Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
The boy moaned. Howell staggered against the bumper. The freezing pain jolted him. He stumbled to the door, reaching for the old Hudson’s Bay blanket. Then he knelt beside the boy, head pounding, and wrapped him in the blanket. He tried to carry him: too heavy. Howell groaned, then dragged boy and blanket to the side of the car. For a moment he rested, wheezing, before heaving the boy into the passenger seat.
Afterward he couldn’t remember driving back to the house.
Festus met him at the door, barking joyfully. Staggering beneath the boys weight, Howell kicked the door shut behind him, then kneeling placed the bundle on the floor.
“Festus, shh,” he commanded.
The dog approached the boy, tail wagging. Then he stiffened and reared back snarling.
“Festus, shut up.” Exhausted, Howell threw down his parka. He paused to stare at the blizzard still raging about the mountainside. “Festus, I’m throwing you out there if you don’t shut up.” He clapped and pointed toward the kitchen. “Go lie down.”
Festus barked, but retreated to the kitchen.
Now what the hell is this?
Howell ran his hands over his wet scalp and stared down at the boy. Melting snow dripped from the blanket to stain the wooden floor. Tentatively he stooped and pulled back a woolen corner.
In the room’s ruddy light the boy looked even paler, his skin ashen. Grime streaked his chest. The hair on his legs and groin was stiff with dirt. Howell grimaced: the boy smelled like rotting meat.
He brushed matted hair from the thin face. “Jesus Christ, what have you been doing?” he murmured. Drugs? What drugs would make someone run naked through the snow? Wincing, Howell let the tangled locks slip from his hand.
The boy moaned and twisted his head. He bared his teeth, eyes still tightly shut, and cried softly. His hand drooped upon his chest, fingers falling open. In his palm lay a stone attached to a filthy string around his neck.
Howell crossed the room to a bay window. Here a window seat served as spare bed, fitted neatly into the embrasure. He opened a drawer beneath the seat and pulled out blankets, quickly smoothed the cushion and arranged pillows. Then he got towels and tried his best to dry the boy before wrapping him in a clean blanket and dragging him to the window. Grunting, he eased him onto the bed . He covered him first with a cotton comforter, then heaped on coarse woolen blankets until the boy snorted and turned onto his stomach. After a few minutes his breathing slowed. Howell sank into an armchair to watch him sleep.
From a white dream, Andrew moaned and thrashed, floundering through unyielding pastures that resolved into blankets tangled about his legs. He opened his eyes and lay very still, holding his breath in terror. The darkness held an awful secret. He whimpered as he tried to place it. Turning his head, he saw a shining patch above him, a pale moon in a cobalt sky. His eyes burned. Shrugging free of the comforter, he sat up. Through the window he glimpsed the forest, snowy fields blued by moonlight. Colors. He glanced down and, for the first time since autumn, saw his hands. Slowly he drew them to his throat until they touched the stone there. His fingers ached, and he flexed them until the soreness abated. New blood tingled in his palms. He sniffed tentatively: dust and stale wood, smoke, his own sweat-and another’s.
In an armchair slept an old man, mouth slightly ajar, his breathing so soft it scarcely stirred the air. At his feet lay a dog. It stared at Andrew and growled, a low ceaseless sound like humming bees.
“Hey,” whispered the boy, his voice cracking. “Good dog.”
The dog drew closer to the old mans feet. Andrew swung his legs over the bedside, gasping at the strain on forgotten muscles. As blankets slid to the floor, he noted, surprised, how the hair on his legs had grown thick and black.
Even without covers the room’s warmth blanketed him, and he sighed with pleasure. Unsteadily, he crossed to a window, balancing himself with one hand against the wall. The snow had stopped. Through clouded glass he saw an untracked slope, a metal bird feeder listing beneath its white dome. He reached for the talisman, remembering. Autumn days when he tugged wild grapes from brittle vines had given way to the long fat weeks of a winter without snow. Suddenly he wondered how long it had been-months? years?—and recalled his mother’s words.
. . . they forgot . . . and stayed forever, and died up there in the woods . . .
Closing his eyes, he drew the amulet to his mouth and rubbed it against his lip, thinking.
Just for a little while, I could go again just for a little while . . .
He had almost not come back. He shook his head, squeezing tears from shut eyes. Shuddering, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against the windowpane.
