Valley of the Moon (22 page)

My mother hesitated. “We're concerned. He seems a little sad. He says you have to go to work every night, almost as soon as he's home from school, that you're never home. Is that true, darling? He's exaggerating, isn't he?”

“Of course he's exaggerating,” I said, but Benno wasn't exactly lying. Since Rhonda had moved out, I'd had to pick up more shifts in order to cover the full rent.

“He said he misses you.”

“Mom, everything's fine. He's just going through a stage. He's a little clingy these days. I'm not sure why,” I lied.

I knew why. It had been two in the morning when I got back the last time from another fogless visit to the Valley of the Moon. I crept into the house as quietly as I could. I put my key in the lock and opened the door.

“Mama?” said Benno.

Benno and Rhonda were sitting on the couch. Rhonda looked exhausted. Benno was wide awake, his face streaked with tears.

“What's going on? What's wrong?”

“Where were you?” Benno cried. He leapt up from the couch and ran to me.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart. Calm down. I'm right here.”

He moaned, “You left me.”

“Benno, I didn't leave you. Rhonda came to spend the night with you, like she does every month. You have a standing date every full moon. Isn't that fun?”

Rhonda and Ginger had moved to the basement apartment once they got married. She'd gotten pregnant almost immediately, but even after her daughter, Penny, was born, she still gamely came up to babysit on the full moons.

As for me, I had my routine down to a science. I didn't leave for the Valley of the Moon until well after Benno fell asleep, and if the fog wasn't there, I left the Valley of the Moon immediately after midnight. Most full moon nights Benno didn't even know I'd been gone.

And if the fog
was
there, Rhonda and I had worked out a deal. She agreed to cover for me, to get Benno off to school in the morning, and I agreed never to spend more than a twenty-four-hour period in Greengage. The only time I'd stayed longer was when Benno was in Newport.

Rhonda had stopped asking me about what I did there long ago, just as I'd stopped trying to convince her it was real. But Benno was no dummy. He knew my leaving on full moon nights was different from me working a late shift or going out on a date; in his heart he understood that wherever I went I was unreachable. That's what had awoken him. That was the panic.

“No, it's not fun,” he wailed.

I motioned to Rhonda that she could leave. She slipped out the door.

I led Benno back to the couch and pulled him into my lap. “Benno, how old are you now?”

“Nine,” he whispered. We'd just celebrated his birthday a week ago.

“Yes, nine,” I said. “And you know what that means?”

He punched the cushion.

“Stop.” I grabbed his hand and unfurled his fingers. “It means you're a big boy. And big boys have to—”

“Where do you go?” he shouted.

Startled by the directness of his question, I answered truthfully. “To the Valley of the Moon.”

He rubbed his eyes. “What's in the Valley of the Moon?”

“Besides the moon?”

He nodded.

“Well, it's a very beautiful place. Magic, kind of, especially on full moon nights.”

“Why do you have to go?”

“Because—sometimes moms forget about magic. And they need to be reminded.”

He bit his lip.

“You understand that, don't you? You know about magic, too. Isn't that right?”

“Yep.”

“Yep, I knew you did. You're just that kind of boy.”

He threaded his fingers through the holes in the crocheted afghan. “Can you take me with you?”

“Someday. When you're in need of magic.”

“When I lose mine?”

“Yes, sweetheart, when you lose yours. But let's hope that day never comes.”

His face crumpled. “That doesn't help,” he sobbed. “It just makes me feel worse.”

“Sweetheart.”

He wept harder.

“Benno. Listen to me. Okay?”

He nodded, but kept crying.

“I'll always be with you. I'll never leave you. We'll always be together.”

But even as I said it, I knew I was lying. It is the pledge every mother implicitly or explicitly makes to her child, but it's the pledge no mother can ever keep.

“Well, something's going on,” said my mother. “Maybe you could spend a little more time with him. I'll send you some money. Take him somewhere special. Go away for the weekend. To Stinson Beach or Petaluma.”

“Mom, there's nothing in Petaluma but cows and chicken farms.”

“Really? The name is so misleading. It sounds like such a pretty place.”

