don't know—until school starts."
"Well, maybe—"
"I'd like to see you play ball."
"You would?"
"Want something to eat, Marjory?"
"Yes. Yes, thank you, Duane. Just a plain hamburger. No pickles or catsup, you know, I'm trying to watch it. I could lose a few pounds."
"You look fine to me," Duane said.
2
The four of them wound up at the drive-in movies in Rita Sue's Fair-lane. Marjory sat with Duane Eggleston in the backseat and in the two and a half hours while she ignored John Wayne in Rio Lobo they exchanged life stories in random anecdotes. Boyce and Rita Sue cuddled up front with Rita Sue saying once in a while in a no-nonsense tone, "Boyce." But they kept sinking lower in the seat until Rita Sue was quiet, and Marjory couldn't see the tops of their heads anymore. She and Duane were together hip to knee as if they had been born that way. She didn't know what was going on with her. She felt light-headed most of the time, and her heart pounded. Finally they held hands, but that was five minutes before the movie ended. Boyce and Rita Sue rustled around in the front seat straightening their clothes, and Rita Sue fixed her hair, which gave Marjory a sneezing fit.
"Thanks a lot, Rita Sue."
"It's only a little holding spray. You are so allergic."
"Anybody want the rest of this popcorn?" Boyce asked.
"Not if it's got hair spray all over it."
"What was the movie like?" Rita Sue said.
"It was more fun watching you two arm-wrestle. Or was it his arm?"
"Oh, great," Rita Sue said. "I didn't bring a lipstick."
"I liked the part where John Wayne dropped his gun and blew half his foot off."
"That didn't happen," Rita Sue said.
"How would you know?"
"Because. He's John Wayne. Marjory, would you happen to have a lipstick?"
"No. I had a lipstick once, but I loaned it to you. Oh, and while we're on the subject, whatever happened to my Janis Joplin records?"
"Oh, Marjory. You know I've got them somewhere." She spritzed the back of her head again. Marjory went into a partly make-believe paroxysm. Duane moved over and opened the door.
"Sorry," Marjory sniffed, thinking she'd offended.
"That's okay."
"Where you going?" Boyce asked him.
"If nobody wants the popcorn, can I have the container?"
"Sure." Boyce handed it to him. "What do you want it for?"
Duane dumped the popcorn onto the ground beside the car and got out slowly.
"Luna moth," Duane said. "Biggest one I've ever seen. I know where I can get ten dollars for it."
Marjory turned and saw the pale green moth on the window of the convertible top. It was larger than her spread hand, a glowing misty green except for the distinctive wing markings, the purplish-red border inflamed by the neon of the concession stand a few car rows behind them. Marjory shied away, although the moth was on the outside, and shuddered.
"Oh, my God," she said. "I just hate it, the way they sneak up on you."
"What's the matter?"
"Duane—don't—bring that thing in here."
"Don't bring it in here!" Rita Sue echoed.
"The larvae can be pests, but the adults are harmless," Duane explained. "All they do is breed and lay eggs." He glanced again, covetously, at the big luna. "This one's early-season brood, you can tell by its markings. I hate to see it get away. There aren't many giant silk moths around any more. Pesticides and herbicides kill them. I wouldn't mind raising a few myself. Just let me try to trap it and I promise—"
"No!" Rita Sue said. "They give me nightmares!"
Marjory stared at her. "You had a nightmare too?"
Rita Sue nodded, fascinated, and bit down on her lower lip.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you would have made fun of me! You're always making fun of me!"
"I'm not making fun now. I'm serious. Rita Sue—what did she look like?" But Marjory needn't have asked. Because Rita Sue, like one of those idiot virgins in vampire movies who just have to get out of bed and open the window, was studying the luna moth, so unearthly pretty, motionless as a decal in the rear window of the convertible. And Marjory couldn't stop shuddering in the warm August night.
"Like that! She looked just like a big old green moth!"
3
When he left the shack to relieve himself, in some dark hour well before dawn, he knew without having to look up that he had company. He knew from the severe chill in the air, the luminous, frosty quality of the light.
Until now he hadn't been sure just where he was: nothing familiar remained except the rivers themselves, the Cumberland and Harpeth, which he had crossed on railroad bridges after dark. At one point he thought he recognized the valley where the Horsfalls had lived along with the Sealocks, the Oakmans, and several other families. The shape of a barn roof against a sunset sky, the flaring of a hundred-year-old tree in a pasture had excited memories, but barking dogs kept him well away; even if he'd been able to examine the tree for initials carved into the
trunk, probably he wouldn't find them any more. Not after so many years—how many? He didn't know. His life since the events at Dante's Mill was vague to him—the years had passed as a sickness, a fever dream.
