Valley of the Moon (18 page)

“Dance with Lux,” said Martha to Joseph.

Joseph had his arms crossed in front of his chest. He did not look like he was in a dancing mood.

“That's all right. I don't know how to do this one,” I said.

“Joseph does. And he's a very good dancer,” said Martha.

“Why don't you dance with him?” I asked.

“Martha doesn't dance,” said Joseph.

“Why not?”

A small smile crept over Joseph's face.

“Because I don't know the dance, either,” said Martha.

Joseph laughed.

“All right, all right. Because I have two left feet,” Martha admitted.

“Because you have no rhythm whatsoever, my dear,” said Joseph.

Martha shrugged. “It's true.” She gave me a little push. “Get out there. And you”—she shoved Joseph—“get out there with her.”

We joined the line and Joseph faced me. I did my best to mimic the moves of everybody around me, but it was a complicated dance.

“Flirt and divert,” Joseph said in a soft voice when we bowed toward each other.

“What?”

“You set to the second man in line, then turn to the third man. Then walk down the line back to me.”

“I don't get it.”

“It's a simple H pattern,” he said. “Just keep thinking of an H.”

It seemed I had two left feet as well. Joseph continued whispering me instructions until they finally clicked and finally I was part of the magic of the dance. We unfolded and folded as a group.

“I love this! This is so much fun.”

He shot me a sobering look but I could tell he was enjoying himself. He was a graceful dancer, his moves practiced.

Stamp, stamp, stamp. Clap, clap, clap.

He went up the line without me, and Magnusson took his place. I watched the Swede's eyes continually sweep to Fancy, his original partner, who was now three people over on the other side.

When Joseph came back, I said, “Magnusson likes Fancy.”

He looked startled.

“I mean he really likes her. Is attracted to her.”

“You are imagining things.”

“I don't think so.”

“How do you know? What is your proof?”

“Look how stiffly he holds himself when he's in her presence. Look at the way he's avoiding her eye. There's your proof.”

“He's avoiding meeting her eye because he doesn't like her.”

“No, he's avoiding her because he likes her too much.”

I
t was well after midnight when Lux appeared on the porch; I'd begun to think she wasn't coming.

“I've got to go,” she said anxiously. “I don't know what I was thinking; I shouldn't have stayed. Rhonda's going to be mad.”

“If you knew your friend would be angry, then why did you stay?”

“Because I wanted to. Because I was being selfish,” she admitted.

Once again I was startled by her bluntness. Her honesty landed with no warning.

She adjusted the shoulder straps of her knapsack and walked down the stairs. “I'll see you next time.”

“Wait. You're leaving now? Right now?”

“I can probably get back to the city before the Monday morning rush hour. Maybe I'll even get there before breakfast.”

“It's dark. I'll walk with you.”

“I can find my way myself.”

“I'm sure you can, but I'd rather know you got there safely.”

I led her away from the house and onto the dirt path that wove between the cottages and the dorms.

“How old were you when your mother died?” she asked.

I could barely make her out. “I was nine.”

“That's so young. Wow. I'm sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Were you close?”

I hesitated just for a moment. “She was my world.”

We walked past the barn, which was stacked ceiling high with bales of hay.

“If you don't mind me asking, how did she die?”

“She took her own life.”

Lux gasped.

“No. I didn't tell you so you'd feel sorry for me. I had nine years with her; Fancy only had four. If you want to feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for my sister.”

“Oh, Joseph. How terrible for you. For you both.”

I could sense her staring at me. Even in the dark, her gaze was penetrating.

“She had such young children. She must have been in such pain to have to go and leave you,” she said.

I was amazed to find myself near tears. Normally I was an extremely private man, but I'd never met anybody like Lux. She was open in a way women of my time were not. This morning in the orchard she'd shown me her heart. She'd told me she felt stuck just as I did. And despite that despair, she'd driven back to the Valley of the Moon. A mission of hope and faith, one that would be beyond imagining for most people in similar circumstances.

“What was her name?” she asked.

“Imogene.”

“Tell me about her. What did she love? Besides the two of you?”

Nobody had ever asked me that question, not even Martha.

“She loved rhubarb pie. She loved the morning sun. She loved drying the sheets on the clothesline, even in the dead of winter. She loved a good pot of jasmine tea. She loved orange rinds and gossip and peacock feathers. She loved plums.”

“Plums. Greengage plums?”

“Yes, greengage plums.”

“Ah,” Lux sighed as if everything had just become clear.

We'd reached the dining hall. The loaves of bread had been rising all night. In just a few hours the bakers would arrive.

“I have something to tell you,” she said. “I went to the library.”

I'd sworn her to secrecy; I'd made her promise not to tell anybody about us. Had she betrayed us? Had she betrayed me?

She breathed shallowly. “I got you a book. Poetry. Robert Frost. I think you'll love him, but stupid me, I left it at home. I'll bring it next time. I promise.”

A few minutes later I lost her to the fog.

“Y
ou should have called,” said Rhonda.

