Carolina Moon

scrub-grass yard. She sucked her thumb and stared vacantly as the spiffy convertible drove by.
    Yes, Tory thought. They knew what to expect.
    The road turned, climbed a little, then veered off in a fork. J.R. switched off the music and slowed to a crawl to navigate the dirt and gravel path.
    “Your county taxes at work,” he said, with an attempt at a joke, then only sighed and eased his car into the hardpack driveway that butted up to the house.
    No, not a house, Tory corrected. A shack. You couldn’t call such a thing a house, and never a home. The roof sagged, and like an old man’s smile, showed gaps where shingles had blown away or fallen off. The ancient speckled gray siding was torn and ragged. One of the windows was plugged with cardboard. The yard, such as it was, was choked with weeds. Dandelion and thistle grew in nasty abundance. An old cast-iron sink lay on its side and showed a black fist-sized hole in the bowl.
    Beside and back from the house was a metal building gray with grime and spotted with blood-colored rust. A wire fence spit out from its side and in this enclosure a dozen or so scrawny chickens pecked at the dirt and complained.
    The stench of them stung the air.
    “Jesus. Jesus Christ,” J.R. muttered. “Didn’t think it would be this bad. You never think it’ll be this bad. No call for this. No call for it to come to this.”
    “She knows we’re here,” Tory said dully, and pushed the car door open. “She’s been waiting.”
    J.R. slammed his own door, then as they walked toward the house lay his hand on Tory’s shoulder.
    She wondered if he was giving her support, or asking for it.
    The woman who appeared had gray hair. Stone gray that was scraped back pitilessly from a thin face. The skin seemed to be scraped back as well, so that the bones jutted out like knobs. The lines that bracketed her mouth might have been carved with a knife, and the deep gouge of them pulled the lips down into misery.
    She wore a wrinkled cotton dress, too big for her, and a small silver cross between her lifeless breasts.
    Her eyes, rimmed red as fire, glanced at Tory, then away, fast, as if a look could burn.
    “You didn’t say you were bringing her.”
    “Hello, Mama.”
    “You didn’t say you were bringing her,” Sarabeth said again, then pushed open the screen. “Haven’t I got worries enough?”
    J.R. gave Tory’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’re here to do what we can to help, Sari.” With his hand still on Tory’s shoulder, J.R. stepped inside.
    The air stank of garbage gone over, of stale sweat. Of hopelessness.
    “I don’t know what you can do, ‘less you can get that woman, that lying slut, down to Hartsville to tell the truth.” She pulled a tattered tissue out of her dress pocket and blew her nose. “I’m at my wit’s end, J.R. I think something awful’s happened to my Han. He’s never stayed away so long as this.”
    “Why don’t we sit down?” He transferred his hand from Tory to his sister, then scanned the room.
    His stomach clenched.
    There was a sagging sofa draped in a dingy yellow slipcover, and a vile green recliner patched with duct tape. The tables were littered with paper plates, plastic cups, and what he supposed was the remains of last night’s dinner. A woodstove, streaked with soot, stood in the corner, hobbled on three legs with a block of wood for the fourth.
    There was a picture of a mournful Jesus, exposing his Sacred Heart, inside a cheap wire frame.
    As his sister’s face was still buried in her tissue, J.R. led her to the sofa and sent a pleading look at Tory.
    “Why don’t I make some coffee?”
    “Got some instant left.” Sarabeth lowered the tissue and stared at the wall rather than look at her daughter. “I haven’t felt much like going to the store, didn’t want to go far from home in case Han …”
    Saying nothing, Tory turned away. The house was shot-gun style, so she walked straight back into the kitchen. Dishes were piled in the sink, and the splatters on the stove were old and crusted. Her shoes stuck to the torn linoleum floor.
    During Tory’s childhood, Sarabeth had cleaned like a tornado, chasing dust and grime, whirling through them as though they were sins against the soul. As Tory filled the kettle she wondered when her mother had given up this nervous habit, when poverty and disinterest had outweighed the illusion that she was making a home, or that God would come into it as long as the floor was swept.
    Then she