Man in the Moon (2 page)

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it probably had a lot to do with being cooped up on this farm. At least he had an excuse. But why on earth did I have to be stuck here all the time? My gizzard was just fine, thank you. Only I knew the answer. I was stuck here because of Ricky. Everything is because of Ricky. I don’t think I could count all the days I wished I could just take off running and never stop.

I picked up the ball and threw it back to him, but it dropped at his feet. His eyes bulged and he froze where he was. A second later he started to cough.

I knew I should’ve brought a jar of water! He heaved and wrestled with a dry cough that sounded like sand might come poofing out of his throat.

“Ricky, are you all right?”

He dropped the ball and took refuge under the truck bed, where it was nice and shady. He continued to hack like something was stuck in him. I wasn’t sure what to do. This was one of those times when I wanted to help, to make things all right, but as usual I was nothing but a helpless lump.

The sun was an orange blister hiding behind the summer haze. It had to be close to dinnertime. I reached under the truck to pull Ricky out. I figured I could carry him back to the house. A thin line of blood oozed out of his nose.

“It’s okay,” he said, pushing me away. His cough had slowed to an occasional spasm. He wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand. “It’s okay,” he said again. I wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

Buddy was pacing and whining. He could sense that something was wrong.

I reached in for Ricky again, and this time he let me help him out from under the truck. “We better get back.”

We limped across the pasture, him from his illness, me from just being worn out.

I wasn’t as careful as I should have been, and by the time I got to the back steps, there must have been at least fifteen sticker burrs stuck in my feet. Some were poked in pretty deep. I sat down and started picking them out. I noticed Ricky tiptoeing away, craning his neck to see behind the chicken coop.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

Ricky whipped around real quick and looked back at me. “Nothing. I thought I saw something in the corn.”

I plucked the rest of the stickers out real fast, stabbing my fingers on a few of the prickles.

Mama came out on the steps and gave us a suspicious look. “Ricky! You’re as red as blazes, child. And I bet you’re just as hot, too. Weren’t you staying in the shade like I said?”

I could tell that Ricky’s brown eyes were searching for a lie, but he never was any good at fibbing. And besides, what difference did it make? Mama never had the heart to punish him because of his gizzard. I would be the one to get a whupping with a switch. Before he answered, she noticed the smeared blood under his nose.

“Lawsy! You’re bleeding again, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

Ricky didn’t say a word as Mama threw her arm around his shoulder to lead him inside. Just then, Daddy’s old blue Chevy came crunching down the gravel drive. Ricky broke loose from Mama, and we hurried to greet Daddy as he stepped out of the car. He squeezed us both up in a tight bear hug and gave us each a big kiss on the cheek. The kiss was one of those loud smacks that ended with a puckered
pop!
I could smell beer on his breath and knew he hadn’t spent the whole day out looking for work.

He walked to the house with his head hanging a bit. That was his way of telling Mama that he hadn’t had any luck.

We all headed in for dinner, first Mama, then Ricky, then Daddy. I was the last one to go in, but not before I heard something moving in the cornfield again. I looked back to see Buddy disappear behind some tall stalks.

Phase Two—Waxing Crescent

T
he next couple of days were pretty quiet, except for all that rustling in the corn. I thought maybe an animal had gotten trapped in there and was trying to get out. Buddy spent a lot of time snooping around, but he always trotted back from the field with a satisfied look, like someone had just fed him a T-bone. I wondered why Mama and Daddy didn’t hear the rustling. It got louder every day. I thought about going in to investigate it myself but was just too doggone scared. It might be one of those weird things like on
The Twilight Zone,
and I sure didn’t want Rod Serling introducing a show about me.

I decided I’d just spend my days inside. Ricky couldn’t go out anyway, and I hated always playing by myself. Mama was still in a tizzy over him getting overheated and would barely allow him near the window. I stayed in my room mostly, listening to the marches of John Philip Sousa and twirling my baton like I was one of those glittery girls during the halftime show at a UT game. They’re lucky, getting to perform at football games in places like Arkansas and Oklahoma. That’s why I practice a lot. I couldn’t throw the baton in the air or over my shoulder because if Mama’d found out I was twirling in the house, she’d have switched me good. I just wish we didn’t live so far out in the country so I could practice twirling with my best friends, Debbie and Cheryl. But Daddy’s gone all day in our car, and it takes forty-five minutes to get to civilization. And they can’t come visit me because Mama said they’d just be spreading germs to Ricky. Ugh! They’re probably having a hi-ho time this summer doing fun stuff like painting their nails or going to the drive-in movie. I’d give anything to go to the drive-in.

