The Moondust Sonatas

by Alan Osi

  I must have underestimated the preppie. Of course, didn’t help that he refused to tell me his plan when we spoke earlier. “You don’t need to know,” he’d said. “Just do what I ask. You’ll even get to watch it happen.”

  At the time, it seemed loony tunes. All he wanted me to do was get Wally on one rooftop and put myself on another, with a firecracker in my hand. I thought he’d lost it. But, it did the trick.

  I’d been able to watch both Max and Wally from the start, because I got to my rooftop before Wally reached his. When Wally got into place I texted Max Ellipsis per our agreement, a word I’d decided on in homage to Casino Royale. Then I’d stealthily stuck my head over the roof to watch things unfold.

  Maxwell went up to the guy, who had picked the perfect spot to stake out my place. I couldn’t see their faces well nor hear voices. Maxwell spoke for a while, then waived to Wally, who waived back. After a second, Max took out his cell, and then I got the signal text—Ellipsis—and so I set off the firecracker. That’d been all it took, really. A few moments later, Max strolled away, and the stakeout dude left right afterward.

  He must have told the guy that the firecracker was a gunshot, and that Wally—perish the thought—was a thug. He must have impersonated a big fish.

  Unbelievable. The idea that Ivy League fop was some kind of gangster? Who the hell was after me, the Teletubby gang?

  Still, the blunt stupidity of the plan proved one thing. Max did have gumption, as much as I hated to admit it. I made a mental note: He was a goofball, but one not to be underestimated.

  I could only shake my head in wonder.

  I sat up on that cold-ass rooftop for two hours, checking all the angles, to make sure no one came back. They didn’t. I even called reporter-man and asked him what he said. He told me the story, obviously relishing his success.

  With all my Is dotted and all my Ts crossed, I finally went home. More or less just in time, too. Another few days, the moon would be full.

  Monday, October 2, 2006

  69. YVONETTE

  I greeted the rising day,

  Watching dawn limp into my bedroom.

  Dead sun climbing the sleeping city.

  I was sure I looked a mess: my eyes were red bags.

  Been up all night. Again.

  There was nary a drug I hadn’t done.

  In the last week or so, I mean.

  But as I had no one to impress at the moment and wasn’t planning on hitting the town

  (Not for hours anyway)

  The state of my face didn’t matter so much.

  There was really only one thing on my mind.

  Something I couldn’t stop thinking about,

  Not for lack of trying.

  Didn’t know why it seemed so important.

  Didn’t know why,

  A cell-phone was in my hand.

  It’d been so long. Really.

  So many years. And

  They were my parents, after all.

  Maybe I wanted an apology.

  Maybe I wanted to see if anything had changed,

  If they could let me be.

  (I’d been a round peg in their crucifix-shaped cell)

  In truth, I really couldn’t nail down why.

  But I was pulled,

  As if calling my parents were some kind of magnet,

  Drawing iron in my heart.

  It’d been so long.

  To recap:

  We’d never really gotten along.

  I was the girl

  Who fucked for parental revenge

  Had hidden wardrobes,

  And faked smiles through Sundays.

  And the more freedom pulled on me,

  The more I yearned to be outside, alive,

  The more I was prayed over, locked in.

  I was their test, they’d say,

  Because I was evil.

  (No, they never actually used the word evil.

  But did it matter?)

  I did not look back when I popped a thumb and left.

  And I did not call.

  It’s the oldest story.

  As American as secret abortions.

  And now,

  In the infant morning’s light,

  I was holding a phone. Their number was on the screen.

  It was moondust. Moondust had made the difference.

  And I hated that, and I hated everything about this

  But there was a hole in me

  And I could see it now

  And nothing could fill it

  And nothing would kill it

  It seemed so clear

  Every step would only make it bigger

  Didn’t know what else to do

  70. PETER

  I awoke before Father again and prepared the morning meal, and then, when he still didn’t wake up, I went and fetched the water from the river. Most of the other work in the forge was for men. But, I could fetch the water. Father always needed so much, so I made four trips, filling every bucket. Before he finished, I’d fill them all over again, at least once.

  When I got back, he didn’t greet me. He looked strong, but tired. I looked away; I didn’t want him to see me looking at him. I cleaned the floor mats.

  The sun rose over the trees, the hours flew, fast as crows, away from dawn. The lord would be coming in four days.

  Father seemed distant, like a fog covered him. He focused on nothing, not even the melodies of the songbirds; sitting perfectly still, eyes half-open and cloudy.

  He was wearing his plainest robe, and his hair undone, his belt too loose. Father had always been so industrious, so fastidious. What did it mean when he let such important things slide? Indeed, it was worrisome.

  “Papa, would you like tea?” Tea could clear away fog sometimes. But, he didn’t hear me.

  I wished mother were still here.

  “Father?”

  He looked at me. But, he didn’t answer. Not for a while, anyway.

  When he finally spoke, he was no less hazy. “You must never forget that you live in a beautiful world,” he said. And after he said it, he walked out of the house, and down to the forge, and closed the door.

