Once in a Blue Moon

by Vicki Covington

  He heard Abi’s knock. Always the same—five long knocks spaced apart, followed by two quick ones. He opened the door.

  “Sorry,” he said, waving it all away—his apartment.

  Abi stepped inside and administered her usual chest bump. Sam was always amazed at Abi, how different she was from all the other women he knew.

  “It’s not messy,” Abi said, then turned to Landon, who had followed her inside. “Isn’t he beautiful? Doesn’t he make you want to fall into his arms while you tell the sad, sordid story of your life? High-school quarterback, this one.”

  “Have a seat, ladies,” he said, gesturing to the couch.

  Landon sat, but Abi headed for his kitchen, calling back, “Can I get something to drink, Sam?”

  “I wouldn’t go near the milk or orange juice,” he said. “I need to do some tossing out today.”

  “What about the Dr Pepper? There’s only one left. Can I have it?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Abi returned, head up high like a preacher. “Mark my word, guys,” she said. “Pot will be legalized after this next election. And Obama will be our next president.”

  Sam leaned back in his chair, bemused. “Ah, are you crazy, girl?” he asked. “You think all you white folks are gonna vote for a black man who used to do coke, who is the son of a white woman and an African man? Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Hope is the whole point,” Abi said. “The Audacity of Hope—that’s his book, you know? Jet lent it to me.”

  “Well, he is pretty audacious to talk about the audacity of anything.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Sam stood and retrieved the bong from his bedroom.

  “Whoa,” Landon said. “That’s so much bigger than the ones I remember from my smoking days.”

  “Show her everything,” Abi said.

  He began pulling out pipes of all sizes in a kaleidoscope of colors, then a tiny Ziploc bag with two buds the size of lemon drops. Most of his stash was hidden away in the hall closet. He kept only small bags lying around.

  “All these pipes . . . ,” Landon said. “Don’t people still use empty toilet- paper rolls and aluminum foil?”

  “Just old people,” he said, then patted her shoulder. “I’m kidding.”

  He put one of the tiny buds in the water bong and asked Landon if she wanted to smoke. He suspected this must be a big deal for her.

  Landon looked at the bong with a hint of trepidation. “Not to offend,” she said. “My uncle—the oldest living relative I have—warned me, ‘You live in Southside, you’re gonna be living next door to a drug dealer.’ I guess he had it right, but the dealer is a few houses up, not next door.”

  Abi and Sam laughed. Then they explained to her what to do. She took a hit and coughed most of the smoke back up. Abi and Sam both took their turns.

  “Things have changed,” Landon told them, still coughing. She took another hit. “That’s it for me.”

  Abi was all over her with questions. How did it taste? How did it feel? Was it really different from the stuff she smoked in the seventies? Landon told them how a lid or an ounce once cost twenty-five dollars. Sam told her that the two tiny buds they were smoking were worth about that much.

  “Oh, but let me tell you . . . ,” Landon said, and put one hand on Abi’s knee, the other on Sam’s. He could tell she was buzzed. “During the summer of 1975, the movie Stay Hungry was shot in Birmingham. All the Hollywood people brought this super weed to town. Acapulco Gold. My husband, a topographer, was also involved with local theater. They gave him the job of lining up extras. So he got cozy with the stars and started buying some of this Hollywood weed, which was expensive but worth it.” She told them, “I saw Sally Field get high.”

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, buddy.”

  Abi looked impressed. “Who else?” she asked.

  “Jeff Bridges.”

  Sam leaned forward, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger in that movie?”

  “How did you know that?” Landon asked him. “You weren’t even born yet.”

  “Unc had that on video. He was an extra.”

  “Who is Unc?” Landon asked.

  “He’s Sam’s uncle,” Abi said. “Unc. Uncle.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “They filmed a lot of it in Mountain Brook. The country club. Or maybe it was Birmingham Country Club. And it was Schwarzenegger’s debut. And the fellow who wrote the book was from here, too, right?”

  “You got it,” Landon replied.

  “Sam,” Abi said, “Landon has quite a collection of old vinyls.”

