Moonrise

by Sarah Crossan

  steamed up in the first place.

  CHARITY

  A thin tap on my apartment door.

  ‘From Ed,’ Father Matthew says,

  holding out an envelope.

  He peers into the gloom behind me.

  ‘I’d invite you in

  but I don’t own a coffee pot

  and the water runs yellow,’ I explain.

  He waves away the suggestion.

  ‘Maybe I can get you a drink in town?’

  Some company would be nice,

  but there’s a limit to how much charity I can take.

  I’ve reached it.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Another time maybe,’ he says. ‘Goodnight, Joe.’

  ‘Goodnight, Father.’

  ANOTHER LETTER

  Dear Joe,

  So here it is:

  I was driving real late on Route 35

  just north of New Braunfels.

  That’s true what they said,

  I was there that night

  and I got pulled over.

  The cop was mad as hell before I even spoke.

  He checked my licence but I didn’t have

  registration documents for the wheels

  cos they was Aunt Karen’s –

  I never lied about that.

  He said he had to call it in.

  I panicked, man.

  I thought he’d see the car was Karen’s

  and take me to the station.

  I didn’t wanna go back to Staten Island.

  I didn’t wanna live with Mom.

  So when he got on his radio, I split.

  I know it was stupid but I wasn’t

  thinking straight.

  Anyway,

  I caught the cop by surprise

  and he had to run his ass back to the cruiser.

  But I had my foot to the floor and was gone.

  Didn’t even see him in the rear-view cos

  I came off the highway quick as I could,

  took some back roads.

  Thing is,

  I was low on gas so I pulled into a

  Taco Bell. I remember that cos I was dead hungry.

  I ditched the car there and took off,

  walked to a bus station.

  I seen heaps of people along the road

  and no one took any notice of me.

  I was real glad they didn’t that day,

  but after I wished I’d looked hard in

  someone’s eye

  so they could tell the jury they’d seen me,

  you know, seen me and I wasn’t

  covered in blood.

  Anyway,

  I took a bus south, the hell out of Comal County.

  And I was sitting on that bus busting my ass laughing

  cos I thought I got away with it.

  I imagined Karen would get her car back

  but I’d still be missing, which is what I wanted.

  Easy, right?

  So,

  the next week I’m pumping gas for tips in

  San Antonio,

  not thinking about that cop stopping me.

  I mean, he got my licence but it’s the

  Staten Island address.

  Then I get picked up.

  Just like that.

  These rookie cops pull into the station for air

  and take me in.

  I told them again and again

  how it happened,

  that I got stopped and got scared and bolted.

  But they started talking about a gun

  and that’s when I got real confused,

  told them I didn’t even own a gun.

  Anyway,

  I go into the station at midnight and they leave me

  in an interrogation room for hours,

  though there’s no record of that.

  Then they say they got a lawyer coming

  and was I OK answering some questions

  before the lawyer got there cos it was late?

  Well,

  they tricked me right, cos no public defender’s

  coming to a station at three in the morning,

  but I said – sure I can answer your questions –

  cos I didn’t do anything, so I wasn’t too worried,

  figured Karen would be pissed about her wheels

  but wouldn’t press charges.

  I know they have zilch on me.

  But they get mean, telling me I’m white trash.

  And they give me a lie detector test and start

  asking crazy questions about a cop

  and a shooting and a murder

  and I got no idea at all what’s happening.

  Anyway,

  later I heard I passed that damn test,

  but they tell me I failed.

  Now,

  it’s 8 o’clock in the morning and I’ve no lawyer.

  They say I’m lying, the test doesn’t make mistakes.

  They show me some papers,

  like I can understand them.

  They say maybe I shot a cop by accident cos

  I was scared

  and I say no – that’s not what happened –

  the cop was alive when I drove away.

  They say judges go easy on cons who confess,

  that if I lie they’ll give me the death penalty

  and do I know how it feels to get

  put to sleep like a bitch?

  I ask for my lawyer and they say he’s coming.

  I ask could I get some water and they say sure

  but they never bring it.

  I ask can I sleep cos by then it was the afternoon

  and I thought I was gonna fall over.

  So one officer says yeah, I can sleep.

  But he doesn’t take me back to the cell.

  He takes me to a cruiser with some other cop

  and they drive me to a street with no lamps,

  make me get out of the car.

  So,

  I can’t see any people or houses or anything.

