The Measure of the Moon

by Lisa Preston

  For the first time in her life, Gillian walked in the Dasios house without knocking, shouting for her sister as she crossed the doorway. The home, an old two-bedroom bungalow, was overbright with every light on. The hallway linen closet door was open. Drawers on the little kitchen desk gaped. Gillian ran to the master bedroom and gaped at the sight of pulled-open dresser drawers, the closet door agape, clothes everywhere, boxes open that had been on the closet shelf. Everything was inside out, as though a burglar had searched room to room. But the television and stereo and computers were in place, as though the robber took nothing. She ran to little Phillip’s bedroom, dreading and panting.

  “Becky.” Gillian felt fear drain away when she saw her sister sitting by the phone, cradling a pillow, her face red and wrinkled from crying. She was as whole as she could be. Phillip was in his pajamas on the rug, holding a plastic airplane to his chest.

  “It’s Myron. I’m afraid he’s …” Tears broke Becky’s voice.

  “Take a breath. Take several.” Gillian rubbed her sister’s back, patted her shoulder, shush-shushed her like she used to do when they were in school, back at home, and their mother and father were deep into a third bottle. How Becky used to get scared when the parents started throwing things. How Gillian petted her as they hunkered in their little closet.

  “He’s having an affair,” Becky panted, tears building in her eyes with each word until her shaking shoulders spilled them down her cheeks, and she wailed in earnest. “See, there’s this woman at the shop.”

  “The shop?” Gillian echoed without comprehension.

  Becky slapped the floor and Phillip looked at his mother uncertainly then grinned and kicked his feet in the air. “The shop where Myron works. Hello?”

  “Sure,” Gillian nodded. Her brother-in-law managed a sporting goods store, one of a national chain, and was forever offering Gillian and Paul discounts. Paul accepted the occasional pack of squash balls. “Go on.”

  “Well, she’s unattached and I saw her look at him and he was really friendly to her, introduced her to me as the wonderful Miss Whatever and she was all giggles.”

  “Oh, Becky—”

  “She’s really slim, like you.” Swallowing hard, Becky stiffened as though reliving the hideous moment of being introduced to a female employee giggling with Myron.

  Gillian held her breath. Here it comes. Her sister was a curvy, healthy-looking size ten or twelve. But she knew Becky couldn’t wait, needed instant reassurance, complete support. “You’re beautiful, Becky-Bird.”

  Becky went on cataloging her hurts, apologizing that she wasn’t good enough, that her husband didn’t love her enough, that the woman at the store was more attractive and knew things, that Gillian had been ignoring her and Becky was so sorry if Gillian was mad at her about something. She was sorry.

  Her sister’s victim-laden self-pity carried a horrid echo. Gillian blinked at the thought and recalled her morning, being in the yard with Rima then creeping up the outside studio stairs, turning the doorknob, letting it swing softly open.

  To satisfy her want, she’d violated Liz’s space, violated everything.

  But their tenant hadn’t complained about the intrusion. She’d come off like a beggar, pleading, “I didn’t mean to … please. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll be quieter. We’ll be so quiet. You won’t hear us again.”

  Gillian had fled, mouthing apologies over her shoulder as she hurried off to work.

  “Gillian!”

  She snapped her attention back to the present and the persistent scent of spilled milk, to the mess in the house and Becky’s stressed expression.

  “Don’t you think it’s bad enough if he’s flirting with another woman? I mean, flirting at all is just like cheating, isn’t it?” Becky sniffled and her face crumpled in demeaned shame.

  “Well, maybe he’s not flirting,” Gillian answered, struggling to catch up to her sister’s sadness. “Besides, there’s flirting and there’s … flirting.” She pinched her knees together, feeling a flush color her face even as she pulled the inner skin of her cheeks onto her teeth, hollowing her face more than usual.

  Becky’s chin quivered as she whispered, “Myron was going to work late on inventory. With her, I suppose. But I drove by a half hour ago and the store is dark.”

