The Moon Around Sarah

by Paul Lederer

  Six

  ‘HOLY CHRIST!’ JAKE said softly when Don March had finished describing his day with Sarah and the Tucker clan, leaving nothing out. ‘What kinda family is that?’

  There were four empty beer bottles on the table and four replacement bottles. Jake took a long drink from one of the new ones.

  ‘I mean, it wasn’t Ozzie and Harriet in our house either. My Dad cussed me now and then, knocked me down once for not minding … hell, my Mom slapped me once. I was seventeen and came home stinking drunk, wine all over my shirt. But I deserved it when I got it, I suppose. Nobody beat me, starved me, ignored me. My folks, God bless’em, sure wouldn’t have one of us put away in an institution just because he was sick.’

  ‘I know – it’s just so damn sad what they’re doing to Sarah, Jake.’

  Jake looked moodily at his beer and asked, ‘This kind of hysteria you say she’s got? What is that exactly? I mean does she start screaming and throwing things around, stuff like that?’

  ‘No, it’s not that kind of hysteria, Jake. The proper term, I guess, is voluntary mutism. She just won’t talk. Or can’t talk because of something that happened to her in her past.’

  ‘Weird,’ Jake said.

  ‘Her doctor told me that if she would ever talk, probably something could be done to release her on her own say-so. I’m not sure if that’s true or how that would work, but.…’ Don paused, looking toward the bar. A greasy-looking kid in a brown leather jacket was seated next to Eric Tucker now. They had their heads together, deep in private conversation.

  ‘Do you know who that guy is, Jake?’ Don asked, and Jake turned his head to glance that way.

  ‘The guy in the leather jacket? Yeah, I know him. His name is Randy Cohan. He’s nothing but a cheap punk. He makes his living on the street, one way or the other. I don’t know the other guy.’

  ‘He’s Sarah’s brother.’

  ‘I thought he was the guy in the alley?’

  ‘No, this is the other one – Eric,’ Don told him.

  ‘You mean the one who…?’

  ‘Yeah. That one,’ Don said.

  ‘It looks like he got beat up pretty good,’ Jake commented.

  ‘Yes. I think his father did that to him today.’

  ‘Swell family,’ Jake said grimly. ‘And they think Sarah’s the one who needs a psychiatrist?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Don brooded briefly. He lifted his eyes to his friend, ‘Damn it, Jake! Tomorrow they’ll all be gone their separate ways and Sarah will be locked up in that stinking hospital. Christ, I wish she would speak. Just a few lousy words!’

  ‘Do I have this straight?’ Jake asked. ‘The doctor told you that they would have to release her then … unless they found out that she is loony?’

  Don flinched at the word, but said, ‘That’s what he told me.’

  Jake watched him meditatively. He hesitated before he spoke:

  ‘Would that really matter, Don? Would it really do her any good? I mean, would her family take her back? Would it be any good for Sarah, living with any one of them?’

  ‘A lot of questions, Jake,’ Don answered smiling crookedly. He had already thought about these things. Sarah couldn’t take care of herself, everyone knew that. Maybe in time, but no one knew. Aunt Trish had already told him that she would not take Sarah on again. Eric? Ridiculous and unhealthy. Raymond. Ditto. Their mother could not take care of Sarah or herself. That left Edward and he just wasn’t the sympathetic type. The lawyer had been the one to have his sister committed in the first place. Besides, as Trish had pointed out, it would cost a lot of money for anyone who took her in – initially at least – as she re-entered the world. Assuming she ever could return from wherever it was she lived now.

  ‘The girl needs love,’ Jake decided. ‘Lots of it. She’s never had any, not really. They kept her like a pet until everyone got tired of having to take care of her.’

  Like Poppsy.

  ‘It’s love,’ Jake went on, his words now slightly slurred. ‘I don’t claim to know much, but I know a person needs it to be whole, healthy.’ He lifted a bushy eyebrow and asked Don, ‘Do you love Sarah, Don?’

  ‘I don’t even know her,’ Don replied.

  ‘It seems to me that you know her better than her family. You might love her a lot more than any of them.’

