The Moon Around Sarah

by Paul Lederer

  In that rapid estimation, she came very close to the heart of Raymond Tucker’s personality.

  ‘’Name’s Tucker. I have an appointment with Sal Dennison,’ the man said. His shave was very rough; his cologne sharp and inexpensive. He wore a tweed jacket over faded blue-jeans and a white shirt, open at his tanned throat.

  ‘Yes, sir. He is expecting you.’ Sylvia met his gaze briefly, broke off and shuffled a few papers meaninglessly. The man, she knew, was expected. All of the Tucker family was due in that morning. Some sort of real estate sale. Why they were not all scheduled at the same time, she did not know. ‘Mr Dennison is not in his office yet … your son is here. You may feel free to go on in. Unless you would prefer to wait downstairs in the coffee shop? I could call.…’

  ‘My son?’ Raymond Tucker was smiling now, but Sylvia did not find it an inviting expression, her eyes shifting away again. ‘I’ll wait with him if you don’t mind,’ Tucker said, ‘that’ll be fine. My son and I can have a talk.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she said, rising sharply, awkwardly. Sylvia led the way to the heavy, carved-oak door to the inner office. She opened the door for the man and stepped aside in rapid, tiny steps.

  Beyond the door, the office was all dark-green carpet and oak paneling and was cool and curtained. The younger man in jeans and a red sweatshirt sat in a heavy corner chair, legs crossed, dark eyes lifting with casual interest. The door was closed in Sylvia’s face and she wobbled back to her desk. She could feel … something. Something nearly electric swirling around her, and she did not like it. Not at all.

  Edward took the elevator to the third floor of the professional building. Brushed aluminum and fake pecan-paneling, it moved with barely a hiss. He was the only passenger; it was still very early and most of the offices – legal groups, insurance companies, a medical association – were not yet open. He had left Aunt Trish in the coffee shop enjoying a Danish.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about any of the preliminaries,’ she had told him. ‘You’re the lawyer in the family. Let me know when they want my signature and when they’re ready to cut a check.’

  When the elevator door whooshed open on the third floor, Edward was surprised to see Sal Dennison, a little red in the face, walking toward him, his stubby legs pumping vigorously. He had a briefcase in his left hand. With his right, he reached up to adjust his tie before extending a welcome to Edward.

  ‘Took the stairs,’ Sal said with a weak smile, waving a thumb over his shoulder, ‘the doctor says to use ’em.’ He tapped his heart in explanation.

  ‘Is anyone else here yet?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Only you, so far as I know. Where’s your mother?’

  ‘She’ll be here.’ Edward glanced at his watch. ‘I have to pick her up. Aunt Patricia is downstairs. I know I’m way early, but can we just get through the prelims, Sal? It’s easiest if we can just hand them a pen when they get here and let them each sign. It’ll save you from having to go over the fine points with two women who don’t have any interest in them anyway.’ They walked together toward Dennison’s office. ‘I’ve explained the final terms to them; they understand and agree.’

  ‘Good. Far preferable,’ Sal agreed.

  ‘What about the Golden West representative?’ Edward asked, referring to the land development people.

  ‘Power of attorney,’ Sal said, patting his briefcase. ‘That’s all I need from them.’

  ‘Great. It’s in everyone’s best interest to expedite this.’

  ‘Uh …’ Sal stopped, his bearded face serious, pouched eyes showing concern, ‘about your sister, Edward….’

  Edward smiled remotely, and touched his own briefcase. ‘Power of attorney, Sal. I’ve been her conservator for quite some time.’

  ‘Good,’ Sal said. His face relaxed. He patted Edward’s shoulder, but then asked cautiously, ‘She can sign papers, can’t she? Understand them? I mean.…’ He meant he didn’t want any snag in the transaction that might threaten the large fee he was charging for midwifing the deal.

  ‘She doesn’t have to sign, Sal. I have full power over her share of the estate.’

  ‘I mean, we wouldn’t want any … ramifications.’

  ‘There won’t be any – no legal ramifications anyway. I consulted with Judge Randolph. I have a letter from him. We’re totally OK all the way down the line – although Randolph required a consulting fee, and I’m expecting your firm to take care of that for us.’

