The Moon Sisters: A Novel Read online

  It was on the fifth day that I said I wanted to walk awhile on my own in Kennaton.

  You all right? my father asked.

  I had a flash then of my mother asking me that same question, countless times, trying to brush hair out of my eyes while I dodged her hand. Sometimes I’d walk past her without a word, just leave her there in the kitchen she’d die in one day, not realizing that I was giving up a moment I might’ve had or a conversation or a revelation or something. Never bothering to process that there were a finite number of possible moments, and I was skirting away from them as if they were a pile of dog heapings in the grass.

  That first day alone in Kennaton, I walked until I ached, my head full of nothing. I watched a woman step into a grocery store laughing, smiling, and wondered How? The world had ended, didn’t she know? My guts had been ripped out through my throat; couldn’t she see? How could anyone feel … joy? Dad picked me up about two hours later, and we drove home.

  The next day, I asked to be let out again, and walked until I found a shop. Didn’t even have a sign, just a banner advertising coffee and a bagel for $1.25. I ate a plain bagel and drank three cups of coffee without tasting anything. And then I opened a newspaper on the countertop of a stained bar. No one else was there that day to see me flip to the death notices.

  Marilyn Wilcox, age ninety, died in a nursing home.

  Stuart Babcock, age eighty-one, died at home.

  Alex Dimmock, age fifty-nine, died, who knew where.

  Sandra Weber was only twenty-seven. No one said what happened to her or where she died. A heart of gold stopped beating, two willing hands at rest, went a poem. She was survived by her father as well as a sister, and a brother. She was predeceased by her mother.

  At that point, I didn’t have a copy of my mother’s obituary. I hadn’t seen or read it. Hadn’t cut it out to keep or heard any discussion of it. Maybe she didn’t have one at all, considering how she’d died, because what could it say?

  Beth Moon killed herself. The end.

  People didn’t like to talk about that. Few had sent cards. Sometimes I caught sidelong, suspicious looks from people in town. How horrible are you, some of those looks asked, that your mother committed suicide? Others dripped pity, or wondered in loud silence, Why did she do it? I hated them all equally.

  After that, I stole the obituary section every day we were in Kennaton. Later, in the privacy of my room, I removed the best essays, laid them across my bedspread, studied them, shuffled them around in search of something. A pattern, an answer.

  When I was little, I used to play with marbles in the small room behind Babka’s kitchen.

  All the secrets of life are in that bag, she would tease.

  What is it? I’d ask, and she’d say that she couldn’t tell me, that I needed to figure it out for myself.

  I believed her. I played, I watched. Red hits the blue, hits the green, hits the yellow. Red hits the blue, hits the yellow, hits the black. Red hits the blue, hits the white, hits the yellow. If there were answers in the marbles, I never found them, and whenever I put them away I felt disquieted.

  That’s how I felt after studying the obituaries as well, before I shoved them all inside my mother’s old backpack. As if something significant had eluded me.

  It happened while Olivia and Hobbs were in the stream. Everything changed after that.

  I’d walked farther than I’d meant after my sister told me to leave her alone, past vines that scratched my arms, ankles, and calves, talking to myself the whole time: “You want me to go? Fine, I’ll go all the way home, how’s that? Leave you to figure it all out or die trying, which you seem set on doing with these ass-brained ideas. I will not be led around by the nose through the forest over bat-crazy bullshittery.”

  Eventually I reached the end of my invisible tether and stalled beside a huge dead tree, ancient and hunched as an old woman. A crow stared down at me from the branches.

  “What are you looking at?”

  It continued to stare.

  Quiet minutes passed, as I thought through my meager options. Abandon her. Continue. There was no real choice. The anxiety I’d kept at bay by bitching and walking swelled like a bloated fish in my throat.

  Why do I feel this way?

  The sun had hitched itself across the sky, but I wasn’t nervous over the approach of night, in and of itself. I wasn’t afraid of the dark; it never promised anything, was never false. I wasn’t afraid of the forest, or of sleeping without a bag or blanket or tent. I’d stay awake with one eye on Hobbs the whole time anyway, though I was not exactly afraid of him, either; we both knew I had a killer right hook.