His blood was thin, his feet were sore, his knees hurt, he had a toothache. He was old. His heart tried, but it couldn't pump strongly enough to keep his hands warm, his brain from fogging. He'd walk for a while heading west on instinct, then black out on his feet, come to staring vacantly at the sky where the sun had set, the moon had risen.
Like now. Pants open, peter in his hand, but he didn't remember leaving the rotted log-and-shingle cabin, half-buried in thicket and vine, that he'd found on one of the several ridges he'd crossed so far. Since leaving . . . he'd been . . . yes. They'd had chicken for dinner. Then he was given a room of his own, to lie down in. That he remembered quite clearly. The neat, clean bedroom. Taking off his shoes. Lying down. An old radio playing. The comfort. The luxury. His mother saying to him—
Let me go.
Not sounding angry because of what he'd done to her, to all of them. Her tone soft and loving, as if they'd merely been playing a game, and now she needed to finish some chores, get their supper on the table before Big Enoch came in from the field.
Let me go, Arne?
Over and over, never raising her voice. Talking to him on the radio, forgiving him—
No, mother! I can't.
Can't go back. Can't let you go, pa said—
Said they would strip his skin off, flench him like a squirrel if they caught him.
But here he was anyhow. Shouldn't have done the girl that way, she'd been so nice to him. He could draw her, but sometimes couldn't remember her name, although she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. As beautiful as his mother. Enid. That was who she was. Enid would touch the hand that clumsily held the drawing pencil, guide it. Not afraid to touch him. The difference in their hands—his like a turkey's claw, hers. . . nails clean, rosy with health. Little half-moons like the moon he could see out of the corner of his eye as he was holding himself and, amazingly, stiffening in a way that never happened during all the years he lived in the Place. Shame cramped his heart, panic further weakened his knees.
If you love her, Arne, you can have her. I'll show you the way. You'll be lovers forever. But first you have to do something for me.
He zipped himself up and looked around unwillingly. Her voice so clear, it was as if he were fated to find her there in the clearing with him. No, he was alone except for the lunas. They were as sublime as church-window angels, but with a carnal redness to their burning eyes. They'd been with him since he'd run off—but only at night. They came out with the stars, with the peculiar high-summer frost he remembered from so long ago. Keeping their distance. There was no harm in moths, never had been. But they had too many eyes, bearing witness to his feebleness, his lack of will.
You don't have to be old, Arne. Worn-out and short of breath. But there's no time to lose.
How did I get here? he thought. How could she make him come this far, when he didn't want ever to set foot in that cavern again?
(Oh, daddy, didn't we stop them? Was there just one left we didn't know about?)
Silence. He felt the weight of all his years then, the weight of river stones painstakingly piled on Big Enoch's grave. The weight of a vow he didn't know how to keep any longer.
Trembling, he crept back into the dark of the little falling-down cabin, smelling of decay, sat with his arms wrapped around his sore knees, agonized by cramping feet, and tried to rest, tried to resist her.
Just a little while, Arne. Then I want you to get up. Tonight, Arne, tonight, darling, come to me tonight!
He knew then that she was worried. His hands were clenched, cold and rigid, lacking blood. His heart labored. And he realized, despite the slowness of his brain, what had his mother so worried. There was only one way, but still he had the power to defy her. Just as his father had defied her.
By dying.
4
There was a sheriffs car parked by the porch when Marjory drove up at eleven-thirty.
"Uh-oh," Duane Eggleston murmured, leery of the law since his fling at auto theft.
"That's okay, I know who it is. Come on in for some cake."
"I've got to be back at Boyce's by twelve. That's one of the terms of my probation."
"No problem, Boyce is five minutes down the road. How long are you on probation for?"
"Two years."
Ted Lufford was in the parlor finishing off a big piece of the marble cake Marjory had baked yesterday. Enid was drinking coffee.
Marjory said to Enid, "How was your first night on the job? See anybody we used to know?"
Ted said, "What are you up to, Marj?"
"Oh, we went to Rio Lobo."
"How was it?"
