Iona Moon

  Iona Moon

  A Novel

  Melanie Rae Thon

  For Mary and Miles and Matthew

  I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,

  I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

  I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  1

  Matt Fry couldn’t go home, so he lived in the abandoned shed down by the railroad tracks. Willy Hamilton and Iona Moon each knew part of Matt’s story, how his troubles began the day his brother died. But Willy and Iona didn’t talk to each other, and Matt Fry wasn’t talking to anyone, so there were pieces no one knew, secrets locked in the boy’s body.

  At Everett’s funeral, Iona watched Matt squirm, scratch his crotch then sit on his hands. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to see his brother come strutting down the aisle, head held high, medals gleaming. Just a flesh wound. Ugly scar, but girls like a man with something to show.

  Hearse to grave, six men carried Everett up the hill. Matt shuffled and smirked, pinched himself but couldn’t stop smiling. The sun was white. Dry leaves skidded across the yellow grass.

  Sharla Wilder sobbed like a widow, softly and to herself. Other girls cried too, clinging to one another—to keep from falling, Iona thought. Matt thrust his hands in his pockets and kicked stones toward the hole. All those words. Beloved son, war hero.

  Everett Fry had gotten out of Vietnam alive in ’66, nothing worse than that scar on his shoulder where shrapnel tore skin and muscle but left bones unbroken. He’d had a hero’s welcome in White Falls, Idaho, where people believed any man in uniform was doing a good thing for the country. But a month after he came home, Everett still hadn’t looked for work. In his parents’ house on the Kila Flats, he paced the attic room, wore nothing but his underwear, kept the blinds shut tight. Sometimes he got dressed and drove to town, parked on Main and stared at women who passed his truck. He made them nervous. With his hat pulled down over his brow, he looked like a man who meant to go hunting.

  More than one young lady said she had dreams about Everett, dreams that made a girl giggle and hide her mouth, dreams that made her cry out in her sleep till she woke with her damp nightgown twisted up around her waist.

  Iona knew that Sharla Wilder was one of the girls Everett had watched, one of the girls who’d had those dreams. Last summer, when Everett was still alive, Jeweldeen Wilder bolted the cellar door to tell Iona. They squatted in the dark, puffing cigarettes that Jeweldeen had stolen from her sister’s purse. “Sharla says that when Everett stares at her, she feels like her whole body’s about to catch fire, like she’s been doused with gasoline and he’s got a match. In this dream, she’s naked and he just stands there looking ’cause a woman’s body doesn’t do a thing for him. Finally he touches her, just one finger on her belly or maybe her forehead. His hand is cold, the way metal gets so cold it sticks to your skin. She shatters like hot glass, like a bomb goes off inside her. The pieces fly in Everett’s face. His eyes are bleeding. Then my sister has to lead him around by the hand. She’s alive, you see, and not exploded, ’cause it turns out the whole thing is Everett’s dream, not hers.”

  Jeweldeen and Iona sucked on their cigarettes. “I think my sister’s crazy, having dreams like that. One night she went sleepwalking. Came down here in the cellar where you can’t see your own nose if you look cross-eyed. She woke up and started hollering. Daddy and I ran around the house looking for her. She’s standing here wearing nothing but her own goose flesh, yelling her fool head off, saying, ‘Don’t bury me. I’m still alive.’ She keeps rubbing her eyes because she thinks they’re full of dirt and that’s why she can’t see. Daddy says he’s gonna put her in a special school if she doesn’t straighten up. He says he can smell the sickness in her. He says girls go crazy just like animals—something like rabies but it only happens to females.”

  Iona thought of Sharla’s dream, the way Everett shattered her. She imagined Everett staring at them all now, getting ready to toss a grenade into the crowd. They’d wake up dead. Sharla would think she was sleepwalking again. She’d scream and scream, but this time her father wouldn’t run down the stairs, wouldn’t say: Cover yourself. But Everett Fry didn’t throw the grenade. He held it instead. Stuck it in his mouth and pulled the pin.