  ‘Sure, Edward. Of course!’ Sal laughed, not revealing his relief. Edward could refer casually to the fine legal points as ‘prelims’, but that was what he was being paid to oversee, and paid well too. The last thing they needed down the road was some sort of legal challenge to the settlement. Hardly likely to occur now, not with Judge Randolph on the team. ‘Everything will go as smooth as Japanese silk then.’

  ‘So long as you’re sure my father and Eric haven’t gone and changed their mind for some reason.’

  ‘Don’t give it a thought,’ Sal told him. ‘I’ve made numerous confirmation calls to both of them. Neither one of them has any objection to the terms. It seems both Raymond and Eric are as anxious to get this over and done with as you are. This should be very quick and simple: in and out. An hour, tops. Everyone happy.’

  Happy. Edward wondered at the use of that word. This all seemed to him like some dry, forced conjugal duty, completed lovelessly. The act is completed, but no one is happy with the result.

  ‘It’s just something we have to finish,’ he said, almost to himself.

  They entered the office door, Sylvia becoming nervously alert as if she suspected they had been spying on her from the hallway. Her naïve, guilt-ridden eyes fumbled toward them.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Dennison. Mr Tucker…’ she hesitated, ‘have I made a mistake? Your father and brother are already here, Mr Tucker.’

  ‘Alone?’ Edward said roughly; Sylvia cringed. ‘In the same room!’

  Sylvia couldn’t answer. Her throat moved nervously. God! What had she done wrong now?

  A response to Edward’s startled question came hot on the heels of his words. From the inner office they heard a roar, the sound of furniture crashing and a thud that must have been a human being thrown against the wall.

  ‘Jesus!’ Sal shouted. He dropped his briefcase and started toward the office door, but Edward put a restraining hand on the lawyer’s arm. He spoke with the voice of experience:

  ‘Leave them alone, Sal. Nothing can be done.’

  When Raymond Tucker had entered Dennison’s office with his lazy, easy, stride, Eric’s eyes had lifted with caution. His gaze was steady, but without warmth, and there was recognition in them, nothing more. He had learned that trick long ago; it had saved him a few beatings.

  ‘Working?’ was the first word that Raymond Tucker said to the son he hadn’t seen in four years.

  ‘I get by,’ Eric answered. His attitude was languid but wary. He was too aware of his father’s ways. Raymond’s half-smile usually meant trouble for someone. ‘Look, Raymond,’ he tried, ‘let’s just let it all lie for today, OK? We have things to do and then we can go our separate ways.’

  Raymond’s hands were curling at his sides, an involuntary movement not unfamiliar to his son.

  ‘Let it lie?’ Raymond Tucker said in a voice so soft it was like velvet steel. He took off his tweed jacket, folded it and placed it aside on one of the green leather chairs. ‘Let it lie again? You’ve just never been man enough to own up to your dirty little act, have you? Destroying a young girl….’

  ‘Let it lie, Raymond,’ Eric said, rising carefully to his feet. He was an inch taller than his father, but he felt like a child before the broad-shouldered man in jeans.

  ‘You’ve said that already. Let it lie. You say that to the man who lost his home, his wife, his little daughter because of you. You worthless little bastard!’

  ‘Raymond….’ Eric backed away, raising his hands defensively. Whatever courage he had built up began to leak
out of him as his father approached, rolling up the cuffs of his white shirt.

  ‘Raymond…’ the elder Tucker said, still coming forward, his big tanned hands now clenched into white-knuckled fists, ‘you can’t even call me “Dad”, can you, you worthless little prick. I’m glad of that at least. You’re no son of mine.’ He took two rapid steps nearer. Eric was backed against Dennison’s heavy oak desk and now as he spoke, Raymond Tucker emphasized each word by thumping the palm of his hand against Eric’s chest.

  ‘You … are … nothing, boy! A scum on the earth, a scab on my existence. You destroyed our family, damn you!’

  Eric saw what was coming next, and threw up his hands, but he was too slow. Raymond threw a fist from his hip and his knuckles smashed into Eric’s face, sending him staggering aside, reeling toward the wall.

