The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  After Dad had moved out, we’d mothballed our scale, since our parents’ infrequent encounters were marked by the same carefully regulated behavior as relay runners passing a baton—the baton being us. However, Betty’s visit to the bar gave us a sense of impending doom, a severe barometer drop that presaged heavy weather. Moss and I decided it was best to fill Dad in on all the details so he wouldn’t be blindsided. His somber expression as we explained the situation did nothing to reassure us. He listened without interrupting, nodding, asking no questions. When we finished he said simply, “Boys, you did nothing wrong. Not a thing.”

  “We don’t think you did, either, Dad,” I said.

  “Yeah, right,” Moss chimed in. “Strictly kosher.”

  Dad sighed deeply and nodded.

  When Dad dropped us off the next night, Mom was waiting. She yanked the front door open when she heard Dad’s car pull up, then loomed in the doorway, a glass of wine in her hand.

  This was bad. Dad was pretty much the same, sober or drinking, but Mom became highly volatile after a couple of glasses of wine.

  She ignored Moss and me when we walked up, looking daggers at Dad. “We need to talk,” she said, holding the door open. Moss and I fled for cover, since the four words immediately identified the impending storm as a hurricane.

  We headed for Moss’s room, which was closer to the living room. We shut the door loudly for our parents’ benefit, then silently cracked it open for ours. A hurricane was conducted at high volume, so we could usually hear every word. Sometimes we chose not to, but in this case, the hurricane would be about us, and we felt compelled to know the details.

  “What in God’s name do you mean by taking my children to a bar?” Mom demanded.

  “Let’s just slow down,” Dad suggested.

  “Are you determined to make them drunks like you? Is that what you’re trying to do? Would that make you happy?!”

  “I’m gonna get a glass of water,” said Dad. “Is that okay?”

  Silence where Mom must have nodded and Dad went to the kitchen.

  Moss whispered, “What’s the next hurricane?”

  “Dakota.”

  “Hurricane Dakota,” he mused. “Category?”

  “To be determined. Currently a one, but quickly gathering strength.”

  “The liquor talk is bad.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But so far Dad is keeping his cool.”

  We heard Mom’s voice and hushed. “What is that, vodka?” she accused.

  “Only if you’ve got it coming out of the tap,” said Dad.

  “That’s the way you would have liked it,” said Mom.

  Dad ignored the taunt. “Janice, the boys visit my restaurant. The food’s good, they like to watch sports, they don’t drink any alcohol.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it.”

  “You heard wrong. No one who works for me would serve them liquor.”

  “Oh, you’re so sure of that?!” said Mom sarcastically.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “There were drinks on the table when my friend Betty saw them.”

  “There were beverages on the table. Did Betty tell you she tried them herself and couldn’t taste any alcohol?”

  “Betty!” Mom scoffed. “She thinks a straight up martini’s too weak. There could have been two shots in there and she wouldn’t have known.”

  “She’s your spy,” said Dad. “Get one with a better palate.”

  The storm had reached a turning point. Dad had done a good job of sidestepping Mom’s most personal attacks and de-escalating the conflict. They had reached a point at which Mom might potentially appreciate the absurdity of the situation, burst into laughter, and the hurricane might pass out to sea. Or it could head directly for the coast…

  “What about that little waitress?” Mom demanded.

  “Jasmine?”

  “I don’t know her name!”

  “Probably Jasmine. What?”

  “Are you seeing her?”

  Uh-oh. Jealousy. This hurricane was now picking up moisture and wind speed, and heading towards land.

  “That’s none of your business,” Dad said, getting annoyed.

  “That means yes.”

  “That means I don’t ask about your sex life and you don’t ask about mine.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to know about my sex life,” said Mom.

  “That’s right, I don’t—”

  “—I assure you, you don’t want to know—”

  “—I don’t, so shut up about it!” snarled Dad.

  “Big man, going after a bar slut who could be your daughter,” said Mom.

  “Jasmine is not a slut,” said Dad. I silently seconded him, disgusted with Mom for attacking someone she’d never even met.

  “She dresses like a slut,” persisted Mom.

  “Everything about what you’re saying is wrong! Jasmine’s a nice girl who happens to be a waitress. Moon even tutors her.”

  “What?!!!”

  Moss looked at me and shook his head.

  “She’s trying to get her GED. Moon is helping her with the math.”

  “Oh, great! What’s she helping him with? Have you got no common sense? I can’t even trust my kids to you for the weekend! Who knows what you’ll do next?! Take them to Vegas, have some drinks, do a little gambling, hit the strip joints, get them prostitutes—”

  “—That’s ridiculous—”

  “—I don’t know—”

  “—You do know I’d never do anything like that! Maybe I was not the perfect husband for you, but I’ve always been a good father.”

  “Amen,” Moss whispered to me.

  “Well, I’ll agree that you were not a perfect husband,” said Mom in a cutting voice.

  “We’re not going there!”

  “You aren’t a good father! You’re a pitiful role model!”