  “So? I have no idea where Paul is right now.” It was his gym night.

  Becky began to cry again and Phillip sat up, frowning. Gillian leaned over, wanting to pepper him with smooches until he laughed. What a muddle life was. When Becky was pregnant, they’d both been nervous, knowing but not saying that many adult children repeat their parents’ mistakes. But Becky hadn’t become a raving drunk. I wouldn’t let her. She didn’t let me, back in the day. The unspoken fears slowly gave way to the special satisfaction of Becky creating a family of her own in the wake of what they’d left behind.

  Silly-Philly, the laughing, roly-poly toddler who’d entered the world as a ten-pound person, knew one set of grandparents, Myron’s mother and father. As far as she and Becky knew, their parents still lived in the city and had no doubt moved into ever-cheaper situations as time passed. When their daughters moved out together and didn’t come back, the cord was severed.

  Gillian’s lower eyelids filled and she opened her eyes fully, then took the boy by the hand and injected a world of childish enthusiasm into her voice. “Come on, you. Let’s go watch a movie.” She caught Becky’s shoulder with her other hand and steered them both to the living room, where she found an animated dinosaur show on the digital recorder’s queue, parking the willing Phillip in front of the TV.

  Then she pushed her sister with, “How about we straighten this place up a bit?”

  Gillian’s mind ran while they neatened the gaping drawers and doors. In the bedroom, Becky admitted she’d been looking for proof her husband was cheating, and she wailed her doubts again.

  Finally, Becky stamped her foot. “Are you even paying attention to me? What’s with you?”

  “There’s a woman sleeping, living in the studio …” Gillian took a breath, answering in an honest rush. She shut her eyes against the memory of Liz’s pleading voice.

  Paul’s stepsister, Gillian reminded herself. There, that made it sound like something that she should kindly tolerate. Paul’s sister. Paul’s family. She thought of the Istok family, especially his stinking, spitting hag of a sister, Agnes.

  Becky waved a hand in Gillian’s face. Gillian focused and saw wide-eyed concern.

  “There’s a woman sleeping in your studio? Who is she?”

  “A while back, Paul got a call and … it’s his sister.”

  Becky raised her eyebrows. “Paul’s sister? Since when does he have a sister?”

  “Stepsister.”

  “You never mentioned her.”

  Gillian gave an inexplicable shrug and wave, lips clamped.

  “Well, it’s good that she’s family, not like a regular other woman, like someone who might, you know, get involved with Paul.” Becky cast a moping gaze down the hallway, holding her eyes wide open as though stemming tears. The sound of her son’s giggles over his movie roiled gently.

  “It will be fine, Becky. Myron loves you, I’m sure he does. He adores his family.”

  “He wants another baby. So do I.”

  Gillian swallowed. “That’s terrific.”

  “There’s a name for people like you. Childless by choice. You can’t understand what it’s like. It’s so hard sometimes. I’m fat.” Her sister’s face was dark.

  Gillian felt her back stiffen. “You’re not fat. You look fine.”

  “You’re a size two and it’s easy for you and I feel terrible—”

  “Stop it. Stop doing this. Damn it, Becky. You’ve got to stop asking and waiting and hoping. You’ve got to think better of yourself.”

  Gillian stormed out the front door for air and city noise.

  Myron drove in with a toot of the car’s horn and little Phillip charged with joyous shouts. “Daddy, Dadd
y!”

  “My gift from God and my wife,” Myron said, lifting his son.

  Watching her sister automatically go to hug and kiss her husband, receive the same from him, Gillian didn’t know whether to laugh or weep, but whispered, “Oh, Becky-Bird.”

  “My dear,” Myron said, kissing Gillian’s cheek, “you could use about ten pounds on you.”

  She shrugged her shoulders to her ears and sucked her neck into her body, resisting as she agreed. “Yes. About ten pounds would be perfect.”

  Becky latched onto her, but Gillian pulled free.

  “What?”

