The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon

by Norman G. Gautreau

  “But when it comes to your own aging, you’ve turned a blind eye.”

  “The hell, I have. I’m intimately aware of my limitations. I curse them every day! Every time I bend a damned knee, I curse them.”

  With her glass in her hand, Callie made a time-out sign. “Time out everybody. I slaved in the kitchen to make us a nice dinner. Let’s table this discussion for later.”

  “No, Callie,” I said, shooting her what I hoped was an impish smile. “We might as well have this out now.” I took a sip of my drink, looked each of them in the eye, and said, “Which means, it’s time to make the announcement I really called you here for.”

  “You mean it’s not about this D-Day trip, Dad?” Richard asked.

  “Well, that still stands, but it’s not the primary reason.”

  “And saying you love us all wasn’t the real reason either?” asked Natalie, the snark evident in her tone.

  “That, too, stands,” I said. “And, in a way, that’s my most important message. But there’s something else. And it’s the reason I refused to install one of those damned stair-lifts.” I paused and looked at each of my children in turn. “I’ve sold the house.”

  My announcement had the effect I hoped it would. For a few seconds, a stunned silence settled on the room. The only sounds were the cries of seagulls, that damned lawn mower in the distance that always seemed to be going, and the chink-rattle of ice in crystal glasses. Finally, Natalie asked, “Are you serious?”

  “Would I joke about something like that?”

  “But, why?”

  “You all seem shocked. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I am,” said Natalie. “We are,” she added, looking around the room and getting nods of assent. “I think we’re all happy about it, but why did you suddenly decide to sell?”

  “It wasn’t sudden,” I said. “I’d been thinking about it even before your mother died. All of you are right about the stairs. I started to think I’d be better off living on one level. I’m not as bull-headed as you all seem to think I am. But the clincher came when Luana retired and went back to the Philippines. I realized how much your mother and I depended on her and I’m not about to go through the hassle of finding another housemaid who would have to learn my habits.”

  “Did you and Mom talk about it before she passed?”

  “Once or twice. But I only made the decision after she died.”

  “And then you just decided to sell without telling any of us?” Natalie asked.

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “But, Dad, Marshall’s a real estate agent. He could have helped.”

  “What? From the South Shore? It would have been an imposition.”

  “But he would have been—”

  “Besides, he doesn’t know the Gloucester market. No offense, Marshall,” I added, offering a toast with my highball glass. “You need a local for this sort of thing, and I found a good one.”

  “No offense taken,” said Marshall who turned to Natalie and said, “He’s right, you know.”

  “So, Dad, where will you live?” Judy asked.

  “Would you consider assisted living?” Natalie asked. “It’s the perfect time, and you can afford it.”

  “No.”

  “But it would be so good for you.”

  “What? Eating when everyone else eats? Pick any one of three items on the menu? Let’s see, it’s Tuesday, must be meatloaf or spaghetti-and-meatballs or beans-and-franks. Playing Bingo or some such crap game with a bunch of old coots? And on Friday nights—Jesus Christ, save me!—on Friday nights dance to the music of Lawrence Welk with some doddering old lady? Sorry, that’s not for me. And your mother hated the idea of it, too.”

  “No, she didn’t,” said Natalie. “She thought it was fine. Sensible.”

  “Well, then I hated it for her.”

  “But who will take care of you?” Judy piped up again.

  “I will take care of me!”

  “Sure, but for how long?” Natalie continued to look around the room for support, but they seemed to be happy to leave it to her as the oldest child.

  “Until I’m freaking dead!” I shouted. “That’s how long!”

  “Dad, the children!” said Judy.

  “That’s why I said ‘freaking’ instead of what I wanted to say. Besides, they probably drop the F-bomb more than all of us put together.”

  That elicited snickers from a few of the older children, making me think I should have a private word about language with them.