“How could I have? There are no phones there, I told you. No electricity. No radios. Nothing.”

She was mad. The traffic had been terrible—there'd been an accident on 101. Despite my best intentions to make it home for breakfast, I hadn't gotten back to San Francisco until after nine. Rhonda had had to get Benno to school, which had made her late for work. Also, in order to placate him, she'd had to make up some lie about why I hadn't come home. Car trouble, she'd said. She wouldn't lie for me again.

“I'm sorry. I planned on coming home by Sunday night, really I did, but then there was this…” I stopped.
Dance?
I couldn't give her such a frivolous excuse.

She held up her hand. “I don't want to hear it. You have a son. You owe it to him to be responsible and come home when you say you're going to come home. He was upset, Lux. Really upset. In a rage. He picked every flower in Rose's planters. Every single one! Look, I'm not saying you don't have a right to get away. You need time off and I'll do my best to help you make that happen. But you can't just take off and not come back when you say you're going to.”

Over the next few weeks, I tried to make it up to Rhonda. When she came home from work, I had dinner ready. I'd greet her with a can of Tab, or sometimes a glass of wine if it looked like it had been that kind of a day. My life wouldn't work without Rhonda. I couldn't afford to lose her.

I did my best to make it up to Benno, too. On Sundays I began taking him to services at Grace Cathedral, not necessarily for religious reasons, but because I wanted to give him a moral grounding, create rituals for him, things we did together that he could count on. We loved the choir, the incense, the babies crying, the smell of wood, dust, fresh coffee, and aftershave that lingered in the pews. Afterwards we'd go out to breakfast. He'd always order the same thing, corned beef hash with a side of pickles. This was good, I'd think to myself. We were creating memories. This was what real families did.

Benno knelt beside me on the porch, his hands covered in soil. We'd just finished planting geraniums in Rose's planters to replace the marigolds he'd ravaged.

“I love pink,” said Benno, eyeing the flowers.

“You are not to pick.”

“You told me that already.”

“Yes, well, I'm telling you again. Those weren't your flowers. Rose was very upset.”

“I was making you a bouquet.”

Soon after Benno turned six, he'd started telling me little lies. He was trying to see what I'd let him get away with.

“Damn Henry Hobart!” he cried, clenching his fists.

“Benno!”

“I hate him!” he shouted. “He told the teacher he wouldn't share the clay with me.”

I gently pried Benno's hands away from the planter and pulled him into my lap so we were facing each other. “What happened?”

“He didn't want to be my partner. He said my hands were dirty and if I touched the clay I'd make the clay dirty.”

I took his dear hands, with their beautiful tea-colored skin, and cradled them in mine. “What? That's ridiculous. Henry Hobart doesn't know what he's talking about. Don't you listen to a word he says.”

“He said it in front of the whole class!” he wailed.

That racist, ignorant little bastard. “Oh, Benno, I'm so sorry. That's horrible.”

He nodded miserably, and kept on nodding his head like a metronome.

I cupped his ears, halting the movement. “Then what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, what did the teacher say?”

“She didn't say anything. Nobody said anything.”

He buried his head in my chest, humiliated and heartbroken. This never would have happened in Greengage. Miss Russell, the teacher, was black, and the students were a rainbow of colors and ethnicities: white, black, Chinese, Italian, Swedish, Mexican, and Irish. Joseph had recruited as diverse a group as he could find. Benno would thrive there.

“So who did you end up partnering with?”

“I didn't have to share. I got a piece of clay all for myself.”

His chin trembled. He was trying to convince himself and me that the situation had turned out in his favor.

“You're a lucky boy,” I said.

We sat on the porch watching people go by. Every once in a while he'd take a huge breath, fighting down a wave of tears. Finally he was calm.

“Mama?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you going to send me back to Newport this summer?”

“Summer's a long time away.”

“Grandma wants me to come.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“The other grandma, too.”

“Really? Well, we have plenty of time to think about it. But for now let's sit here. It's a beautiful day.”

He leaned against me and sighed.

On the next full moon, I cashed in my good-behavior chits and left for the Valley of the Moon. I was back in six hours—there had been no fog.

I suppose in the back of my mind I thought
I
might have something to do with the fog returning the previous month, despite the fact we'd theorized it wouldn't return for nearly fourteen years. I'm embarrassed to say I hoped I was the missing link. I was special. I was the reason the fog had returned so soon. But as the fogless months passed, I was forced to give up that theory and come up with a new one: there was no rhyme or reason as to how much time passed in Greengage every full moon.

Meanwhile, the fact that I'd brought up my library visit to Joseph haunted me. I'd come so close to telling him there was no record of them ever having existed, not to mention revealing that I'd broken my promise to keep their existence secret. And why had I done it? It had been a selfish impulse. I had wanted to impress him with the information I had access to, so that he'd consider me indispensable. I loved feeling needed.