  What, then?

  I dug my fingers into the tree’s battered hide, full of dark grooves and bleached, flaking bark—its dead skin and hard-earned age spots. Some things were meant to fly, and others were bound by their roots.

  This, I knew, I’d learned from my mother.

  No matter how her life ticked on, she was always thinking about her roots—and her atonement. Raising us on a short leash. Our particular educations. Her transplanted dreams. The book she never finished, and its related trip to the glades. I had no doubt about what she prayed for, if she prayed at her altar. And all of it was sacred ground, not to be interfered with.

  I shucked the pack from my back, remembering the last day my grandmother tried to help my mother with her story. I might’ve been ten or eleven years old. Babka had come over for Sunday dinner, as she always did, and was offering suggestions for my mother’s story, as she always did, because my mother was always stuck. The heroine of the story—a sun fairy named Esme—had been kidnapped by a power-hungry warlock and made to forget herself via a curse of amnesia. There were plenty of twists and turns in store for Esme, but what was never clear was how she’d ever find her way back to her true self and the sky, which grew darker and darker without her presence. This was the crux of that night’s debate.

  The sun fairy’s soul is in a teapot, Babka had said, drying dishes in our kitchen as my mother washed. Behind them, with my bare toes pressed against the refrigerator and the rest of me hunched over a piece of paper, I drew a teapot and decorated it with hearts. If Esme finds the pot and removes the cover, her soul will be freed, and then she’ll remember herself.

  There is no teapot, my mother said.

  Then let the soul be hidden in a needle—everyone has a needle, said my grandmother, as I crossed out the teapot and drew a long needle with an oval eye. The needle is in an egg, and the egg can be found in a rabbit, which lives in a chest that is buried under an oak—

  My mother pulled a wet cup out of the water and set it on the counter with a slosh. I pulled my toes off the refrigerator and swiveled around to find my mother’s angry eyes.

  I’ve already told you that I don’t want to re-create Slavic fairy tales, Drahomíra, she said. Esme has lost her memory, not her soul. This is my story. Let me finish it my way.

  If my mother had listened to my grandmother, the story might’ve been finished years ago. Maybe then she wouldn’t have been in the kitchen that morning with her work, wouldn’t have—

  The crow cawed when I swore.

  “Oh, fly off!” I said, and, surprisingly, it flew away.

  “Bird whisperer, are you?”

  I jerked around so fast that I would’ve fallen if not for the tree. The fuzzy-haired, dough-faced man from the restaurant steps stood a few feet from me, wearing an oversized backpack and a holstered knife around his waist.

  This is how bad things happen, I thought, as my anxiety found a real reason to surge inside me. Knife out, in my side, across my throat, done.

  “You’re the girl from the restaurant, right?” he asked. “The one with the watch?”

  I covered my watch with my hand, sure he’d take it after killing me. Someone would find me someday, a hollowed-out shell, a few teeth and eye sockets. They would never know my name.

  He whistled. “Hellooo, anybody home? What are you doing out here, a p
retty young thing, all alone in the woods?”

  When he leaned forward, I reached reflexively for my backpack, my fingers contracting around a strap. But I knew there was nothing inside the canvas that could help me. My defenses in this scenario would be basic and minimal; I could kick him in the groin, scratch him with my stub nails, scream.

  “Put down your knife,” I said.

  Though my voice sounded far less commanding than I would’ve liked, he held both empty hands in the air like a duet of white flags.

  “Now, don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt—”

  “Throw it down,” I said, my voice rising in pitch. “Do it, or I will claw your face off.”

  “Now, now, keep your shirt on,” he said.

  “I mean to.”

  His eyes widened. “Wait a minute, miss, you’ve got me all wrong. This here’s a fishing knife.”

  “Well, since there aren’t any fish here just now you shouldn’t have a problem setting it down, right?” I said.

