Moonrise

by Sarah Crossan

‘I gotta go in.

  And you better leave before my dad gets home.’

  ‘Can I see you again?’ I say aloud,

  but under my breath mumble Nell’s words:

  who the hell do you think you are?

  SUPERHERO

  Ed told me that when I got older

  I could be anything I wanted.

  ‘Can I be Spiderman?’ I asked.

  ‘Why not?’ he said.

  ‘And can I leave Arlington?’

  He hesitated,

  just a second,

  long enough for me to know something was up.

  BEFORE THE SUN RISES

  I wake at four thirty

  and spend too long

  calculating the number of days

  left until Ed’s execution.

  It’s July 9,

  which gives us over a month

  until August 18 –

  not that Ed will see

  any of his execution day;

  he’s scheduled to die a minute past midnight.

  Ed will be cold

  before the sun rises.

  I peel myself out of bed and go for another run.

  I want to improve my splits.

  COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS

  As soon as Thanksgiving was done,

  I wanted it to be Christmas,

  daydreamed about all the toys

  Santa Claus would place beneath the tree.

  ‘He won’t come if you’re naughty,’ Mom said,

  scraping soggy cornflakes into the trash can.

  Ed elbowed me,

  bit into a slice of burnt toast.

  ‘Course he’ll come, Joe.

  You best write a letter

  so you don’t get a potato peeler.’

  We wrote the letter together

  and mailed it early,

  asking for stuff I knew Mom couldn’t afford,

  that Santa’s elves would make in the workshop –

  a Star Wars Lego set,

  a superhero costume,

  a set of paints, glitter and bright white paper.

  Could they sew together new sneakers?

  While heavy snow fell

  and the Hudson almost froze,

  I counted off the days until Christmas.

  And I never realised that the reason

  Ed and Angela were so busy

  shovelling sidewalks

  was to make sure

  I didn’t cry with disappointment

  on Christmas morning

  and believe that Santa thought

  I had been bad.

  BREAKFAST BAGEL

  Nell tosses me a plastic-wrapped bagel.

  ‘Sue made it. Cream cheese and tomato.

  And it’s soup for lunch again, if you’ll be here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A dribble of sweat runs down my back.

  ‘Hey, do you wanna hang out later?

  We could get beers, sit in the back of the junker.’

  Nell rubs the end of her nose.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says.

  Without an explanation,

  she returns to the diner.

  I watch her go.

  Has she searched Ed’s name online?

  Google would tell her everything she wanted to know

  about him,

  about me,

  our whole family.

  I bite into the bagel,

  ticked off

  Sue didn’t send out a drink

  to go with my breakfast.

  FATHER MATTHEW

  At the Section A entryway

  an old guy with

  soft eyes

  approaches

  nervously.

  Despite the heat

  he’s wearing a woollen sweater.

  His beard has dandruff.

  ‘I’m Father Matthew,

  Ed’s spiritual adviser.’

  He holds out a hand and I shake it.

  ‘And you’re his brother Joseph?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ I mutter.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this.’

  He waves at the prison walls.

  A grey-haired guard looks up from

  her gossip magazine.

  ‘I’m available for you too.

  And anyone else in the family,’ the priest continues.

  ‘Look, Father …’

  ‘Sometimes it’s helpful to talk,’ he says quickly.

  I sniff.

  Does he think I haven’t talked about this already?

  It’s all Angela wants to discuss:

  Ed’s crime, case,

  how long he has left,

  playing on a loop in her head.

  ‘I’m here if you change your mind,’ he says.

  ‘Try to trust in God, son.’

  Rage rushes through me

  and I point

  my finger right between his eyes.

  ‘You know what, Father?

  God didn’t put Ed in here.

  Men did that.

  And it’s men keeping him here.

  So go blow your God crap

  at someone else, cos I’m not buying it.’

  The priest doesn’t flinch.

  ‘Joseph –’ he begins.

  ‘My name’s Joe,’ I say.

  ‘And you know nothing about me at all.’

  PUBLIC RELATIONS

  When the news broke in New York

  that Ed was a suspected murderer,

  kids in my class were warned by their petrified parents

  to keep away from me,

  the bad boy, sad boy,

  God-only-knows-what-goes-on-behind-that-door boy.

  Ed came from our house –

  a place they suddenly assumed

  was cooking up evil like

  chicken soup.

