Bones of The Moon Read online

  «Cullen it's . . . _green_.» He smiled beatifically.

  «Of course it is! It's spinach lasagne.»

  «_Spinach_? Oh.»

  «Yes, spinach. I'm a vegetarian. That doesn't mean it's not good.»

  «Uh . . . oh.» He was about to take a sip of beer, but put the glass back on the table very gently.

  «What's the matter with that? This is the first time I've felt like crying all day.»

  «Don't do that. It's just that vegetarians make me nervous.»

  «_War_ wouldn't make you nervous, Danny James. Do you enjoy eating dead flesh?»

  «Uh . . . oh.» He took his fork and poked at my masterpiece as if he were inspecting a minefield. «Is it _really_ good?»

  I squinted flame and acid his way and forked him up a piece as big as a manhole cover. It sat firm and proud . . . and green on his plate.

  «You eat that!»

  «But it might be hot. Green things stay hot longer, you know.»

  «_Eat!_»

  His smile fell but he began to eat and three helpings later he was still going strong. He hadn't said another word, but his face had relaxed and his cheeks stayed full. I know because I watched him like a hawk.

  «So how is it, Popeye?»

  He patted his tummy. «I stand corrected; spinach lasagne wins! So what's for dessert, kelp cake?»

  «I should feel insulted now, but I'm still too glad to see you. You're a wonderful friend for coming, Danny.»

  He bowed his head my way and pushed a spoon a little to the left. «Are you okay, Cullen?»

  «I'm a lot better since I got the telegram saying you were coming. Overall? I'm much better now. I think about the child sometimes, but that's only natural.»

  He put his hands in his lap and leaned forward as if he were about to whisper a secret. «I know it's easy for me to say it, but I don't think you should worry about that if you can help it, Cul. You aborted because you had to. You didn't love the man, I'm assuming. What better reason could you have had than that?»

  «Oh, Danny, I know. I've run all that through my mind, but it _was_ a person in there. There's no way I can get around that.» Tears came to my eyes. It seemed I wasn't over anything yet.

  Danny shook his head and looked at me very sternly. Then one of his hands came up from his lap and he placed it on the table in a tight fist. «You're wrong, Cullen. The seed _isn't_ the flower. I'm not trying to be facile either. What kind of life would that child have had? Huh? Even if you _had_ wanted it, there would have been so many times you'd have resented the poor thing and your decision to have it. Look at our parents and how many times they wanted to brain _us_ when we were growing up. All my life I've heard people say it's a nip-and-tuck battle for parents to love their kids all the way through. As good a person as I think you are, I do think you would have scarred the kid somehow. It may not be a very nice thing for me to say, but we really _don't_ need anymore walking wounded on this earth, you know?»

  «I'm not saying you're in any way wrong, Danny, but life just isn't that simple. If it was as easy and clear cut as you say . . . If it was as logical as that, I wouldn't continue to feel as bad as I do. I know what you're saying, and you're absolutely right in a way. _But_ logic and rationality only go so far. Then you know what happens? Ha! Then your old heart adds its two cents and everything reasonable goes right-out-the-window.»

  I took out a cigarette and lit up. We were quiet, comfortably quiet for a while. Even with talk of the baby, I felt more at ease than I had in ages.

  Danny sighed and frowned. «You're right, Cullen. A hundred percent right. Remember how I was after Evelyn died? Every time I tried to tell myself to just calm down and get back to living my life, my emotions said, 'Fuck you, Buddy, we hurt!'

  It was not a funny thought, but the way he said it made me grin. He grinned back and I reached across the table and took his hand.

  «You know something funny? You almost always blow smoke out of the side of your mouth, Cul. I remember that from before. Are you aware of it?»

  «Huh?»

  «You shoot the smoke out the side; like you're making a little comment or something. Never in front.»

  «Now I'm going to be self-conscious.»

  «Cullen, you're the prettiest woman I know. You have every right to be self-conscious.»

  He said that without any hesitation, but wouldn't look at me when he did. How many good men are there in the world who are both shy and complimentary at the same time? The men I'd gone out with recently were full of both compliments and eye contact, but I often got the feeling neither meant a damn.

