By: Jordan Cagle
There were nights when the Moon was full
and very, very low, and the tide was so high
that the Moon missed a ducking in the sea
by a hair’s-breadth; well, let’s say a few
yards anyway. Climb up on the Moon? Of
course we did.
—Italo Calvino, “The Distance of the Moon”
in Cosmicomics
I can go months without thinking about the moon; months without
ever seeing that yellow pock-marked disk rupture the thick membrane of
darkness.
Then there are nights like these.
The moon has nowhere to hide at Vicky’s place, in the center of
farmland where the main crop isn’t wheat or even strawberries but grass
seed. It rises above those uniform fields so big and bright to inspect each
blade of grass and ensure it is just like its neighbor.
It seemed like a waste of acreage to farm a crop whose only purpose
was to corrupt more arable land in the name of aesthetics. Yet, as I pulled
in front of Vicky’s place, which was now technically my place, and put
the car in park, I thought about how she was, I was, in desperate need of
a lawn. The pale-yellow farmhouse with its white shutters, so clean and
so prim, was surrounded by black earth which transformed into a mud
pit in the spring and fall, rock hard in the winter and summer. I stepped
out of the car and my boots squelched. Spring was heavy in the air like a
narcotic vapor, and I froze because the moon stared at me, scanning me
like one of those blades of grass. I smiled and closed my eyes, letting its gaze trace me, and basking in its warmth. That was what I loved most about Vicky’s place, my place;
every time I’m there I’m in the center of the world and completely
detached from it. I’m reminded of the moon and how, despite all of the
bad and the mundanity, there is something magical about this earthly
existence.
I deposited my muddy boots on the porch and unlocked the front
door with a shaky hand. The house bore the silence of a daytime robbery
and carried the same anxious desire to be caught in the act. I laughed
nervously, an intruder in my own home, in the house that once belonged
to the woman I still loved and will always love.
The house was intimate and foreign like hiking through a familiar
wood bathed in moonlight rather than sun. I noticed as if for the first time
all of the items that made Vicky’s home what it was. All the knicknacks
and furniture, the lamps and clocks, the pictures and rugs. On a shelf, was
a scaly shoot of bamboo coral we found on our first trip to the coast. I
didn’t want to take it, but Vicky was adamant that it was special. She was
right. I ran my finger across its bumpy surface and like brail it revealed
something: salty sea air, her hand laced in mine, waves, roaring sea lions.
They were just things, yes, but some beautiful feeling washed over me.
She’d handpicked each item to create a home. They were the stars that
produced the constellation and being among Vicky’s stuff again, her
desire enveloped me and I could wade forever through that warm glow.
My trail eventually led me to the garage because my mission was simple:
secure a pie from the deep freeze.
I lifted the lid. It gasped and yellow light pooled in the frost-lined
chest, revealing an enormous baking tray covered in foil. A red envelope
was waiting on top, a single word scrawled on it: Cleo. My heart raced
and tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t handle seeing my name written
in my love’s familiar handwriting. My hand shook, maybe it had never
stopped shaking, as it reached for the envelope. Inside, was a folded piece
of computer paper with a short message scribbled in reddish-black script:
Bake at 375 for 83 minutes.
I checked the back. Nothing. I reread the message, letting it tickle
the memory center of my brain. I removed the heavy tray from its coffin, carried it to the kitchen, and preheated the oven without once stopping
to consider the wisdom of following orders from the dead. I guess I was
just grateful to hear from her.
While the mystery tray was cooking, I found some bourbon in the
liquor cabinet and drank it, sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the
memories.
Vicky.
Her life was beautiful and simple, her death bloody and selfinflicted. They found her on the kitchen floor, a neat circle of blood traced around her. She’d been sick for a long time and decided to sacrifice herself for something. Who knows what?
In my last memory of her, I drove from town after weeks of no contact
and entered the house. Vicky would disappear during her lows. I checked
on her to make sure she was eating, bathing, and stuff like that. All of the
lights were off. It was silent.
“Vicky!” I yelled.
There was nothing. No sound. The stench of mildew and decay
filled the space. I rushed into the kitchen – fearing the worst – and found
her sitting at the kitchen table, staring. Her hair a greasy mess. She wore
stained pajamas. The sink was full of dishes. My hand went to my mouth,
but then I suppressed my judgment, sitting across from her, and forced
my frame into her eyeline.
“Babe, you don’t look so good,” I said.
She looked into my eyes. I don’t think she saw anything.
“Do you remember how we met?”
Nothing.
“Two silver foxes on the apps. Sifting through girls who wanted
nothing to do with us or wanted too much. And then somehow, some
way, we got matched with each other.”
I think I saw the faintest hint of a smile, but the mind likes to play tricks.
“I used to say we’d swiped through every eligible lady in the county before finding each other. It didn’t take much for you to convince me to come over and maybe I shouldn’t have been so easy but talking to you made me easy. I’m normally very respectable.”
