Эд Горман - Blood Moon

The inside door was jerked open.

All that separated us now was a screen door. I tried the handle. She had the door latched.

“What news?”

“I lied. I shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up that way.”

“You lied? You lied?” She sounded hysterical. “About having news? You are really a dirty sonofabitch, you know that?”

“I am. Yes, I am. I’m really sorry.”

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought. And I apologize again. I know you don’t believe this but I’m trying to help you.”

“Oh, sure you are.”

“Just let me in a moment. Please.”

“You didn’t need to lie to me,” she said, then surprised me by quietly lifting the latch and stepping back.

She went in and sat down on the edge of the couch and stared forlornly at the floor.

She was close to the end-table lamp so I could see her face now, the bruises, the cuts above her right eye, most likely the result of a ring scraping her as she was being punched.

I went over and sat next to her on the couch. At first I didn’t know what to do or say. I still felt bad about having raised her hopes.

She was staring at the floor as if she were in a coma. Most of the room was in darkness; we were in a little ring of light.

I slid my arm over her shoulder and said, “You need a friend.”

“I just want my daughter back.”

“I know. And I really do want to help.”

“You don’t know how bad I wanted to tell her everything.”

“Jane Avery?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you didn’t tell her anything?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t. Just like I can’t tell you anything.”

“Including who beat you up tonight.”

“Melissa’d be dead for sure, if I told you that.” Then she turned and looked at me and said, “But there’s one thing.”

I didn’t say anything, just let her come to it in her own time. She wore a faded KISS T-shirt that made her sad little breasts seem very vulnerable. The shoulder of the T-shirt had splotches of dried blood on it.

“I found something tonight, going through his stuff.”

“Your husband’s?”

“Right. You want to see it?”

“Of course.”

“I would’ve told her but she’s the law. And you’re not, right?”

“Right. I’m not the law.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She vanished into the darkness. I heard her opening a drawer in a room off the hall that divided the small house in two.

She returned, carrying a single sheet of paper.

She handed it to me, then took her place again on the couch. “Any idea what it is?”

“Not yet.”

201 Lawlor Avenue, S.E.

Mar 1 $475.00

Apr 1 $475.00

May 1 $475.00

Jun 1 $475.00

325 River Street, S.E.

Jul 1 $635.00

Aug 1 $635.00

Sep 1 $635.00

The numbers and the rent receipt had been Xeroxed on one side of a sheet of plain white paper.

“Does any of that mean anything to you?” About midpoint in her question, she winced and touched a delicate fingertip to her puffy lower lip. She’d been hit pretty hard.

“Well, Lawlor Avenue and River Street are Cedar Rapids addresses.”

“That would make sense, I guess.”

“Make sense how?”

“My husband goes to Cedar Rapids a lot. Whenever he wants to hit a lot of taverns.”

“You have a Cedar Rapids phone book here?”

The towns around Cedar Rapids were now treated by the phone-company folks as satellites — if not suburbs — of Iowa’s second-largest city.

She walked over to a small desk, rattled around in the middle drawer, and brought forth a phone book which she carried over and handed to me.

I turned to Taverns and went down the list. Though there were roughly seventy-five taverns in and around Cedar Rapids, none of those listed were on either Lawlor Avenue or River Street.

“No luck,” I said.

I set the phone book on the coffee table and then turned back to her.

“Every time I lie down and close my eyes and try to sleep, all I can see is Melissa. I just keep imagining all the things that might be happening to her. All the things I’ve read about in the papers over the years—”

I took her hand. “She’s going to be all right, Eve. You’ve got to keep saying that to yourself. Over and over and over. You’ve got to believe that.”

She smiled her sad smile. “You should’ve been a doctor. You’ve got a nice manner.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about telling me who beat you up tonight?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Just the way you talk about it, I know it wasn’t your husband.”

She said nothing, obviously not wanting to answer my question either way.

I stood up and told her where I was staying and said she could call me there any time, night or day.

“Do you think those addresses have anything to do with Melissa?”

“There’s no way of knowing without checking them out.”

“Would you even consider doing that?”

I nodded. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to take a plane up for a short ride. Then maybe I’ll drive into Cedar Rapids and see what I can find out.”

“You really are a nice guy.”

“Thanks. You’re going to get Melissa back and she’s going to be fine,” I said, reaching the door and turning around again.

In one of his books, Graham Greene noted that despair is a serious sin, and the older I get, the more I understand what he meant. All we have, when all else has deserted us, is faith and hope. It was enough to bring our species from the sea millions of years ago, and it’s enough now to take us to the stars.

“You don’t want this?” she said, holding up the paper with the figures on it.

“No. Don’t need it. Thanks. And I’ll say a few prayers for Melissa tonight.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

I nodded and left.

After more years than cares to believe, he gets his first chance to go before the Parole Board.

Cons are filled with advice on how he should handle himself.

One con even hands him a list.

1) Always look humble

2) Always wear your hair in a part

3) Always wear some kind of religious symbol they can see, like a St. Christopher medal

4) Always tear up a little when you mention your parents/wives/children and how you’ve let them down (they may suspect you’re faking but they’ll be moved anyway)

5) Always speak softly

1) Never say “ain’t”

2) Never sigh — they’ll think you’re irritated or angry

3) Never look at the women very long

4) Never yawn

5) Never squirm; shoulders straight, back straight

Comes the day.

They come and take you (and thirty other cons) over to a different building and then you wait in the hall as one con at a time goes into the room where the Adult Authority conducts its interviews.

In his case, being near the back of the line, the wait takes all morning and most of the afternoon.

When the cons come out, they all grin and give you the finger secret-like and shake their heads disdainfully.

Cons never want other cons to think that they’ve become broken by the institution. So they’re always performing these little defenses of their honor and individuality, none of which the Adult Authority is likely to approve of.

“Well, now, good afternoon,” says the fat banker heartily.