  He took a coin out of his pocket and did a lovely little trick with it – flash, whoosh, gone! – just for me.

  «That's neat, Dan. Do it again!»

  «Nope! Never ask a magician to do his tricks twice in a row. You'll figure them out and they'll lose all their magic that way.»

  I went into the kitchen to get the dessert – a giant, horrendously gooey chocolate cake that looked great and broke all the rules.

  Danny's whole face lit up as soon as he saw it. That night marked the beginning of our many-year contest to see who had the greater madness for sweets.

  When I put it down on the table, he reached over and pulled the whole thing in front of him. «Oh Cullen, that was really nice of you to get this for me. And what are you having for dessert?»

  Over coffee and cake we talked about everything. His words were so like his letters; taking their time to get wherever, funny, self-deprecating. It was plain he saw himself as a hell of a lucky guy who had been plopped down in a fascinating, illogical world for no reason other than to have a good look around, hands in pockets and a little surprised whistle on his lips.

  Years before, I had taken his «way» for naivete when I first knew him, but it wasn't that. It was a healthy, magnificently unpolluted sense of wonder. Life was wonderful – or at least full of wonders – for Danny James. He would look at a junkyard and be thrilled by the weird mix of colors in there. When he prodded me into looking, I would see a junkyard. Not a good or a bad one, simply a junkyard! Yet his wonder was not annoying or particularly contagious either. Most of the time you didn't even know it was there until you looked up at him and saw those quiet brown eyes staring at whatever it was, a slight, pleased smile on his face.

  I grew to hope for that smile; it was really the only way I could tell what was going on in his mind. As I've said before, it was very hard to tell when he was mad about something, and only slightly less difficult to tell when he was happy. His wasn't a stone face, exactly, but rather a handsome one with a set, bemused expression that rarely changed, and kept secrets – both his and your own – like no one else I had ever known.

  «Well, Dan, now you're going to have to spill the beans: have you been gallivanting around Italy with contessas?»

  «No, no contessas. Not many of them go to basketball games. There _is_ this one woman. . . .» His voice trailed off and he looked away. Embarrassed?

  «Yes, all right; there's this one woman. _And_?» Unconsciously I took out another cigarette. I was smoking up to two packs a day and climbing; before the abortion it had been less than one.

  He looked at me, smiled, shrugged. «It's very hard for me, Cullen. Believe it or not, since Evelyn died I have been very low-keyed with women. I go to bed with some and some go to bed with me – if you get the difference – but a lot less than some people think. Until recently I've had no desire to jump into any . . . pool and get wet. There've been other interesting things to pay attention to, like living in Europe for one. I think it's going to be a very slow process, finding someone else to be with for the rest of my life.»

  I had the cigarette in my mouth and was squinting against the smoke that curled up the side of my cheek. «But now you sound like you think you found someone.»

  «I don't know. I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, believe me. To tell you the truth, most of the time women make me nervous. Really! I often feel like I'm either sa
ying the wrong thing or acting the wrong way – even when I know they like me. Isn't that silly? I feel like a kid going to dance class for the first time; which hand do I put where on the girl's body?»

  We smiled at each other and the room hummed with comfort and companionship.

  «But you were married once, Danny. You should know all the ropes.»

  «Maybe some of them, but really I was only married long enough to know I liked it, Cul. Then it went away.»

  «Danny, you're smart and you've got a good heart, so answer me this, will you? Why do all the jerks do so well in life? And why do so many nice people get stomped on? If anyone didn't deserve to lose their wife, it's you.»

  «It's not that simple, Cullen. Sometimes it works out fine.» His voice was soft and sad.

  «Oh yeah? Well, I don't think it works out fine too often. Do you want more cake? Say yes, please.»

  «Of course.»

  The new woman's name was Drew Conrad. Whoever heard of a girl named Drew? But she was a model and that explained a lot about her, as far as I was concerned. Every guy I knew in those days was going out with a model. My definition of a model? Airheads with nice teeth.

  «What's she doing in Italy, besides posing?»