It was late in the day when Daddy came home, his Chevy kicking up dust with its back tires. He sat down to dinner with that downhearted look on his face.

“How was job hunting?” Mama asked. “Any bites?”

Daddy shrugged. “Not even a nibble. And I drove all the way to Austin.”

“Austin!” Mama shook her head as she slapped a pile of creamed potatoes on her plate. “Well, something’s got to turn up soon.”

I hated seeing Daddy look so low. “I bet President Kennedy is gonna do something real soon,” I said, hoping to cheer him up. Daddy had been so happy last November when President Kennedy got elected. Lots of people cheered. Even Mama had clapped her hands, saying prosperous times were on the horizon. But that was back then.

Daddy stabbed some green beans with his fork. “Janine, if there is one thing on this God-given earth you need to learn, it’s that you can’t rely on politicians to solve your problems. Heck, you can’t rely on anyone. You got to make it happen yourself.”

“Well, I sure hope you make it happen soon,” Mama said, “ ’cause we’re heading for the poorhouse fast.”

I sure wish President Kennedy would work faster. Those prosperous times took one look at us and sank down out of sight.

Mama and Ricky and I sat on the back steps around nightfall, hoping to catch a cool breeze. Daddy was out in the barn, milking our two cows.

Ricky sat doll-like, limp and lifeless. He’d been to the doctor that afternoon, and those visits always did something strange to him. Mama looked drained too. She said that for a sickly boy, Ricky had a lot of fight in him when that nurse came in with the shot needle. It plumb tuckered her out just holding him down.

The sky had turned a lovely shade of velvety purple, and the moon was only a sliver on the horizon. A few faded stars were just beginning to twinkle when we heard some commotion behind the chicken coop. Buddy ran back there without barking, so we figured whatever it was couldn’t be too threatening. But right then, a figure came loping around the chickens, heading our way.

A thin ghost of a man trudged his way up our backyard, wearing baggy gray pants and a yellowed white shirt. His hat was cocked back on his head. He was as skinny as Mama’s crochet hook and his shoes flopped when he walked. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn our scarecrow had come to life and was joining us for a sit.

Mama disappeared into the house, then hurried back out holding a shotgun. “What’re you doing in our corn patch?” she asked, resting the gun steady on her shoulder.

The man raised his wiry arms, just like the fugitives on TV, and a small crescent of a smile lined his face. “Is James here?”

Mama lowered the gun. “You know my husband?”

He removed his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ricky and I were huddled together against the house. I couldn’t help wondering if this weedy-looking old man wasn’t the one who’d been stirring in the corn for the past week.

Daddy walked up about then, holding the milk bucket. He set it down and slowly walked toward the stranger, his head tilted, studying the man’s face. He had a questioning look that made his eyebrows join together in the middle. “Mr. Lunas?”

The scarecrow man’s crescent smile grew bigger. “One and the same.”

Daddy clapped his hands together and whooped like an Indian. “Lunas! You old cuss! You haven’t changed a bit!”

Yuck! This man’s always looked like this?

Daddy went up and threw his arm around Mr. Lunas’s shoulder. I was afraid the old guy might crack and crumble to the ground like a broken potato chip. But his bones must have been stronger than they looked because he and Daddy walked up together, grinning like mice in a cheese factory.

“Mr. Lunas, this is my wife, Adele.”

Mr. Lunas nodded his head. “Ma’am.”

Daddy faced us. “And these are my kids, Janine and Ricky.”

“My, my,” Mr. Lunas said. “You two look so much alike, you must be twins.”

“Nuh-uh! I’m a whole year older than Ricky!” I always have to set people straight on that bullcorn.

“Almost to the day,” Daddy added. “Adele, I told you about Mr. Lunas. He saved my life during the war.”