I heard her open the fridge. Peel back plastic wrap. Leftovers.

“What are you eating?”

“A pork chop.”

My mother was not a sweets person. No cookies and milk for her, even for a late night snack.

“Where's Dad?”

“Sleeping. I should warn you—he wrote you a letter.”

“Dad wrote me a letter?”

I spoke to my dad through my mom. She relayed messages to me, by which I mean she said things that were out of character for her that I could only attribute to my father.

“Well, not really a letter. More of an invitation. You'll see.” She tried to sound breezy.

“What do you mean, an invitation? Like to a party?”

“I can't really say.”

“Oh, okay. Great, Mom. I'm going to bed now and I'm sure I'll have a very good sleep thanks to you and all this good news.”

“Honey, honey, don't do that. Don't go.”

I hung up the phone.

“You have to take Benno with you to Greengage,” said Rhonda, when I told her about the conversation with my mother. “This isn't working anymore.”

She glanced over at Penny, asleep in her playpen, her little rump sticking up in the air. Penny was nearly two now and the darling of 428 Elizabeth Street. Benno had become a big brother to her; they adored one another. Ginger had taken a job across the bay at Children's Hospital in Oakland, which meant we all saw less of him. Still, Rhonda and I made a point of getting our families together for dinner at least once a month.

“You can't be serious. He's nine. He'd never be able to keep that sort of secret.”

“Then don't make him keep it a secret. Stop making it into such a big deal. Tell him the truth. It's a commune.”

“It's not a commune. And what's he going to say when he sees how they dress? How old-fashioned they are? That there's no electricity?”

“Tell him they're a bunch of hippies. Or a religious sect like the Amish. He'll love it.”

“And the fog? How do I explain the fog?”

“Lux, forget the goddamned fog. Just take him there.”

“I can't take him. Joseph made me promise. No strangers.”

Rhonda glared at me. “He is not a stranger. He is your son. Surely this Joseph would welcome him.”

Would he? I wasn't sure.

“I'll think about it.”

“Lux, maybe it's time for you to stop going. Maybe this place has served its purpose. Have you thought of that?”

“Mom, Mom, it's a letter from Grandpa,” said Benno. He looked stunned. “It's for you, not me. Where's mine?” He started to open it. “It must be for both of us.”

“Uh-uh-uh.” I grabbed the envelope from him. “It's addressed to me.”

Benno sat in the chair and waited. I slid the envelope into my back pocket.

“You're not going to open it now?”

“No, I'm not.”

“When are you going to open it?”

“When I'm not about to leave for work.”

Four hours later I locked myself in a bathroom stall at Seven Hills and tore open the envelope.

Lux,

It occurs to me Benno might be feeling unmoored because of you and me. Clearly he needs more stability in his life. I think it's time we both work on rectifying that situation. Benno is nine now and I'd like to bring him with me to Lapis Lake this summer.

I would like you to come as well. Some of my happiest memories are of the time the two of us spent together at the lake. Perhaps if we went back there, all three of us, it would start to turn things around.

Let me know,

Dad

I put the lid down and sat on the toilet. Even though he wrote that he wanted me to come and that the happiest times of his life had been with me at Lapis Lake, all I could do was read between the lines. He hadn't said it, but he might as well have. The reason Benno was unmoored was because I wasn't providing a stable enough life for him.

I hung my head between my legs, tried to catch my breath, and thought of Joseph, Martha, and Fancy. It was almost May for them. In the vineyard the buds must be breaking. The sorrel and chives would soon need to be mulched.

When I'd blown off college and run away to San Francisco, seeking freedom and adventure, I'd found just the opposite. I'd become everything my father feared I would: an uneducated, invisible, and marginalized member of society. The woman in the line in front of you, scrambling to find loose change at the bottom of her purse. The woman whose son wore the same pair of pants to school three days in a row. The woman whose hair smelled like fried fish.

I couldn't bear to see that woman reflected in my father's eyes. I felt as ashamed of her as my father did.

I crumpled up the letter and threw it away.

“We're gonna be late!” Benno cried.