A house.
The talisman slipped from his hand to dangle around his neck once more. Andrew held his breath, listening. His heartbeat quickened from desire to fear.
Whose
house?
Someone had brought him back. He faced the center of the room.
In the armchair slumped the old man, regarding Andrew with mild pale eyes. “Aren’t you cold?” he croaked, and sat up. “I can get you a robe.”
Embarrassed, Andrew sidled to the window seat and wrapped himself in the comforter, then hunched onto the mattress. “That’s okay,” he muttered, drawing his knees together. The words came out funny, and he repeated them, slowly.
Howell blinked, trying to clear his vision. “It’s still night,” he stated, and coughed. Festus whined, bumping against Howells leg. The astronaut suddenly stared at Andrew more closely. “What the hell were you doing out there?”
Andrew shrugged. “Lost, I guess.”
Howell snorted. “I guess so.”
The boy waited for him to bring up parents, police; but the man only gazed at him thoughtfully. The man looked sick. Even in the dimness, Andrew made out lesions on his face and hands, the long skull taut with yellow skin.
“You here alone?” Andrew finally asked.
“The dog.” Howell nudged the spaniel with his foot. “My dog, Festus. I’m Eugene Howell. Major Howell.” .
“Andrew,” the boy said. A long silence before the man spoke again.
“You live here?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents live here?”
“No. They’re dead. I mean, my mother just died. My father died a long time ago.”
Howell rubbed his nose, squinting. “Well, you got someone you live with?”
“No. I live alone.” He hesitated, then inclined his head toward the window. “In The Fallows.”
“Huh.” Howell peered at him more closely. “Were you—some kind of drugs? I found you out there—” He gestured at the window. “Butt naked. In a blizzard.” He laughed hoarsely, then gazed pointedly at the boy. ‘’I’m just curious, that’s all. Stark naked in a snowstorm. Jesus Christ.”
Andrew picked at a scab on his knee. “I’m not on drugs,” he said at last. “I just got lost.” Suddenly he looked up, beseeching. “I’ll get out of your way. You don’t have to do anything. Okay? Like you don’t have to call anyone. I can just go back to my place.”
Howell yawned and stood slowly. “Well, not tonight. When they clear the roads.” He looked down at his feet, chagrined to see he still had his boots on. “I’m going to lie down for a little while. Still a few hours before morning.”
He smiled wanly and shuffled toward the bedroom, Festus following him. In the kitchen he paused to get his inhaler, then stared with mild disbelief at the counter where an unopened sack of dog food and six cans of Alpo stood next to a half-filled grocery bag.
“Festus,” he muttered, tearing open the sack. “I’ll be damned. I forgot Pete brought this.” He dumped, food into the dog’s bowl and glanced back at the boy staring puzzled into the kitchen.
“You can take a shower if you want,” suggested Howell. “In there. Towels, a robe. Help yourself.” Then he went to bed.
In the bathroom Andrew found bedpans, an empty oxygen tank, clean towels. He kicked his comforter outside the door, hesitated before retrieving it and folding it upon the sofa. Then he returned to the bathroom. Grimacing, he examined his reflection in the mirror. Dirt caked his pores. What might be scant stubble roughened his chin, but when he rubbed it, most came off onto his fingers in tiny black beads.
In the tub stood a white metal stool. Andrew settled on this and turned on the water. He squeezed handfuls of shampoo through his long hair until the water ran clear. Most of a bar of soap dissolved before be stepped out, the last of the hot water gurgling down the drain. On the door hung a thin green hospital robe, E
.
H
OWELL
printed on the collar in Magic Marker. Andrew flung this over his shoulders and stepped back into the living room.
Gray light flecked the windowpanes, enough light that finally he could explore the place. It was a small house, not much bigger than his abandoned cottage. Worn Navaho rugs covered flagstone floors in front of a stone fireplace, still heaped with dead ashes and the remains of a Christmas tree studded with blackened tinsel. Brass gaslight fixtures supported light bulbs and green glass shades. And everywhere about the room, pictures.
He could scarcely make out the cedar paneling beneath so many photographs. He crossed to the far wall stacked chest-high with tottering bookshelves. Above the shelves hung dozens of framed photos.
“Jeez.” Andrew shivered a little as he tied the robe.