To assuage my guilt, I went to the bookstore and found a used copy of Robert Frost's
New Hampshire
. I hadn't even known Frost had written a book called
New Hampshire;
it seemed a sign. I inscribed the book to Joseph. One day I'd give it to him.

Nine months went by. Nine full moons without any fog. Each full moon, I gave Benno a version of the truth—Mama was going to visit some friends up north. As long as I prepared him, he seemed to be okay.

On my tenth trip I tried to convince Rhonda to come with me. I'd arranged for Benno to spend the night at the Patels'. The only way she would believe me was for her to see Greengage for herself.

“I am not a camping sort of person,” she said.

“I understand. We don't even have to spend the night. If the fog isn't there, we'll just come home.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Lux, don't you get it? I don't care. I don't want to come. Look, I'm happy you found someplace that's a haven. If you like living like a colonist, that's great for you.”

“It's not colonial times there, it's the turn of the century.”

“Whatever.”

Rhonda thought I was crazy. “Just indulge me. I have a feeling the fog will be there this time.”

“Why is it so important that I believe you?”

“Because I can't stand that you think I'm lying.”

“I don't think you're lying. I think you go somewhere.”

Just not back to 1906.

She didn't come, and it was a good thing. No fog once again. She would have been furious with me for wasting her time.

Benno hadn't stopped talking about the tall ships since school had let out. Eighteen ships from fourteen different countries! England, Argentina. Alaska! No. Alaska wasn't a country, was it? Hundreds—no, thousands—no, millions—of people would be there. Grandma was making stuffies (baked stuffed clams). There was no better place to be than in Newport to celebrate the nation's bicentennial (my father had clearly put this into his head); San Francisco just didn't compare. Really, would they even celebrate it here? Would there even be any fireworks? What was I gonna do? Just sit around and watch
All in the Family
?

Putting him on the plane would be easier this time. I would miss him terribly, but he was looking forward to his Newport adventure with the two grandmas.

“Benno, do you want me to come with your mother to the airport to drop you off?” asked Rhonda.

Benno raced around the apartment, throwing things into his suitcase.

“I don't think you'll need a
TV Guide,
sweetheart,” I said.

“How will I know what shows are on?”

“You can look at Grandma's
TV Guide.
”

In went his bag of jacks. His pick-up sticks. His Go Fish deck. He climbed up on the kitchen counter, stood, and rummaged through the cabinet over the fridge. This was my private shelf. A pack of cigarettes. Three cans of Pringles, a bag of Oreos, and a jumbo pack of red licorice.

“Benno, you little monkey. That stuff is not for you.”

Benno threw the bag of licorice onto the table defiantly.

“What's the big deal?” he asked, batting his eyelashes. He knew I melted when he gave me that wide-eyed look. He was such a flirt.

“Oh, okay, big boy. I'll tell you the big deal. Some things are private. That's a private cupboard, just for grown-ups. For Rhonda and me.”

“I hate Fig Newtons. Why can't I have Oreos?”

Because Fig Newtons were the cookie my mother gave me. It was the only cookie I let him eat. I sighed and handed him the package.

“Benno, will you miss me?”

“No.”

“What? I'll miss you. Why won't you miss me?”

“ 'Cause you made your choice.” He held out his arms and Rhonda scooped him off the counter and deposited him on the floor.

“What do you mean I made my choice?”

This was something I said to him all the time.
You made your choice, Benno. I told you if you didn't brush your teeth you'd get a cavity. You made your choice, Benno. You chose to dawdle around this morning and now we're going to be late for school.

“You could come. But you don't want to come 'cause you don't like Grandma. The other grandma.”

In my experience six was not only the age of lying, but of brutal truth-telling. I'd spent the year being both amazed at and humiliated by the things that Benno said.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Rhonda laughed. “Ginger can come to the airport with us, too, Benno, if you want.”

Ginger had really made an effort to be friends with Benno. He'd seduced him by performing little feats of magic—pulled coins from behind Benno's ear, made his thumb disappear, an ace of diamonds float. Benno adored him.

In the end we all went to the airport to see Benno off. On the way home, I shoved the eight-track of the Beatles' greatest hits into the player and cried my eyes out. Poor Eleanor Rigby. Nobody came to her funeral. And poor Father McKenzie. Darning his socks all alone in his empty, empty house. I had such a deep longing for Newport and such an ambivalence for it as well. Late June. The hydrangea would be in bloom. Those heavy purple and pink heads, drooping from the bushes in front of our house.

“Hey, at least she held it together until we got to the car,” said Rhonda. “Last time she bawled at the gate.”

The two of them were sitting in the backseat. I felt like a chauffeur.

“Lux, maybe you should let me drive,” said Ginger.

I glanced into the rearview mirror. “You need a haircut.” He had a miniature Rhonda 'fro, only his was the color of a pumpkin.

“I like it long,” said Rhonda, running her hands through his hair. He leaned his head on her shoulder.

“You need to gain some weight,” he said to Rhonda. “You're too skinny, babe.”

“And that is exactly why I am marrying you. Because you say things like that,” she said.