  “You got any Sly and the Family Stone?” he asked.

  “I do, actually. I do,” Landon said. “I’m going to get that album for you.”

  “Landon’s a regular vinyl soup kitchen,” Abi said. “She’s going to end up giving all her records away. So don’t bring your homeboys over and let them choose one, or that girl of yours. This is strictly a Mr. Kasir’s neighborhood thing.”

  “It’s all good,” Sam said.

  “What does that mean?” Landon asked him.

  “What does what mean?”

  “I mean, when somebody says, ‘It’s all good,’ it’s not that everything is good, right?” she asked. “Just the moment at hand, right?”

  Sam reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re stoned, girl.”

  “She’s a psychotherapist,” Abi said. “Or was one. Got to analyze it all.”

  Sam stood, and Abi, too. Sam knew what she was going to do. She did it often.

  Standing chest to chest with Sam, she said, “Landon, this is the only man I know, other than my daddy, who’s taller than me.” Abi kissed his forehead.

  “I’m gonna grab a beer,” Sam said. “Anyone else? Landon?”

  “No thanks,” she replied.

  On his way to the kitchen, Sam raised the window shade. The sunset was spectacular. It threw its light along Cullom Street. Sam saw Roy gathering up the last of his garden vegetables, looking like more than an ordinary man. He was Adam, and this was Eden. Paradise.

  Damn good bud, Sam thought. He’d forgotten why he’d gotten up in the first place.

  “Sam, my daddy has cancer,” Abi said abruptly.

  He whirled back around. “Aw, babe, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “He wants—he needs—some stuff to help with the nausea when his treatments begin. I know you don’t keep a lot around, but I was wondering if you could talk to Unc about getting some extra.”

  “No problem,” he said. “It’s all good.”

  JET

  As Christmas neared, the neighbors attempted to decorate their places with homemade materials. Jet, for her part, decided to make a tree out of the bamboo stalks that grew near the alley behind her unit. She cut them down, gathered them up at the base, and braced them in an urn she’d pilfered from her mother’s house when she left. She attached beer tabs to paper clips and hung them from the stalks like ornaments.

  The next morning, she threw on some jeans and black heels with dark red soles, grabbed a Mountain Dew, and went to the front porch for a smoke. She stared at Sam’s place across the street. His girlfriend’s car was parked at the curb. Jet bristled. She would often run across the street to buy a few buds and spend all day smoking them with Sam on his couch, just to be near him. Once, she had held tight to him when saying goodbye, trying to communicate what she wanted from him, trying to see if he wanted it, too, but he had slowly disentangled from her. He wasn’t interested.

  “I’m over it,” she said, though nobody was there to hear her.

  Landon passed by with her dog. Jet hadn’t yet had a real conversation with her, just an occasional wave and a “Doing all right?” shouted across the street. She knew from Sam that Landon was cool, and that she was a therapist. Probably a good friend to make.

  “Hey, Landon!”

  Landon looked up and waved. Jet guessed that Landon might be her mother’s age, but she sure didn’
t dress like her mother. Landon wore jeans or long embroidered skirts. Her hair wasn’t short and teased up in the back like most of the older women Jet knew. From a distance, Landon looked comfortable and relaxed but still pretty.

  “Jet?” Landon said, pausing at the walkway. “That’s your name, right?”

  “How could you forget it?” Jet laughed. “Come on over, if you have the time.”

  “Let me put my dog inside.”

  While she waited for Landon, Jet surveyed the porch that she shared with Tina for evidence of a recent rager she’d thrown. Tina liked to climb out her window and sit on the roof, or sometimes threaten to throw herself off of it. Jet decided she wouldn’t tell Landon about Tina. She noted the empty beer cans Tina had left on the porch, the open grill that needed to be cleaned, leaves that needed to be swept, the glider covered in dust. Their porch was always like this, but damn if Jet was going to do something about it. She wouldn’t clean up a mess that wasn’t hers.

  When Landon returned, Jet decided not to invite her in right away. She preferred to be outside, felt safer for some reason, meeting somebody for the first time, especially a person old enough to be her parent.

