Moonrise

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘And I’m coming soon.’

  USA

  Another press conference was held in Houston

  last night,

  aired on breakfast news.

  It was following a Republican Party fundraiser.

  Governor McDowell had eaten a five course meal

  followed by Scotch and cigars.

  He’d met Miss USA

  in her winning pink sash

  and they’d posed for photos.

  And McDowell, nicely juiced, stood at a podium

  and said it was ‘premature’

  to offer Ed executive clemency

  and he’d be ‘waiting for the court’s decision’

  before reviewing the case again.

  Then he climbed into a chauffeur-driven Cadillac.

  I’m guessing he slept pretty soundly

  in a Hilton penthouse suite.

  I’m guessing he didn’t dream of needles but

  maybe he did think about

  Miss USA and her pretty pink sash.

  Ed’s life is in this guy’s hands.

  IF

  Al Mitchell calls.

  ‘Try not to worry.

  These things often go down to the wire.’

  ‘But if the Supreme Court refuse to hear Ed’s case

  or deny his appeal,

  that asshole will be the only person

  with any power to postpone the execution.

  It isn’t right.’

  I am ranting.

  I can hear myself.

  Al sighs.

  I can’t tell whether he’s frustrated with me

  or annoyed with McDowell.

  Maybe it’s neither of those things.

  He has his own life after all.

  ‘It’s bullshit. I agree.

  And your brother’s case is based on a false confession.

  If I’d been the defence lawyer back then …’

  He sighs again.

  ‘You’re his lawyer now,’ I say,

  trying to bolster the guy

  who’s meant to be bolstering me.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says,

  ‘And I promise.

  I’m doing everything I can.’

  THIRTY MINUTES

  Ed’s eyes are bloodshot,

  cheeks a little sunken.

  ‘I’ve not been sleeping,’ he says.

  He rubs his face with both hands.

  ‘I heard from Mom.’

  He smirks

  and I wonder if it’s a joke.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Our beloved mother called.

  Warden let me talk to her for thirty minutes.’

  ‘Thirty minutes?’

  It’s been years since I’ve spoken to Mom.

  I don’t even know what her voice sounds like.

  ‘She wanted to know how I was.

  Wanted to know about this place,

  how the guards treat us.

  She asked how long she’s got to come visit.

  I swear, man,

  she said it like I was moving house.’

  He turns to the pale guard

  standing behind him,

  grins like we’re all sharing a joke.

  ‘Mom’s gonna visit?’ I ask.

  My heart beats hard.

  He sneers. ‘What do you think?

  I told her we’d get it figured out.

  She cried,’ he says.

  ‘Real blubber show.

  But those tears weren’t for me, man –

  she just wanted to be forgiven.’

  He pauses.

  ‘She asked about you and Angela.’

  I am silent.

  ‘And you know what?’

  He leans forward.

  ‘I could hear a TV.

  She never even turned off the TV to call me.’

  He laughs.

  ‘What do you think of that?’

  AUNT KAREN CALLS

  ‘Joe? It’s me.’

  Her voice is as hard

  as the stone in an apricot.

  ‘Hi, Aunt Karen.’

  ‘Are you still in Wakeling?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’re alive?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And Ed’s coping?’

  ‘I guess,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s fine then,’ she replies,

  and without

  any goodbye

  closes the phone.

  My first thought:

  I didn’t hear the sound of any TV

  in the background.

  STRICT

  For my eleventh birthday I wanted to go to a

  football game.

  ‘I haven’t money for that,’ Aunt Karen complained.

  So instead she made a chocolate cake,

  used M&Ms to write my name,

  KitKat sticks for the frame.

  She stuck eleven red candles in it, lit them and

  we sang ‘Happy Birthday’

  before eating our spaghetti bolognese,

  the cake for dessert only.

  Dad was gone ten years.

  Ed was gone four.

  Mom had left the previous summer.

  Aunt Karen was under no obligation to stay.

  ‘It’s like being in the military,’ Angela and I said,

  wishing she’d disappear and leave us to

  have parties and eat junk food.

  But at least there was milk in the fridge

  and clean clothes in the closets.

  Usually we were glad Aunt Karen was

  tougher than

  anyone else.

  Usually we were glad she hadn’t bailed.

  THE WORST THING

  ‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’ I ask Nell.

