Please Don't Come Back from the Moon

by Dean Bakopoulos

  I told this theory to Nick and Tom, but they ignored it.

  "This one chick," Tom said, "she danced around in a bikini all night. She was hot. Dude, if her boyfriend hadn't been there..."

  "You're not supposed to call them chicks," Nick said. "They don't like that. It's Ann Arbor."

  "Well, they're not fucking here," Tom said. "So what does it matter?"

  "Just watch it. You know you really fucking embarrass me whenever we go to Ann Arbor."

  "You're just jealous that all those chicks want my twelve-inch hog," Tom said.

  "Could you guys leave now?" I said. "This sounds like the kind of conversation that could happen elsewhere."

  "Miserable Mikey," Nick said.

  "Mikey's got dirt in his pussy," Tom said.

  I didn't care about their teasing. I was just glad that they left.

  HOLLY DIDN'T recognize me at first. She came in and filled out a little chart and asked me a few questions. Name? Date of birth? Did I have any chronic health problems? Allergies? Did I have any specific, recurring aches and pains? Any tenderness? Trouble sleeping? Loss of appetite?

  She was scribbling away on the clipboard. Her hands moved quickly, and I couldn't read anything she was writing from where I sat. Then her shoulders gave way to a slight tremble, the hands shook, and she looked up at me.

  "Hi," I said.

  "I know who you are," she said.

  "I'm sorry."

  She wanted to know why I was in the office, and when I said, "A massage," she said, "No, really," and so I had to say, "I wanted to see if you were okay. I can't stop thinking about it."

  I thought she might cry, but she didn't. She tilted her head back, took a deep breath, and smiled at me again.

  "It was his asthma that killed him," she said. "If he hadn't had asthma, it wouldn't have been like that. He didn't drown, really. Don't blame yourself."

  I just nodded. What did I have to say? I was twenty-two years old. Why did I always expect myself to act in ways that were tactful and brave? I just sat there.

  "Okay," she said. "You can get undressed and get under this sheet here, face-down. It's up to you if you'd like your underwear on or not. However you feel more comfortable."

  "Do you still want to do this?" I said.

  "It's my job," she said. "You will pay me, right?"

  She left the room and shut the door. I left my underwear on and got under the covers. It was not cold in the room, but I had goose bumps and my spine twitched under the sheet. My heart thumped around in my chest, offbeat and clumsy. It seemed like I was there forever under that sheet, waiting for her.

  When Holly came back in, it was obvious that she had been crying. She explained a few things about massage, but I wasn't thinking about what she was saying. I was trying to keep from getting a hard-on under that sheet. I was glad to be facedown. I thought about baseball, but that wasn't easy to do once her hands and the apricot-scented oil were on my skin. This made me feel worse about myself. Really, what kind of person was I?

  A few minutes into it, she started working on my back. She said, "This is interesting. This is really strange."

  "What?" I said.

  She didn't answer me for twenty seconds.

  "Is there something that is burdening you?" she said.

  "What?"

  Again, a long pause.

  "Are you angry with someone? Did someone you love disappoint you? Have you ever been abandoned?"

  "What?" I said again.

  "Are you afraid of something? Of success? Or change, maybe?"

  "Why?"

  "Well, your heart chakra is backward. It's the oddest thing."

  She explained to me about chakras, about channels of energy that move in and out of your body, and how blocked chakras, or in my case backward chakras, could cause all sorts of physical and emotional problems.

  "You're carrying around a lot of burdens," she said.

  Then she didn't say anything for a while, just kept working on my muscles, and I almost fell asleep. When she was done, she said, "You know who else had a backward heart chakra? Manny, my son."

  It was almost impossible to sit up. My limbs were heavy with water. I let the sheet drop from my body and I was in my underwear, dazed. I'd never been so relaxed in my life.

  "Hold on," she said. "I'll leave so you can get dressed."

  When I was ready, I opened the door and took out my wallet. I didn't know if I should tip, but I gave her three twenty-dollar bills, which was everything I had, and said, "I'm all set."

  She thanked me. She said it was nice to see me.

  Then I said one of the only appropriate, kind, and thoughtful things I had ever said in my life. I said, "I would like to hear more about Manny."

