Quarrel with the Moon (2 page)

She fell to her knees and clawed at her own cheeks, digging into them as if to tear them off, pull them out by their very ligaments. She could hear herself straining for air. Her tongue felt thick and there was a bad taste in her mouth. It was the coppery flavor of blood. She had bitten through her lower lip. Oblivious to the blood flowing from the corner of her mouth, she worked her lips in a soundless prayer. A sign - she pleaded - something to guide her. She couldn't kill her own grandson even though he was a creature of the night. Slowly, as if by an act of will, Avarilla's eyes rolled back in her head and she both saw and understood what she must do.

The moon had faded into a translucent disk. The preacher stood next to the small open grave, his boots and trousers covered with mud. He saw Avarilla approaching through the veil of limp branches and reached for his coat which he had hung over the handle of the shovel. She walked slowly toward him like a somnambulist clutching the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. He took it from her and felt the cloying warmth of the small body inside. He could not help but notice the stain of seeping blood like an opening flower. He knelt on the wet earth and placed the ghastly package in the grave. Then he righted himself and in a tremulous voice began an improvised prayer, a prayer he had never uttered before and never would utter again. As he intoned the words he glanced at Avarilla. She quickly bowed her head so that he couldn't see her face and perhaps know what she had done.

St. Matthew, 10:16

August 23, 1982

The moon, full and orange as an overripe pumpkin, hovered over the city, threatening to fall from the skies. A breeze moved languidly through Central Park, barely rippling the surface of the artificial lake. It brought no relief to that sweltering summer night, and the parched grass seemed to sigh in resignation.

The two policemen glanced uneasily at one another. Their uniforms were damp and their faces glistened with beads of perspiration. They were both rookies and they were both nervous. One - Michael McCafferty, twenty-four, had been on the force two years to the month. The other, Leander Bullins, had been with New York's finest just short of six months. As they approached the edge of the lake, McCafferty cleared his throat in nervous tension and Officer Bullins blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The beams of their powerful flashlights crisscrossed the body which lay face down three feet from the water's edge.

"Jesus," muttered McCafferty. "Do you think he's been mugged?"

"Let's turn him over and find out," replied Bullins.

There was a sudden flapping sound. "Oh, my God. What's that?" groaned McCafferty.

"Settle down, for Christ's sake. It's only the ducks."

Bullins knelt down and in a quick movement rolled the body over. The policeman leaned a little closer and the odor of alcohol struck him in the face like a fist. Bullins sighed with relief. "He's alive. Not mugged, not killed, just Goddamn drunk."

McCafferty ran the flashlight up and down the man's body. "Look, he's barefoot. Do you suppose somebody swiped his shoes?"

"That would be a new one." Bullins began shaking the man. "Come on, buddy, wake up. The party's over." The man didn't budge. Using his hands as cups, McCafferty carried some water from the lake and dumped it on the drunk's face. The man's eyes snapped open. They were light grey and flecked with gold, and at the moment completely uncomprehending. "Get up, buddy. You can't sleep it off here," growled Bullins and nudged the man's shoulder with his night stick.

The man groaned and sat up. The two policemen appraised him. He was about thirty-two years old and very handsome. Thick black hair, a ruddy complexion and an athletic physique gave him the appearance of someone in the peak of physical health. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and stared at the uniformed men until they came into focus. Then he glanced at his surroundings and asked, in a tone which was apologetic and arrogant at the same time, "How the hell did I get here?"

"You better tell us," Bullins said softly. His voice had lost some of its strident quality. "Hell, you're lucky to be alive. Central Park at three A.M. Hey, have you got your wallet?"

The young man slapped his hand against his chest, felt the familiar outline and withdrew a slender leather billfold. "Credit cards O.K. And what money I didn't spend is here."

"Let me see that," Bullins held out a broad and somewhat battered hand. He quickly checked the identification. "You're Joshua Allen Holman? 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"

"What's left of him," the man replied dully.

"What's your line of work, Mr. Holman?"

"Anthropology. I work at the New York Institute of Anthropology."

"How did you get here?"

Josh closed his eyes and winced. His recollections were embarrassing, "I had a fight with my girlfriend. We were at the Krypton Klub. I left her there and - well, hit a couple of bars."