  Iona never told Jeweldeen how Everett gave her a dollar one day to run across the street and buy him a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t stare at her, because she was just a scrawny kid with no butt. Sharla Wilder had too much ass but nice tits, that’s what Iona’s brother Leon said. Even Jeweldeen had breasts big enough for a bra, but Iona’s ribs still stuck up higher than her chest when she lay on her back. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t scared of Everett Fry and didn’t have any crazy dreams either.

  “Don’t get any smart ideas about running off with my money, you little shit,” he yelled.

  She whirled in the middle of the street and stuck out her tongue. Well how’d I know what he’d do? She brought him the cigarettes and change. He started to roll up his window but she stood there waiting.

  “What you gawking at?”

  “Thank you,” Iona said. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”

  He handed her a quarter. “Now get lost,” he said.

  Willy’s father was the first one to see Everett Fry, and his mother was the last.

  “You never saw such a mess,” Horton Hamilton told his wife. He was on duty that Saturday morning and took the call alone. “Blood spattered all the way to the ceiling.”

  “Careful,” Flo said. “The children.”

  But Willy already knew. The wailing siren hours before had sent Willy and Jay Tyler flying on their bikes, pumping and panting to catch Horton as he sped out east of town. Rumors whipped across the Flats. Now neighbors stood silent in the Frys’ front yard; like stumps, Willy thought. No one moved. That morning, Everett Fry had locked the bathroom door, put on his uniform, double-knotted his shoelaces, sat down on the toilet, and shot himself in the mouth.

  Jay stood on Willy’s shoulders to see inside the bathroom. Horton Hamilton spotted the tuft of blond hair, the fingertips clutching the sill. He snapped down the blind. “Damn kids,” he said later. “That’s all this town needs—boys bragging that they saw Everett.”

  Jay didn’t tell anyone but Willy. They pedaled all the way back to town as if racing a flood, as if the gorged river swelled behind them and any moment they might be swept away, no more than sticks in the roiling water.

  When they were lying in the damp grass in front of Jay’s house, staring at the blank sky, Jay wished a dog would bark. He hoped his mother would yell at him to come inside, but there was nothing except the quiver of bare branches and the sound of Willy’s breath. “I didn’t think it was gonna look like that,” Jay whispered.

  “My mom says everybody has his own way of dying. Some folks smile like they just told a good joke. And some folks grit their teeth like they got a hot poker up their behind.”

  “Everett looked like he couldn’t believe it,” Jay said. “But he did it. Why should he be surprised?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know how it was gonna feel.”

  “Shit. You can jump off the bridge, you can take a handful of your mother’s pills. You don’t have to make such a goddamned mess. Somebody has to clean that wall. I wonder if he thought about that, his own mother on her knees, wiping the tiles.”

  Willy said, “Maybe he wanted her to see how much it hurt.”

  “Your mom gonna fix him up?”

  “I s’pose.”

  Jay whistled through his teeth. “Jesus,” he said, “sweet Jesus.”

  Sooner or later Flo Hamilton saw most everyone in town. She scraped under their fingern
ails and sponged their feet, swabbed inside their nostrils and wiped the sleep out of their eyes. Ladies got lipstick and rouge. Baldwin’s Funeral Home had pink and red, one shade of each. She couldn’t do anything fancy. She had to shave the men because their beards grew for a day after they died. Everett Fry had such tender skin she lathered him up twice. Mr. Baldwin said, “No need to go to all that trouble, Flo. Nobody but the good Lord himself is going to see that face.”

  But she shaved him anyway. “Just like a boy,” she told her husband, “just like Willy.”

  Willy thought of the pig, how they’d poured scalding water over its back and shaved it with the edges of spoons, shaved it until its skin was pink and smooth and softer than his mother’s own cheek when she kissed him goodnight.

  “I never knew there was so much blood in a man,” Horton said. “All my years, I never saw anyone do it that way.”

  Flo said, “They’ll have to have a closed casket. It’s a shame, such beautiful skin.”