  It’s not like they were the Gospel-spreading types;

  half the neighbourhood were up to no good,

  ducking taxes and stealing cable.

  But Ed’s crime put us in another league,

  and that’s where Aunt Karen stepped in –

  she spat on us and shined us up to look

  like a decent family,

  stood in for Mom and Dad,

  fed us and petted us,

  tried to turn things around.

  And for this, I guess, I should be grateful.

  But Karen never asked how happy we were or

  what we wanted –

  it was all about how things looked from

  the outside;

  what other people thought

  was all that was important,

  and how we felt about ourselves was irrelevant.

  Our desires didn’t matter.

  Karen stole Ed from us

  and

  we’ll never get those years back.

  THE WALL

  Ed’s knuckles are bruised a plummy purple.

  He rubs them and laughs.

  ‘You think this is something?

  In here? Joe, this is nothing.’

  ‘Why’d you fight?’

  I want to hear how he defended himself

  against the toughest guys,

  lunatics locked up for burying people alive,

  monsters who are nothing like him.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me shower,’ he says.

  ‘I missed my slot, so now I stink.’

  ‘Who’d you hit?’

  He looks ashamed.

  Was it Father Matthew?

  A guard?

  ‘I punched a wall,’ he says.

  ‘And I know this looks painful,

  but you should see the wall.’

  He winks

  and the rest of the visit goes great.

  A JOKE

  Al Mitchell meets me by the prison gates

  and shakes my hand like I’m a man.

  ‘Good to meet you, Joe.

  Let’s take a walk,’ he says,

  but we don’t g
o far

  before he stops

  and kicks a stone

  with the toe of his leather loafer.

  ‘I was in Houston today.

  The state denied our appeal. I’m sorry.

  The cop’s wife wants the sentence commuted to life

  but she’s not the one prosecuting Ed –

  the state’s doing that.

  Anyway, the judge wasn’t interested in her letter.

  Listened with one ear, you know?

  The Supreme Court will be more impartial.

  If we can get the federal court to hear us,

  we have a real chance of winning.

  This isn’t over.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  He rests a hot hand on my arm.

  ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’

  Is that it?

  Is this all down to luck?

  The judge Ed gets, the jury?

  ‘Justice is a joke,’ I say.

  Al nods.

  ‘Look, Joe, this process will change you.

  I’ve seen it plenty of times.

  I’ve felt it myself in my heart.

  What’s happening is hell,

  and as long as you survive,

  you’ve done well.’

  He squeezes my arm and I don’t pull away,

  don’t play the tough guy to fend him off.

  Instead I ask,

  ‘What are his chances?’

  Al’s cell phone rings.

  Without glancing at it, he clicks it off –

  shuts out whoever needs him.

  It’s a little thing, ignoring that call,

  but it means a lot.

  ‘We still have options,’ he says vaguely,

  and turning us around,

  heads back to death row

  so he can break the bad news

  to my brother.

  MY LIFE NOW

  I run to Nell’s place quickly –

  my splits around ten seconds quicker than usual.

  I want to hang out with her,

  chill in her backyard and guzzle beer.

  Or we could sip water.

  Whatever.

  Anything.

  But there’s a blue truck in the driveway.

  The same truck that picked her up

  from the gas station.

  So I return to the apartment,

  put a frozen pizza in the oven

  and set an alarm to beep after twelve minutes.

  Angela calls and we talk about

  the weather – compare New York summers to Texan ones.

  This is my life now.

  THE PROSECUTOR

  The morning news features Ed’s story again –

  his mean mugshot,

  his handsome victim,

  the state attorney

  outside the courthouse

  yesterday

  looking so pleased with himself

  you’d think he’d won

  first prize in a meat raffle.

  The state attorney puffs up his chest,

  presses his mouth to the microphones.

  ‘We are delighted that

  Judge Byron did not reverse the decision

  made by the original trial judge and jury,

  nor saw any valid reason for a retrial.’

  Cameras flash,

  questions are asked

  and the prosecutor beams,

  dying to elaborate

  and spout hate against Ed.

  I turn the TV off;

  I hate his face.

  THE COST

  It costs around four million dollars

  to go through with an execution.

  That’s eight times more money

  than to imprison someone for life.

  Not that anyone gives a damn:

  killing is worth every cent.

  WHERE IT ENDS

  Ed talks like a high-speed train.