  She bites into the steak sandwich

  Sue sent out for me,

  then hands it over.

  ‘Needs more onion,’ she says.

  ‘So? The worst thing?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yeah, chill out, I’m thinking.’

  She examines the engine with her fingertips.

  ‘I yelled at my dad,’ she says.

  She fiddles with the oil cap,

  and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic.

  ‘I told him he was going to hell.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos of what he’s responsible for.’

  She isn’t looking at me.

  Her fingertips are greasy now.

  ‘Does he hurt you?’

  She sniffs.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘He loves me.

  That’s the thing.

  He’s this big, gentle guy.

  But he …

  We’re always arguing.

  It’s my fault.

  He’s nice to me.

  I just can’t be kind back.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She looks away.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.

  Anyway, what about you?’

  I’ve made out with my friends’ girlfriends,

  stolen stuff,

  beaten up guys for no good reason.

  I hated Mom for leaving and hoped she’d die,

  hated Karen for caring and hoped she’d leave.

  ‘I rarely admit I have a brother,’ I tell her.

  ‘When I meet new people,

  I pretend Ed doesn’t exist

  so I won’t have to explain.

  And now it’s looking like he might not exist.

  So yeah.

  That’s the worst thing.’

  Nell wipes her hands on her shirt.

  ‘You didn’t make this happen,’ she says.

  ‘And you know what else?’

  She steps towards me,

  touches my elbow.

  ‘We aren’t the worst things we did

  or the worst things that happened to us.

  We’re other stuff too.

  Like …

  We’re the times we made cereal
>
  or watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer

  or helped an old lady off a bus.

  We’re the good, the bad, and the stupid, right?’

  She smiles and

  grabs the steak sandwich like it

  spoke out of turn.

  ‘I’ll eat this and get you something else.

  What do you want?’

  Should I say, I want you, Nell?

  ‘You stay there and mull it over.

  I’ll get you a cheeseburger.’

  ‘Actually the steak sandwich looked good.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late. Last of the meat.’

  She bites into it again.

  ‘But it definitely needs more onion.

  Like, loads more.’

  POSSIBLE

  Before I take off,

  Sue comes out.

  She peers under the hood.

  ‘Maybe you should find another job.’

  ‘You fed up feeding me?’ I ask.

  She pokes me in the arm.

  ‘It’s breaking my heart

  watching you melting out here,’ she says.

  ‘Lenny told me it’s hopeless.’

  ‘Not hopeless,’ I say. ‘Just difficult.’

  ‘Really difficult,’ she says.

  ‘But possible,’ I remind her.

  ‘I mean, anything’s possible.’

  TOM HANKS

  Ed isn’t wearing the usual shackles

  around wrists and ankles.

  And the warden is with him,

  behind him.

  He pats Ed’s back as

  my brother sits.

  Philip Miller mutters something before wandering away.

  Ed picks up the phone.

  ‘Jesus, Joe, you been grilled like bacon!’

  He laughs.

  His guard can’t help grinning either.

  I touch my forehead,

  beet red and peeling.

  It kind of hurts too.

  ‘What did the warden want?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, he’s just saying thanks for getting

  Tom Hanks to take a shower.’

  Is Ed going nuts?

  It happens to guys on death row,

  which wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  I mean,

  you can’t execute a lunatic.

  ‘Tom Hanks?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s what we started calling Kierney.

  You seen Cast Away?

  Tom Hanks is on an island,

  beard like a hobo,

  eventually goes crazy and

  starts screaming at a volley ball.

  “Wilson! Wilson!”

  You remember?

  That film was depressing though, man.

  His fiancée married another guy.

  Never waited for him.

  I couldn’t figure that out.’

  I want to say, It’s cos she thinks he’s dead.

  Instead I say,

  ‘You convinced an inmate to take a shower?’

  ‘Why didn’t his fiancée ditch her husband?

  Wouldn’t you, if you loved someone?

  I would.

  I’d put love first, you know?’

  ‘You convinced someone to shower.’

  ‘Oh, Joe, you woulda done the same.

  Hanks was starting to hum,

  then they went and moved him next to me

  cos they knew I’d talk that wacko down.’

  The warden reappears with

  a can of Sprite in his hands.

  He puts it on the desk,

  then looks at me for far too long.

  I pretend I don’t notice.

  He leaves.

