Luna-Sea

by Jessica Sherry

  “I’d be happy to stay with her,” Beverly was saying, “so you can go to work.”

  “I can stay for a while,” Sam returned in a heavy sigh. “I want to make sure she’s okay. Thanks for bringing over breakfast.”

  “My pleasure,” Beverly replied. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you invited Delilah to stay with us for a while, especially given the circumstances. She can… um, stay in your room with you, if you’d like. I may be old, but I know how things are these days.”

  Sam chuckled at his aunt and her difficulty in making the offer. “Thanks, but she’d never go for that. Besides, our relationship, it’s not like that.”

  “Is everything okay with you two?” Beverly asked, as if reading my mind.

  Sam sighed again. “I love Delilah,” he said, “but it’s hard to move forward when you have to keep looking back.”

  My mouth dropped open, and my heart did a sputtering, puttering type of thing, like a car about to stall out. He was having second thoughts about me. I overheard Sam telling Beverly he’d see her later. Even though his words had blitzed me, I still managed to ballet-bolt back across the room and topple into bed. Doing so was a mistake. Pain shot through my gut, and across my forehead from all the movement, and I tried to keep myself from whining.

  He entered the kitchen, and shuffled around. I pretended to sleep for a few minutes, and then stirred, nervous energy rushing through me. He fiddled with the coffeepot and soon the rich aroma filled the room. I let my eyes open.

  Sam stood, back to me, at the sink. He wore a dark blue t-shirt, jeans, and socks. I got out of bed, and made my way across the room quietly. I had no idea how to digest his words to Aunt Beverly, or how to construe his absence, his secretiveness or how to make him see that I was worth the trouble, especially since I didn’t believe that myself. All I knew was what I wanted at that moment. I slipped my arms around him, and laid my head against his back. He turned the water off, and held my hands against him. Then, he slowly turned around.

  My eyes had filled with tears, and upon seeing his smiling face, they just started streaming again. Could this be the last time he lets me hold him? I just kept thinking, things fall apart, the center cannot hold and imagining that if I didn’t have Sam, there’d be no point in staying here, not after all of this.

  “Are you okay?” he sputtered out, taking my face into his hands gently, and then quickly added, “That’s a dumb question. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m okay,” I spilled anyway. He eyed the bruise on my face, his eyes squinted in concern, and I said, “It doesn’t hurt too badly. Just a headache.”

  He leaned against the sink and pulled me even closer to him. “What can I do?” he asked, his eyes desperate.

  “Just this,” I whispered, tears streaming again. I laid my head against his heart, trying to memorize how it felt to be here so that I could relive it when the offer to do so was rescinded. He rubbed my back.

  “I hate seeing you hurt,” he told me. “Sorry I wasn’t here-”

  “Not like you could’ve known,” I argued lightly. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  His jaw clenched, and he looked over my shoulder toward the window. “I’ve been in war zones, bullets whizzing by my ears, seen buddies walk onto land mines and get blown to pieces, seen a freakin’ civey, um, civilian, smile before pulling out a gun to shoot me in the face.” His hands dropped, and I took a step back from him. “But, I’ve always kept perspective, kept my reason.” He paused, unable to look at me. With an exasperated chuckle, he admitted, “I ain’t feeling so reasonable right now.”

  Sam’s voice trailed off. He didn’t look at me, but stared down at his feet. In a whisper, he asked, “I know you. I know you sugarcoated it, but you have to tell me. Delilah, did he hurt you?” Though he didn’t explain, I knew what he meant.

  “No.” Even as I assured him, a shiver ran down my arms. “No, Sam. He didn’t, not like that.”

  Sam breathed out heavily, “Thank God.” Sam shook his head, and added, “We’ve been through bullshit like this before-”

  “I know, I know,” I sputtered out. “I’m sorry.”

  “Delilah, that’s not what I mean,” Sam replied, grabbing my hands. “I’m not blaming you. Life with you is never going to be boring, and I wouldn’t want it to be.”

  “Then, what are you trying to say, Sam?” I expected the answer to be something like he didn’t want a life with me, that it was too much for him, and sadly, I would’ve understood. He caressed my fingers.

  “Just when I think I can’t love you more, I do.”

  “You do?” I repeated, eyes growing heavy again.