Photos of Earthrise, moonrise. The Crab Nebula. The moon. He edged along the wall, reading the captions beside the NASA logo on each print.
Mare Smythii. Crater Gambart. Crater Copernicus. Crater Descartes. Sea of Tranquillity.
At wall’s end, beside the window, two heavy gold frames. The first held artwork from a
Time
magazine cover showing three helmeted men against a Peter Max galaxy: M
EN OF THE
Y
EAR:
T
HE
C
REW OF
A
POLLO 18
, printed in luminous letters. He blew dust from the glass and regarded the picture thoughtfully. Behind one of the men’s faceplates, he recognized Howells face.
The other frame held an oversized cover of
Look
, a matte photograph in stark black. In the upper corner floated the moon, pale and dreaming like an infant’s face.
A
POLLO 19:
F
AREWELL TO
T
RANQUILLITY.
Outside, the sun began to rise above Sugar Mountain. In the west glowed a three-quarter moon, fading as sunlight spilled down the mountainside. Andrew stood staring at it until his eyes ached, holding the moon there as long as he could. When it disappeared, he clambered back into bed.
When he woke later that morning, Andrew found Howell sitting in the same chair again, dozing with the dog Festus at his feet. Andrew straightened his robe and tried to slide quietly from bed. The dog barked. Howell blinked awake.
“Good morning,” he yawned, and coughed. “The phone lines are down.”
Andrew grinned with relief, then tried to look concerned. “How long before they’re up again?”
Howell scratched his jaw, his nails rasping against white stubble. “Day or two, probably. You said you live alone?”
Andrew nodded, reaching gingerly to let Festus sniff his hand. “So you don’t need to call anyone.” Howell rubbed the dog’s back with a slippered foot. “He’s usually pretty good with people,” he said as Festus sniffed and then tentatively licked Andrew’s hand. “That’s good, Festus. You hungry—?”
He stumbled, forgetting the boy’s name.
“Andrew,” the boy said, scratching the dog’s muzzle. “Good dog. Yeah, I guess I am.”
Howell waved toward the kitchen. “Help yourself. My son brought over stuff the other day, on the counter in there. I don’t eat much now.” He coughed again and clutched the chair’s arms until the coughing stopped. Andrew stood awkwardly in the center of the room.
“I have cancer,” Howell said, fumbling in his robe’s pockets until he found a pill bottle. Andrew stared a moment longer before going into the kitchen.
Inside the grocery bag he found wilted lettuce, several boxes of frozen dinners, now soft and damp, eggs and bread and a packet of spoiled hamburger meat. He sniffed this and his mouth watered, but when he opened the package the smell sickened him and he hastily tossed it into the trash. He settled on eggs, banging around until he found skillet and margarine. He ate them right out of the pan. After a hasty cleanup he returned to the living room.
“Help yourself to anything you want,” said Howell. “I have clothes, too, if you want to get changed.”
Andrew glanced down at his robe and shrugged. “Okay. Thanks.” He wandered to the far wall and stared a moment at the photos again. “You’re an astronaut,” he said.
Howell nodded. “That’s right.”
“That must’ve been pretty cool.” He pointed to the Men of the Year portrait. “Did you fly the shuttle?”
“Christ, no. That was after my time. We were Apollo. The moon missions.”
Andrew remained by the wall, nodding absently. He wanted to leave, but how? He couldn’t take off right away, leave this man wondering where he lived, how he’d get there in three feet of snow. He’d wait until tonight. Leave a note, the robe folded on a chair. He turned back to face Howell.
“That must’ve been interesting.”
Howell stared at him blankly, then laughed. “Probably the most interesting thing
I
ever did,” he gasped, choking as he grabbed his inhaler. Andrew watched alarmed as the astronaut sucked the mouthpiece. A faint acrid smell infused the room when Howell exhaled.
“Can’t breathe,” he whispered. Andrew stared at him and coughed nervously himself.
Howell sighed, the hissing of a broken bellows. “I wanted to go back. I was queued next time as commander.” He tugged at the sleeves of his robe, pulling the cuffs over bony wrists. “They canceled it. The rest of the program. Like that.” He tried to snap his fingers. They made a dry small sound. “Money. Then the rest. The explosion. You know.”
Andrew nodded, rolling up his sleeves until they hung evenly. “I remember that.”
Howell nodded. “Everydoes. But the moon. Do you remember that?”