  “I’m so glad we’re finally meeting,” Landon said.

  The two women shook hands.

  “Marlboro Reds,” Jet said, holding up her pack of cigarettes. “Same brand that our next president smokes. Do you like him?”

  “Who?”

  “Obama.”

  “Yes, of course. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Most of Birmingham,” Jet said.

  “Well, I bet Cullom Street is mostly blue.”

  Jet agreed. “Even the lawyers who own those big houses down the street,” she said. “They are bleeding-heart liberals. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be caught dead in Southside, among people like us. You want to come inside?”

  “Sure.”

  Jet’s place had two big rooms that could be closed off by pocket doors. Behind those two rooms was her bedroom.

  “I like your Christmas tree,” Landon said, gesturing toward the bedecked bamboo.

  “We make do with what we’ve got,” Jet said. “If you don’t mind, let’s go to my room. These other two rooms are full of furniture my mother sent me. I’m not exactly comfortable with her selections. Just like her, stuffy and hysterical.”

  Jet’s bedroom was much different from the rest of her apartment. Two big, black beanbag chairs were on the floor. Her bedspread and pillowcases were deep indigo. The curtains were crimson and let in no light.

  “Have a seat,” Jet said, gesturing to the beanbags.

  “Thanks,” Landon replied, sinking into the black corduroy.

  Jet sat in the other one and took off her stilettos. “These kill my feet, but I’m wearing them for Sam.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “Well, he could be. I wish he was.”

  A beat passed between them. Jet noticed Landon looking a little uncomfortable, taking in the room.

  “Do you have kids?” Jet asked.

  “I do. Two daughters, probably around your age.”

  “I bet you were a good mother.”

  “Well, you’d have to ask my daughters about that.”

  Jet paused, then lit a cigarette, wondering whether or not to tell Landon the truth about herself. After all, Landon was older, and from what Abi had told her, she’d been a therapist. And her eyes were gentle and welcoming, as if she’d be wide open to any conversation Jet might choose to have with her.

  “I like the neighborhood,” Landon said.

  “We’re a family around here.”

  “And what brought you here? Are you a student?”

  “I already graduated with a double major—history and philosophy. That’s why I work at a bookstore that pays minimum wage.”

  Jet stood to grab an ashtray from the dresser and light a black candle. The only reason she didn’t have to run to work this morning was because she’d volunteered to work Christmas, and the store had given her a day off in return.

  “My dad died when I was eighteen,” Jet told her.

  “That must have been awful, losing him.”

  Jet sank back down into the beanbag chair, cigarette in hand. “Yes, it was bad. But the really bad thing is that my mother, for whatever reason, chose that time to tell me I was adopted.” Jet inhaled sharply on her cigarette, exhaling with her words as she continued. “My birth mother was my aunt. Turns out, she gave me to her sister, who adopted me. So I grew up thinking that my adopted mother was my real mother, and her sister was my aunt.”

  “That must have been very difficult,” Landon said.

  Jet nodded, silent for a moment while she thought about just how difficult it had been.

  “One thing that really hurt was that my birth mother had another daughter a couple of years later and kept her.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “So I thought this kid was my cousin when she was really my sister. I lived this lie all my life until my dad died. Maybe he was the one who told my mother and aunt not to tell me the truth. I forgot to ask you if you need anything to drink.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Landon said.

  Jet swallowed the last of her Mountain Dew.

  “So what did you do?” Landon asked.

  “Hell, I packed up my clothes and took the bus to Birmingham. I spent my first few nights at the YWCA, then learned of a women’s shelter downtown. The women had a place to sleep at night in the church basement and a breakfast to eat in the morning. During the day, they had to leave the shelter and seek work. A lot of the women were prostitutes.” Jet paused, taking a deep breath. “They helped me learn.”

  Jet glanced over at Landon to see how that augured. Knowing that Landon was a shrink made it easier to open up. Surely, she had heard it all over the years. Landon’s face was still, free of judgment. She said nothing, only smiled slightly, so Jet prodded her.