“No, we're not. Your flight doesn't leave until three-fifteen. It's only two-thirty and we're nearly there.”

Late July. We were only five miles away from SFO, but we were stuck in wall-to-wall traffic on 101. Everybody was trying to get to the airport. I'd known I'd need to leave plenty of time, but not this much.

“I'm supposed to be there an hour before my flight.”

“Stop worrying. I'll get you there.”

He'd been angry the moment he woke up that morning. I heard him slamming things around in his room. He poured himself a bowl of Froot Loops (he was a creature of habit—he ate the same thing for breakfast every day), plopped on the couch, and turned on the stereo. I pretended to read the paper and he raised the volume, wanting to get a rise out of me. I wasn't about to give him one. I wanted us to part on a positive note. I needed that desperately.

“Are you looking forward to going to Lapis Lake?”

He shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“It's really amazing, you're going to love it. It smells incredible there, pine needles and campfires and leaves.”

“If it's so incredible, why don't you come?”

I'd never told him about my father's letter. I'd meant to respond with a card politely declining, but I'd never gotten around to it. Then another month had gone by and the window had passed. When I'd spoken to my mother about Benno's flights, neither of us had brought it up.

“What are you gonna do for a month while I'm gone?” Benno asked suspiciously.

I'd agreed to let Benno stay an extra two weeks this year. If Benno and my dad were going to the lake, my mother had to have her time with him as well.

“Oh, Benno. I'm going to work. What do you think I'm going to do?”

I got him to the gate just as it was closing. He no longer needed an escort. He'd been making this trip for four years.

Benno darted past me and into the Jetway.

“Wait, give me a hug!”

The stewardess tapped her foot impatiently, giving me a dirty look. It was too late for hugs.

I watched Benno until he turned the corner and was gone.

The traffic back into the city was even worse. I showed up for my 4:00 
P.M.
shift at 5:28.

Mike met me at the entrance of Seven Hills. “No,” he said, blocking the door. “You're done here. Go home.”

“I'm sorry, I had to drive Benno to the airport and we got stuck—”

He gave me a grim look.

“For tonight, right, Mike? Go home just for tonight?”

But it wasn't just for tonight. It was for all the future nights.

I was out of a job.

L
ux walked across the meadow instead of running.

“Something's happened,” said Martha.

Something.
A personal setback, or an event of a more global nature? Had war broken out? Had there been another earthquake? Was Benno sick?

“Does she look older to you?” I asked.

“She looks worn out,” said Martha. “And a little older. I'd guess maybe a year has passed.”

Nine months, she told us. She emptied her pack right there in the dining hall: toothpaste for Fancy, seeds for Martha. The Betty Crocker cookbook for the kitchen crew.

“Are you feeling well?” asked Martha.

“I'm tired. I've been working too hard. Double shifts.”

“Benno?” I asked.

“It's August. He's in Newport. Well, actually he went to Lapis Lake with my father.”

I'd known Lux for nearly a year now. If Newport was a blow, Lapis Lake was a shot to the heart. I could see it on her face.

“Any news we should know about?” asked Martha.

She pursed her lips. “There was a blizzard in New England in February. They caught this serial killer, Ted Bundy. Scientists discovered a moon orbiting Pluto.”

“Anything else?” asked Martha gently, hoping she'd reveal something of a more personal nature.

Emotions flitted across Lux's face. Fear. Worry. Despair.

“No. Nothing that matters, anyway.”

Thirty minutes later we were mucking out stalls.

“You don't have to do this. You've just arrived. Why not take on an easier job today? The domestic crew is making rag rugs,” I said.

She raked the horse dung into a pile. “I don't want to make rugs. I want to do something that requires muscle. Something that tires me out.”

I was in the stall next to hers but could hear how aggressively she was raking.

“You think I don't know how to roll up my sleeves and dig in!” she shouted.

I propped my rake up against the wall and walked into her stall. “What in God's name is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She dumped a load of dung into the wheelbarrow. “I don't care if you don't believe me.”

“Something's happened.”

She wore a pair of loose brown trousers, a vest, and a blouse.

