Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Page A

called last night, and he would’ve gone. She wondered if her people realized the enormous space that John O’Malley filled on the rez, like the space he had filled in her life, and the enormous emptiness that he would leave behind should he ever go away.
    â€œWhat kinds of questions?” She had to force her thoughts back. They were heading south now on 287 behind a truck that spit gravel off the bed. Brown dust flecked the windshield like mosquitoes.Vicky turned on the wipers and tried to focus on the road past the spray of water and the gradual appearance of a clear half-circle of glass.
    T.J. sucked in a breath, then he said, “ ‘Who’d the gun belong to? Where’d Denise get it?’ How the hell do I know? Denise hated guns, never would touch them. ‘Was she depressed? On drugs? Drinking?’ Christ. Denise never took a drink in her life. She was the one put up with me when I was drinking. Last night . . .” He hesitated. Out of the corner of her eye, Vicky could see him jabbing his fingers into his hair. “I’m not proud . . .”
    â€œI know, T.J.” The odor of whiskey was still there, encapsulated in the Jeep, permeating the seat and dashboard. She followed the truck around the curve into Lander, staying back a couple of car lengths from gravel still rolling like marbles over the asphalt. Down Main Street several blocks, then right, left. She pulled into the empty space in front of the blocklike apartment building. Usually she ran up the stairs to the second floor, but T.J. was shaking now, unsteady on his feet, lurching as they walked up the sidewalk. Inside the entry, she punched the elevator button and waited until the yellow light came on and the doors parted. She guided T.J. inside, where he slumped against the back railing. After the elevator rocked to a stop, she took the man’s arm and led him down the hall to her door at the far end.
    â€œThere’s lunchmeat and fruit in the fridge.” she said, showing him into the living room. “Bread in the drawer.” She waved at the small kitchen and led him down the hall. The bath on the left, the cabinet with clean towels. The bedroom on the right. A white terry cloth robe on the closet door, an array of cosmetics spread over the dresser top, books stacked on the bedside table. She found a wool blanket in the closet and set it on the bed. “You can put this over you,” she said.
    His arms were around her, pulling her into him, his mouth moving over her face, the odor of whiskey like a blanket suffocating her.“Stay with me, Vicky,” he whispered. “I need you to stay with me. I never needed anything more in my whole life.”
    â€œStop it, T.J.” Vicky managed to get her fists between them and push at his chest. He leaned away, and she pushed again as hard as she could until he was staggering backward, arms flapping at his side. He crashed into the foot of the bed and flopped down on his back.
    â€œI’ll be out front at a quarter to three,” she managed, her breath caught in her chest. “For Godsakes, T.J., pull yourself together.”

6
    FATHER JOHN HEARD the phone ringing as he bounded up the concrete steps to the administration building. He yanked open the heavy wood door and sprinted across the entry to his office on the right. Before he could pick up, the ringing stopped. From down the hall came the voice of Father Damien, filled with the authority of an executive in his father’s company. Father John tossed his jacket over the coat tree. The conversation seemed one-sided, Damien’s voice occasionally punctuating the quiet.
    â€œVery good.” He was breaking off. “We’ll see you later.”
    Father John sat down at his desk and started working his way through the papers and folders spilling across the top, aware of the clack of boots coming down the hall. He looked up as Damien executed a sharp turn and