Turtle Moon

by Alice Hoffman

  “The vulture has landed,” Walt Hannen says.

  Before they can get into the elevator, Paul Salley approaches, although he slows down when he sees Loretta.

  “Hey, Julian,” he says, just as if he were one of the guys, when everyone knows he could never work another day in his life and still make out fine.

  Julian looks up at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he ever saw. Fact is, it’s acoustical tile; no one on the floor beneath the murdered woman would have heard a sound.

  “Just as friendly as always,” Paul Salley says before turning to Walt. “You know I’m going to find out everything sooner or later. So you could just tell me, and that would be that.”

  “With someone of your talents that would be kind of an insult, wouldn’t it?” Walt Hannen says.

  “Then don’t ask me for any favors,” Paul says.

  “Have I ever?” Walt Hannen says mildly. “Someone ought to rip that police band radio out of his car,” Walt adds when he and Julian get into the elevator.

  “Late at night,” Julian says. “When nobody’s looking.”

  What they know about this murder is simple; it’s what they don’t know that’s complicated. The reason for this is that Karen Wright seems not to have existed before October. Everything—her driver’s license, her car insurance, her Winn Dixie check-cashing card—was based on false information. The previous address she gave to the super, in Short Hills, New Jersey, doesn’t exist. Even the color of her hair isn’t her own. All they know is that she was somewhere between the ages of twenty-five and thirty and that when she was discovered on her kitchen floor she’d been dead for at least four hours. That, and the fact that her little girl is missing. By the time Walt leads Julian into the apartment, the forensic team from Hartford Beach has nearly finished. Richie Platt, who is supposed to be in charge of the investigation, backs up against the wall like a scared rabbit when Julian brings Loretta inside.

  “Don’t let Paul Salley in here,” Walt Hannen tells Richie. “Don’t even talk to him.”

  “Nobody’s talked to him in years,” Richie says. “Right?” he says to Julian.

  “I know I haven’t,” Julian says. He’s known Richie since grade school, too. It doesn’t hurt to be civil to him; for all Julian knows, Richie may be the next in line when Walt Hannen retires.

  “I don’t think we’re going to like anything we find,” Walt says thickly.

  From the hallway, Julian can see a line of blood on the kitchen floor. Loretta knows it’s there; she’s straining, so that Julian has to pull up on her leash and snap her metal collar. They walk through the living room, pausing only when Loretta stops to sniff the rug: then they head down the hallway, toward the bedrooms. When they get to the baby’s room, Julian flips on the light, then closes the door behind him. The walls have recently been painted pink and there’s a mobile of a moon and stars dangling above the crib. It’s not Julian’s job to consider who was killed or why. He doesn’t even have to think about that. All he needs is the baby’s pillow, which, in his hands, seems ridiculously small. The pillowcase is bordered with a row of blue bunnies, and for some reason this makes Julian feel sick. He crouches down, and when he clucks his tongue, Loretta approaches and sniffs at the edges of the pillow. There is the scent of milk and baby shampoo and the thin, chalky odor of powder. But beneath that there is more, the scent of one particular human being. It’s as if the essence of a person seeps into a pillow during the night, the way pollen can be caught if you open your hand just beneath a flower.

  “Atta girl,” Julian tells the dog as she nudges the pillowcase. He takes the pillow with him when they leave, careful to hold it by the edge so he won’t get his own scent all over it.

  Someone has brought Walt Hannen a black coffee, which he’s gulping down, in spite of the fact that it’s burning his throat. He nods to Julian and they go out into the hallway together.

  “I think we’ve got a sighting,” Walt says. “Over by the Hole-in-One.”

  Walt looks up at Julian and sees absolutely no clue as to what he must be thinking. Not a flicker behind his dark eyes.

  “Hey, Julian, if you don’t want to go, I’ll send Richie.”

  “I thought you wanted the dog on this,” Julian says. “I thought that was the point.”

  “Well, yeah,” Walt agrees. “It is.”

  “Look, I don’t have a personal life,” Julian assures him. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Great.” Walt Hannen grins.