  “I can’t stand this,” I whispered to Moss.

  “Enough! This is the whole point of being divorced, so I don’t have to go through this anymore,” said Dad.

  “We still have children to raise,” insisted Mom.

  “Who do you think you are to lecture me, Mother Teresa? Is that why you had the makeover, so you can be the world’s greatest parent?”

  “Have the boys been telling you—”

  “—I don’t ask, and they don’t tell! They’ve got way too much class for that.”

  “There happen to be a lot of men—”

  “—I don’t doubt it.”

  “—who are attracted to me—”

  “—I don’t doubt it.”

  “Men a lot better than you!”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You doubt it?”

  “Yes, I doubt it. But then, what you look for in a man is not the same as what I look for in a man.”

  “Oh?! And what is it I look for?” Mom demanded.

  “Attention. You need a lot of attention. A good man is one who pays a lot of attention to you.”

  “Get out!” shouted Mom.

  “I guess we’ve had our little talk,” said Dad.

  “This isn’t over! You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” Mom raged.

  “Oh, that’s a great line, Janice, how original.”

  We heard the front door slam and just like that, Hurricane Dakota had dissipated.

  Too soon, we would feel the effects of the devastation left in its path.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lawyers

  If you’re stranded on a desert island with a Bengal tiger, a black mamba, a lawyer, and you have a gun with only two bullets, what should you do?

  Shoot the lawyer twice.

  What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?

  One is a slimy, bottom-dwelling, scum sucker.

  The other is a fish.

  What’s black and brown and looks good on an attorney?

  A Doberman pinscher.

  What’s the problem with lawyer jokes?

  Lawyers don’t
think they’re funny.

  No one else thinks they’re jokes.

  So Mom’s lawyer did call Dad; and Dad called his lawyer; and Dad’s lawyer called Mom’s lawyer…

  It went downhill from there.

  At the end of the week, Mom and Dad summoned Moss and me to a meeting in our living room. The two of us sat together on the couch. Mom and Dad sat in armchairs as far from each other as they could get. Dad had a somber expression I’d seen only a few times, when Moss or I had really screwed-up and Dad knew he had to do something drastic, but wasn’t sure he was going to do the right thing.

  Mom, on the other hand, adopted a bright, upbeat tone, as if she had come up with a delightful notion she knew we’d just love, and couldn’t wait to share it.

  “Well, the gang’s all here,” said Moss to get the ball rolling.

  “Boys, your father and I have agreed that you need to spend more time with me,” said Mom.

  “That so?” Moss looked to Dad for confirmation. Dad threw up his hands and shrugged apologetically.

  “How much more time?” I asked.

  “You’ll be staying home for the weekends,” said Mom.

  “All the weekends?”

  “Yes,” said Mom. “That way you can see more of your friends, which I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

  “And your little sleepover pals, too. It’ll be great,” snapped Moss.

  “You are not to speak to me that way.”

  I glared at her. “So this is all being done to improve our social life.”

  “David, make them be civil.”

  Dad snorted. “I’m not going to defend your honor.”

  “You agreed to this, Dad?” I asked. Moss and I looked at him expectantly, but Mom interrupted before he could answer.

  “Yes, we agreed it’s for the best, given your father’s drinking problem.”

  “He doesn’t drink any more than you do,” said Moss.

  “Oh, I’m sure he does.”

  “Seems to me Dad’s drinking less,” I said.

  “He’s still an alcoholic.”

  “With all the Chardonnay in your veins, I wouldn’t be calling anyone an alcoholic,” said Moss.

  Mom self-consciously put down the glass of wine that she was almost never without these days.

  “It gets worse,” said Dad.

  “It has come to my attention that you have been spending considerable time at your father’s bar. That is to stop,” said Mom. “Entirely.”

  “We can’t go to Fanatics?” I asked, incredulous.

  “You mean, without Dad, right?”

  “You are not allowed in that place at any time!” shouted Mom.

  Dad held out a hand, as if to calm her. “Janice…”

  “I do not trust the staff to refrain from serving you alcohol,” said Mom.

  “What about me and Moss, do you trust us?”

  “You are minors. You are not expected to be particularly trustworthy,” Mom retorted.

  Moss and I looked at each other.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “We can’t go in Dad’s restaurant at all, because you’re afraid we might get some liquor. Meanwhile, you have us playing bartender to your dates, pouring them drinks from our well-stocked, unlocked liquor cabinet.”

  “I think you’re spelling it out,” added Moss. “Then Mom will be out for the night, leaving us alone with all the booze.”

  “Perhaps your father will install a lock on the cabinet,” said Mom.

  “Perhaps not,” said Dad.

  “Well, the handyman, then.”

  “Are we going to see Dad at all?” I asked.

  “Your visits with your father must be supervised,” said Mom.

  “Supervised?” said Moss. “Like we need a babysitter when we’re with Dad?”

  “Yes, Moss,” I explained. “This is typical of situations in which a parent is abusive or a child molester.”

  “Oh, that’s Dad, all right.”