  He lowered one hand slowly, unbuckled the knife—“For shit’s sake”—then tossed the blade with a smooth motion so that it hit the ground between us in a puff of dirt, an earthy sigh.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. His appearance could hardly be coincidental.

  He shook his head. “I’m looking for somebody, tracking a boy with”—his fingers danced in the air—“skin colorings. Maybe you’ve seen him?”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to lead this stranger toward my sister and her unmissable guide until I understood what this was about. He reached for his pocket.

  “Keep those hands where I can—”

  “Calm yourself, missy. I’m thinking a picture’s worth a thousand.” With slow and careful fingers, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, then held it up for me to see. There, on glossy paper and in living color, was the photo of a familiar inked-up male. Above his head, a single word blared in bold black type: WANTED.

  “Is that official?”

  “Official enough. These here are scattered all around the state, all the way to Kentucky.”

  “Hobbs is wanted?”

  The man smiled, revealing a set of coffee-stained teeth. “You have seen him! Where’s he gone, then? I got business with—Whoa, whoa,” he said, moving his poster-holding hand behind him as I took a step forward with my fingers outstretched.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “Just a minute now.”

  “What did he do?” I repeated, my words as pointed as the knife I pinned under my foot.

  The man refolded the paper with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine. “Nothing so bad as what you’re thinking,” he said. “It ain’t a cop poster, is it?”

  “Tell me, or I don’t help you.”

  He laughed. “I’ll find him with or without you, and that’s the truth,” he said, tucking the page back into his pocket. “But I don’t want you afeard for your life, either.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  Again, he laughed. “Sure you’re not, but you can know he isn’t a rapist or murderer or anything so unsavory as that. He’s a thief, see? And it’s me who’ll bring him to justice if there’s any justice to be had.”

  “If there’s a reward to be had, you mean.”

  His smile faded. I looked him over again, took in the dirty ripped clothing, the grime—evidence of a hard life. Much harder than mine. At least we’d eaten three meals a day, had a roof over our heads. Clothes that were well-kept and well-fitted most of the time, too. Laces on our boots instead of ropes. Sure, he’d be hungry for a reward.

  “Who’s after him, if not the cops?” I asked. “What did he steal?”

  “Nosy one, ain’t you?”

  “And you’re evasive. What did he steal?”

  His lips jutted out, like he was kissing the air and it tasted sour, but he remained quiet.

  “Listen,” I said. “I hate his guts, I want him gone, and I might be inclined to help you if you’re honest with me now.”

  “Hate’s a mighty strong word,” he said.

  “Mighty true, though.”

  The corners of his eyes creased. “And how do I know you’re not gonna turn around and tell him everything I might tell you, missy?”

  he said. “I’ve built a trust.”

  “Well, now you’ll have to trust me, won’t you?” I said, and crossed my arms over my chest. “What did he do?”

  He regarded me. I regarded him back.

  And then his features relaxed, and he flapped his lips like a horse. “Tough bird for a young thing,” he said, shifting his backpack. “No wonder the crow listened to you.”

  “So?”

  “It’s over coins, if you have to know.”

  I leaned a little further into the conversation. “What sort of coins?”

  “The sort you collect, what do you think?”

  Quarters, dimes, or silver dollars, Hobbs didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to collect coins. But did it matter? This stranger had just provided me with a powerful weapon. Being rid of Hobbs meant Olivia would rely on only me again. She’d have to listen to me, too, because I didn’t have a clue how to get to the glades by foot. We’d go home. Today. Then the feeling inside me, the swelling, blistering cauldron of nameless anxiety, would fade into nothing.

  “I’ll show you where he is,” I said, “but you have to take him straightaway.”

  “What do you mean, ‘straightaway’? I can’t drag him off by the hair now, can I?”

  Why not? I wanted to ask. This man was bigger than Hobbs—just as tall maybe, but stockier.

  “These things ain’t so easy,” he said. “Can’t spook him. Gotta reel him in nice and slow-like. That’s my way.”