  Willy remembered watching his father cut the pig’s neck. Horton Hamilton was a big man. He wore size twelve shoes, extra wide; he could pin you to the wall with one hand. He had hair up his nose and hair in his ears. But he was no match for a three-hundred-pound pig that knew it was going to die. That animal kicked and squealed, rolled on its side and flailed at the air with its stubby legs. Finally Willy and his sisters and his mother got on top of the pig and Horton jabbed the knife into its throat. Such a small cut, but the blood flowed into the basin, so much blood, and the basin was emptied and filled again; still it came, thick and dark, and the pig lived but no longer struggled—no, made a suckling noise and seemed to slip into some sweet dream of his mother’s teats, eyes half closed, tongue lapping. Willy’s father worked the foreleg to keep the blood pumping through the heart, and Willy’s mother said, “I never knew there was so much blood in a pig.”

  The minister said: Suicide is sin, but God forgives, as we must forgive. Matt Fry kicked another stone. It hit the lip of the grave and tumbled, banged against the coffin lid, left a small dent in the perfect, polished pine. Judge not lest ye be judged.

  Mrs. Fry smacked Matthew as they climbed into the long black limousine. Men pound you with their fists, Willy thought, blacken your eye or break your nose. Women slap you with an open palm and leave the red marks of their fingers on your face.

  Two weeks later Matt drove his mother’s Buick into the Snake River and let it sink. He set fire to her drapes three days after that, but his father got the hose in time. In early December, when the ground was hard but no snow had fallen, he stole the lights from the lawn of the funeral home.

  Willy was cruising with his father that night, pretending they might get lucky and find some trouble. They caught up with the boy down by the Miller Creek bridge. His white face rose, a moon above his dark coat.

  Horton Hamilton climbed out of the patrol car, one hand on his hip. Thick fingers unsnapped the leather band that held the pistol safe in its holster. Matt’s eyes glazed, blind as stones in the twin beams of the headlights. “Don’t you be gettin’ any ideas of makin’ like a jackrabbit, boy—I got a gun.” Willy knew his father had never shot a human being. A man doesn’t shoot peeping Toms out of trees or pull his gun on drunken girls reeling through the woods. Once he’d fired off a round to scare a badger off poor Mrs. Griswold’s porch, and Willy thought he might do that now, might blast the ground just to show the boy he took what business he had seriously.

  Horton Hamilton was the one to drive Matt up to the state school for delinquents in Cross City. The Frys told the judge they’d lost control of their child. Wits’ end, they said. No sense sending him home. So Willy learned that if you did a bad enough thing your parents could decide they didn’t want you. Horton told Matthew: “You’re getting a second chance, son. Next time they’ll judge you as a man and it won’t go so easy. Take my advice—learn something useful. You end up in prison, all they teach you to do is stamp license plates.”

  But the boy didn’t take to his education. Willy heard whispers at home, stories at school. Matt Fry always was the kind who’d throw a kid to the ground for looking at him too hard. He had a reputation and finally lived up to it by biting off a piece of another boy’s ear. He got solitary for that. “Lucky for him it was only the hole,” Horton said. “They shoot dogs for less.”

  Eighteen days later, when they dragged Matt Fry into the light, he was like this: lame in one foot, skinny as a coyote at the end of winter. He’d forgotten how to talk, forgotten he was supposed to unzip his pants before he took a piss. Willy wondered: What did the guards do to him when they pulled him off the boy with half an ear? How hard did his head hit the gravel, and how many times?

  Matthew returned to White Falls that spring to find the basement windows of his parents’ house boarded shut and their doors locked.

  Now he lived in the shed by the tracks. The shack was big enough for one man, two sheep and some chickens—if a person could stand the smell. Old man Hardy had lived that way for 40 years. He died in ’63, and in the end, it was his smell that drove the animals out.

  Willy followed Iona Moon and caught her doing things with Matt Fry. He watched through the window of the shed while they ate cold soup from a can and smoked cigarettes. Matt’s head bobbed up and down; spit dribbled from his slack lip. He was more of an idiot than Roy Wilkerson, who was born with those slanty eyes. When Matt tried to eat a cigarette, Iona had to pull it from his mouth.