  I meant it.

  She smiled at me. I saw her eyes get watery again. "That'd be a nice thing," she said.

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS after the massage, I did nothing but sleep and read. For the first time in my life I came down with a summer cold. I had a fever and woke up sweating, then woke up with chills, shivering and trembling. I stayed in my cool den of a basement, sweating it out. Going up the stairs for a glass of juice seemed to exhaust me. My mother and Mack would come downstairs and I would refuse to let them take my temperature. I refused Popsicles and chicken soup. Nick and Tom called but I didn't come to the phone. My limbs still felt so heavy. My head felt like it was full of water. I skipped my philosophy class on Tuesday morning.

  Finally, on Wednesday morning I woke up and felt better. I took my first shower in days, ate a breakfast of three eggs and toast, then got dressed, borrowed Father Mack's new BMW, and drove down Highway 14. The sun was so bright it was hard to drive with both eyes wide open. I squinted into the light. I felt like I had sweat out all of the bad shit in me—the depression, the guilt, the boredom and hopelessness—over the last few days. The car still smelled new. I felt new.

  Around noon, I found myself in the lobby of the admissions office at Michigan, waiting to take a campus tour. I had expected to be one of several dozen tourists and prospective students, but as I stood next to the giant maize M that said, GO BLUE! TOURS EVERY WEDNESDAY AT NOON, and the clock shifted both hands toward twelve, I realized that not many people would be joining me. A spry old couple in matching Michigan Windbreakers and baseball caps came walking through the lobby doors just as Janice came down the staircase from her office and said, "Michael!"

  I was so shocked that she remembered me that I screamed her name back, doubling the pep and enthusiasm with which she had said mine. "Janice!"

  We stood smiling at each other while the elderly couple came at us, the man thrusting his hand at us from several feet away. "Henry 'Hank' Wilson," he said, "Class of '49."

  We shook hands, and his wife said, "Edna Fuller, 1951."

  "Nice to meet you," Janice and I both said.

  "I don't know if I really need a tour," I said. "I know the campus pretty well."

  It was a lie, but I had pictured myself being able to blend in on a tour, not stuck in an intimate foursome with two geezers and a university tour guide.

  Janice grabbed my arm. "You're not leaving me now," she said.

  The tour was the usual rah-rah bullshit, peppered with comments about college life in the good old days from Hank and Edna. The dorms, the student union, the new building projects, the athletic hall of fame, and the state-of-the-art computing center. Toward the end of the tour, Janice led us into the Law Quad, an old Gothic quadrangle that looked as if it had been lifted right out of Oxford or Cambridge. She showed us into the law library's reading room and whispered to us that we should feel free to take a look around. It was like church, with the dark wood, the stained-glass windows, and the high ceiling. I walked up and down the main corridor. Each footstep echoed. A few students studying at the long oak tables stared at me. My mouth was probably hanging open. I peeked into the little alcoves, where small desks were hidden among shelves stacked with law books. Gold lamps were affixed to the top center of each des
k.

  "Can any student study in here?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said. "The UGLI—the Undergraduate Library—is a little more fun. More socializing than studying, though."

  When the tour was almost over, I thanked Janice quickly and bailed, sticking her with old Hank and Edna. I found a bookstore on campus and browsed around the textbooks for a while, until I found a summer course called American Dreams: Lost and Found. For three dollars, I bought a copy of The Great Gatsby—a novel I had heard of many times but had never read. I also bought a yellow legal pad and a GO BLUE pen. Then I wandered back to the Law Quad and the reading room of the law library, found a hidden alcove with a desk and chair, flipped on my own gold reading lamp, and read the book straight through, copying down the lines I liked best. I wondered if anybody knew I wasn't a student, and if anybody would ask to see my ID But nobody seemed to care that I was there. I read until the light faded from the stained-glass windows above me. I copied the words, "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." It seemed like I had written them. My palms felt light. I was buzzing.

  ***

  I CAME HOME EXHAUSTED, well after dark. Maple Rock seemed blander and more stagnant then ever to me that night. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of wine, still in the skirt and blouse she had worn to work. She looked angry. I figured she was mad that I had taken Mack's good car without asking, but I had left him the keys to the Buick. I knew I was pushing Mack's limits, but I was curious. How far would he go to get me to like him?