  “I have to go. I’ve got to work, prep to interview a guy. It’s a complicated project.” How could she still have not told Becky about Alex? Why did the whole thing leave her thinking about Paul, getting irritated, then thinking about Kevin and getting excited? Gillian tried to explain. “His sister’s just awful. She would remind you of … those people we don’t talk about.”

  Becky’s eyes went wide.

  Myron smiled. “You will be remembered for your photographs, dear Gillian.”

  “No one remembers photographers.” She hugged Becky good-bye because the sisters stuck forever.

  Sticking forever was hard.

  Paul wasn’t home and Rima’s persistence let her know he hadn’t been there. His gym nights, squash with friends at the club, came twice weekly, more if she was working extra hours. Healthy eating and hard work, good friends and good ethics. In addition to being hard to live up to, Gillian found he’d become surprisingly hard to live with.

  She heard Liz’s child giggling again, thumping sounds of play, and stormed up the stairs.

  I’m going to get you. I’m going to get you.

  It was bad luck that Liz played with her child in words that Gillian and Becky’s perma-drunk mother used. The blaring came back, the uncertain enunciation of the inebriated. I’m going to get you. You being bad? I’ll get you.

  Yes, Gillian thought, you got me. I’m bad. I am a bad person.

  She wanted to kick the studio door in, then heard Liz coo, “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m going to eat you up. Run, sweetie. Run! I’ll help you. Look at you go.”

  Gillian knocked. Liz answered the door laughing, covering her child with kisses, calling it Little Bit, then her face straightened. “I’m sorry. Was I too loud?”

  “I was just wondering if you needed anything, how you’re doing.” Gillian felt like she was playing poker.

  Liz tried a huge smile. “Paul said that maybe you’d invite your sister over and we could meet her.”

  Why would he say that? Gillian shrank from his pretending they were all one big, happy family. “My sister’s … having a bit of stress. Maybe it’s not the best timing for a get-together.”

  Liz looked away. “I understand.”

  She’s just like Becky, Gillian thought. Liz looks like nothing so much as a dejected girl-woman who feels unwanted.

  “Tell me about the storm. A hurricane, was it?”

  Liz looked at her blankly.

  Gillian made herself look right back at the woman. “It must have been awful.”

  Blinking rapidly, starting and stopping, Liz rushed her words out. “I tried to turn things around. You know? A hundred and eighty degrees. It, it’s very different here … from Texas. We had all that flooding and those storms. Hurricanes, yes.”

  There was no hurricane, Gillian realized, not one that had affected Liz’s life. She opened her mouth but shut it, not trusting herself to say anything nice.

  Liz beamed. “Paul said you photographed storms when you two visited an observatory. He said you’re a really good photographer.”

  Gillian found herself talking about photojournalism, finding an unforgettable story, on the edge. Orphaned children left behind in a war. Something in the nature of crippled familial relations that Gillian didn’t want to examine but felt all around her called up the old drunk, Agnes Istok. She shared more than she meant to with Liz.

  Finally, Gillian shook her head. “I think she was raped.”

  “She shouldn’t have said anything,” Liz said.

  “What?” Gillian was confused but certain she’d heard correctly. She shook her head to emphasize that an explanation was needed.

  “If you don’t say anything when he holds you down and … then it’s not like getting … I mean, don’t you have to say ‘no’ for it to be …” Liz looked away, her voice and expression spacey. “You know, so just don’t say anything and that way it isn’t …”

  Appalled, Gillian considered the hard truth that would feel so good to say. She could say it right to this woman’s face and not regret it. An urgent passion to speak, to be rude and true and not care, flamed. The old advocate for good dwelt within, telling her not to do it, but civility lost. So much for good fights.

  Still Gillian paused before saying in a low voice, “What a doormat you are. It’s amazing that some people are trusted with children. Say, a daughter? A son?” She pointed at Little Bit.

  “I am such a shit,” Gillian told Paul when he came home at last. Sympathy and kindness, everything good, had become a zero-sum game. Then she wondered, had it always been? Was she a soulless cretin taking up space on the planet, as uncaring as her sodden parents? She turned, furious, to Paul, who studied her with an expression she couldn’t identify. “What are you doing with me?”