  «Are you telling me that you don't like models? Why don't you do it, Cullen? You sure could make more money than you do at that magazine. God knows, you've certainly got the looks for it!»

  «Yeah, I'm pretty, but when people look it makes me extremely nervous. What's more, I wouldn't want to spend my life posing on a car hood in a pair of purple underpants. Hey, guys, look what you can have if you buy that Fiat! It's tacky, Danny. I'm sure not the world's best person, but I work hard to avoid being tacky if I can. Modeling _reeks_ of tack. Look, I'm sorry if I'm squashing your Drew Conrad. Are you going to tell me what she's like?»

  «She's tall and dark. We met at a party in Milan.»

  «And?»

  «And . . . well, um, the sex is nice.»

  «And?» For the first time, the question of what Danny James would be like in bed crossed my mind. I looked hard at him and imagined he guessed what I was thinking because he quickly averted his eyes and scrooched around in his chair like he had ants in his pants.

  But I liked sex. I also liked my aloe plant and the International House of Pancakes. My experiences with sex reminded me of a great new movie that everyone talks about and loves. You go along hoping, _hoping_ it will be everything they said it was. But then it's over and you walk out of the theater, blinking hard at the sudden light – tired, and sort of disappointed and confused by all the hoopla the thing has received.

  Most of my bedroom stories could have been divided into two simple categories: «Bunny Rabbit Sex» and «Blackmail Sex.» I'd had scads of Bunny Rabbit Sex – crazily eager, jackhammer stuff so repetitious and unoriginal that your nose started twitching in frustration after a while.

  Or there was the ever-popular Blackmail Sex: do it with me right now or else I'll be depressed for the rest of my life . . . or at least the rest of tonight. «Pay-ter» was a great one for that and I fell for it each time.

  Now, sizing up Danny in a sexy light, I couldn't imagine him being guilty of either approach, but like him as much as I did, I still had my doubts.

  «Cullen, did I say something wrong?»

  «No, nothing, Danny. I was just thinking about sex.»

  His eyes smiled and he winked the nicest wink that ever was. «Cullen, I wouldn't know what to do if you and I went to bed. You know why? I'd be too busy staring at you to think of anything else.»

  It was said with such great humor and warmth that the only thing I wanted to do was get up and give him a hug, which I did. He hugged back and the next thing I knew, I was crying all over his gigantic shoulder.

  «I don't want to cry, but I can't really help it.»

  He squeezed me tighter and stroked the back of my head again and again. It was a wonderful feeling. He also had that man's bouquet of smells – heat, cologne, sweat, summer earth. It made you hot, comfortable; assured you that for a moment or two you would be safe from the snapping alligator jaws of life.

  Don't get me wrong – good smells or not, putting your arms around most men was either like embracing a chimp or a tombstone. Men either «let» you hug them or quickly tried to turn that nicest of things into an orgy.

  Not Danny James. His hands ran down my back in innocent rills that I wished would go on forever. Hands are wonderful; they can disappear coins, or they can iron out wrinkles in blue, rumpled souls.

  «Are you crying because you're so sad to see me, Cul?»

  I smiled and sniffed into his chest. His words, his hands on my back, his _presence_ there was like someone had opened a trapdoor in the top of my head and poured warm milk in, filling my body, soaking all of my cells, soothing them all with its life, vitamins, whiteness.

  I told him this and he chuckled. «I've never been called a glass of milk before.»

  Jet lag caught up with him an hour later and he started yawning. I steered him into the bathroom and told him that by the time he was finished in there, I'd have the couch made up and he could flop right down and go to sleep. He shuffled out a few minutes later wearing a pair of cute flannel pajamas as big as an Indian tepee.

  «The couch is all made up. I'll get out of here and let you go to sleep.»

  «Cullen, I'm going to sleep with you. Don't say no, and don't think I'm going to try anything. I came a hell of a long way to see you, so we're not going to play any games with each other. We'll sleep and be good, but we'll be sleeping together. Okay?»

  «Okay.» I couldn't look at him and my heart was beating very fast.