  “Don’t you think my mother should have told me the truth from the get-go?”

  “The truth is always best,” Landon replied.

  Jet leaned forward, her long black hair falling like a curtain. “Are you sorry I invited you in?” she asked Landon. “People must do this to you all the time—free therapy.”

  “I’m just listening,” Landon replied. “I’m interested.”

  Jet wanted to believe this. She looked at the candle. The wax was melting down the sides. She reached over Landon to her bookshelf and took down two books: William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience and Sylvia Plath’s Ariel.

  “My favorite books,” she told Landon.

  Landon smiled and nodded. “I read them somewhere along the way,” she said.

  Jet set them in her lap, mindlessly stroking the worn spines.

  “One day, a car pulled up at the curb of the shelter. A man got out; he was wearing a collar. Somebody whispered, ‘Priest,’ like he was a cop or something. He walked over to us and asked me if I felt like talking to him. I guess he picked me because I was the youngest. Father Patrick. He put me up in his parish’s transitional apartments. He showed me their soup kitchen, a free lunch. He hooked me up with a parishioner named Trish who helped me apply for college, and all the scholarships and loans. Then he set me up with Mr. Kasir, who had this place here up for rent. They were so nice and expected nothing in return.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Landon said, touching Jet’s arm gently. “Is Jet your given name?”

  “Almost,” Jet said with a laugh. “It’s Jenette. I used to babysit, and the kids couldn’t say it—it always came out ‘Jet, Jet.’ I liked it, so I started calling myself Jet and never looked back.”

  “Good for you,” Landon said. “It is a great name. Very evocative. You know, makes people want to know what you’re all about.”

  “Now, you tell me your story,” Jet said.

  “I have daughters about your age. One is in the military and will deploy to Iraq soon. I’m divorced. Currently unemployed. I like
it here. I like Mr. Kasir. Do you?”

  “I love that man,” Jet replied.

  Landon stretched her legs. Her long broomstick skirt was light blue. She was wearing sandals even though it was December.

  “So, tell me about Sam. How do you feel about him?”

  Jet shook her head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. There’s just something about him. When I’m over there, I want him to pick me up like a baby and put me to bed in his room. I can’t figure out what it’s about.” Then she quickly changed the subject. “I want you to meet Father Patrick. Why don’t you go with me to midnight mass on Christmas Eve? I invited Abi, too. She hates church, but she’s been like a big sister to me.”

  Landon hesitated. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been to church.”

  “You’ll like it,” Jet assured her. “They’re really nice. Episcopalians, very liberal.”

  ABI

  Abi woke up early to run. It was going to be a warm day for December. She had asked Landon to go with her to see her parents. She did her stretching, then started jogging slowly in the direction of the Vulcan Trail. The trail was relatively new. Once an abandoned rail bed that was used for dumping, the surface was paved for runners in 1997, around the time Abi moved to Birmingham.

  Today, she began her run in the alley behind Green Springs Avenue, just a block from Cullom Street. This would take her to the trail. Abi didn’t like to wear headphones. She wanted to hear what nature had to offer.

  She wondered if she would have become a runner had it not been for her proximity to the Vulcan Trail. It was such a refuge, a small piece of nature she could enjoy while still inside the city limits. In summer, the tree-lined trail offered a respite from the heat. In winter, the bare trees yielded a view of the city. All of the red, yellow, and orange autumn leaves were gone, leaving only shadows on the pavement.

  She had made runners out of her previous boyfriend, Scott, and Celeste, her partner after him. They could never keep up. She often wondered if they were still running, if she’d cross paths with either of them one morning. But she was all right being alone. She didn’t miss them. She didn’t miss anything when she was running. She felt most alive when her legs were moving, endorphins enacting a chemical change in her body that could be better than drinking or drugs or sex. Her favorite moment was when she felt a second wind, her body aching but also craving the pain. When she ran, she pushed past her limitations. It was therapy. If only she could have been a runner as a kid, a teenager. The closest she came to soothing herself back then was to sit by the pond.