  Don was briefly sobered by Jake’s observations. He had convinced himself that he was trying to help Sarah out of some … what had Trish called it? ‘Vague charitable impulse.’

  ‘I don’t believe in love at first sight, all that nonsense. You have to get to know someone first, don’t you?’

  ‘Love at first sight.’ Jake leaned back in his chair and loosened his belt a notch. ‘I don’t know, Don. I believe these things happen, for sure. Did you ever see a little kid’s eyes when you bring a little fuzzy puppy home?’ He held up a hand, fending off Don’s response. ‘Yes, I know – that’s different. But Janice, my wife.…’

  ‘I never knew you were married, Jake.’

  ‘I don’t talk about her much. It must be the beer … she died in a boating accident. I only had her for three years. But, buddy, I met her at a dance down at the old VFW hall. I saw her all the way across the dance floor. There was no transition from being strangers to becoming lovers. We saw each other and that was that – before I even knew her name. Tell me, Don, how many people know each other when they start going out? Hell, after they’re married! Sure, you want to know all about them, but it’s the learning that keeps the spark of interest alive. I think a lot of times people split up because they have found out everything there is to know and things just got too damned uninteresting.’

  ‘I never pegged you for a romantic, Jake.’

  ‘Ah, hell … like I said, maybe it’s the beer. But none of my cheap advice helps you out.’

  ‘No, unfortunately.’

  Jake was silent, making bottle rings on the table. An Olympic symbol and then a chain. Finally he lifted his dark eyes.

  ‘What if she did start talking, Don? What then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what could you do for her anyway? Assuming she was willing to let you give it a try.’

  ‘I’m not following you,’ Don confessed.

  ‘OK.’ Jake sighed and hunched forward, leaning his elbows against the tabletop.

  ‘What I mean is – don’t take this wrong, Don – you’re not exactly a rich man.’

  ‘No.’ So Aunt Trish had reminded him.

  ‘I mean, you’d have a struggle taking care of any woman, let alone a special one like Sarah.’ Jake looked uncomfortable as if he thought he might have said too much.

  Don nodded. It was true. His rent was overdue right now. Outside of some canned beans, two packages of franks, and one brown banana, his refrigerator was empty. He didn’t own a car. As much as he enjoyed freelance photography, the pay was small and sporadic. He wasn’t even sure that he was much good at his chosen profession. Maybe he just didn’t have the eye for it. He had long ago given up the conceit that he was another Ansel Adams.

  A scuffling sound at the bar drew his attention. Eric Tucker had got to his feet in one ragged motion, tipping over his bar stool. Randy Cohan, grinning, held him up by the elbow as he stood the stool up again, apologized to the barmaid, and the two men, arm in arm, walked toward the door.

  ‘Wow,’ Jake said. ‘Just wait until that fresh air hits him!’

  Don watched the door close behind the two men and then returned his thoughts to Sarah.

  ‘I have been doing some thinking, Jake. This is all real tenuous, you understand.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead,’ the fisherman encouraged.

  ‘I mean.…’

  ‘I think I know what you mean, but let’s have it.’

  ‘It’s just this – I’ve been thinking about making some kind of career move for a long time. Things aren’t going all that great for me, as you know.’

  ‘I know. What sort of move did you have in mind, Don?’


  ‘I don’t know just yet. I was thinking maybe portrait photography. If I could scrape up enough to lease a shop. One with living quarters above.’

  ‘This is a small town, Don,’ Jake said with sympathy. ‘How many people really would want their portraits taken?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have to be here necessarily, Jake. I could relocate – Coos Bay, maybe, or Eureka. It wouldn’t matter to me. That way I would still have my days off to shoot the pictures I want to take. Follow my art,’ he added ruefully.

  ‘How come you haven’t done it before?’ Jake wondered.

  ‘I don’t know. Inertia. Not wanting to give up a dream. We all hate to admit we’ve come up short, don’t we?’

  ‘Sure. But maybe we’re all bound to come up short, Don. Maybe the human animal is never satisfied that enough has been accomplished. I remember once reading that a guy named Leonardo da Vinci prayed on his deathbed for God to forgive him for not having used all the talents He had given him. And I wonder if he had had genuine happiness in his life or if it was just an endless striving for … more.’