  He tugged me to him, and met my lips with gentle kissing. “Every look, every touch, every kiss, every second I have with you is a miracle.”

  His words came between kisses and tears. And I let myself forget what he’d told Aunt Beverly, forget the frustration of his secret trips, forget everything so I could just lose myself in him.

  “I will get the shit who did this,” he promised, “and I’ll teach him what it’s like to feel powerless.”

  I nodded, unwilling and unable to argue. I knew there was nothing I could say to deter his temper, and selfishly, I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted revenge. But, the truth is that Sam could’ve said anything at that moment, could have asked me anything, and for fear of losing him, I would’ve agreed. Together, we were permanently beached on that dwindling sandbar, completely at each other’s mercy.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mary Shelley

  Mary Godwin was born in August 1797 to successful and outspoken parents, William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft, both writers. As a teenager, Mary Godwin fell in love with Percy Bysshe Shelley, a friend of her father’s and also a writer. One rainy summer, the two traveled to Lake Geneva, where they stayed with another great writer, Lord Byron. On one particularly stormy night, with the group amusing themselves around a fire, Lord Byron suggested a contest. They had been reading ghost stories, so Byron challenged each one to write a supernatural tale. Well, with two famous poets and a doctor among the guests, Mary Shelley was the underdog. But, her idea led to a dream and that dream into a story – one that would change literature forever.

  I wonder how Mary Shelley felt at the proposition. Did she roll her eyes? Did she huff and think, why bother? Or did she smile and say, yeah, I got this?

  To say I felt like an underdog the night of the Frankenstein Fright Night was like saying Cookie Monster felt a little blue. The outcome of this party would make or break me. I would either prove myself as a contender or face the cold reality of doing what everyone said I should, turn turtle.

  But, turning turtle wasn’t the nightmare of a few days ago. Others had moved into its place.

  One day in seclusion and recovery was enough. I was done with it. At dawn, I showed up at the store, woke up Henry, and got to work. Creative make-uping hid my bruise. Motrin and careful movements hid the soreness. I was ready to forget all about what happened.

  A whirlwind of preparations ensued. Mike had shown up with trays of finger foods. Coffin cakes (shaped like coffins), Ladyfingers, a veggie tray with a blood red dip and a black dip, and crackers topped with a variety of cheeses cut into shapes, mostly body parts. He also brought over an urn of black coffee, and a gorgeous punch bowl, which he filled with his blood red virgin daiquiris.

  Raina and Rachel had been with me most of the day, draping black muslin fabric along the tops of bookshelves, dusting, arranging book displays, and filling my ears with all the local gossip. Though I didn’t approve, I admit it took my mind off my anxieties.

  Chris Kayne had been there for a few hours. He’d taken all the glass vases and bottles I’d purchased from the Cotton Exchange and filled them with bubbly, colored concoctions to mimic science experiments. We strategically placed the mixtures on shelves around the room, and highlighted them with tiny spotlights.

  But, Sam made it possible for me to keep up appearances, t
aking over the tasks I would have stubbornly done myself, regardless of the discomfort. He’d hung all my funky, framed gothic pictures. He’d finished off my white Christmas lights inside and out (repairing what he could of my awning). He’d mopped the floor. Cleaned the bathroom. Washed the windows.

  But, the best thing he did for me wasn’t so obvious. He kept me calm. Whenever panic tried to get a footing in my head, my eyes found his and the feeling rescinded – a wave coming in and then pulling back again. Without realizing it, Sam made the entire event possible.

  Henry and I spent the last hour before the party getting dressed. Henry took the cake when it came to playing the part. He didn’t look like one of the typical, Hollywood-style monsters, but he did look frightening. He’d applied gray make-up all over his hands and face, and carefully penciled in stitches on his neck, ears, and across his nose. He wore his black trench coat, black pants, and shoes, and he made sure to thud clumsily whenever he walked.

  I had scored a white hippie-style dress that could pass for Victorian from the Cotton Exchange, and though I hadn’t planned on wearing stage make-up, I painted my face gray and white to make myself look ghostly and better mask the bruise on my cheek. I piled my hair on top of my head, and when I was finished, Henry said I looked like the ghost of Mary Shelley. Cool.