“And why are you dressed like a man?” I asked.

“I am dressed like Annie Hall, for your information. One of Woody Allen's most brilliant feminist creations.
This
is a style.” She practically stamped her foot at me.

“You're sad,” I said.

“Fuck you,” she said.

“You're angry.”

“Fuck you,” she repeated, her face crumpling.

I grabbed both her hands. Startled, she pulled back, but I kept a firm grip on her. “What's happened? You must tell me.”

“Why
must
I tell you?”

“Because I want to know.” Because—I was surprised to realize—I cared deeply about her well-being.

She huffed. “There's a new video game called Space Invaders; Benno is addicted to it. Kentucky beat Duke in the Final Four. Bianca and Mick Jagger are getting divorced.”

“That's not what I want to know.”

“What do you want? A confession? Fine. Here you go. I'm a terrible person.”

“No,” I said steadily. “You are a fine person. A good person. Who thinks about others. Who means well.”

“No. I'm irresponsible and I can't be counted upon and my boss just fired my ass.” Her face reddened and she held up a finger. “Don't. Don't say a word. I don't want your pity.”

This was one of the qualities I'd grown to admire most in Lux. She truly did not want my pity. She could stomach anger, criticism, neglect, even abuse, but she couldn't abide having somebody feel sorry for her. She had so much pride.

“Well, it's about bloody time,” I said. “You're far too intelligent for that job.”

“Are you crazy?” she asked. “A doctor? A lawyer? A banker?”

It was 1979. Women were barkeeps. Surely they were doctors and lawyers and bankers, too. Why shouldn't she aim high?

“Do you know how many years of school I'd need for any one of those jobs?”

“Then go back to school.”

“And just who will pay for this school? And what will Benno and I live on while I go back to school?”

I sighed. “All right, then we'll set our sights a bit lower, but not much.”

“Humph,” she said, her arms crossed.

“Lux, this won't work unless you remain open to new possibilities.”

“I'm open, Joseph; I'm just not unrealistic.”

“All right. How about a store?”

“What kind of a store?”

“Whatever you're interested in. What are you interested in? What sort of products?”

She smirked. “I like candy.”

“That's it—you can open a sweets shop!”

She glowered. “You can't be serious. They sell sweets, as you put it, in every bodega on the corner of every block. Besides, I'm sure that the profit margin on candy is quite slim, not to mention my lack of money for start-up costs.”

She rolled her eyes at me.

“I can see now is not a good time to discuss your future. Perhaps when you're in a better mood.” I walked out of the stall.

“No, no. I'm sorry. Don't go.” She groaned. “I just feel so hopeless. I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. Keep asking me questions, please. There's nobody else who talks to me like this. Who would ever think I had it in me to be a doctor.” She smiled softly. “Or a banker. Imagine that.”

“You
should
imagine that,” I said to her.

My mother had imagined that. And she'd fought for that. And ultimately she'd died for that: that one day women would have the same opportunities as men.

“You should set high expectations for yourself,” I said. “Nobody else will if you don't.”

“You really believe I can pull something like that off? With
my
life the way it is? With Benno? At my age?”

For God's sake, the woman was only twenty-nine. She was acting as if her life was over. She was so beaten down. If I could, I'd have paid for her education, for her start-up costs, for whatever she needed to begin again.

“I believe you can do anything if you work hard and put in the time,” I said.

I watched Martha performing her nightly ablutions. Washing her face vigorously with soap. Patting it dry gently with a flannel. A dab of lavender oil applied to her cheeks in feathery, upward strokes.

“She's staying a full month?” asked Martha.

“That's what she says. What else does she have to do? Her son is in Newport. She lost her job.”

“Shouldn't she be looking for a new job?”

“She needs a rest.”

“Greengage is a rest?”

“For her it is.”

Martha pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. “She brought me sundrop seeds. I can't plant them now, it's too early.”

“Then we have something to look forward to,” I said.

“That is the plan.”

That was always the plan with Martha. That's why she loved gardening so much. It was an act of hope. Of promises yet to be fulfilled. Of future joys. It was a simple calculus. You planted and waited.