  They go downstairs and head out to the parking lot, Walt on his way back to the station, where he’ll try to put a lid on any information going out, Julian forcing himself to drive over to the Hole-in-One. But Loretta doesn’t cooperate. When they walk past the ficus hedges she stops. Her ears point straight up and there’s a fluttery noise, low in her throat. Julian can feel the vibration move up the leash and into the palm of his hand. There it is, right in front of them, the patch of freshly turned earth.

  They get two shovels from the super and call up for Richie Platt. While they dig, Loretta is so agitated she has to be tied to the bike rack. As Richie bends down and lifts the box out of the sand, Walt Hannen takes out another cigarette and lights it and doesn’t think twice about what it’s doing to his respiratory system.

  “Want to do the honors?” Richie asks Walt as he holds out the shoe box.

  “No,” Walt says. “I don’t even want to be here.”

  Julian examines the shoe box, then lifts off the top. Beneath some crumpled newspaper lies the dead alligator.

  “I don’t like this one goddamned bit,” Walt Hannen says.

  Tossed on top of the alligator are two gold rings.

  “Fuck,” Walt says.

  Julian hands the box over to Richie. He doesn’t even want to start to think about what it means.

  “You just keep your mouths shut about this,” Walt Hannen says.

  Since Julian doesn’t talk much, Richie knows this is directed at him, and he nods.

  “I don’t want Paul Salley to know anything,” Walt tells them. “Fucking May,” he adds, for in all probability he will gain twenty pounds before this business is through.

  Julian Cash knows exactly what Walt means. He was born on the third day of May. The worst day of the worst month. With a birthday like that, no one needed to whisper a curse beside his cradle; he could bring about his own bad luck with no help from anyone.

  As he unties Loretta from the bike rack and heads for his car, Julian is well aware that he has twenty-four hours, because after that the chances for recovery are cut in half with each hour that passes. He’s not going to think about anything but the baby. He can focus that way whenever he wants. When he hit the gumbo-limbo tree going seventy miles an hour he told himself he wouldn’t black out, and he didn’t. If he’s got something on his mind he’s like a dog so intent on chasing a rabbit it doesn’t notice it’s sliced its foot apart in a steel trap until it’s lost a pint of blood. That’s why Julian can do his job in the heat, in the month of May; he can do it whether he likes it or not.

  Janey Bass is still so pretty that teenage boys whistle when she walks by. She’s so sweet she has to spray herself with Skin-So-Soft every morning to keep flies from lighting on her fingers and toes. It’s amazing that Janey still looks this good; she’ll be thirty-five in August, and her daughter, Shannon, is sixteen, and that alone can age you pretty fast. She’s just got good genes. Her mother, Kitty, is fifty-eight and looks fantastic, even after going through all of Janey’s traumas right along with her, or at least the ones Janey could talk about.

  Janey now believes she was predestined to have that awful marriage with Kenny, even that last part when she shook her fist in his face and threatened to break his nose, because she got Shannon out of it and she learned to stand on her own two feet, which she never in a million years thought she could. She was a pretty face, period. Now she’s that and something more. That’s why she took back her maiden name after
her divorce; she figured she deserved another chance at being Janey Bass, and she’s been doing a good job at it this time around. She is actually the kind of mother who stays up past midnight sewing lace onto the hem of a flouncy skirt for her daughter’s school play. She feels sorry for Kenny, who’s always failing at one business venture or another, but then she can afford to pity him, since she doesn’t have to depend on his child-support payments. It kind of gives her the chills to have her life turn out so completely different from anything she might have expected.

  Every morning, Janey gets up at four-thirty, when the sky is still silky and black, but today she woke up before her alarm went off. She was so certain that something was haywire that she quickly untangled herself from her sheets and raced to Shannon’s bedroom, satisfied only when she saw her daughter safely asleep. She went into the kitchen, where she fixed herself a pot of coffee and drank two cups, one right after the other. Janey had a funny feeling low down in her stomach, like she used to when she was Shannon’s age. She was so lazy and careless back then; she could sleep till noon and sometimes her mother would have to get the plant mister and spray her right in the face in order to get her up and ready for school.