  "Look," I said, hanging his keys on the rack in the kitchen, "I'm sorry I was gone so long. Something came up."

  I went to the fridge and got out a can of beer and sat across from my mother at the table.

  "We've decided to move," my mother said. She never was good at having difficult conversations, and I knew she was nervous and serious when she came right out and said something.

  "Mack's family has money," she said. "And now he does too."

  I didn't say anything. I got up and looked in the fridge. I was ravenous; over the weekend, while I'd been sick, I had hardly eaten and I was suddenly so hungry I could barely get the food out of the fridge fast enough. I started planning a sandwich in my head.

  "We've picked out a house in Northville. It's beautiful. Five bedrooms, Michael. Can you imagine that? Three baths!"

  I took out a loaf of Italian bread Mom had bought at Beirut Bakery that morning. I cut the loaf of bread in half, right down the middle. Then I cut that half down the middle, lengthwise, so that the bread made one giant submarine bun. I got out the mustard and mayonnaise, spread them on the bun.

  "It's on two acres of land, at the end of this beautiful gravel road that's completely covered in oak trees. In autumn, my God, it will be breathtaking."

  I found some turkey and some bologna and lined each half of the bread with meat. I layered slices of American cheese on top of each half.

  "I mean, I never, ever imagined that I would live someplace like that. Kolya will go to one of the best high schools in the state."

  My head in the fridge, I found pickles and olives, half of a tomato, a cucumber, and some wilted lettuce that was still edible. I brought them to the counter.

  "He's excited. I talked to him this morning. He might be on the swim team and maybe in the jazz band or ROTC or whatever. They don't have any of those things at Maple Rock."

  I added some banana peppers, a little salt, and another layer of cheese. When I put the halves of the sandwich together, it stood almost eight inches tall. I garnished the side of my plate with one handful of potato chips, and then a second.

  "And Mack and I plan to get married," she said.

  I brought the enormous sandwich to my mouth and took the biggest bite I could. My mother stared at me. I flashed her the thumbs-up sign and chewed and chewed.

  "Of course, you don't have to come," she said. "I suppose you could stay right here."

  I gave her another thumbs-up, took another bite as soon as I had swallowed my first. My mother left the room.

  That night the phone rang. I figured it was Nick or Tom, wanting to go out and get drunk.

  "Hello," I said.

  "You never called me," a woman's voice said.

  "Holly?" I said.

  "Hello," she said.

  SUNDAY I WENT TO Holly's house, a small brick ranch in Redford. The yard was neat, with a few abstract, curvy sculptures and some flowers lining the front of the house. A statue of Buddha sat on the front porch, under the mailbox. The welcome mat didn't say WELCOME, it said PEACE. It was hot, and the air smelled like fresh-cut grass and heated asphalt. I remember that, because when Holly opened the door, everything smelled different. A lavender and peppermint scent washed over me, and I almost floated inside.

  I might as well say it: I was taken with her beauty so suddenly, I was having a hard time keeping my basic bodily functions in order. She looked different than I remembered—taller. And her red hair seemed darker and deeper, almost auburn, and her gray-green eyes looked pale, almost silver. Even though it was summer, her skin was still very fair, and she had a tiny band of freckles dotting her nose and high cheekbones. When she smiled, her big eyes would get suddenly smaller and brighter, so it looked like two tiny gems of light were hidden under her eyelids. Her body was full of curves, with fuller breasts and hips than I remembered. Talking was hard enough, but walking was almost impossible. My limbs felt heavy one minute, and then I would take a step forward and my bones would turn to dust. My stomach was a swirling pit of water, and I worried that I might have to go straight to the bathroom.

  Holly was dressed in a simple gauzy peasant shirt that was sheer enough for me to see the outline of the white camisole underneath. She wore a pair of denim shorts, cut high on her leg, and no shoes. Her toenails were painted purple.