  «That 'okay' didn't sound so good.»

  «OKAY!»

  «Good. I'm completely exhausted. I'll see you later. Thank you for dinner, even if it was green.» He turned and started out.

  «Danny? I'm so glad you're here.»

  «Me too.» He half-turned and gave a little tired wave.

  I watched him scuff off into the bedroom and lie down, Gulliver-style, on my surprised bed. Then I went into the kitchen and did the dishes with worried hands.

  Naturally, nothing happened when I did get into bed. Danny was sound asleep. Rolling over on my side, I smiled into the darkness and listened for a long time to the hiss of his breathing.

  I awoke when I felt a hand on my face and opened my eyes to see Danny looking at me from ten inches away. His face was puffed and crinkled into a sleepy smile.

  «I think I'm jet-lagged. It's nine in the morning where I live so I'm wide awake!»

  Without a thought, I slid over and put my arms around his big sleep-warmed body. We lay there for a little while and then fell asleep again.

  The next time I awoke I smelled good things in the air, but was disappointed to discover he wasn't there to smell them with me.

  I like men's shoulders. Always have. The first thing I saw of Danny that morning was his shoulders moving and jumping around as he worked at the stove cooking breakfast. I leaned against the door and watched while he moved here and there amidst cooking sounds and flying hands. He seemed to know exactly what to do. And he had great shoulders. High and broad, they spanned the top of a thin, well-kept body. I had spent the night with that body and the thought made me smile; I had never slept with anyone without fooling around before. I felt like a newly minted coin. What had happened last night reminded me of a story out of the Middle Ages: one of those great ones, where the virtuous knight sleeps with his lady-fair in the same bed, only he's placed his trusty sword between them on the sheets to keep them both virtuous.

  The only part of the story that didn't fit so well was that Ms. Drew Conrad was Danny's lady-fair at the moment, while I was just his pal in need.

  Had I fallen a little in love with him only because part of me was nasty-competitive, or because everything he'd done since he'd arrived the day before had been supremely adorable?

  Without knowing I was there, he turned on the radio to
a disco station. Spatula in hand, he started dancing around. He was pretty good.

  «Do you have any pictures of you when you were a little girl?»

  I was startled that he'd known all along that I was there. He turned around and, flipping the spatula, caught it with two fingers.

  «You're a real bag of tricks, aren't you? Pictures of me when I was little? Yes, I have a big bunch of them somewhere in a drawer.»

  «Terrific! Let's eat first and then you can get them out for me.»

  «How come you want to see them?» I sat down at the table. He'd already taken my usual spot, but I liked to see him sitting there.

  «I want to see if you were as pretty then as you are now.»

  He said this while putting a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and sliced tomato in front of me. There was even a thin sprig of bright green parsley laid over the eggs. It added an unnecessary, albeit lovely touch of color and care to the whole thing that made it a hundred times better. Danny _cared_; for the food he cooked, for me . . . for everything.

  «I'm not used to being told I'm good-looking.» Very unprettily, I shovelled a large load of food into my mouth.

  «Men don't tell you because they don't want to admit your advantage over them. The better-looking a woman is, the more insecure a man gets.»

  «Why's that? How ridiculous! Would you pass the salt?»

  «Because it's hard to walk down the street with someone who makes other people walk into walls when they look. Plus, no one looks at _you_ when you're with that pretty person. It's very humbling.»

  «Is Drew Conrad pretty?» I stopped chewing and realized my fork was hanging in midair.

  He hesitated a moment, then nodded bashfully, but he wouldn't look at me.

  «What advertisements has she done? Anything over here I would have seen?»

  «I don't know – all of the big ones, I think. They brought her over from New York, so I guess she's known over here too.»

  «Do you bump into walls when you see _her_?»

  «Every so often.»

  I pushed my plate away a little too hard and it skidded across the table like a hockey puck. «Okay! All right, I admit it – I'm jealous. No, I _hate_ her, Dan! I look at you and I'm thinking there are neat men in the world. Look, there's one right here in front of me. So where the hell are they? All I ever meet are squeenys and mud-balls.»