  “Ah. Is now the moment you’ve chosen to talk to me about your relationship with—”

  “I don’t dislike Liz. I have no reason, no reason to be the way I am … with her. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “All right. I don’t know what’s gone on between you and Liz, but if you have something to be sorry about, maybe I’m not the one—”

  “Of course you’re not the one.” Gillian doubled over in the chair, noticing the absence when Paul’s arms did not embrace her shoulders. Instead his voice came from several lengths away.

  “It’s time, isn’t it? Time that you told me about you and Kevin Zebrist?” He stood as still as though he were in her darkroom, rooted lest he damage anything. Respectful.

  Gillian didn’t move either, save shaking from soundless crying. It was some minutes before she started apologizing, repeating “Sorry,” until it sounded like “Sorrow.”

  He stood with his side to her, his face difficult to read as she told him about the unspoken interest, and then, finally, the kiss. Just one kiss.

  “And this … mutual … attraction the two of you have enjoyed now for, what? Weeks and weeks? As long as you’ve known each other? Not quite that long? Every hour you’ve been together? Every phone call and made-up excuse for meeting? Emails, should I ask? This, even if it was not intended, should not have happened. It is an emotional affair. Whether he pursued you—”

  “It wasn’t Kevin, it was me. All me.”

  “It cannot be one person. I suppose it was me, too,” Paul said, doleful. He swallowed, his face dark as he shouldered a share of the blame for his wife’s interest in another man.

  “Paul, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think this is working.” How could she apologize enough for violating his trust? He’d never done this to her, never been inappropriate with another woman. She knew that as certainly as a central truth. He was worthy of her trust. He was worthy.

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “No!”

  “Flirting?”

  She looked away. It seemed so childish to talk of flirting, such a playground accusation. But, “Yes. I suppose that’s it. I flirted. I kissed him. He was interested, I enjoyed his attention.” Well, she’d basked in it, the very idea of Kevin, but there was no reason to add this, no good reason in the world to wound Paul.

  “He did not have to allow your interest. He should not have allowed it. He could have taken the high road, turned you away, ignored your interest.”

  “Don’t blame him. It was me. I screwed up. I’m screwed up.” Her confession came in sobs. “I’m a really screwed-up person. Don’t blame
him.”

  “You were both wrong. He knew you were married, didn’t he?” And when she admitted this with a nod, he went on, growing angry in a subsumed, Paul-like way. “Don’t you think grad students give me the eye from time to time? I brush them off, immediately, kindly enough to not be rude, but surely enough that they don’t misunderstand that I don’t engage in that kind of thing.”

  “I’ve never flirted before,” she responded to his implicit question, even as she struggled to keep track of the unanswered questions. How far was she going in this discussion? Was she actually going to make it clear to him they weren’t working? That they were finished? Now that she recognized the truth, would she say it? And would she tell him why?

  When Paul sighed, Gillian didn’t know if he was about to tell her to leave, or that he’d take a hotel room for the night or stay with a friend. Or if he’d simply forgive her and say it was behind them, though she knew that would be wrong, that the future was in front of them and could not be ignored.

  Instead, she heard him say quietly, “I wish I were the kind of man who would simply go punch another in the face.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Kevin didn’t do anything anyway.”

  “Let’s be clear. He accepted your flirtation, whatever you gave.”

  His dispassionate argument led her again to weeping. What could she ask for, demand? What was the most she could get if she came out with it and pleaded her case?

  She told Paul that night, right when her mind was full of the Istok story, of Agnes and unknown men, of Liz’s horrendous reaction to the revelation.

  “She goes or I do.”

  “Ah, pardon me, but what are you talking about?”

  “L-l-liz.”

  Was it so long that he considered her? She watched his atomic clock, the ache in her heart burgeoning. The second hand barely swept a few ticks before Paul said, “Then she goes.”

  CHAPTER 17