Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky (49 page)

That was unacceptable. I owed this book, I owed Heinlein, more and better than that.

So this is what happened.

I was eleven. My most recent father had died around my tenth birthday. My mother, the single parent of three kids, one of them quite young, was understandably a mess, having to cope with loss and children and making money and all that a widowed parent of three faces. She was a nurse, an R.N. One of the LPNs who worked with her had seven children and a husband in Viet Nam. They became better friends, and to make ends meet and provide childcare, they decided to merge our families under one roof. My mother made more money, so she worked. The other woman stayed home. Two women and ten kids lived together as one family. Each family’s kids referred to the other’s as cousins, a fiction that made no one question the arrangement.

On the surface, the setup was a reasonable compromise in rough times.

The problem is, the other woman almost immediately began to beat me and, soon thereafter, my siblings. Initially, I tried telling my mother, but it was my word against the woman’s, and the woman was so very good at beating that she left no visible marks. My mother believed her, and the woman’s retribution was swift and harsh, so I quickly stopped trying to tell anyone.

The woman beat me almost every day. She beat me with all sorts of objects, from spatulas to pans to wire clothes hangers to books, usually flat ones that wouldn’t easily leave bruises. Day in and day out, the beatings continued. Soon, she was beating my sister and even my very little brother as well, though not as often.

In parallel, in a misguided attempt to provide some male influence in my life, my mother had enrolled me in a paramilitary youth organization that ostensibly focused on marching in parades, physical fitness, and teaching discipline to young men. This particular chapter of that group, however, also routinely beat those members who misbehaved (me), or who were fat (me), or who were uncoordinated (me), or who couldn’t keep their mouths shut (me). Telling my mother again served only to lead to adult denials and more beatings. (I’ve written more about this group on my blog, and I’ve dealt with it in fiction in various forms, notably in parts of my novel,
Children No More,
and in the short story, “Basic Training.”)

I was also working as much as possible, mowing lawns and doing other lawn work, to make money to help pay for school clothes. We lived in St. Petersburg, Florida, so the work was hot, and it was long. Minimum wage was $1.60 an hour, but of course a kid mowing lawns didn’t get that. It typically took me three to five hours to earn $2.50.

With any money I could manage to hold back from my earnings, I would buy comic books and books. They and a little AM radio were my escapes from a life of beatings and work. School was easy but boring, and it ended all too soon each day. After school and before Mom was home was beating time, though I never knew exactly when the beating would come.

After more than a year of this, I was actively considering killing myself. I knew I should be stronger; the heroes in my comic books were. They had special powers, though, and I did not. As much as I loved the fantasy worlds of the comics, I knew they were fantasies. I would never have special powers. I was a kid, just a kid, and what I would have was another beating on another day, and then another, and another.

One day, I acquired the collection
The Man Who Sold the Moon
. I greatly enjoyed all the stories, but I absolutely
loved
“The Man Who Sold the Moon” and what I thought was its sequel, “Requiem.” In it, D.D. Harriman, a man with no special powers, only a strong brain and a stronger will to succeed, struggled against all odds to accomplish the impossible, to take humanity to the Moon. When he finally succeeded, for the good of his dream and all those involved in it, he had to step aside, sacrifice the trip he had so desperately wanted to make, and watch as others departed for the Moon. He finally made the trip in "Requiem," but he died within minutes of a conspirator placing his old body on the lunar soil.

D.D. Harriman gave his all for what he believed in. He sacrificed his dream of going to space for the good of the others involved and for the dream itself.

That was what the eleven-year-old me took from those stories.

I had a strong brain. I had people to protect: My sister and my brother. I had a dream: A life without beatings for all of us.

What excuse did I have for being less than D.D. Harriman?

None.

Would D.D. Harriman have killed himself when the going got tough?

No. He didn’t, as the story clearly told.

How, I asked myself one night, could I do less? Did I want to be the guy who quit, who gave up, who abandoned his dream and those who depended on him? Or did I want to be the guy willing to give his all in service to his dream, in the protection of those who counted on him?

The answer was clear.

The woman beating me was big, but after comparing her to teenage boys I knew, I was sure that one day I would be bigger. I would be big enough to do whatever it took to stop her.

Those who out-ranked me in the youth group were numerous, but after I made corporal, all further advancements would come from written tests, and I was good at those. I was great at those. I just had to control myself long enough to make corporal.

All I had to do was endure more beatings, learn to keep my mouth shut, and wait to grow bigger.

That was a lot less, it seemed to me, than D.D. Harriman had to do.

The next day, I interrupted the woman as she was about to beat my sister. I told her to beat me instead. I manipulated her, and so she tore into me. Soon, she rarely beat my siblings. I took more beatings, but I didn’t care. Every day, every beating, brought me closer to the day when I would be bigger. I was protecting my siblings. I was being the hero I should be.

Time passed.

I worked hard at keeping my mouth shut in the youth group. I made PFC, and then corporal. From there, I rose at unprecedented speed to become the highest-ranking member of the group. I went from the bottom to the top.

When my body hurt, when I thought I couldn’t bear the beatings, I reminded myself that I was being the man I was supposed to be.

Yeah, none of this should have happened. No one should have beaten me. I should not have had to cope with any of it—but I did. No kid should have to cope with abuse, but millions do. Each of us has to find a way to survive—though, of course, some don’t, some don’t make it.

What I learned from “The Man Who Sold the Moon” was that I could be my own hero, that I could take care of those who depended on me, that no matter how hard it was, no matter what it took, like D.D. Harriman I could find a way. I would find a way.

I did find a way.

That’s my Heinlein, that’s my “The Man Who Sold the Moon,” and they helped save my life.

THE END