  “But you can’t predict when you’ll need help,” Natalie said. “Before he died, Marshall’s father had to have an aide wipe his butt and help him shower. And he wasn’t even ninety.”

  “Well, I’m not Marshall’s father. And my butt resents you talking about it in its presence,” I said with an exaggerated wiggle of my hips.

  More snickers from the children. One of them shouted, “Look! Grampa is twerking!”

  At least I was getting through to them.

  “It’s only because we love you, Dad,” Natalie said.

  “Yes,” several others added.

  Richard leaned against the door jamb and swirled his drink. “So, if you won’t accept assisted living, where will you live?”

  “I’m working on that. I don’t close for a few months. That was part of the deal. And, I need to oversee some minor repairs. Also, part of the deal.”

  “Marshall and I would be happy to build an addition to our house.”

  My biggest goddamned nightmare! I shook my head emphatically. “First off, that would be imposing and I—”

  “It wouldn’t be an—”

  “And I don’t intend to impose. On anyone. So, don’t any of the rest of you offer to take me in like some orphan. Besides, none of you live near the ocean and I may be giving up this house, but I sure as hell won’t give up walking out the door to breathe in the sea air. I’ve been researching the condos where Callie lives.”

  “The Navy Yard?” exclaimed Callie, her eyes round.

  I smiled at her, my greatest ally among the whole crowd. “There are several nice buildings there. I could have walks along the water and I would be able to see Danny and Ashley more often. And, of course, you.”

  “That’s brilliant!” Callie said. “I’ll help you look.”

  Danny and Ashley waved their hands in the air like eager teacher’s pets waiting to be called on. “We want to help, too! We’ll pick the best place in the neighborhood!”

  Everyone seemed satisfied that the eldest grandchild would be helping feeble old granddad, and that put an end to the discussion. Conversation drifted to fond memories and good times had in our house by the sea. It had been a great place to raise the family, and I would be sad to turn over the keys to someone else. But it was time to move on.

  A half hour later, the sun was just setting when we sat down to dinner. Soothing moonlight lay on the family gathering. Callie, Danny, and Ashley wore a path between the kitchen and the deck bringing out mini salt-and-pepper shakers, a dozen custard cups of clarified butter, nutcrackers, small plates of lemon wedges and several bottles of Chardonnay which held reflections of moons in their golden glasses. It wasn’t exactly Gatsby, but it was bountiful nonetheless. And I never aspired to be a Gatsby anyway.

  “The lobsters are almost ready,” Callie said. “Who wants a bib?”

  Midway through dinner, Casals’ “Song of the Birds” came through the speakers. I closed my eyes and listened.

  How I would love to have introduced Élodie to these people! How I would have loved to see her reaction to me twerking.

  Emboldened by their success in destroying the railroad bridge, Jean-Baptiste and the others decide to make a second foray. “There’s another trestle bridge a few kilometers further south over a gorge,” Claude says. “They’re bound to send a train loaded with troops to repair the bridge we blew up last night. It won’t take much to bring the bridge down when they’re going over it.”

  Lightin
g the short stub of a carefully saved cigarette butt, Marcel looks up. “No one would survive such a drop.”

  “Then do it,” says Élodie. “We’ll wait here.”

  Jean-Baptiste narrows his eyes at her. “You won’t come with us?”

  “Why? You just said it wouldn’t take much to destroy it. What do you need me for?”

  “I thought that’s what you trained for. To fight.”

  Élodie narrows her eyes. “I also trained to rescue people. You know that. Sabotage was only part of my job and only briefly to support the invasion. You know very well my main job is to help British and American fliers escape over the Pyrénées. It just happens I received my first client earlier than expected.”

  Jean-Baptiste glares at me, turns and stomps out of the barn. Marcel and Claude quickly follow.

  “It’s settled, then?” I ask when they’re gone. “That’s what we’re doing? You’re escorting me out of France?”