"Fabulous. I must have shed a thousand tears. When I wasn't beside myself with excitement. Indians! Buffalo! Bad guys. I especially liked the part where John Wayne's horse sat on him."
"You lie."
"Never! Go see it yourself if you don't believe me. Duane Eggleston, this is my sister, Enid, and Ted Lufford, who's like one of the family. Ted, you look more and more like the Duke every day. In this light. Good gosh, could there possibly be any cake left?"
"Best cake you ever made," Ted told her, his mouth full. "Nice meeting you, Duane. Oops."
"I'll vacuum those crumbs up in the morning, Ted. Duane's from Franklin. He came up here to Caskey County for a couple weeks to find out what dull and boring is really like."
"Nice meeting you," Duane said, as Marjory took him by the hand and pulled him off to the kitchen.
"Your sister's, uh—"
"You were going to say 'raving beauty'? Faint praise. You ought to see her when she's at her best, she'd been off her feed the last few days."
"Just a little piece, Marjory. I get breakouts. Do you have a flashlight?"
"Sure." Marjory put a piece of the marble cake in front of him and took a bottle of milk from the fridge. "Why?"
"I was thinking about all the moths you said you saw. That's real unusual."
"Tell me about it." Marjory poured two glasses of milk but decided to lay off the cake. "You should have been here."
"Yeh. Luna moths are attracted to light, and other lunas. Unmated females. Did you find any dead moths around the next day?"
"To tell the truth, I didn't care to look."
"Well, predators might have eaten a lot of them. Owls, skunks, raccoons. See, they breed twice a year in Tennessee, so because it was only a few days ago, there might be some that haven't pupated yet."
"Poop what?"
"That's when the larvae become adults. They develop reproductive organs and wings. Then they fly and mate and lay eggs."
"We could get more of them flying around?"
"Maybe. If there are any cocoons on the ground with pupa in them, I'd like to have two or three to take home. I've got a few minutes yet. If you could find that flashlight."
"Okay," Marjory said unenthusiastically. Duane was a quick eater, or maybe he was just turned on by the notion of a poop hunt.
"Pyew-puh, Marjory."
"Oh, yeah." She closed the drawer. "Here's the flashlight." She wasn't crazy about the idea of suddenly encountering a flock of moths drawn to the beam; on the other hand, she'd follow Duane almost anywhere. If he liked moths, maybe he'd learn to like baseball. Life was full of compromises.
They went outside by way of the back porch, following the beam of the flashlight Duane focused on the ground in front of them. It was dark in the yard. Marjory kept a hand on his other elbow, walking beside him.
"Why do they only come out at night?"
"They're noctuids."
"I guess that explains it."
"I'm not sure myself. It's probably a defense against their natural enemies. Anyway, they don't bite."
"One bit me. I can't even show you where. The shorts I had on—It just about flew up my—"
"M
arjory, they can't bite. Their mouth parts are adapted for sucking nectar as adults, but they don't have a proboscis that can break the skin. A few caterpillars like the Io have spines that—"
"I've still got a little spot. It bit me, all right. I think it was after blood. I'll show you the spot, but we have to get married first."
"Is that a hickory tree over there?"
"Uh-huh. Yikes! What was that?" Marjory did a little hop and skip around behind Duane as he switched off the light. Something as big as a bird, but silent, had flown right at them.
"I think it was a black witch. Another noctuid. They work their way north from Mexico this time of the year." He stopped suddenly and Marjory bumped into him. "Okay. Hmm."
"What?"
Duane kneeled and switched on the flashlight again. With a twig he turned over a litter of hickory leaves and rotting green hulls. Some of the leaves around the perimeter of the hickory tree were leathery leftovers from other summers, but there was a significant top layer of newer, green leaves with a few clinging husks.
"Luna cocoons," Duane said happily. "But these are empty." He continued looking through the leaves. Marjory watched, a hand on his shoulder. After a while Duane gave up with a sigh and rose, the beam of the flashlight glancing off Marjory's face. She didn't blink.
"I'd better get going."
"Okay."
"Marjory—"
"That's okay, too," she said.
They were only a few inches apart. He kissed her. Marjory had always thought it was going to be a big deal and she wouldn't know what to do. The nice thing was, you didn't have to do much of anything. Somehow it made her feel thin and glamorous. She was impressed.
"Duane? Are you going with anybody?"
"No. I was, but she moved to South Carolina."
"Why did you want to kiss me?"
"Oh, because."
Marjory laughed nervously.
