Valley of the Moon (21 page)

“It will really work? Each flower will open and shut precisely on the hour?”

“Yes.”

“But isn't that sort of unnatural? Especially given—your situation?”

Time had turned its back on them. For better or worse, they'd been liberated of the need for clocks and watches.

“There's nothing unnatural about it!” she cried.

I'd never heard Martha raise her voice before.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

Martha took a deep breath and sighed. “No,
I'm
sorry. There's no reason for me to be shouting at you.”

“It's all right.”

“No, it's not. You've done nothing but try and be helpful. I just find this whole endeavor—well, quite unnerving, if I'm honest about it.”

“Then don't do it,” I said.

Martha tossed back her head in surprise. “When I first met you, you seemed easily categorized, Lux. Like one of my herbs. ‘Nettles: a remedy for night sweats, fatigue, and releasing excess mucus.' I like things to be defined. It calms me, brings order to my life. So on your first visit, I thought, ‘Lux Lysander: flighty, scared, we'll never see her again.' On your second visit, I thought, ‘Sweet, a bit of a dreamer.' And now, on your third visit, it's clear I have to recalibrate once again.”

She nodded briskly. “Intuitive, honest, clear-thinking, and loyal.”

I looked at her openmouthed, letting the praise sink in. Each adjective was like a little firework burst, spreading its fingers of heat over the surface of my skin.

“I'm not done,” she said. “Compassionate, resourceful, intelligent.”

My eyes welled up.

“Worthy,” she finished.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I thought I'd lost those parts of me.”

“Nothing is ever lost,” said Martha. “Only forgotten. All that's needed is one person who remembers, one person who realizes it is still there.”

The door to a long-abandoned room inside me that I hadn't even known existed until this minute began to open. Sweet, fresh air poured in.

Martha knelt. “I have to make this damn flower clock. I don't know why, but I do. Will you help? Will you bring me plants?”

“I'll help however I can,” I said.

L
ate that afternoon, just before supper, I caught up with Lux. She'd barely spoken to me the entire week. I felt terrible. My response—or lack of response—to her confession was appalling. I hadn't been put off by her admission that she'd lied about being married. I was taken aback that she felt she had to tell people she was a widow in order to be accepted. And worse, that she was willing to accept the crumbs of people's pity because she felt that was the best she could get. Then there was her father, barely acknowledging her son's existence, which reminded me of my own father. It was hard to accept that the change I wanted to see in the world hadn't come even decades after my time. People still judged each other, and by all the wrong standards at that. It had put me in a pensive mood for days.

“How was your afternoon with Martha?” I asked Lux.

She sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. “I'm leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, so soon?”
Say something, you damn fool. Apologize.

“I'll be back next month. Providing I'm welcome.” She arched her left eyebrow at me.

“You're very welcome. In fact, I'd be upset if you didn't come.” I joined her at the table. I swept crumbs into a little pile. “Devastated, actually.”

She made a skeptical face. “Devastated?”

“Yes,” I said forcefully. “I'm sorry.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “For what?”

“For being an ass.”

She quickly looked to the side, trying to mask her reaction, but I could see my contrition pleased her.

“I wish things were different. I wish you lived in a world where you didn't have to tell people you were a widow.”

“Yeah, so do I, but I don't.”

“Well, then fuck them,” I said.

Her lips slowly peeled back in a delighted smile. “My God. Look at you. Cursing like a commoner.”

The kitchen was a different place with her in it. You could tell she didn't quite belong here. She pulled the light toward her.

It was my turn to confess, to reveal something to her. I wanted to even up things between us. To keep us on equal footing.

“Greengage used to be bigger,” I said. “Back in 1900 there were nearly four hundred of us. We've lost more than one hundred residents in the past six years.”

She brought the mug up to her lips and took a careful sip. “Why did they go?”

“Lots of reasons. Family. Money. They were bored. They wanted something different.”

I looked out the window. From where I was sitting, I could see the dome of Martha's straw hat bobbing as she made her rounds in the garden.

“The day of the earthquake, it was glorious out. Temperate, sunny. That afternoon we were going to have a goodbye party for yet another family who was leaving. I was upset, but doing my best to hide it. Greengage was so perfect. I thought to myself, Who could possibly want to leave this paradise?”

She nodded. She'd asked herself the same question, too.

“ ‘Her early leaf's a flower; but only so an hour,' ” I recited.

“You read the book?” she said, looking pleased.

“From cover to cover.”

“It's good, isn't it? ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay.' My favorite
.
”

It wasn't my favorite, but it was the poem that spoke to me most.

“I think I must have known that our hour was nearly up. We'd been operating for seventeen years. We'd had a good run, but I knew our numbers would continue to dwindle. People would drift away.”

“Oh, Joseph. Your dream—”

“I'm not disclosing this so you'll pity me.”

“I know. That's not what—”

“I have to tell you something.”

“All right,” she said.

I inhaled, suddenly realizing that I'd been holding my breath. “I wished, just for a moment, for time to freeze. For it to stop.”

Her brow creased. “No, Joseph. You can't think that this is your fault. Everybody wants time to stop at some point in their life. Everybody.”