  Another time, Willy saw Iona cover him with a tattered blanket and curl up behind him, belly to butt. She held that filthy boy in her arms and kissed his dirty hair. She pressed herself against his torn jeans, damp with piss and smelling like a body died in them.

  Iona didn’t mind the smell. Her brothers were always making her pick up dead things. Once she carried a pack rat home by its hairless tail. Mama yelled and Iona cried. Her brothers vanished and she took the licking alone, stood naked in the cold bath water while her mama scrubbed her hands with a brush, soaped her face and wasn’t careful of her eyes. But Iona didn’t fuss. She was done crying. And she didn’t wail when Daddy came home and took his belt to her bare behind. Her brothers watched and she never told on them. She was eight when it happened, and now she was eleven. She still didn’t mind the smell of dead things—but she’d learned not to bring them home.

  She didn’t try to bring Matt Fry home either. She knew what Mama would say if she saw him. Always was a bad influence, teaching my sons things they didn’t need to know.

  But Iona remembered Matthew a different way. He and her three brothers said they had a surprise for her in the gully. They blindfolded her and led her into the trees. Count to fifty, Iona. And she did. When she pulled the bandanna down around her neck, they were gone. She sat on a rock, counted to fifty again, but there was no surprise. She sat still as she could, waiting for something to happen.

  When Matt circled back, he found her curled on the ground, holding her knees to her chest, her face blotched and salty. “Come on, Iona,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”

  She said, “I’m not lost.”

  “Then why you been cryin’?”

  “I wanted—” She choked on her words. “You said you had a surprise.” Matt didn’t laugh at her. “I just wanted to see something.”

  He knelt beside her. She’d been sucking on her hair and he pulled the wet strand from her mouth. “I’ll show you something,” he said.

  He knew a secret place, a cave he’d dug in the earth at the edge of the woods. He took her there and no one found them. They barely fit down the narrow mouth and had to lie chest to chest, not moving, faces close, legs entwined. The hole was damp with decaying roots and leaves; it smelled like the inside of an animal, her father’s bloody hands, a calf just born. She liked being swallowed. She liked this boy with sour breath and skinny arms. He held her tight but didn’t rub against her, didn’t make her jeans chafe her thighs, didn’t bruise her ribs the way her brother Leon did when he paid her a dime to li
e down with him.

  Days later, she tried to find the cave alone, but a hard rain had made the roof collapse and filled the opening with silt. They could have been buried alive. She thought about that a lot. When Mama swore or Daddy pulled his belt from the loops, she said to herself: I could have died.

  Willy knew his mother blamed Horton for the whole thing. “You never should have cuffed him,” she said.

  “I wanted him to understand.”

  “What if it had been your boy?”

  “I would’ve whupped his ass.”

  “You should have taken him home instead of locking him up.”

  “How was I supposed to know his folks would leave him there all night?”

  “You shouldn’t have told them the lights cost so damn much. The boy was just pulling a prank.”

  “I don’t make the laws, Flo. I just follow them.”

  “Why not chop off his hand?”

  “Huh?”

  “Eye for an eye, Mr. High and Mighty.”

  “I wasn’t the judge. I didn’t send him to that school.”

  “You cuffed him like a man. Took him to jail. You called it a felony.”

  “I do my job. I do what I think is right.”

  “And if some boy loses his head because you’re doing what you think is right, well that’s just the price of justice.”

  “I can’t see the future, Flo.”

  “You can’t see your own hand in the dark.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  But there was no explanation. Willy’s mother put on her coat and said she was going for a drive. Horton sat down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Willy wanted to go to him, wanted to sit beside him in the dark and say: Let the thief no longer steal, but rather let him labor, doing honest work with his hands. He knew the words from Sunday school, knew that all men were sinners, all were dirty. Only by God’s grace would the chosen few be spared. He wished he could tell his father what he’d seen Iona Moon do with Matt Fry. If anyone touches an unclean thing, he shall be guilty. Why should decent folks feel any pity for people like that?