  The living room had wooden floors with small oriental rugs placed here and there. There was no television. There was a small stereo playing a tape of chants in a language I imagined was Indian or Chinese or something. A candle—the source of the lavender smell—flickered on a wooden table in the corner. There were some pillows on the floor, and a futon. "This is a nice place," I said.

  "We're—I mean, I'm—just renting," she said. "Do you want a drink?"

  "Sure, anything is fine," I said.

  I sat on the futon while she went into the kitchen.

  She came back a few minutes later with a small tea set on a wooden tray.

  "I haven't had company in a while," she said. "This is nice."

  She knelt on a small bench in front of me and poured the tea.

  "It's peppermint," she said, handing me a small cup with no handles. "I think peppermint has a nice cooling effect in the summer."

  I'd never been in a room like that in my life. I'd never seen someone kneeling on a bench like that. I'd never drunk peppermint tea.

  "Mmm," I said, trying to hide the fact that I burned the shit out of my tongue. "Mmm."

  We sipped our tea. I started to feel like it was a mistake to come and see her. What could she possibly have to say to me? And what did I have to say to her? Just as I was imagining a way to leave without hurting her feelings, Holly took the lead.

  "How long have you been a lifeguard?" she said.

  "Not long," I said. "A few weeks and then I quit."

  "Because of Manny?" she said.

  I nodded. I tried to look desolate. She leaped up from the bench like she had a great idea. She walked over to a small writing desk in the corner and started to shuffle papers.

  "My parents came up here for the funeral," she said. "They're from Florida. My father retired early from Ford. They'd like me to move back down there."

  "Would that be good?" I said.

  "They drive me crazy," she said. "I grew up around here, you know. I came back here because my friend Annie opened a salon and said I could have a workspace there."

  "Yeah, it's nice," I said.

  "Mich
ael," she said. "No, it's not nice. It's depressing. I can't think of anything more depressing than the Detroit area."

  "I like it," I said.

  "Where else have you been?"

  "I went to Toronto once," I said. "And Ohio. Around there."

  "You need to travel more," she said. "The world starts to feel small if you stay still for a long time."

  "Tell me about it," I said.

  She finished messing with the papers on the desk and started to stretch in the center of the room, like she was getting ready to run a race. She took deep breaths with each stretch. I could have watched her back arching, the rise and fall of her rib cage, all day long.

  "How have you been doing?" I asked.

  "Great," she said. "I mean, I think I am handling things remarkably well."

  "You look good," I said.

  "God, let me tell you the most scary thing, Michael," she said. I noticed she was saying my first name a lot, which gave everything she said an intense and urgent edge. "Some days I wake up and I think, well, I guess now I don't have to work so hard. I guess now I don't have to hold a steady job, have this house to live in, stay in one place, and think about school systems."

  I just nodded.

  "I hate this music," she said. "I mean, it's fine, but I've been sick of it lately. Chimes and sitars. I've been more into Dylan lately. And Fleetwood Mac. Songs in the Key of Lifeby Stevie Wonder. He's great. Do you know how great he is?"

  I said I agreed, though I didn't know exactly which album she was talking about. She went over to the CD player. "Pink Floyd," she said. "I forgot all about Pink Floyd. But it's good shit, really. In college, I listened to R.E.M. and the Smiths all the time. Pink Floyd was mostly for getting stoned."

  "Sure," I said.

  "God, listen to me," she said. "I've got diarrhea of the mouth or something. I'm thirty-three and I sound like I'm eighteen."

  "I like it when people talk a lot," I said. "I never have anything interesting to say."

  She smiled and tilted her head, like she was trying to look at me from a different angle.

  "It's just, most days I think of Manny and can't move," she said. "Can't get out of bed, I'm so sad. And then some days—I mean, I'm still sad all the time—but I wake up and think, well, there's a lot less I have to do now. I can do whatever I want. I don't have to, for instance, try to get Manny's father to acknowledge his existence anymore, or to send child support. And I don't have to know where my next paycheck is coming from, and I don't even need a house, I can keep all my possessions in the trunk of my car and travel all over the country, or the world, because nobody cares what I do all of a sudden. And then I'm relieved. For just a second. Relieved! And then I hate myself and start crying again, not only for Manny, but for me, because I feel like a weak mother."