  He nodded, seemed pleased with himself and his plan. I did not share this satisfaction.

  “Your way sounds like it’s going to take longer than I want it to take. I want this finished today. I don’t want to go another step with him by my side.” Or Olivia’s.

  He grunted. “You’re like a hotshot.”

  “What?”

  “A fast train. Too fast for this old man,” he said. “I like things done a certain way, see? That’s how I do business.”

  I wanted to grab at his doughy face, knead it until it suited. “This is important. He’s manipulating my sister.”

  “Sister?” His voice sparked with interest. “The black-haired girl from the train, with the big eyes and lashes?”

  “That’s her,” I said.

  “Well, well. Yeah, I see some resemblances.” He dragged a palm over his scruffy chin. “It’s the sister that’s the problem. I had things all squared up in Jewel, with a plan to get Hobbs where I wanted him to go. And then your sister showed up, and there went my plan. She’s leading him way off course.”

  “You have that backward,” I said. “Hobbs is the one throwing things off course.”

  He scratched his ear. “Well, don’t matter much who’s throwing who, does it? Point is, we have something in common here, don’t we? A need to get them away from each other. Now, I can’t make any promises that we’ll find a town today, miss, though we might. I can’t right predict what we’ll find around a bend, because this ain’t my part of the state, see?”

  I could hear that in his voice, that he was from somewhere south of Tramp and by a long mile. But I needed something to cling to, if not a promise.

  “I want the poster,” I said.

  “No way.”

  “Not to call him in but to show my sister. If she knows that he’s—”

  “No,” he said. “The poster stays between us or there is no deal whatsoever, and that is right final. Right final.”

  I gritted my teeth. I would not be controlled by this new person. Neither could I afford to lose a golden opportunity just now. I’d have to play things just right.

  “Then I’m keeping the knife,” I said, covering the blade more completely with my foot.

  He reared back as if I’d whopped
him on the chin. “Now wait a minute, I—”

  “Two strange men with two women out in the forest,” I said. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that I have a weapon on my side, if it turns out you’re not as straight-up nice as you want me to think.”

  “I’d never, I’m not that kind of a—”

  “I’m sure you’re not,” I said. “I still want the knife. Call it insurance.”

  His face turned whiter still before he grumbled, “Take it, then, but if I catch a fish you’re cleaning it, missy.”

  “We’ll see.” I scooped up the knife.

  His name, he said, was Red Grass, and his plan was simple. Get to civilization as soon as possible, then make the necessary call to turn in Hobbs. I’d take charge of a Hobbs-less Olivia after that.

  This was Red Grass’s Plan A.

  This was not my Plan A.

  My Plan A was to extract whatever common sense lay dormant in my sister, make it rise up, realize, and repent. Now. Today. This hour. And then we could go back, back, and I could stop berating myself over why I didn’t know my own feelings, because what I’d feel then would be … relief.

  Common sense. It had to be in there somewhere.

  I led the way out of that nook in the forest, past tall weeds with purple flowers that scratched my ankles all over again. I felt a touch of dread when I didn’t see Olivia right away, but then I heard voices and found the path that led down to a stream, and found my sister.

  In the water. In her underwear. With Hobbs.

  Red Grass saw, too, of course. “I’m thinking this isn’t going to be easy,” he said.

  Loath as I was to admit it, I had a feeling he was right.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Another Way to Look at Things

  OLIVIA

  I never knew either of my grandfathers.

  Papa’s father died when he was just a baby. Dušan and Babka had come to America when they were barely out of their teens. Before that, her last name was Pekár, a word that means baker, which she said was a sign if ever there was one. (Dušan’s last name was Moon, because his father was Scottish, but that’s another story.) Babka might’ve gone back to her native country after Dušan died so young, raised Papa with the help of her own mother, but she decided to stick with the business and make it a success. She has a few pictures of Grandpa Dušan, and they’re all dark and grainy. He had a beard. He wasn’t thin, but he wasn’t fat, either. Babka says he was her missing part, and made her laugh all the time.