“Yes, well, now I've been given what I wished for. We won't lose any more people, because they have no choice. They have to stay.”

She didn't say anything. She took the truth of my statement in, and for that I was grateful.

“P
lease take me to see
The
Deer Hunter,
” begged Benno.

Benno was obsessed with anything that had to do with war. He was eight years old now, and if he wasn't playing with his G.I. Joe, he was reading encyclopedia entries on General MacArthur. He knew everything there was to know about trench and chemical warfare. He'd read Anne Frank's diary three times. But what he was most desperate to talk about was the Vietnam War, which wasn't a popular topic. Whenever Benno and I saw vets out on the street, many in wheelchairs or on crutches, he would walk right up to them and say, “My daddy was a soldier like you. He was killed in action.”

Almost all of them teared up and hugged him, and I knew exactly what Benno was thinking.
He could have been my father.
Although I did not like the idea of him going around embracing strangers, I let him. It provided him with a kind of comfort no book or movie could.

I'd seen
Deer Hunter
last week. There was no way I was going to let Benno watch Christopher Walken play Russian roulette.

“It's too adult for you,” I said.

After Benno had been born, I'd hired a service to help me track down Nelson King's family. I'd had no idea where he'd grown up or if his parents were dead or alive, if he had siblings or if he was an only child. I knew what seemed like important information at the time. His favorite band was Jefferson Airplane. He loved pizza with black olives and onions. He was a rabid Doonesbury fan.

The service had found Nelson's only surviving relative, his mother, in Wisconsin. I'd written to Anna King and enclosed a photo of Benno. I also sent her copies of the letters Nelson had written to me as proof; I wasn't sure she'd believe me. There was something sort of classless about breaking the news to a stranger who'd lost her son that I'd not only had sex with him, but had a baby by him as well. A baby he'd never lived long enough to know about.

Two weeks after I'd sent the letter, it came back to me. On the envelope, scribbled in pencil, were the words
Return to Sender, Addressee Unknown
. Anna King had steamed open the letter, read it, then taped it back shut again. Whatever I'd written, whatever decisions I'd made, whatever I and her son had shared, she'd decided she wanted nothing to do with it. With us.

“I have an idea. Let's do something special tonight,” I said to Benno.

“Like what?”

“Let's make lasagna. Real, authentic lasagna. We'll go to North Beach to buy the ricotta.”

“Can I have Coke?”

Coke was only for special occasions in our house.

“Okay.”

“Dr Pepper, too?”

I laughed. “Don't push your luck, kiddo.”

I loved North Beach on a Saturday; it had a festive, celebratory air. After shopping we walked to City Lights bookstore. It was packed; a local poet was giving a reading. We stood in the corner and listened for a few minutes until the poet started reciting a poem about a blow job he'd received in the back room of a grocery store. I quickly hustled Benno out the door.

On our way home we stopped at a café to get an ice cream.

“Can we sit at the counter, Mom?” asked Benno.

“I think it's better if we get our cones to go.” I'd already splurged on the ricotta for dinner. If we sat, I'd have to tip the waitress. And Benno wouldn't settle for just sprinkles. He'd want his ice cream in a dish, with crushed pineapple and whipped cream. Then suddenly it was a sundae, twice the cost of a cone.

“Please,” he begged.
“Please?”

“All right,” I said, giving in. We sat down on two stools.

There were a few other customers in the café. Late afternoon—only one waitress on duty.

The manager stood at the cash register reading a paper. He stared at us. I smiled; he did not smile back. He gestured to the waitress and whispered something in her ear.

“French vanilla,” Benno announced. “Can I have it in a dish?”

“Yes, you can have it in a dish.” I sighed, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“Can I have pineapple and whipped cream?” He gave me such a sweet, imploring look my heart broke. How easy it was to make him happy.

“And nuts and a cherry?” I asked.

“A sundae?” His eyes opened wide in surprise. “I can have a sundae?”

“If you want.”

“That's okay?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“What are you going to have?”

“Mmm…” I pretended to think about it. “I think I'll have a cup of tea.”

“You don't want ice cream?”

“I'm going to save my appetite for dinner.”

He nodded and spun around on the stool.

The waitress came. She scribbled the order on her pad and handed me the bill.

“That's three dollars and twenty-six cents,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, putting the bill face-down on the counter.

She stood there waiting.

“Do you need something?” I asked.

“I'm sorry. I need you to pay the bill,” she said, glancing over at the manager, who was watching us intently.

“Now? But you haven't even put in the order.”

“Mom,” said Benno. He reached for my hand.

“It's our policy,” she said softly. “You have to pay before you get your food.”

Suddenly I understood. This was their policy for people like us. Me and Benno. A white woman with a mixed-race child who looked as if they had no money, who looked as if they might run out on the bill.

“Mama,” said Benno in a small voice. “It's all right. Let's go. I don't want the sundae.”

I sat there, my cheeks aflame, not knowing whether to bolt out of the café or make a scene. I decided to do neither. Willing my hands not to shake, I got my wallet out of my purse and, with as much dignity as I could muster, gave her a five-dollar bill.