  By 8:15, though, the party was a bust. No one arrived. No cars pulled into the spaces out front. The party started at 8:00 and not one person, other than those who had something to do with planning it, came.

  “People are just bein’ fashionably late,” Raina suggested, patting my back. “They’ll get here.”

  “Everything looks amazing, Dee,” Sam told me and he was right. The store looked incredible. Black roses and gothic portraits laced the tables and walls. White Christmas lights adorned the awnings out front, beckoning people to enter, along with Gary the Gargoyle, my new doorman. Similar lights stranded the four columns inside, giving everything a warm glow. I’d strategically placed a few white candles around a display of Mary Shelley’s work, commentaries, and spin-offs, along with the works of her famous family.

  “Really does,” Mike agreed. Everyone chimed in with praises and accolades, meaning well but not making me feel any better.

  “I had plenty of help,” I smiled at everyone, but my voice cracked. 8:20. “You all look wonderful, too.” Rachel and Raina wore long, dark dresses. Mike had on a tuxedo. Chris looked very Byron in his red velvet vest and top hat, which I told him looked Mad Hatter Cool. Sam had worn all black. I’m a shadow, he told me with a grin. And though the word shadow brought back dark images from the other night, I smiled anyway and thanked them all for their hard work.

  But, as I admired all the effort they’d given, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. 8:25. Profit or no profit, they’d done all this only to see it fail. I rearranged the food trays (for the hundredth time). I eyed the verse on the counter, For God has not given us a spirit of fear but of power and of love and of a sound mind. I rolled my eyes. I had love and fear pouring from my pores but the other two had been strangely absent. Where had they gone? On vacation?

  I muttered a quick, excuse me, and fled to the sanctity of my office bathroom.

  Henry had left the bathroom sink littered with make-up and tissues. I hurriedly cleaned it up, and then tossing the eyeliner pencil into the sink, huffed out a, “Why bother!” As I washed my hands, I heard the door jingling. I shrugged. Could have been Mike returning to the Crab Shack, Rachel and Raina deciding this was the lamest party in town but, then I heard it again. And again. I dabbed my eyes, finished cleaning up Henry’s mess, and headed back out to the store.

  Magically, the place had filled with people. Mrs. Trojak, the English teacher from Shawsburg High School, had arrived, bringing with her about a dozen students (extra credit, she explained later). Mamma Rose and Grandma Betty donned masquerade masks and had already helped themselves to virgin daiquiris. Uncle Clark and Billy Mott circled the group, not in costume, but looking dapper, nonetheless. My friends from the local retirement home, Tranquility on the Cape, were there, along with a few other elderly folks Mamma Rose had introduced me to over the last few weeks. There were several older ladies and a few couples I recognized from church and Bingo nights. A few of the ladies had worn long, Victorian-style dresses, like me. One man wore a tuxedo, cane, and a top hat, just like Lord Byron. Many patrons wore regular clothes, but circled the party and seemed to enjoy themselves, too. All in all, the attendance had suddenly closed in on fifty – beyond any of my hopes.

  The team and I went straight to business. We circulated around the room with greetings and hors d’oeuvres. We introduced the conversation starters, though everything in the room spawned talk of Mary Shelley and her haunting novel. It was a dark heaven.

  “Well, this should putta smile on ol’ Joe’s face,” Grandma Betty beamed through her feathered mask. Already tall and pear-shaped, the mask made her look even more like a mother hen. Mamma Rose, on the other hand, looked like a chick in comparison, thanks to her short, petite frame.

  “It’s a glimmer of hope,” I agreed.

  “Talk ‘bout a glimmer of hope,” Grandma Betty went on, nodding toward Sam. He was caught in a conversation with a couple of ladies from his aunt’s canasta group, and as if he could hear us, he glanced over at me and smiled. “Bet your mamma’s chompin’ at the bit to hear ‘bout some weddin’ plans.”

  “Not exactly,” I returned quickly. My mother would only be pleased by a wedding if she could pick the groom, and Sam hadn’t found her good side, yet.

  “Eh, there’s no hurry. They’re still learnin’ each other,” Mamma Rose piped up. “Beverly used to worry so much ‘bout that boy.” Mamma Rose pondered her own statement, and shook her head.

