The Slow Moon Read Online Free

any questions; she just wanted to see him. As she came in, she saw that his eyes were closed; she went to open a window; but as she raised it, a thought as strong as a voice came into her head, telling her to find proof of where Crow had been that night. Carl had told her that Crow had been drinking at the river. She would go there.
    When she turned, she saw that Crow was awake. She leaned to kiss him and noticed a musty odor on his body. The small cowlick at the crown of his head lay flat, as if he had been touched by a palm pressed down.
    Helen went downstairs, closing her robe around her nightgown and putting on one of Carl’s raincoats. She picked up a flashlight beside the door, stepped out, going directly into the woods. She stumbled through low brush in her bedroom slippers. A wide section of river lay only a short distance from her house, and as she approached, hearing its sound, she searched the ground for evidence that Crow was telling the truth. For the first time, she sincerely hoped that he’d been drinking at the river.
    She imagined she knew what had happened to Sophie. She imagined that Sophie had taken a mix of drugs and alcohol and had to be rushed to the hospital. She hoped her son was not to blame. She circled the flashlight on the path in front of her, and could hear thunder in the distance. She could smell the approach of rain.
    Helen knew where the boys had built a fort when they were younger, and she looked there for beer cans. When she found a pile of empties, she lifted a few, cradling them like a baby.
    She shone the flashlight at the cans and bottles, and could plainly see what had not been clear in the dim light of the forest: these cans had been there for many weeks, maybe years, some of them already busted and broken. Her evidence was no evidence at all. She dropped the cans and went back home.
    Helen tried to think of what else to do. Rain began to fall, and her thoughts split themselves into smaller and smaller pieces. She felt reduced to a bundle of distinct vibrations. The thought that her son might have to go to jail was not reasonable. She began to run. The rain stung her face and arms; her arms flailed like strings unhinged from their instrument.
    Her heart struggled against the idea that Crow might be guilty of something terrible. She prayed hard. As she entered the house, she prayed—demanding that God let this go, demanding that Crow not have to go to jail, that Sophie would be good as new in the morning, and that the whole matter be dropped. She spoke to God as if He were a houseboy.
    And she prayed all night. In bed she prayed aloud, until Carl’s patience broke.
    “Stop it, Helen! Just stop! You’re making me crazy!”
    So she held her prayers in, releasing them only through a long sigh or a frenzy of short breaths. She dreaded morning, though before this day she had always loved morning. Even as a girl she had come alive at sunrise, feeling in it a realm of indistinct possibilities. Her arms and legs felt airy, and she wondered about all the things she thought were possible. But now, in bed, she felt the burden of day.
                      
    By six o’clock she was asleep, but she woke up at seven, hearing Carl in the kitchen with Crow. She pictured both of her sons downstairs with their father, then remembered that Johnny wasn’t due home until Tuesday night. That survival course offered to seventh-and eighth-graders would keep Johnny away for a few more days, and maybe things would be sorted out before his return. Helen didn’t want to upset Johnny. She brushed her teeth, pulled her hair on top of her head, and went downstairs.
    Carl had made coffee and caught the toast as it popped up. He handed it to Crow to be buttered. Helen observed from the hallway their easiness together, their way of pretending not to think about police cars and lawyers soon to arrive. She felt as though she observed them through a glass, a grainy glass, until Crow saw