  “When you’re fit enough. It’s an arduous trek. What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know.” I stare into her eyes. She’s right, of course, but I don’t want to admit it. She returns the look with an unyielding gaze of her own. Finally, I say, “Well, we still have time. No need to decide now. Shall I open a bottle of wine?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  We make love again that night and afterwards we lie back in the hay and we hear the patter of raindrops on the barn roof, and the sound lulls us to sleep.

  When I wake, Élodie is not beside me. I hear the soft sound of a violin. I rise and walk out of the barn. The rain has stopped and light from a half moon presses down from behind clouds. I inhale deeply. There is that fresh, ozone after-the-rain smell.

  Élodie sits on the stump of a tree, playing a sweet melody. She doesn’t smile when she sees me. She continues to play. A wine bottle is perched on a boulder next to her. Miniatures of the moon reflect from the bottle, and from the belly of the violin, and crickets form an undertone to the music. When she finishes, I ask, “What was that piece? It’s beautiful.”

  “A traditional French song from the eighteenth century. It’s called Plaisir d’Amour, the pleasure of love. I told you about it before.”

  I kiss her on the forehead. “They got that right!”

  Élodie looks into the distance and now there are two more miniature moons, one reflecting from each of her moist eyes. “The song has words,” she says in a barely audible voice.

  “The ones you told me the other night?”

  She nods, takes a deep breath. “The pleasure of love lasts only a moment; the grief of love lasts a lifetime.”

  There is a heaviness in my chest. “But that—”

  “The writer goes on to tell how his love is leaving him for another lover.”

  “Are you leaving me for another?”

  She shakes her head slowly. “It’s you who will be leaving me for another lover.” She lays her violin it it’s case.

  “What are you talking about? Not a snowball’s chance in hell! Nix on that!”

  “The American army is your lover. Your comrades are your lovers, your brothers-in-arms.”

  “I owe them, yes. But I love you.”

  “War makes it too easy to fall in love and too hard to stay in love.” The thought of losing her is like a kick in the stomach. “I don’t give a shit about what happens to me. I love you. Only you.”

  “I thought American men didn’t like to say, ‘I love you.’”

  “This American man is not shy about it. Damn it, I love you!”

  “Then I guess you have a problem. We have a problem.” Élodie gazes at me a long moment. Finally, she says, “You’ve ruined things.”

  “What? What have I ruined?”

  “You’ve made it impossible.”

  “Made what impossible, damn it?” I can feel the heat in my face.

  “Everything.”

  “What do you mean, everything?”

  “All the possibilities … everything.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you’re not making sense. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Until there was you, I was willing to take risks. I would jump out of planes. I would fight the Germans. I was free to die. Now I’m too afraid of losing you. I can’t even go with my comrades to blow up a fucking, goddamned railroad bridge.”

  “That’s silly. You jumped into France, you attacked that German medical unit. You are not yellow!”

  “Besides, it’s too dangerous for you to stay with me,” she says. “How is it too dangerous for me? I’m not afraid of my commanding officers.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s that I would rather die with you, than live without you.”

  A thrill passes through me, and I reach out and pull her to me. “I feel the same way. I don’t care what happens to me as long as I can be with you.”

  “You see,” she says, backing away. “That’s exactly the point. As long as we’re together, we’ll allow ourselves to take risks. We’ll be like two people holding hands at the edge of a cliff. A lover’s leap. As long as we’re together, we don’t stand to lose each other.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “We’ll do anything to keep each other safe.”

  She shakes her head. “We’ll take foolish risks. It’s the way it is.”

  “I don’t believe that.” I’m struggling to find the right thing to say.

  “Already, you’re willing to risk the firing squad.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “But, it is true,” she replies. “It means the thing that’s impossible, is us. You must return to your unit and I must do what I must do in the Pyrénées. I must disappear into the mountains. This is impossible.”

  “I won’t let you go.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I must disappear into the mountains.”

  “We’ll meet after the war.”

  “You assume the war will end.”