“I'll get your change,” the waitress said.

“Keep it,” I said, loud enough for the manager to hear.

Sometimes Benno and I were like an old married couple, kissing and bickering and shouting. Sometimes we were best friends, laughing and weaving into each other, slamming our cards down on the table, jamming cookies into our mouths. And sometimes, we were strangers, like that early evening when I put my key in the lock and we stepped back into the apartment. Everything felt foreign, like it didn't belong to us anymore.

“Should I get the lasagna started?”

“I'm not hungry,” said Benno.

I wasn't either. “That's all right. I'll make it tomorrow night.”

I drew him under my arm and gave him a hug.

“Can I watch TV?”

It was then that the longing for Greengage overtook me, so overwhelming I could only manage one word.

“Yes.”

In the past two years, I'd been back only five times: the fog continued to be coy. It appeared one month, then didn't appear for another four months. Then there was a two-month stretch, then it didn't return for another year. It had been six months now and counting since I'd last seen my friends. Fancy and Magnusson had gotten married a while back. I'd given Martha seeds for her flower clock, and I continued to replenish Joseph's cigarette stores.

Knowing Greengage was there, out of my reach, beyond the fog, was unbearable.

“If you're late one more time…,” said Mike Mulligan.

I quickly tied my black apron. “Your watch is fast.”

Benno had fallen off his Big Wheel and scraped his knee just as I was about to leave for work. He was nearly hysterical (he wasn't good with the sight of blood) and wouldn't let Mrs. Patel near him, so I had to bring him back upstairs myself, wash the wound, and convince him the Bactine wouldn't sting (that alone took an additional ten minutes).

“It's not fast.”

“I'm only fifteen minutes late.”

“You're twenty-five minutes late. Jimmy had to take three of your tables. Look at him. The imbecile.”

Jimmy was practically running through the restaurant, a platter held high above his head, his face contorted with stress, his hair wet.

“Is that sweat or hair product?”

Mike sighed. “It better be hair product. Jesus, Lux. I can't believe we're having this conversation again. You're my best goddamned waitress and that has saved your ass until now, but I am at the end of my bloody rope.”

My last week's sales had topped one thousand dollars. That was a Seven Hills record. I thought of reminding him of this fact, but he was past that point.

“I'm sorry, Mike. I'll do better, I promise.”

He grunted.

“
Love Boat
's on,” Benno shouted from the living room.

Here was the wonderful thing about third-grade boys. In public they might want nothing to do with you, but in private they were snugglers. He patted the cushion of the couch.

“Oh, Julie looks good in that jumpsuit,” I said, sitting beside him.

Benno had a crush on
The Love Boat
's cruise director, Julie McCoy. Her bowl cut had been much copied, even on the streets of San Francisco.

“Want to know the title?” I asked, picking up the
TV Guide.
The
Love Boat
had two or three storylines in each episode, and I found the titles hilarious.

“ ‘The Business of Love/Crash Diet Crisis/I'll Never Fall in Love Again'!” I recited.

Benno looked at me solemnly. He didn't like me to make fun of his favorite show. He wore his
Star Wars
pajamas and an olive green cap from the army-navy store. I fought the urge to sweep him up into my arms and cover him with kisses.

“Shush,” he admonished me.

Benno was capable of doing only one thing at a time, but my God, that boy could focus. Whether he was watching TV or having a conversation, he listened with an eerie intensity. Leaning in. Never taking his eyes off yours. He dispensed his attention extravagantly and it always made me feel guilty. There was nobody I loved more than Benno, but at times there was nobody I wanted to get away from more. Not from him per se, but from the responsibility of him. I assumed it was this way for all mothers, the wild swings between claustrophobia and joy. Benno forced me to stay in the present. Sometimes I craved this intimacy. Sometimes it made me want to run away.

The phone rang halfway through
Love Boat
. It was eight-thirty. It had to be my mother—she was the only one who called this late. I ran into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

“Can't sleep?” I asked.

She had horrible bouts of sleeplessness. I'd asked Ginger what could be causing it. Was there something to be alarmed about? Even though Ginger was a bone man, I still relied on him for all my basic medical information.

“How old is she?” he'd asked.

“Fifty-three.”

“Menopause,” he said. “Sleeplessness is a common symptom.”

“Well, what can she do about it? She's a walking zombie.”

He shrugged sympathetically. “Does your father snore?”

“Probably.”

“She could sleep on the couch.”

“She'd never do that.”

“Tell her to get a script from her doctor for diazepam. The insomnia will pass once she's through the change.”

“Did you get the pills?” I asked my mother.

“Yes.”

“And—”

“And, they make me feel dead in the morning. Like I've been buried alive. I can't even open my eyelids. I'd rather not sleep.”

“Oh, Mom.”

She brushed my concern away. “Listen, I have to ask you something. Your father got a letter from Benno.”

I no longer supervised Benno's missives to my father. I'd given him stamps, stationery, and envelopes, and he wrote to my father whenever he wanted, posted the letters in the mailbox himself. They had their own relationship outside of me.