  Just sort of a swamp. And the cops

  put a gun to my head

  and say they know I’m a killer

  and I’m gonna confess cos if I don’t

  they’ll make sure I get what’s coming.

  And you know, I was thinking

  that if I had skills and could get that gun,

  I’d shoot him for trying to spook me.

  So,

  what would you have done, Joe?

  I figured I didn’t have a choice,

  so I go back to the station and tell them everything

  I think I heard them tell me about

  what happened to the cop.

  I said it, then signed a paper just before

  my lawyer shows up and shakes his head

  and asks why I did it

  cos

  he knows

  that it doesn’t matter whether you’re innocent or not –

  if they have a confession, a jury is gonna believe it.

  But

  I was only eighteen and I was thinking

  I could sign and later tell people what happened

  by that road

  and they’d believe me cos why would someone confess

  then change his mind?

  But that signature did me in.

  Judge let them use it in court even though

  I didn’t have a lawyer when I signed

  and the confession had no details about the murder,

  nothing that proves I knew what happened.

  You know,

  when I was giving that confession,

  I asked for Mom.

  That’s sort of stupid I know,

  but I was crying and I wanted Mom to get me out.

  But we both know

  she couldn’t get herself out of a paper bag

  if it was on fire.

  Thing was,

  I didn’t understand that

  the
cop who stopped me the week before was dead.

  Shot.

  Routine stop a couple hours after mine.

  Camera in the cop car wasn’t working,

  but the last call he made was when he busted me

  and they had my picture, so every crooked cop

  in the state was looking for me –

  I was a celeb in Texas and didn’t even know it.

  Face was even on the news.

  So,

  they got me and they had to get someone

  cos a cop was dead and what they gonna do.

  Let a cop case go unsolved?

  People care big time about white police officers

  and I’m just surprised they never tried to

  stitch up some black guy. Loads of black guys

  on the row say they got stitched up

  and you gotta believe them

  if you see the news and all these cops

  shooting guys cos they’re

  walking down a dark street or whatever.

  So,

  it took the jury an hour to find me guilty.

  An hour, man.

  I waited for trains longer than that.

  Never good when a jury comes back quick –

  that’s what they say.

  There it is, Joe.

  Black and white.

  Is this the stuff you wanted to know

  straight from my mouth?

  Joe,

  I’d believe a confession if I didn’t know

  how the damn things come about.

  I’d think,

  why would you admit to something you didn’t do?

  But still,

  I’m sore as hell.

  Cos you gonna ask me now?

  This late in the game?

  I got guys who never asked me.

  Like Tyler in the cell next to mine – he knows the truth.

  Thing is,

  he admitted what he did – killed his girl.

  Took a week for the cops to find her,

  and you know what?

  I could tell him if I was guilty and

  he wouldn’t bat an eyelash

  cos what he did was so dirty.

  But he knows I’m not made like him.

  Thing is,

  if you lie about murder on the row

  it makes you the worst sort of scum.

  That’s why guys end up telling more than their share.

  Like last year,

  Colin McConnors admitted

  doing in those hitchhikers in Alaska,

  though no one even knew he was in Fairbanks

  when it happened.

  We wasn’t surprised cos McConnors is a sicko.

  The crime they got him for was rotten.

  Weird thing is,

  McConnors is OK when you talk one to one.

  He likes chess and politics.

  He’s got smarts too.

  Reads all sorts of books by Russians

  and spouts Shakespeare like a boss.

  So,

  you asked me to tell the truth,

  kind of saying I didn’t already,

  so maybe I was a real scumbag,

  worse than McConnors, someone who’s

  gonna lie

  to save my own ass.

  Well, that isn’t me.

  Anyway,

  I’m not writing to tell you to go screw it.

  I missed you and I thought about you every day

  for ten years,

  I swear.

  Come visit me again.

  I’ve not got long and I don’t wanna waste any

  more time

  being vexed.

  And you gotta stop

  wasting time wondering

  whether or not

  I’m lying.

  And maybe you gotta stop being vexed too,

  cos I seen some rage in you,

  quietly burbling, man.

  See you tomorrow, yeah?

  Ed x

  NO LIES

  There are no lies in Ed’s eyes.

  Just hurt.

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ I say.

  ‘The letter made sense?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  The letter told me he was framed,

  so that’s what I’m going to believe.

  ‘You need me to tell it to your face?’ he asks.

  His voice is barbed.