  “Of course, it will end.”

  “But will we still be alive when the war ends?”

  I give a heavy sigh. It feels like she’s already slipping away from me. “Listen, Élodie. I think it’s what happened at Oradour catching up with you. It’s best we drop it for now, have some wine, and enjoy what we have while we have it. Yesterday’s done, and we’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. Okay?”

  She remains silent.

  “Okay?” I ask again.

  She shrugs and picks up her violin. “Don’t speak,” she says. She starts to play the violin. As she plays, the light of the moon sizzles in the canopies of leaves and in the body of the violin. The bow flashes with a sliver of moonlight.

  “By the way,” I say. “It’s funny when you curse like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Saying ‘fucking, goddamned thing.’ Most Americans would say it’s either a fucking thing or a goddamned thing. Using both seems overkill.”

  She turns her back to me. She mumbles something under her breath, but I hear it anyway. “Idiot!” she says.

  31 The pleasure of love lasts only a moment, the grief of love lasts a lifetime.

  Chapter 8

  Chamber of the Bulls

  After several days, my lung has sufficiently healed for the thoracostomy tube to be removed, and, after another few more days of recovery, I am ready to be transferred to rehab. I lie comfortably on the gurney as they wheel me out of Mass General and into an ambulance for the short ride to the Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital which, conveniently, is in the same Charlestown Navy Yard as my condominium. Indeed, I’ve often walked Arlequin on the grounds of the rehab hospital and along the wooden walk bordering one side of Dry Dock # 5 which noses into Boston Harbor not far from the hospital’s main entrance.

  When we arrive, we are greeted by one of those morning fogs that draws everything into itself. I smell the ocean, I taste the salt air, I can hear the softest sound and it fills me with joy. I am home. Well at least I am only a
few blocks from home. But when they roll me into my room, I find the window blocks all sound and scent; I can only stare across Boston Harbor, and see planes taking off from Logan Airport, lifting into a sky patchy with finger-painted clouds, a scumbled sky like the one above the airfield in England on the eve of that night-of-nights seventy years ago, and my mood instantly darkens.

  Every plane taking off is full of people going somewhere, and here I lie in bed, an old man going nowhere. I grind my teeth even though my dentist has repeatedly told me not to. Has my membership in the human race expired with that bullet? Has my body passed its use-by date? I look at the date on my watch. The ceremonies of the 70th anniversary of D-Day are four weeks away. June 6, 2014. I press the nurse call button twice in rapid succession. Moments later, a nurse enters the room. “You need something?”

  “Yes. Do you happen to know where they put my phone?”

  “It’s in the drawer beside your bed. I’ll get it for you.” She slides the drawer out, removes the phone, and hands it to me.

  “Thank you.”

  After the nurse leaves, I call Callie. She answers on the second ring. “Papa! Are you in Spaulding already?”

  “Yes, and I need your help. When you get a chance, would you please go to my condo and fetch my notebook computer? It’s on my writing desk.” Silently, I congratulate myself for having given a key to my condo to Callie when I moved in—and for not giving one to Natalie.

  “Of course,” she says. “I was planning to drop by after my shift anyway. I’ll be over this evening.”

  After we end the call, I lie back against the pillow and close my eyes. Four weeks to June 6th. I reach into the pocket of my robe and take out the creased photograph of Élodie I had Callie bring me when I was at Mass General, the one where Élodie sits on a boulder outside a shepherd’s barn cradling a Sten gun in her lap. I gaze at the photo and remember that moment.

  There’s another June 6th I remember. June 6, 1968, the day Robert Kennedy died. He’d been shot the previous night at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, shortly after winning the California primary and delivering a victory speech. Anna and I had stayed up to watch the returns and Kennedy’s speech. It was the wee hours of the morning, and I was in the kitchen pouring us each a last celebratory drink when I heard Anna cry out from the living room. “Oh, God! Oh, God! No!”