  Ed continues to talk and

  I listen but can’t help staring at the soda

  – a gift from the warden –

  a thank you cos Ed was helpful.

  ‘Give back the soda,’ I say, stopping Ed mid-sentence.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I got work,’ I lie.

  ‘I’ll send money for more sodas.

  Don’t drink that one.’

  Ed holds the cold can to his forehead.

  ‘It’s just a drink, Joe.

  Don’t get silly.’

  I pound the desk with my fist.

  ‘It isn’t just a drink.’

  The guard in my room sucks her teeth.

  ‘Cool down or you’re done here.’

  Ed taps on the glass. ‘What’s wrong, man?’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘You did them a favour.

  They know you’re a decent guy

  yet they got you locked up like a serial killer.

  Why’s Tom Hanks here?

  He probably butchered his own mother.’

  Ed shrugs.

  ‘They’re doing a job, I guess.’

  He opens the soda and gulps it down greedily.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I say loudly,

  for the benefit of the guard behind me,

  ‘I wouldn’t work here for a million bucks.’

  Ed finishes the soda.

  ‘You know, Joe,

  you’re made of stronger stuff

  than most people.’

  He looks at me

  like he can really see me.

  But he doesn’t know me at all.

  If he did, he’d see how much I hate this,

  how little more I can take,

  how much I need Angela here

  or even Aunt Karen.

  The only thing I’ve got is Nell.

  And I haven’t got her like I want her.

  ‘The soda was a pay-off,’ I say.

  Ed won’t argue.

  ‘Mr Miller knows a soda isn’t saving his soul.’

  ‘He knows you’re a good guy.’

  ‘Am I?’ Ed scratches his head.

  ‘I didn’t gun down a cop,

  but I’m not a thoroughbred good guy.

  I’m just ploughing through.

  It’s all any of us can do, right?

  Even the warden.’

  ‘Some people have power,’ I say.

  ‘We all have power, Joe.

  Just gotta know how to use it, man.’

  I don’t know what he means

  but I can’t ask cos the guard calls time.

  Power?

  I can’t even pay for a soda.

  BROKEN

  Death row is a place for broken people

  just like Tom Hanks.

  They can’t be fixed,

  warped all out of shape

  by the cracks and splinters inside them.

  And what else can you do with stuff that’s broken

  except throw it into the trash?

  Right?

  THE APARTMENT

  The apartment was gross when I rented it:

  bugs everywhere,

  sticky floors,

  stained carpets.

  But now Nell is visiting for breakfast

  I do what I can:

  clean the countertops,

  stick some frozen bagels into the oven

  to mask the smell;

  wipe down the sink with a dirty sock.

  I do my best and still the place stinks,

  not somewhere I want to be with Nell.

  She knocks and I open the door,

  planning to take her elsewhere.

  She pushes straight past me.

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ she says.

  I point down the hall and she disappears,

  runs the water

  so I can’t hear her pee.

  And she comes back smiling.

  ‘I was bursting.

  Shouldn’t have had a gallon of juice.

  So this is your place.’

  She stands in front of me,

  puts a hand on my chest. ‘You OK?’

  I nod. My heart pounds under her hand.

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ she asks.

  I nod again. My heart pounds harder.


  ‘I only came over for one thing,’ she says.

  LIKE HELLFIRE

  The longer I stand there, the fewer words I have.

  But speechless never happens when I’m with a girl.

  Like ever.

  I don’t have a lot going for me,

  but I know how to talk to girls,

  get them to like me.

  Nell smiles.

  It makes me want to

  press her

  against the wall,

  kiss her until neither of us can breathe.

  But I don’t do this.

  I just stand staring,

  happy to know she trusts me.

  ‘Holy crap. Have you gone shy?’ she asks.

  I don’t wait any more.

  I put my hands behind her head,

  pull her to me

  and kiss her,

  mouth open,

  heart hammering like hellfire.

  KISSING

  Who knew kissing could feel so good?

  Nell’s lips, tongue, taste.

  Gentle sips of her,

  then great big gulps.

  Her breath on my neck and

  one word

  in her mouth repeated over and over:

  ‘Joe. Joe. Joe. Joe.’

  It was everything.

  And when she left, I didn’t go for a run.

  I didn’t need to run anywhere.

  TURN OVER

  Sue disappears from the window without waving.

  She doesn’t come out with food either.