  ‘Of course not,’ I say,

  then realise I do need that,

  no matter the outcome.

  ‘Maybe,’ I admit.

  Ed shakes his head.

  ‘I’m trying not to be hurt, man.

  But it’s hard when your own blood won’t believe you.

  No one will listen.

  I wanted one person on my side, and that was you.’

  He cracks his knuckles against the desk,

  gestures for me to get closer to the glass.

  ‘I didn’t kill Frank Pheelan.

  I never touched a hair on his head.

  I was a petty thief when I came down to Texas,

  but I’ve never been a murderer.’

  He clenches his jaw.

  ‘I had to ask. I had to,’ I say.

  He shrugs. ‘OK.’

  ‘I also have to tell you something.’

  He narrows his eyes impatiently.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’d still be sitting here if you did it.

  I’d know you didn’t deserve this.’

  He blinks.

  I clench my fists.

  ‘No one does, man,’ he says.

  ‘And I can say that cos I live it.

  Anyone who disagrees oughta try it out for a day.’

  He pauses.

  ‘What does it matter?

  No one cares.

  You know they got petitions

  to stop us getting medical care cos of the cost?’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Crazy people,’ he says, and laughs.

  ‘Way crazier than any of us.

  And the worst thing is,

  they’re on the outside walking free.’

  RESPONSIBLE

  They charged Ed as an adult,

  locked him up and

  sentenced him to die

  three years before

  anyone thought

  he was old enough

  to buy a beer in a bar.

  WITH NELL

  Nell drops down

  into the swimming pool then

  shunts away

  so we aren’t touching.

  ‘He didn’t do it,’ I tell her.

  ‘He was a dropout, but not a killer.

  I don’t know why I had to ask.

  I knew him back then.’

  I study her face under the dim moon,

  wishing she’d move closer,

  wishing I could be less of a creep

  and just enjoy what we have –

  stop wanting more.

  Then she takes my hand.

  It’s sweaty, but so is mine.

  ‘Wanna watch Armageddon?

  Bruce is, like, an awesomely hot dad in it.’

  ‘That would be cool,’ I say,

  and we go inside.

  WE DON’T KISS

  We don’t even keep holding hands.

  We watch Armageddon and

  eat marshmallows.

  That’s all.

  It’s a pretty great night.

  THE CEILING FAN

  The ceiling fan doesn’t spin,

  won’t turn and churn

  any sort of air around the room.

  I glare at it from the bed

  and then,

  without really wanting to,

  think of Nell.

  Is she showering?

  Sleeping?

  Between sheets smelling soapy?

  I want these thoughts to stir me, but they don’t.

  All I feel is loss,

&nbs
p; an ache nowhere near my pants

  but up in my chest

  and in my arms too.

  I want to hold on to her,

  have her lie on me – feel her full weight

  pinning me down.

  And I want to message her,

  say goodnight,

  but don’t want to chase her away.

  I plug in my phone on the other side of the room

  so I can’t check it every seven seconds.

  I turn over,

  imagine Nell is next to me.

  It makes me smile. It makes me sad.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I wish the damn ceiling fan would work.

  ROUTINE

  Every morning

  I work on the junker in the sun

  and it never turns over.

  Every afternoon

  I visit Ed and we pretend that talking

  through glass is normal.

  Every afternoon

  Angela calls to tell me she’s working hard for tips,

  that she’ll

  be in Wakeling soon.

  Every night

  Nell and I hang out –

  and it helps the other stuff

  seem a bit less

  crappy.

  ANGELA CALLS

  ‘Hey … Ange …’ I pant,

  putting my mouth under the kitchen faucet,

  gulping in lukewarm water

  after my run.

  ‘You find a flight?’

  She clicks her tongue.

  ‘I’m gonna call Aunt Karen and ask for a loan.

  How you doing for cash?’ she asks.

  ‘Don’t worry about me.

  And don’t ask Karen.

  If she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care.’

  Angela is mute. Guilty.

  But none of this is her fault.

  We’re doing our best,

  and if I was the one with the job

  then she’d be down here with Ed

  instead of me.

  Maybe I should blame Aunt Karen.

  Or I could get pissed at Mom, Dad,

  the State of Texas.

  I could make a list, rank the culprits:

  And making a new entry this week

  at No.5 is Ed’s arresting officer …

  ‘Joe?’ Angela whispers.

  ‘I’m here,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know,’ she says.