  ‘Destructive, soulless little bastard!’ Raymond yelled, and he hit his son again, this time striking him on the throat, as Eric tried desperately to roll away from the blow.

  ‘Raymond….’ Eric pleaded hoarsely.

  And Raymond Tucker hit him again, this time striking him flush on the jaw, driving the younger man to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth.

  ‘Bastard!’ Raymond Tucker panted, hovering over him.

  ‘Raymond!’ Eric pleaded again.

  He was hit again, his head snapping back against the wall, the flesh on his cheek splitting open. Raymond was wheezing with wild emotions. The door behind him burst open and he turned, giving Sal Dennison and Edward only a cursory glance before he returned his attention to Eric.

  Eric was seated limply on the floor, leaning against the wall. His mouth and throat, his cheek were smeared with blood.

  ‘Bastard!’ Raymond said explosively. His mouth moved as if he was going to spit, his jaw muscles tensing. He raised his fist again.

  ‘Raymond!’ Eric screamed in terror. His head fell and he buried his face in his hands. ‘Daddy … oh, Daddy, don’t hurt me any more! Daddy, no, please….’

  The two men watching saw Raymond’s tension lessen. He lowered his clenched fist and stood watching his son cry for a minute. Then his hunched shoulders slowly lowered and he turned to lock eyes with Edward.

  ‘If you ever feel pity for the little son-of-a-bitch, just look at Sarah and remember what he did to her,’ Raymond Tucker said with subdued savagery. ‘I don’t apologize.’ Then he turned and deliberately spat into Eric’s battered face. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, ‘from Daddy.’

  As if nothing had happened, he then asked Edward, ‘Are you by any chance using my car today?’

  ‘Yes,’ Edward managed to answer. The hinges of his jaw seemed to be glued together. His brother sobbed into his hands. Sal eased to one side, trying to become invisible.

  ‘Good. Give me the keys. I’ll be using it. When you want my signature, come and find me.’

  ‘But I’m supposed to pick Mother up.’

  ‘Your mother,’ Raymond Tucker said, ‘will find someone to pick her up.’ Snatching his jacket from the chair, he went out. Sylvia darted into the supply closet to avoid him. Sal Dennison watched Raymond’s departing back, mouth agape, a gloss of fine perspiration on his forehead.

  ‘Jesus, God,’ he muttered.

  Edward’s mouth was a thin, tight groove. He went to his brother and reached down to help him to his feet, but Eric slapped his hand away.

  ‘Damn you all!’ Eric said. ‘Each and every one of you – damn you to a bloody, eternal hell.’

  Two

  THE RAIN HAD begun slowly, the reaching fingers of sea-fog drawing the huge northern thunderheads toward the shore. An hour later, the fishing pier was invisible in the prowling darkness of the clouds. Fishermen scurried toward their pickup trucks, tossed their catch and gear into the beds and drove homeward, lights on, wipers flailing. The wind rose dramatically; the temperature plummeted. Out on the horizon, lightning crackled and danced brilliantly through the stacked clouds, casting eerily colored flares of light across the dark and restless sea.

  Sarah sat on the green bus-stop bench, her hat in her hands. It was impossible to keep it on in this wind and the rain had soaked it to bedraggled limpness. People had scurried past, heading toward shelter, as the earlier mist was replaced by huge spattering drops which presaged a long hard downpour thundering toward the North Coast. Now the streets were empty and gray and slick with rain.

  Sarah did not know how long she would have to wait, and she was very cold, wearing only her thin cotton dress with the butterflies and roses; but Mother had told her to wait, and so she would wait. The wooden bus-stop bench was hard; people had carved secret messages into it. The wind was growing angry and cold; within the building where Mother had gone it was warm. Now and then a man would go in or come out and Sarah could feel the warm air gusting out. The air in there was thick with tobacco smoke, lively with music. She thought of going in, but Mother had told her to wait. Besides, those places were for grownups. Mother had always told her that.

  The rain began in earnest. Slanting down aggressively, the raindrops rebounding from the sidewalk and the asphalt of the street like little silver ball-bearings.

  Sarah pitied the snail.