  I sat in by the window, and watched the chimney. I could see the forge from there. And soon enough, the smoke rose.

  I wondered if he could complete the order in time. I wondered if it would be up to his standards. I wondered if it were ever going to be possible somehow, anyhow, that I might make one myself.

  And then I was back.

  I, Peter Vesseguard. Me. Modern man and professional lab-monkey. Half-rate scientist and full blown fool. I was back in my body and my brain. I was me again.

  I was me.

  A complete and utterly experientially sound out-of-consciousness experience, which included both Omni telepathy (receipt or total perception of another’s thought), tele sensation (for lack of a better word), and complete empathic transfer (receipt or total perception of other’s emotion) such that one felt one had experienced a small slice of the life of another. Another world.

  What was this stuff?

  As if the first trip hadn’t been bad enough…

  I’d wanted to go back there. I couldn’t help it. As much as it…

  But when I took it again…. Could I ever go back there?

  Or was it unrepeatable or unverifiable?

  (Of course it was)

  I’d been an adolescent girl…

  What was this stuff?

  71. CHESTER

  The sky outside was light: it was morning already.

  I remained in the lab, at the university at which I taught. In the grips of something I couldn’t understand.

  During an intense all-nighter, substance X (which a reporter named Max Smith gave me yesterday, during Sunday office hours) defied every test to which I subjected it. I never heard of, nor imagined, anything behaving this way, like an anthropomorphized universe laughing in my face.

  After I did the usual tests, I pulled out the big guns. Under
the electron microscope, which I managed to scam my way into using, I saw something utterly impossible. For the last hour or two, I alternatively sat staring, slack-jawed, into space, or re-checking to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.

  One always imagines the moments of scientific discovery as glorious Ah HA! kind of moments. But, all I felt was queasy.

  So, in either the sanest or the most self-destructive act of my whole life, I threw the sample in the toilet and flushed. All of it.

  But memory wasn’t as easy to sweep under the rug.

  I couldn’t even leave the lab. It was like the weight of memory tied me down.

  I just sat there.

  The sun rose, as it tended to do.

  72. BARRY

  Marjorie slept in. Regimen, discipline were everything, the foundation of a good and godly life. I hated it when she let herself down like this. Around 6:15 a.m., I went back to the bedroom, my mug of coffee in hand, to wake her. But, I did not. Something held me back. I stood over her for a while, sipping my coffee and drinking in her face. Twenty-nine years, we’d been together. Twenty-nine long years.

  She was looking tired, the lines that had overtaken her face in gentle webs had, at some point over the years, dug in deep. Now they were like dry riverbeds on the landscape of her skin, left by the time that flowed over us. And proof of our sorrows.

  I decided to let her sleep.

  We were aging rapidly, nearing the sunset of our lives. We didn’t speak about it much. But, it was true. It was heading the list of things we no longer talking about, a list that reinforced itself. To talk about aging was very hard without mentioning the pink elephant in our room: our Vonnie.

  I had some paperwork to take care of, dealership stuff. It was first on the to-do list today. So I went down to my office. But, as I sat in my chair, I noticed a plume of dust that billowed up from the seat, filling a sunbeam cutting across the room with its airborne filth. So I changed my plan and started with a little cleaning.

  Nothing too serious. I didn’t work very long because my bones were aching. It was becoming harder and harder to push through such things. What was joint-pain, but another small trial? When my time came, I would be worthy; the very pain of my life would guarantee the angels would embrace me with open arms. I knew this.

  So, a quick vacuum of dust, a bit of furniture polish on the desk, and I sat back down with a big sigh. I reached for the forms and files from the inbox with one hand and took a sip of coffee with the other. I frowned; the coffee had gone cold. And there was this peculiar pain in my shoulder, a nagging kind of ache.

  I had always pictured my old age differently: us surrounded by grandchildren and a community of the faithful. I’d never imagined I’d feel so like Job, in an endless test. But, I did, because without his child in it, a man’s life is incomplete.

  It was always on my mind, recently. And the brave face I put on for Margie was hollow and felt strange.

  Was she alive or dead? Broken or okay? On drugs or off?

  God’s love, be with her. Please, Jesus, protect her. Wherever she was. Even if she was in…

  The only recourse I ever had was to accept the thing I could not change by throwing myself into my work. Thinking wouldn’t help, it never did. So, work on the invoices, instead.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary. The dealership was doing well these days. Although oil prices were getting far too high; they had me nervous. Those damned Arabs in OPEC had us literally over a barrel, and they knew it. They were inflating the prices just because, and for now it hadn’t hurt business. But, who was to say what would come in the future? What a world we lived in.

  The enemies of Christ were myriad, organized, and determined. Willing to blow themselves to hell for just about nothing. What a world. But, it was going to be all right; Christ’s Kingdom was going to come. And nothing could stop it, ‘cause there wasn’t anything in the world more powerful than Jesus. He would make everything all right, in the end. For our part, we simply had to believe in His plan and live the best we could.

  Funny enough, right as I was thinking that, Carol, the church secretary, called me.