  “Why’s that?” I prompted.

  “He wasn’t just some foot soldier, you know,” Mamma Rose informed, “when he was in the army.”

  “He doesn’t talk about it,” I admitted.

  “Not surprised,” Mamma Rose returned with a nod. “Beverly used to say that he did all the jobs no one else wanted to do, dangerous missions that he was recruited and trained for special work.”

  My eyebrows scrunched together. “How do you know all that?”

  Mamma Rose widened her gray-blue eyes and spat out (like I should’ve known), “Beverly’s only been in my Helping Hands Prayer Circle group since, well, since she came to Tipee.”

  “Come on, Delilah,” Grandma Betty chided. “Everybody knows about the Helpin’ Hands Circle. You’ve been hidin’ under a rock.”

  No one had ever told me about this group, but I didn’t argue. “What else has Beverly told you guys about Sam?”

  “Well, if Ken hadn’t died, Sam’d probably still be in the army,” Grandma Betty went on, “and Beverly thinks that was God’s way of givin’ Sam a second chance.”

  Mamma Rose added, “A blessing in disguise.”

  “And it eventually got ‘em away from that-”

  “Don’t speak ill of someone you don’t even know,” Mamma Rose told Betty. “That’s how nice chattin’ becomes ugly gossip.”

  “Fine,” Betty corrected herself, “Gettin’ out of the army helped him to break free of what Beverly told us was an unhealthy situation. That better?” Mamma Rose nodded her approval.

  “His ex-wife?” I clarified. The two nodded in unison. “You guys ever meet her?”

  Again in unison, they shook their heads, and Betty added, “Beverly showed us a picture once. Beautiful girl. From a good family up north. But, somethin’ wasn’t right with her. Beverly never told us what, but just that it was a difficult relationship. I take it he don’t talk about her either?”

  I shook my head.

  Mamma Rose added, “See? Still learnin’ each other.”

  I wanted to interrogate them more about Sam, seeing as how they knew way more than I did, but Clark came up behind me and leaned over. “Look who just walked in,” he whispered. “Must be a full moon.”

  I gl
anced over to see a very beautiful Charlotte Duffy, standing nervously in the doorway. Her clothing was perfect to the period, early 1800s. Her white satin dress tightened just under her bodice and then belled outward. Her shoes looked like slippers that matched her dress. And, on her head, she wore a feminine yellow top hat, with a lacy veil that dropped over one eye. She’d curled her hair into tiny ringlets that spilled out from under her hat. She smiled uncertainly at the group.

  “Aunt Charlotte,” I greeted, “You look amazing!”

  “I know,” she whispered back, “and if you tell Clara that I came here, I’ll deny it.”

  “I won’t,” I returned. “But why-”

  “Where else can I wear an outfit this magnificent?” she insisted. “I can’t deny myself the opportunity to dress up, even if Clara thinks it’s silly. I am an artist!”

  I was about to say something, when Henry bounded out from behind me, and said to my dashing aunt, “You are the beauty to my beast.” He took her dainty, gloved hand and planted a soft peck on her outer palm.

  Much to my surprise, Charlotte giggled, and said, “Oh, my!”

  “Might I interest you in some refreshments?” Henry offered.

  “You can interest me in more than that, Frank.” And they both laughed, and moved through the crowd. Dumbfounded, I shook my head, and catching Sam’s eyes from across the room, gave him a surprised, but delighted shrug. He laughed.

  Within the hour, the crowd gathered around the front window to hear Mrs. Trojak tell the story of how Mary Shelley came to write the novel in the first place – a real underdog story, much like my own, I decided. Her audience was riveted by her strong, authoritative voice and her extensive knowledge. She elaborated on the lives of the Shelleys and Lord Byron, including their deaths.

  Meanwhile, tourists out for late strolls came in to see what all the hubbub was about. More teenagers arrived late, and moved themselves into the crowd. Before long, the faces I could see were more strangers than family and friends.

  Once Mrs. Trojak finished her speech, Henry took center stage (which was really just the barstool moved out from behind the counter). He performed a handful of selected readings from the book, all in moving, dramatic fashion, causing the crowd to fall into speechlessness. Aunt Charlotte was moved to tears, even though the selections weren’t really tearjerkers.