"Why did you end up in Central Park?"

"I like to run," he replied matter-of-factly. "I run here every morning."

"Do you always run barefoot?"

Josh shook his head and was immediately sorry. A jolting pain caused him to wince. "No, of course not. I have several pairs of running shoes."

"Well, you either removed jour shoes yourself or some bum came along and removed them for you. I opt for the first. If somebody took your shoes, they probably would have taken a good deal more than that."

Josh stared forlornly at his bare feet. This was a new low - even for him. Why did he have blackouts when he drank? Why could he not remember his actions? And how long would it be before it happened again?

The cops discussed Josh as if he weren't there. "What do you think we ought to do with him?" asked McCafferty.

Bullins dug a thick finger beneath the collar of his uniform and ran it around the full circumference of his neck. Wiping the perspiration on his trouser leg, he replied, "He's harmless enough. No point in taking the poor son of a bitch to the station house. Come on, we'll drive him home."

They pulled Josh unceremoniously to his feet. "I really appreciate this," Josh grunted. "I'm going to be in enough trouble at home."

"You and your lady friend live together?" asked Bullins. Josh nodded. "Then I don't envy you. My old lady would be waiting with her mouth open and her legs closed. You understand that we're going to have to take you right to your door?" Josh looked sharply at the officer. "Regulations, Mr. Holman. We got to make sure that you're really who you and your wallet say you are."

"But I don't want Cresta to see me arriving with a police escort."

"Sorry, Mr. Holman. We can't bend the rules that far. We should be taking you down to the station house."

Josh's eyes flashed with anger, but he said nothing.

The policemen walked on either side of Josh in case they were needed for support. But the young man seemed to regain his sobriety with each step. A serpentine path led them through the maze which was called "the Rambles." The air became filled with the sickening sweet smell of honeysuckle. A half-dozen lightly clad figures who had been leaning against a railing began to move with purpose toward the exit.

"Goddamn fags," muttered McCafferty.

The air was heavy and oppressive, as if a damp blanket had been dropped over the entire city. A rolling bank of storm clouds obliterated the moon and chased away the stars. A roar of thunder rose and fell and lightning bounded across the horizon, filling the atmosphere with a sulphurous aroma which was almost tangible. Josh stared at the swirling sky as if it somehow held the answer to his dilemma.

As they walked up the dimly lit path toward Central Park West and Seventy-Seventh Street, they heard a rustling in the undergrowth. The bushes suddenly parted and an indistinct form rushed at them. McCafferty instinctively stepped in front of Josh to protect him; Bullins raised his revolver. The amorphous form of Maggie Meehan, a robust bag lady and denizen of Central Park, materialized under the street light. Both cops relaxed and holstered their revolvers. Maggie was harmless. Brandishing an umbrella like a sword, Maggie danced around the group, making thrusting parries with her weapon.

"Sons o' bitchin' cops! Why haven't you found my cart? They took my cart an' you ain't even looked for it." She scrutinized Josh with rheumy eyes set in a grotesquely made-up face. "Oh
no!
You're too busy gatherin' nuts to find my cart."

"Now, Maggie," said Bullins affectionately, as if speaking to a child, "you know that we've looked for your cart. We've looked and we've looked, but it's nowhere to be found. Perhaps you should go back to the A&P and get yourself another one."

"They been lockin' 'em up at night, the sons o' bitches," the old woman grunted.

"Have they now?" Bullins continued. "Well, I don't think they do over at the Big Apple."

"The Big Apple," the old woman rolled the words around in her mouth like a piece of hard candy. "Didn't think of the Big Apple!"

"I hear their carts are better anyway," grinned McCafferty.

The bag lady smiled broadly, revealing a profusion of teeth which resembled burnt tree stumps. Then she opened her umbrella. It was torn, its ribs showing, but that didn't seem to matter to her. As proudly as a drum majorette leading a parade, Maggie marched ahead of the trio until they reached the sidewalk. Then, with a flourish, she bent over, wiggled her buttocks at the passing cars and farted. Then, shrieking like a banshee, she disappeared into the night.