  They finished their beer in silence. The bar crowd was thinning out. No one was putting money in the jukebox any more. The girl behind the bar looked tired and impatient to go wherever she was going.

  Don lifted his eyes to the bearded fisherman. ‘You, Jake,’ he asked, ‘what would you do?’

  Jake grinned. ‘Old buddy, you have already pegged me. I’m an old-fashioned romantic. Myself – I’d give it a try. I would try to set things up for Sarah. And if she doesn’t get out, ever … well, you can always say you gave it your best effort and go back to doing what makes you happy. If I wanted the girl, I’d make that sacrifice for her.’

  ‘It would be a long haul, Jake. I’m bottom-feeding right now. I’m flat broke – no, I’m a little below that. Sarah might never get better. Even more frightening, she could get worse in that place while I’m scrambling around trying to do something to help her out. Just deteriorate until there’s nothing left of Sarah at all but a wisp of memory.’

  ‘It could happen,’ Jake was forced to agree.

  ‘But you, Jake – you’d still try?’

  ‘If I loved her, yes, I would. You’ll at least always know that you tried, Don. At least you did try.’ He looked around the bar, briefly considering getting two more beers, deciding that they had had enough. ‘For now, Don, sleep on it. That’s a major, major decision you’re trying to make. Throw my top-of-the-head advice away if you want. Maybe I’m high. Maybe I’m thinking of my departed Janice tonight.’

  Jake stood up, his chair legs scraping against the wooden floor. ‘You’re the only one who knows if you love that girl enough to give up your freedom for her.’

  They walked up to the bar to settle the bill. Jake slipped the barmaid an extra two dollars and they went out into the foggy night.

  ‘Tell me again,’ Randy Cohan said, ‘how much money you got, Eric?’ He was still supporting Eric Tucker, who swayed on his arm. Eric had already heaved his guts up in an alley on their way to find a friend of Cohan’s.

  ‘Eighteen-thousand, three-hundred and seventeen dollars,’ Eric said, his voice very slurred. His mouth tasted of puke. He looked up at Cohan wondering who in the hell this guy was. His new friend. He couldn’t remember meeting him, but he remembered enough to know where they were now going.

  To get a gun so that he could blow Raymond Tucker’s face away.

  Cohan grinned and slapped his new acquaintance on the shoulder. His new pal. Cohan was a red-haired, stoop-shouldered man of 24. He made his living as Jake had told Don March, in any way he could. He peddled weed; now and then did a little burglary, petty theft, and some pick-pocketing. Just whatever happened to come up where there was something to be made – and there was something to be made from this puke-face. Cohan kept grinning as they continued on their stumbling way.

  Eric’s head was swimming crazily. He had to stop and lean against the cinder block wall of a building to try to clear it. Cars hissed past through the spun wool of the damp fog, their headlights radiating weirdly through it

  He remembered the figure $18,317 quite clearly. He didn’t have it in his pocket right now, but that was what his share of the property sale came to. In the morning, he could pick up his check at Dennison’s office. He could almost visualize the number typed across the face of a cashier’s check.

  It wasn’t enough money to pay for what had been done to him, not nearly. A million dollars wouldn’t have been, but Eric accepted it as fair. It didn’t matter anyway, he wasn’t going to need any money for a while. Tonight, he intended to blow Raymond Tucker’s head off. Eric did not fool himself into thinking he could get away with it; they’d arrest him and throw him in prison for a long time.

  Let them. He didn’t care. That money would accrue a hell of a lot of interest in twenty years or so. He would emerge from prison a rich man walking into a new world; a brighter world.

  A world without Raymond Tucker in it.

  He didn’t know exactly when the idea had first come to him. In the bar, he supposed, as he sat brooding, trying to kill the pain in his eye, the ache of the loose teeth in his jaw. Was it whisky-thinking he was indulging in? No – he realized that he had always wanted Raymond dead. Always! As far back as he could remember. He was a grown man now. Raymond had no right to do what he had done today and still Eric had not raised his fists to protect himself. Some ghost of respect or remnant of childhood fears had prevented him from doing that.