  The truth was, she was boy crazy. She couldn’t wake up in the mornings because she used to sneak out her window after midnight and not come home until dawn. The things she did back then she’d kill Shannon for even thinking about. She was in love with one boy but crazy about another. She’d spend all day with the boy everyone was certain she was going to marry, but at night she could hardly wait to meet the other boy; she’d be so out of breath by the time she climbed out her window and ran down West Main to his car that she wouldn’t be able to speak. Each time he unbuttoned her blouse she’d nearly faint, because she knew what they were doing was so bad. They thought they had this big secret, but more people knew than they would have suspected, and no sane person would ever have guessed he’d be the one to break it off. Luckily, Verity isn’t a small town anymore; you don’t have to run into anyone you have a history with. You can avoid him just about forever if you try. And if you ever start to think about him, all you have to do is go into the shower and let the hot water fall down on you for ten minutes or so, and by the time you’re done you’re almost through remembering.

  Today when Janey woke up she couldn’t even decide what to wear. Usually she throws on jeans and a T-shirt; this morning she stood debating for a good fifteen minutes before she finally chose a white dress and sandals, and she took a little too long messing with her hair, as if it made a bit of difference whether or not she clipped it up with a barrette. She didn’t have to worry about Shannon’s waking on time; Shannon was as responsible as Janey had been flighty. She always fixed herself an English muffin and orange juice, then washed the dishes before she walked to school. Still, Shannon seemed out of sorts lately, and Janey worried about her as she headed toward the golf course in her Honda. Beneath the black sky, she kept a careful eye out for turtles in the road. Her mother has always said Janey is hypersensitive. She feels more than other people do. She can’t even kill a mosquito because she knows just how bad it would feel to have your wings all smooshed together and your legs bent in half. She can’t remember the last time she went to a high school football game, even though Shannon is head cheerleader, since she can’t stand to see all those little Gators so excited and pumped up when she knows they’re going to lose. Whenever she senses that something bad is going to happen, she feels all panicky and confused, the way she did on the night of the accident. She just knew something terrible was ahead. She was sitting alone in her room, late at night, and suddenly it felt as if she were nothing more than little bits of things—light, air, atoms, flesh—instead of a whole person.

  At four-thirty this morning the streets were empty, but Janey stopped for the red lights anyway. She still got to the Hole-in-One by a quarter to five, surprising Fred and Maury, both of whom have been frying doughnuts since long before Janey’s divorce, long before she came to work the counter or ever imagined buying the place.

  “Hey!” they greeted her when she walked in the back door. Their hands were already white with flour.

  “Early bird,” Fred called.

  “She may be early, but she still looks pretty good.” Maury grinned. “For a boss.”

  “Thanks,” Janey said, as she grabbed a fresh cruller. “You know it’s not from following Weight Watchers.”

  Janey could hear the men laughing as she went out front to start the coffee urns. Her appetite for sweets was famous. Shannon always had balanced meals, Janey made sure of that, but Janey herself eats two sugar crullers for breakfast and a jelly doughnut for lunch. Some days she fears she’ll lie down and gain a hundred pounds in her sleep when all those doughnuts add up. That hadn’t happened yet, so Janey took neat bites of her first cruller as she got the coffee going. Then she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and went to stand by the plate-glass window. There were still some stars in the sky. By six-thirty the parking lot would be filled; on Sunday mornings there was often a line out the door, but this morning, at a little after five, there was only a thin streak of light in the eastern part of the sky. Tiny green lizards were scattered across the parking lot, searching for drops of dew.

  Nearly twenty years ago somebody broke Janey Bass’s heart. Not that it matters anymore. She could have any man she wanted in Verity, married or not. There are actually some women who won’t allow their husbands to come down to the Hole-in-One on Sunday mornings, as if Janey would look at them twice. She figures love and heartbreak are best suited for teenagers; she’s got enough on her hands with raising Shannon, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t think about the way things used to be.