  “Speak of the angels,” I said, “and one appears. What can I do for you, Carol?”

  She laughed her delightful laugh. Heaven, it reminded me. Of the sin we once committed. “Barry. How’s Margie?”

  “She’s great, Carol. And Tom?”

  “Oh, the same. Praise the Lord, we went to the doctor, and he got a clean bill of health again. Me and the kids are so happy, I couldn’t tell you.”

  Tom once had cancer, going on about three years, now. And it’d been in remission for two, praise Jesus. Carol had prayed so hard for that, and she deserved it. They both did.

  “That’s great, Carol. You know you’ve been in our prayers.”

  “And you in ours. Listen—I’m calling to remind you of the fundraiser tonight.”

  “Shoot!” I said. “Is it that already?”

  She chuckled. “Sure is. Isn’t it amazing how quick it all goes?”

  “Every year is shorter.”

  “Amen to that. So we can count you and Margie in? I’m looking forward to seeing you all!”

  “You sure can. I’ll see you there.”

  “Have a great day, Barry, and God bless.”

  “God bless,” I said back, and hung up.

  I was surprised at myself. I really had forgotten about the fundraiser, completely. I even pulled out my schedule to make sure I’d written in down: sure as day, it was there. So I read the schedule up to next month, to make sure I’d not forgotten anything else. But, everything else seemed in order.

  Shaking my head, I went back to my paperwork. Seemed that Mike was having a great month. Which was good, I needed the young guys to step up. Everyone else was pretty much as per usual, except for Alex, who was somewhat below par.

  Drink would do that to a man. But, I couldn’t convince him to change his ways. Ever since Paula left, he was that way. And with those girls to look after. It was a darn shame.

  I made a note to have another talk with him, to pray with him a little bit. Hopefully, I could be the lighthouse that got his ship righted. A vehicle for our Lord Jesus, that He might save yet another soul. Or, in this case, re-save. Lord knows the man needed help.

  Around eight o’clock, I got to a good place to stop and have some breakfast. Marjorie had finally seen fit to get herself up, I could tell, because she was in the kitchen, watching the news over a cup of coffee, eating some oatmeal.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” I said, and she responded with a thin smile.

  “Did you remember the fundraiser was tonight?” I asked.

  “Shoot. You know, I forgot.”

  “Me, too. Dangerous for us to be forgetting things like that.”

  “Did we say we were bringing anything?”

  “Just our checkbook. It’s going to be Casino Night.”

  “Oh, you know I never liked gambling,” she said, frowning. I smiled.

  “Three-hundred-sixty-four days a year, it’s a heck of a sin. But, it brings in so much money for missions, we shouldn’t complain at all.”

  Our church supported missionaries bringing the word of God to communities the whole world over. Sometimes, in hostile nations, the missionaries risked life and limb to spread the word of Jesus.

  “Are you going in today?” Margie asked. She didn’t like me going in early on Mondays, we both knew. But, Fridays and Saturdays were big days. I hardly could stay away on Monday to process sales and new car orders. But, I did try to spend only a half-day on this paperwork, and every now and again, I took the whole day off. Lawns needed mowing, stuff like that.

  “Uh-huh.”

  We spent the rest of the meal watching the news and occasionally commenting on the stories. Most of them were about Nancy Pelosi and Maxine Waters, and their attack on President Bush. You had to wonder about people like that. Some other stuff was going on, too. Young Hollywood girls were running into the Devil’s ar
ms just as fast as they could go. Other folk were getting married, still others were getting divorces. Wall Street wasn’t looking so good. But, the housing market was still strong enough.

  After we’d both finished eating, and after Margie put the dishes away, I stayed in the kitchen to read the paper, and she went upstairs to take a shower. In the front page section there wasn’t too much going on that hadn’t been on television, so I went right to the sports section. And then the phone rang.

  “Barry Miller,” I said by way of greeting.

  A breathy, soft, wavering voice came through on the other side. “Happy birthday, Daddy,” it said.

  It froze me. It went right through me, recalling memories and my deepest hopes. “Vonnie?”

  Our Yvonette. Her voice was different: It was older, and heavier, and lacking the anger that had so horrified us, a seemingly bottomless rage that we hadn’t managed to free her from.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “It’s not my birthday, girl. It’s not anybody’s birthday, today.”

  “Oh,” she said. “My mistake.”

  “How are you? Are you okay? Is anything wrong? Are you…”

  There was a pause, and I held breath: But, she said, “I’m okay. I—I’m fine.”

  “Praise Jesus,” I said, fighting back the emotion that had threatened to overtake me. “God is truly good.”

  “How’s Momma? How are you?”

  “She misses you something fierce,” I said, and the emotion overtook me. I wiped my face. “Ain’t been right, since you left.”

  On the other end, there was only silence.

  “Matter of fact, your Momma just went upstairs to take a shower. But, she’s gonna want to talk to you, Baby. Will you hold on? Will you stay for just a minute and talk to your Momma?”

  “Sure, Daddy. Sure.”

  So I put the receiver down on the counter, and went up the stairs, about as fast as I could go.