  “Those are not the only situations,” said Mom.

  “I can’t believe a court agreed to this,” I said.

  “They didn’t,” Dad admitted. “I did.”

  We looked at him, stunned.

  “There, you see?” said Mom, as if this vindicated her. But Moss and I waited for Dad to explain.

  “Why?” asked Moss.

  “I can’t say,” said Dad. “That’s part of the agreement.”

  “You agreed that you can’t tell us the truth,” I said.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “That’s not quite so,” objected Mom. We ignored her and focused on Dad.

  “Did you do anything wrong?” asked Moss

  “No.”

  “David,” said Mom threateningly.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. And I will sue you for slander if you say otherwise,” said Dad, beginning to lose his temper. Then he calmed. “But if you go to court, who knows what happens,” Dad shrugged. “What do lawyers do when they’re dead?” he asked.

  “They lie, still,” said Moss.

  Dad grinned and nodded. “That’s all I can say.”

  “So Mom’s threatening to take you to court,” I said.

  “Let’s stop this right now,” said Mom.

  “What, she and her lawyer are gonna make up some lies?” asked Moss.

  “Yeah, and maybe get the ABC to investigate Fanatics. Maybe close them down,” I conjectured.

  “You swore you would not tell them this!” Mom shrieked.

  “Dad didn’t tell us anything,” I said.

  “You just did,” said Moss. He stared at her and let this sink in for a moment.

  “So you’re blackmailing Dad, threatening to make up lies in court, to keep him away from us,” I said.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t put it that way,” said Mom.

  There was a long moment while we tried to come to terms with this.

  “It’s for your own good,” Mom continued, trying to recover her dignity.

  Moss moaned. I shook my head. “So who is going to supervise our visits with Dad?” I asked.

  “Someone whom I trust,” said Mom.

  “Who’s that?”

  “We got a problem there, boys,” said Dad. “There’s no one who your mother trusts.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” said Moss, looking at Mom. “You set up a plan that can’t even work.”

  “What about Mr. Smith?” I asked.

  “Seymour? Oh, he’s much too busy—”

  “—C’mon, you haven’t even tried!” snapped Moss.

  “Well, I’ll ask him. He’d be acceptable to me, if he’d agree,” said Mom. “There’s one more thing,” she said, looking at me. “You’re not to see that young lady any more.”

  “What young lady?” I asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

  “I believe her name is Jasmine.”

  “She’s my student,” I said defensively.

  “It is an inappropriate relationship,” insisted Mom.

  “You’re the expert on those, Cougarlicious,” sneered Moss.

  “She needs help with her math,” I argued.

  “There are many other tutors in the city,” Mom insisted. “I’m sure she can find one her own age.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Mom clapped her hands and declared, “Well, I think that wraps it up.”

  “Isn’t that what Hitler said after Australia?” said Moss.

  “You mean Auschwitz,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cold Turkey

  Some experiences are not nearly as bad as you think they’ll be. For example, the divorce, up to this point, hadn’t been entirely miserable.

  On the other hand, some things are every bit as gut-wrenchingly awful as you expect they will be, and then some. Anything involving a hypodermic needle falls into that category for me. I dread punctures like the Scarecrow fears fire. Also raw seafood items. Ewwww. Visits to my great-grandmother in a nursing home. Going to the vet to put o
ur pet dog Otis to sleep. Bad trips, all of them.

  And now, Mom’s stupid new plan for our world. A dark cloud descended on us, and it just didn’t let up. I’d wake up feeling okay, then remember what had happened and be plunged into gloom. As the specific constraints which Mom’s straitjacket would place on our daily lives emerged, it only served to affirm my depression.

  There were the obvious consequences—the loss of the people and places that had become important to me. I couldn’t see Jasmine, though I continued to talk to her and tutor her on the phone. No more Fanatics. Above all, no time with Dad. Mr. Smith was out of town and no other suitable chaperone had been identified.

  Moss and I tried to talk to Dad, but he wasn’t good on the phone and sounded so depressed that it made us feel even worse. So we kinda stopped calling, and he didn’t call much, either.

  Even more upsetting was the transformation in our feelings towards our mother, the architect of this horrible scheme. When things were going all right, we could be somewhat tolerant of her self-indulgent behavior. But now that she had wrecked our lives for no good reason, we couldn’t cut her any slack. The best we could do was to refrain from outright conflict, but we complied with every order and rule with resentment.

  Oddly, Moss and I had grown closer to Dad after he and Mom had separated. We actually saw more of him than when they were married, and felt more attached to him than we had when they first divorced. So this separation felt a lot worse than the actual divorce.

  Not seeing Dad made me worry about him even more. Jasmine became my best source of information, and the news coming from her didn’t reassure me. She told me Mom had managed to squeeze more child support out of Dad, since we weren’t spending the weekends with him. One of the bartenders quit and Dad picked up his shifts to help make the extra payments. Maybe staying busy made him feel a little better, I don’t know.

  She also told me that my father had become a clown.