Josh glanced at the two policemen. "You seem to have your hands full tonight. I'm sorry to add to your problems."

"Hell, Mr. Holman," said Bullins. "Our night's just beginning. I'm sure you're the least of them."

The fast-traveling clouds, black and blue and roaring gray, broke apart. The rain cascaded down in silver sheets, scattering the hustlers, homosexuals, drug addicts, and winos from the shadows of the park to the safety of doorways and awnings. Cursing, the policemen hurried Josh to their patrol car.

A short time later the police pulled up in front of 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street. The building was 18 stories high and occupied one-quarter of a block. It had a shabby grandeur and had only survived because it had been proclaimed a landmark (albeit minor) by the City of New York. A pair of winged gargoyles stood sentinel at the entranceway. Perhaps they were guarding the aged doorman who slept inside on a once-elegant, rococo chaise.

For once Josh was pleased that the doorman was not alert and fulfilling his duties. He continued sleeping soundly as his tenant, escorted by the two policemen, walked across the marble tiles to the elevators beyond. They stepped inside and the gilded birdcage of an elevator noisily began its ascent. Josh glanced nervously at the policemen, hoping that would change their minds about escorting him to the door, but they ignored his silent entreaties.

The elevator jolted to a stop and the men stepped off. There were two apartments on the penthouse floor, and the hallway was in much better condition than the lobby of the building. Josh and the other penthouse occupant had chipped in to have the walls repainted and the floor recarpeted. They had purchased Victorian brass ceiling fixtures and mirrors in ornate frames for decoration. As Josh was fumbling with the three different keys which it took to gain access to the apartment, the door opened.

The police, startled, took a step backwards. Cresta Farraday was an astonishing-looking young woman. A model by profession and a very successful one, she was five feet, ten inches tall. Her bright hair hung around her face like a hood of silver-gold cloth. Her eyes were huge and a brilliant green, but smoldering rather than cold, like emeralds on fire. Her nose was narrow and had an insouciant tilt at the tip. In contrast, her mouth was broad and her lips full and sensuous. Perhaps her skin was her most arresting feature. It was golden and made her appear as if her veins ran with honey.

Cresta was dressed in a white satin gown cut on the bias which she had obviously worn for the evening, for now it was wrinkled. Her face showed anger, worry and something else. Perhaps weariness of a situation which had occurred before.

Cresta flashed her eyes, first at Josh, then at the policemen. "Josh, what's this? What have you done?"

Bullins was the first to regain his composure. Officer McCafferty, his mouth hanging open like an unclosed drawer, continued to gape. "Ma'am, is this Joshua Allen Holman, and does he live here at 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"

"Well, yes," she replied, her voice rising. "What has he done?"

"Nothing, ma'am. He just ... lost his way."

"And his shoes," McCafferty added with a grin.

Cresta looked down at her lover's feet. "Were you robbed, Josh?"

Josh uncomfortably shifted his weight and replied in a barely audible voice. "I was running in the park."

"Running in the park!" Cresta exploded. "For Christ's sake, now I've heard it all!"

Embarrassed, the cops look another step backwards. "Well, ma'am, we have to go now. We just wanted to see him home safe."

"Thanks, officers." Cresta replied vaguely. Then Josh stepped inside and she slammed the door.

While they were waiting for the elevator, Officer McCafferty remarked, "I don't know why he'd want to go running with something like that waiting at home, do you?"

Bullins shook his head. "Well now, Mike, I've never claimed to understand people and their relationships."

Inside the apartment, Josh made his way down the long hall and turned to the kitchen. He threw off his jacket and went to the refrigerator. His mouth was dry and he wanted a beer. He opened one and was drinking it when Cresta entered.

"Haven't you had enough alcohol for one night?" she asked with a sharp edge to her voice.

He swung around. "Why don't you just go to bed, Cresta?"

"No. No, I'm not going to bed. I want to fight!" She ran at him and began beating her fists against his chest. "Damn you! Damn you to hell!" Josh pushed her away, and her pent-up tears burst forth. "I've been up half the night sick with worry. I've got a sitting in the morning, and I'm going to look like a piece of shit. Where did you go this time? Do you remember? I think that's just an excuse anyway. Were you out getting another stray piece?"