  She was there at the window, wondering if she should have left a note reminding Shannon to pick up a roast chicken for dinner, when she saw something moving in the shadows over by the dumpster, where the day-old doughnuts were discarded in hard, sweet piles. Janey Bass put her nose to the glass; she could have sworn she saw a baby crouched on the grass, reaching greedily for the bits of food her companion offered her. In the time it took for Janey to unlock the front door, they were gone. All through the morning rush Janey tried to figure if she had conjured up that baby or if she was just telling herself she’d imagined it, since she knew who they’d send over if she called the police. She didn’t phone the station until eleven, and it was past noon when Julian Cash drove into the parking lot. He got out and slammed his door shut, but then he just stood there, leaning up against his car. He had a cup of coffee he’d picked up at the Dunkin’ Donuts over by the Interstate, since he always avoids the Hole-in-One. His throat felt all closed up and tight, in spite of the hot coffee. By the time he and Loretta are through today, they will have covered so much ground Loretta’s paws will be bloody. But for now she’s curled up on the frayed blue army blanket in the backseat of the patrol car, the baby’s pillow beside her.

  Janey Bass has been waiting for him, but now she sees he’s never coming into the shop, not if she waits for a hundred years. She pushes the front door open and comes outside in her white dress. Even in the harsh noon light, her skin is the color of apricots. Her neck and forehead are covered with a thin film of sweat.

  “I see you’re frequenting my competitor,” Janey says when she sees Julian’s coffee cup. She walks over but avoids looking at him. Instead, she peers into the back of the car.

  “Hi, baby,” she says to the dog through the window.

  Janey’s hands are actually shaking. She’s been waiting a long time for Julian Cash to come and beg her for something, and now it seems that it just might happen. She doesn’t have to stare, she knows what he looks like. She saw him outside the Value Mart one Saturday and another time at the Verity Day parade. Good-looking men can age badly. Janey has noticed it’s happening to Kenny, but Julian hardly seems any different from when she knew him. Except for the scar. He didn’t have that yet.

  “I know you’d rather I was somebody else,” Julian s
ays, uneasy. “But they had to send me. I’ve got the dog.”

  “I never wanted you to be somebody else,” Janey says before she can stop herself. “That was you who wanted that.”

  “They had to send me,” Julian says stubbornly. “I’ve got the dog.”

  “So I see,” Janey says.

  A fly buzzes around Janey’s hair and she waves it away with her hand. She doesn’t intend to make this easy.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me I haven’t changed a bit?” she asks.

  Julian looks her over carefully, the way he used to. She stares right back at him, defiantly. There’s still a line of freckles across the ridge of her nose.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Julian says.

  “Oh, yes I have,” Janey says, triumphant. “I’ve changed plenty.”

  “Okay,” Julian says. “So I’m wrong again.”

  “Dunkin’ Donuts,” Janey says, disgusted.

  “If we’re finished with how wrong I am, maybe you can tell me about the baby,” Julian says. “And just for next time, when you see something suspicious at five in the morning? Don’t wait till eleven to report it.”

  “Fuck you,” Janey says. “I don’t have to tell you anything at all.”

  Julian considers this and gulps down the rest of his coffee, which has turned quite cold.

  “Well, Janey,” he says finally, “would you like me to go down on my knees and beg you for information?”

  “Yeah,” Janey says. She can’t help but grin. “That would do for starters.”

  Julian puts his coffee cup on the roof of his car, then sinks to his knees, right there in the parking lot. Janey would throw back her head and laugh if she were able to catch her breath. He can still do that to her. She wraps her arms around herself as though she were freezing. “Get up,” she tells him.

  Julian rises to his feet and fishes a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He’s surprised by how painful it is just to look at her. He tries to focus on the road behind them, but it’s the road that leads to the Interstate, past those marshes that were once so filled with birds that whenever you went out walking with the most beautiful girl in town all you heard was the calling of terns and the saw grass rustling like rice paper.