She was definitely smiling.
“It was a hot summer night and you made the best damn mojitos
I’ve ever had. We sat on the porch and you pointed out constellations I’d
never heard of. Then you led me down to this pond and it reflected the
full moon so the dark water looked golden. You stripped off all of your
clothes and jumped in. Then, like an idiot, I followed you.”
She chuckled. She actually chuckled. I’d never been so happy.
“I still laugh about that. Couple old ladies, swimming in the moon,
and giggling like teenagers. It was silly. But that’s the thing about love. It
makes you silly at any age. I knew I loved you on that first night and I still
love you now.”
All I wanted was for her to say it back. Please say it back.
“He’s still inside of me, you know,” she said.
“What?”
“The baby. Doctor said it was a miscarriage. But I know he’s still in
there and he’s been in there all these years. What do you think is making
me so crazy?”
“You’re not crazy, babe,” I said. “Maybe a little imbalanced.”
She laughed and I laughed with her.
“Listen to me,” she said.
I did.
“I know that oven. 83 minutes at 375 is perfect. Not a minute
more.”
The oven timer dinged. I returned from my painful reverie. I extracted the tray with oven mitts and placed it on the counter. A liquid
sloshed around inside and spilled over one corner as the aluminum tray
bent slightly. A blackish-red puddle formed on the white tile countertop.
I hesitated, getting the same feeling of apprehension I got before dissecting a fetal pig in seventh grade.
Rage.
Unexpected rage pushed all other emotions to the side.
How dare Vicky do this to me.
How dare she bring me into her life only to vanish into her illness.
I never held it against her. I knew it was out of her control, but was
I wrong to hope our love would be enough to fix her?
I yanked the foil back and steam erupted from the dish. The smell of iron and earth was overwhelming. I felt the heat of bourbon in my
throat. The thick reddish-black liquid in the tray simmered. It surrounded an island of mud, shaped conspicuously like a baby. It had small arms,
small legs, a body, a baby-sized head, and a baby-sized penis. The face was
remarkably detailed and one could even say the sculpture was cute if it
wasn’t so strange.
Then he opened his eyes.
I screamed and jumped back. He stared for a moment. The whites
of his eyes popped against his muddy flesh. Then he cried. A series of
wet, haggard, and pathetic sobs. It was heartbreaking. I found some pink,
elbow-high cleaning gloves under the sink and put them on before hoisting the little guy from his dark crimson bath. I held him at arm’s length,
bouncing and cooing, doing my best to console him while leaving muddy
red drops all over the floor. He stopped crying and looked at me with
curiosity, then concern as if he seriously doubted my parenting abilities.
We stared at each other, sizing one another up, me rocking all the
time. I opened my eyes wide and yelled “Boop!” in a high-pitched voice.
His eyes went big, his mouth formed an o, and he started a little, but then
he squealed with joy. His little giggles infected me like a virus and soon
we were both laughing hysterically. My joy slowly evolved into tears of
sadness. He sensed my sorrow and started babbling, trying to convince
me of all the good in the world without actually saying a word. From that
day forward, I was in love.
He grew up fast, not in the parenting time flies kind of way, but
literally. Every month aged him a year. And with a little trial and error, we
figured out a routine. Tarps for sheets and rubber clothes. He ate a lot of
beef.
We got used to people staring. It was a small town and people
weren’t used to seeing single mothers out and about, especially one of
such advanced years. I think the grocer was mad because of his muddy
footprints on the clean linoleum. We built a life together and I was happy again, raising Victor in that little yellow farmhouse. It was a different
kind of happy, but happy nonetheless.
One night, six months in, I made mojitos to celebrate the dwindling days of summer. They weren’t as good as Vicky’s but they went down smooth on the porch with the stars above, and the moon swollen like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked from the vine. Its reflection on the pond
was a happy memory.
Victor had been unusually quiet that evening. He was still learning
to speak, but that had never stopped him before. When he saw the pond,
something changed in him. He got real irritable and kept pointing at the
liquid moon. “Swim! Swim! Swim!” He repeated, getting more restless
all the while.
“No,” I chanted.
But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t catch him before he ran and dove
head-first into the moon. I followed. I searched for my mud boy in a
mud pit and almost cried at the futility. Every squishy handful could’ve
been chunks from Victor, his poor body buried beneath my nails. Then
my hand struck something firm. I pulled it up and discovered not an
arm made of mud but of flesh and blood. Then Victor’s head crested the
surface. He had thick, dark hair and, even in the dim light, I could see
his long eyelashes. There was a shocking resemblance to Vicky. I had to
remind myself to breathe as we treaded water, staring at one another.
There he was. My beautiful boy.
“Swim,” he said.
“Yeah, babe. We’re swimming,” I said and did a backstroke across
the lunar surface, smiling at the wonder of it all.