Mama’s face lit up in recognition; then she slid the shotgun back behind her skirt.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lunas. Come on in for a glass of iced tea.”

We all followed.

As we sat at the kitchen table, Mama filled Mr. Lunas’s tea glass. He gulped the tea down like he’d just stepped out of the desert. Mama poured him another.

“So how did you find me?” Daddy asked, leaning forward on the table with his arms crossed.

“It wasn’t hard.” Mr. Lunas drained that glass of tea too.

“Kids, you should thank Mr. Lunas. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t even be here.”

Ricky and I looked at each other. “Thank you,” Ricky said, kinda quiet. I stayed silent. I wasn’t saying anything until I had the facts. But I swear, I’d never seen Daddy so excited about seeing someone. I thought he was going to jump up and start tap dancing any minute. “So what happened?” I finally asked.

Daddy got that look in his eyes—like he was going to reveal the secret to some magic trick, or the location of a buried treasure. “WW Two,” he started. “I took a couple of bullets from a German soldier.”

“Where’d you take them?” Ricky asked. I nudged Ricky to hush.

“In the gut,” Daddy said. “I lay there, face-down, my mouth gritty with dirt. I could hear gunfire all around, and grenades popping like firecrackers. Only it wasn’t the Fourth of July. It was Judgment Day for me. Or so I thought. Blood had pooled all around me, making a muddy mess stickier than a pigsty. My belly burned and ached. I couldn’t move.”

Ricky groaned and wiggled in his chair.

“I knew I was a goner. Then I looked up, and there was this puny soldier grinning down at me like the Man in the Moon. ‘What’re you grinning at, fool?’ I asked him. Just before I blacked out, I heard him say ‘It ain’t your time to go.’

“When I woke up I was in the medical ward, and there he was, sitting by my cot. He’d drug me through all that flying ammo and got me to some help. And I swear, if he hadn’t, the army would’ve been sending me home in a wooden box.”

An involuntary shudder shook me. I looked over at Mr. Lunas, who was staring at his empty tea glass and sporting that crescent grin. He looked like the story had embarrassed him some. On that skinny, pale face of his appeared a couple of cherry dots flaring at the cheeks. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how a man as scrawny as Mr. Lunas could drag anybody more than a couple of feet without giving out and falling over himself.

“Yep,” Daddy went on, “his encouragement is what kept me going.” Daddy looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “What unit were you with again?”

Mr. Lunas jerked his head up like he was caught off guard. “Uh—medical corps.”

“Oh yeah,” Daddy said, nodding.

“Well, we’re certainly grateful,” Mama said, filling Mr. Lunas’s glass for the third time. “Can I get you something to eat?”

“That’d be right kind of you,” Mr. Lunas said sweetly.

“That’s the least we can do!” Daddy blurted.

Mama got up and went to the pantry. She took out a jar of pickled pigs’ feet and grabbed some leftover biscuits off the counter. She set them on the table, and he dug in like a man starving to death. He didn’t even wait for a fork! Just grabbed them pigs’ feet right out of the jar, letting the vinegar drip all over Mama’s table. He chomped like Buddy, gnawing the pork and cramming the biscuits into his mouth. Then he washed them down with the tea, gulping it in giant swallows. As he set the glass down, ice chinked against the sides. I’m surprised he didn’t devour those ice cubes, too! Then he looked at Mama and nodded.

“I guess you were hungry,” Daddy said with a laugh.

“Guess I was,” Mr. Lunas echoed.

There was a minute of awkward silence; then Daddy asked, “You need a place to stay?”

Mr. Lunas shook his head like Daddy was offering to give him his car or something. “No, no. I wouldn’t want to put you folks to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” Daddy placed his hand on Mr. Lunas’s arm. “Stay as long as you like.”

Mama shot Daddy a look that would have sent Buddy running with his tail between his legs.

But Daddy never was one to be bullied, so he ignored it and said, “We got a nice cozy couch if you don’t mind an occasional spring poking your rear.”

Mr. Lunas chuckled. “I’m obliged.”

Mama went to the linen closet for an extra pillow and sheet. On her way back through the kitchen, she glanced at Ricky and me. “It’s past your bedtime.”

We learned a long time ago not to argue about that. We sailed off, shouting, “Good night, and glad to meet you!”