  ‘I seen over a hundred guys in this place

  go to the chamber,

  and every one thought he’d get off in the end.’

  He scratches his head.

  ‘And you know what’s really screwed up?

  When those guys said goodbye

  they didn’t do it properly cos

  they thought that a minute before midnight

  the governor would ring-a-ding-ding

  and say they’ve made a massive mistake.

  But this isn’t the movies.

  No one’s walking out the front door in a suit.

  When folks here say you’re for the gurney,

  they aren’t messing around.

  The only way out is in a box.’

  He laughs bitterly.

  I don’t know this Ed.

  So far I’ve only seen

  the one who believes it’ll be OK.

  ‘This is where it ends, Joe,’ he whispers.

  ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  MY VERSION

  He leans on a row of railings,

  chews on gum

  and pretty confidently squints away the sun.

  He’s older than me,

  but not by much.

  ‘Joe?’ he wants to know.

  He’s too friendly.

  ‘Have we met?’

  He picks up a canvas satchel,

  throws it across his body,

  runs and stumbles to get to me

  before I’m through the prison gates.

  His shirtsleeves are rolled up,

  shoes scuffed.

  ‘How did Ed cope with losing his appeal?’ he asks.

  He lets his head fall to one side in sympathy

  and I know then who he is and what he wants –

  even Karen’s takeover at home all those years ago

  couldn’t keep the newshounds from the door.

  ‘I’m not talking to the press,’ I hiss.

  He holds up his hands.

  ‘Dude, I just wanna know how Ed’s holding up.

  Maybe you guys want your story told.

  Your version of things.’

  ‘My story? This isn’t a story,

  you asshole.

  This is my life.’

  I make my expression mean.

  ‘You interested in knowing more about me?

  You wanna see the kind of guy I can be?’

  He comes closer

  so we’re chin-to-chin.

  ‘You know what, dude,

  that would also make an excellent story.’

  He laughs, taunting me,

  steps back and with his phone snaps a photo.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  a guard calls out,

  inspecting us from Section A,

  a hand on his holster.

  My anger bubbles.

  But it won’t do Ed any good getting into a fight.

  ‘My brother’s innocent,’ I snarl.

  ‘Write that in your stupid paper.’

  INNOCENT

  Is Ed innocent?

  I mean,

  I’ve never actually asked him outright.

  THE TIP JAR

  Sue’s lips are pinched around the

  butt of her cigarette.

  ‘Any luck with the car today, hun?’ she asks.

  ‘Nah. But I’ll try again tomorrow.’

  I take a seat at the counter

  where Sue ladles lentils

  from a copper pot into a brown bowl,

  plops it in front of me.

  ‘I’ve plenty, so shout if you’re still hungry.’

  I slurp at the soup,

  glance up at the wall clock.

  Fifty minutes until visiting time.

  ‘Hey, Sue,

  I don’t suppose you could spare a few bucks

  so I can catch a bus?

  I’ll give it back.’

  I hate myself for asking

  but I’m tired of trekking through the humidity.

  Sue slides her tip jar,
/>   filled with

  crumpled dollar bills

  and multicoloured coins,

  across the counter.

  ‘Ain’t much, but take what you need.’

  ‘I’ll pay it back. I promise.’

  Sue pats my hand.

  ‘Relax and eat your lunch, hun.’

  BAD NEWS

  The diner door pings and Nell appears.

  She doesn’t see me at first,

  hums her way to the counter

  swinging a set of car keys.

  ‘Thanks for taking such a late lunch order,’

  she tells Sue.

  ‘Daddy’s at home

  and all we have in the house is cheese string.’

  ‘Gimme a sec.’

  Sue disappears into the kitchen.

  Nell sits on a stool next to me.

  ‘You’re avoiding me,’ I say.

  ‘Like, just a fraction?’

  She reaches for a menu to fan her face.

  ‘Shit. I thought I was being subtle about it.’

  ‘Not really.

  I mean,

  one night we’re hanging out, then I never see you.

  I feel used.’

  I keep my voice light

  so she thinks I’m teasing.

  But Nell is serious.

  ‘Look, Joe, I’m bad news to you.’

  I force a laugh.

  ‘I love bad news.’

  Then Sue is beside us with a bag.

  She shifts from one foot

  to the other.

  ‘Here’s your order, hun.’