  With the mist it had come creeping from some secret snail-place, etching a silver trail across the damp, broken sidewalk. She watched its slow progress. Where had it come from? Why? Where could it possibly think it was going? She leaned forward, hat in her hands, hands on her chin, skirt tucked down between her knees.

  It continued on its crooked way as the rain clouds swept in from the sea. Its tiny dark eyes atop the stems on its head seemed to look back at her. What was it watching for? An indication of danger so that it could run away? Just looking up toward the rainy skies or watching to see that Sarah wouldn’t gobble him up like ducks do?

  The man who stepped on it wore an orange parka and a distant expression. The snail was a small crunch and a pool of lifeless slime; it had seen the man but was too slow and its proud shell too little defense.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing out here!’

  The voice was familiar, yet unidentifiable. Sarah glanced up through the falling rain to see the young man she had met on the pier, now wearing a green quilted jacket and a red baseball cap.

  ‘For Christ’s sake…’ he looked around, spreading his hands in disbelief, then crouched in front of Sarah. ‘Where is your mother?’

  He spoke to her differently now than he had before; more slowly, carefully. It made her smile.

  The young man – Donald, wasn’t it – rose and stood with his hands on his hips. Rain had darkened the shoulders of his jacket and dripped from the bill of his baseball cap. A car rumbled past, throwing a fan of water against his legs. He didn’t even turn around.

  ‘Now this is something,’ he said to himself. ‘Really something.’ He waved his hands skyward in bafflement. To Sarah, the man resembled a perplexed rain god at that moment.

  He startled her briefly. His hand, cold and callused, reached out and took hers. Her eyes widened uncertainly, but he smiled that nice, crooked, smile, and said, ‘You can’t sit out here, girl. You’ll get pneumonia for sure. Come on, we’ll get you some coffee. What happened? Did you get lost?’

  No. Of course not! Sarah knew exactly where Mother was, but she could not go in to get her – it was a place for grownups and she was not allowed.

  But it was terribly cold now, and so she let the young man with the crooked smile and strong hands take her from the bus stop bench and rush her away through the cold, sad rain.

  The rain continued in a steady downpour. It pinged off the steel awnings over the shops along the street; turning briefly to hail, the sound was like random machine-gun fire. Thunder crashed close at hand and the ground under their feet seemed to move with its intensity. With his head bowed to the wind and rain, Don March plodded on, towing the slender reluctant girl behind him.

  At the corner coffee shop, he stopped, read the hand-lettered sign on the door and cursed. He peered int
o the window, shielding his eyes with his free hand.

  ‘They’re closed, damn it.’ He looked around futilely; Sarah was trembling badly with the cold and damp. Where was the girl’s mother? He thought briefly of going to the police station, but immediately discarded the impulse; it would scare her to death, probably. Poor thing, poor drenched, lost thing, standing there with her wilted hat in hand. And still she smiled, if hesitantly. The damp and wind had formed her thin dress to her body as close as a second skin. She wore no underwear. Don felt an unexpected surge of sexual response. Then, disgusted with himself, he managed to banish the feelings.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing else for it. We’ll go to my place. I won’t leave you out in this weather.’ And they struggled on. The wind was so heavy now that it was difficult to walk against. The driving rain stung their eyes.

  They had nearly reached his studio – two rooms over a Hallmark shop – when a young man in a torn red sweatshirt careened past them, cursing wildly to himself and the storm. His face was bruised badly; the falling rain mingled with the blood trickling down his cheek. He narrowly avoided colliding with Sarah and rushed on, staggering through the storm, his curses smothered by the thunder. They saw him run out onto the long pier, his arms flung skyward.

  Sarah tugged Don in that direction, but he held her back. ‘Come on. There’s nothing we can do for that poor fellow. The police will take care of him.’

  Oh, yes. That was right, Sarah thought. The last time it had happened to Eric, the policemen had come for him, and Mother had told her the same thing.

  ‘It’s all right, Sarah. All right now. The police will take care of your brother.’

  Donald March’s studio, reached by way of a flight of outside wooden steps, was cluttered, cold and damp. The first thing that Don did was to light the kerosene heater sitting in the center of his room.

  ‘We’ll have to get you out of your clothes,’ he said to Sarah. ‘I’ll look around and find something dry you can put on.’