  But later on, after the beating, the idea had taken on stunning clarity, impetus.

  ‘Are you all right now, Eric?’ the redhead asked, peering at him. The fog had made a soppy mess of Randy Cohan’s carefully greased hair. Dark tentacles hung across his eyes. ‘Can you make it now?’

  ‘Sure,’ Eric said, and they staggered on, their arms locked together. Eric still couldn’t remember where he had met this guy. All he remembered was that he was suddenly buying Randy drinks and they had started talking about getting a gun.

  ‘You wouldn’t know where to get one, would you?’ Eric had asked.

  ‘Like tonight? Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  Randy had thought about it for a minute.

  ‘Maybe,’ he had answered, sipping his whisky, although he knew damned well where to get almost anything in that town at the drop of a hat. One of his rules was that you never let the sucker know how easy something was to come by. Let them think he was earning his money.

  ‘I’d pay well,’ Eric had added, and then they had started talking about money and Eric, through carelessness or an urge to brag, told Randy about the property sale and how much money he had made that day.

  Randy had kept nodding gravely. Inside his head he heard a cash register’s ring, an ATM machine wheezing out twenty-dollar bills, and he could hardly suppress a wide grin.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ Cohan told him in a comrade’s tone. ‘I know a guy who’s got an old H&R he might let go for fifty bucks.’

  ‘H&R? What’s that?’

  ‘Harrington and Richardson, man! It’s an old revolver, but I seen it – it’s in pretty good shape. Big old eight-inch barrel. Is that all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Eric answered dully. He was gently rolling a cold beer bottle over his bruised forehead. Randy Cohan wanted to make sure the mark didn’t drift away on him. He kept on chattering about the pistol.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a .38. Todd’s probably got some ammunition for it.’

  Eric’s gaze wandered briefly. That blond guy in the Reds’ baseball cap, sitting at a table with a big dark-bearded guy … wasn’t that Don March?

  ‘Hey!’ Randy nudged him out of his reverie. ‘Are you listening to me, Eric?’

  ‘Yeah. An H&R .38. Todd’s got it.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you still want to go look at it?’

  ‘Sure,’ Eric had answered, and that was when he had tried to get up, and the barroom floor tilted, slid away underfoot, and his stool f
ell over.

  Now they were continuing on, wading through the fog, weaving down dark streets Eric had never walked before. They were nearer the ocean now; Eric could hear the whip and hiss of the breakers meeting sand.

  They made their way more quickly now. Randy no longer had to support Eric. Once Eric stumbled and tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, careening into a wall before he fell, cracking his head roughly against the pavement. Randy just laughed and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘You’ll be all right. We’re just about there.’

  He pointed toward a light that appeared no brighter than a pinpoint beaming through the snarled fog. ‘That’s Todd’s place, man. Make it that far and we’ll fix you up.’

  Eric nodded and struggled onward, feeling like a zombie in the fog. He wondered if they weren’t passing other fog-creatures, too gruesome to be imagined, all plodding … somewhere.

  At the knock on his front door, Todd Kostokas parted his bedroom curtains just enough to peer out at the men standing under his porchlight; you always had to watch for the cops. Todd even kept a packed carry-on bag next to his back door, ready to bail at any moment. He let the curtains fall into place; it wasn’t the cops.

  It was that shithead Randy Cohan and some guy Todd Kostokas had never seen before. They both looked smashed. Todd mumbled a curse and started toward the door on stockinged feet.

  Randy was a fringe player, useful now and then for small jobs that didn’t require too much thinking; but basically he was a shithead punk. Plain dumb. And Todd didn’t like him bringing people around that he didn’t know. Kostokas walked across his worn brown carpet to the triple-locked front door.

  Of Greek extraction, Todd was short, no more than 5’8”, but very wide across the shoulders and deep through his hairy chest. He wore a gold St Christopher’s medal around his neck. His hair was black and very woolly, but thinning badly at the back of his skull. He had a prominent, arched nose with a bend in it where it had been broken by a Mexican with a 2x4. He was perpetually unhappy, and Randy Cohan’s arrival did nothing to lift the grimace from his thick lips.