The Waking Moon

Chapter Twenty Nine

Since the night of the accident, I’d had a recurring dream about my mom. We were walking along a rundown street lined with one-story rental houses with chain linked fences and lots of dogs barking in the backyards. Mom was her old self, laughing and telling me about something one of her students said. I was walking along right beside her, just elated to be at her side, to listen to her laugh. When we reached the end of block, I noticed that the curb dropped straight down into a deep, fast-moving river. I wanted to tell mom, but she was so happy that I didn’t want to interrupt her. And so she went right over and vanished into the water.

When I woke up that morning, the horror of the dream lingered. I got up and took a scalding hot shower, but the images of mom’s flailing arms and her screams still haunted me. Even when I sat down with my book and tried to lose myself in another world, all I could see was the dream.

I called my dad on the landline, just to hear his voice. But he had only bad news.

“Uncle Dave is considering the loan,” he said, trying hard to sound positive. “But not from his personal account. It would have to be a loan from the business. Which means I’ve got to talk to his board of directors and convince them that I’m good for it.”

It was hard to believe they’d ever shared the same bathtub as kids. Not wanting him to worry about me, I tried to sound perfectly fine with the situation. “So, when are you coming home?”

He sighed. “I don’t know for sure. I’ve had to extend the sub for all my classes.”

After hanging up, I went to the computer room and looked up the number for the Canyon City Women’s Correctional Facility. I couldn’t stand another day without hearing my mother’s voice. My heart raced with anticipation as I dialed the number, as if she would be the one to pick up the other line. Instead it was a recording with a ridiculous amount of information. Visiting day rules—no low cut shirts, short skirts, see-through things, tank tops with spaghetti straps, clothes with curse words, metal underwire brassieres, wigs, hats, or clothes that looked like what the inmates wore, which was all denim. Then it said that you couldn’t bring tobacco products, food of any kind, gum, purses, cameras, cell phones, books, or writing material.

This was followed by a torrent of confusing information about how to receive collect calls from prisoners, which was apparently the only way you could communicate with them. First you had to call the phone company to allow calls from an inmate facility, and once you did, it cost $1.25 for each minute. There was something about having a special prepaid card or putting it on your credit card. The only thing I could understand was that I wouldn’t be talking to mom that day, or any other day until my dad came home.  

I got up and walked to window. The sky was mostly clear with pale winter sunshine. Rhodes’s house had never felt bigger or stranger. Suddenly, I was suffocating with loneliness. I threw on my coat, walked down the long, elegant staircase and out the door. The streets were strangely busy for midmorning. I watched the cars zipping past, each one filled with another indifferent stranger. The longer I walked and watched the street, the more hostile the world began to feel. I longed to be alone, and yet I couldn’t bear the loneliness.

The next thing I knew I was standing at the back door of Jack’s derelict theater. I pulled it open and let myself inside. This time I welcomed the enveloping darkness. The mustiness. The cold immensity of space around me. I groped my way through the slit in the curtain. Inside, the only source of light came from the projection booth, where I could hear music playing.  

“Jack!” I called. “Jack!”

I stood listening. There was no response. The darkness seemed to swim around me. I navigated the blackness like a river crossing, moving from armrest to armrest up the gummy slope until I emerged into the theater lobby, where several thick candles sat shimmering in hardened pools of wax. I looked around. It was like a trip in a time machine. There were two video games from the ‘80s, Popeye and Ms. Pacman. There was a tacky decorative garden in the corner filled with rocks and plastic plants that had gone gray with the dust. An empty concession stand stretched down one wall, with a huge glass popcorn bin and an empty candy case.

I passed the box office, following the music drifting through an open door on the far left side of the room. I peeked inside. It was a narrow set of stairs, which presumably led to the projection booth.

“Jack?” I called.

After a moment, the music stopped. There was the sound of slow, careful footsteps, and then Jack appeared. He was wearing a white undershirt and black sweatpants. His hair stuck up in front and was flattened on one side, as if he’d been lying down. He blinked down at me with startled eyes. 

“Paulie?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I would’ve called but…” I raised my hands in a what-am-I-supposed-to-do gesture.

He looked dazed. “I’m kind of surprised to see you here. I got the impression this place creeped you out.”

I shrugged. “Can I come up?”

He smiled shyly. “Sure.”

It was a small, dimly-lit room with a massive 35 mm projector still in place. Dozens of old film reels were stacked on a table along the back wall. There was a sleeping bag on the floor, spread over a flat pile of cardboard. A small generator grumbled in the corner. It looked like the room of a normal teenage boy. Okay, maybe not a normal teenage boy. More like my dream guy.

The walls were adorned with black and white Cartier-Bresson photos, which I’d loved ever since mom took me to see a traveling exhibit at a Denver museum. There were music posters from some of my favorite bands. Two small speakers piped out music from an Ipod. Beside the sleeping bag there was a stack of books. I picked up the one on top, which was Golding’s Lord of the Flies.

I thumbed absently through the pages. “Good book,” I said.

Jack’s eyes lit up. “Amazing.” He shuffled through the stack and held up another. “Have you read this one?”

It was Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. “Yeah. I love Vonnegut. Have you read God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater?”

“’You will last longer if you don’t try to sing!’” He quoted in a goofy voice.

I laughed. “I know a lot about oxygen,” I added, “And you shouldn’t try to sing!”

Maybe it was geeky, but we both smiled appreciatively at how much we were alike. For a long moment, we just stood there looking at each other in the way that you do when you’ve been thinking nonstop about somebody, and then all of a sudden they’re standing in front of you. The closeness was electric. Jack reached over and pulled the clip from my hair, sending my curls falling around my shoulders. Then he leaned close and let his lips graze the corner of my mouth. But he didn’t kiss me, and I wondered if he was low on G. His mouth moved slowly up my cheek and stopped at my ear. The feel of his warm breath made me shiver.

“You’re sad,” he whispered. “I can tell.”

I didn’t respond. His lips grazed my neck, sending lightning bolts through my body. I closed my eyes and stood completely still, savoring every sensation. With his face lost in my hair, he traced the curve of my neck with his nose, and I could feel him slowly inhaling. I shivered.

“I know just how to cheer you up,” he said, his voice husky and low.

My mind had gone all fuzzy, and I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. I’d lost track of everything but the feel of his breath on my skin and the sound of the blood whooshing hot in my ears. And then his arms were around me and he was sweeping me off the ground. With a mix of anxiety and feverish curiosity, I anticipated his move to the makeshift bed. But instead he went through the door, down the narrow staircase, and into the dark theater.