Moon Shadow: The Totally True Love Adventure Series (Volume 1) (2 page)

Something has to be done about it, I tell myself. And I’m the someone who has to do it. I can change. I
will
change.

T
he old Spanish door opens and Mr. Christie appears. With his knowing eyes and long goatee and meerschaum pipe extending from the corner of his mouth, he seems the perfect African-American rendering of Gandalf in
The
Hobbit
, minus the conical hat and flowing robe. His mouth isn’t visible, but his beard gives the illusion of a smile when he speaks.

“Such a surprise, Daniel. Enter, son.”

Leaning on his walking-stick (its silver handle in the shape of the head of a lioness) to help conceal his faltering steps, Mr. Christie shuffles down the narrow hallway. I follow closely as we move into the living room, past the Yamaha baby grand and the shelves crammed full of books.

At the rear of the cottage, Mr. Christie pulls aside the glass door and motions to a chair in the shade of the covered patio. “Green tea? Water?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks, sir.” The afternoon air seems as warm as Mr. Christie’s glowing spirit, but I’m not thirsty, in spite of my nervousness. I just want to get on with it. I take my seat, with a westward view of the Valley below.

Mr. Christie sits in a cushioned chair, facing me, cane in hand. “Have you spoken with Liz recently?”

The question awakens a familiar feeling of uneasiness within me, though I trust Mr. Christie with my life. He’s a real mensch. Unlike the congressman (my father), Mr. Christie is a man of integrity.

“I’m hoping to see her at tomorrow night’s cast and crew party,” I answer. Something seizes my heart, painfully, as I experience a flash of recollection and longing.

“Yes, well, David informed me of a disturbance between you and Liz, but he didn’t go into detail.” Mr. Christie gazes into my eyes, as if waiting for me to elaborate.

I begin to wonder just what it was that David, my best friend, was referring to. Liz and I had struggled through more than a few disturbances in that stormy relationship of ours, a relationship that had ended just before my mother’s death.

“Her father whisked her away from the cemetery the moment my mother was laid to rest,” I say. On that unusually cold, drizzly day, I recall, my maternal grandmother had asked, “Who’s that girl?” and I’d answered, sadly, “Just an old friend, Grandma.”

“Nasty situation that was, between the two families,” says Mr. Christie, adding quickly, “How did it go over there, my boy? We’re awfully glad to have you back.”

“It was worse than hell, sir, to be honest.”

“As I presumed. Would you like to tell me about it?”

I take a deep, resolute breath. “I—uh, well, in Basic I couldn’t hit the side of a hill with the M-16, or with a handgun, and I never made the live grenade throw. But they passed me anyway.”

“Because of your father,” Mr. Christie says.

“Yes, and in Afghanistan I saw no action, for a while. I begged my platoon leader to let me go on patrol. Finally, he relented. In my first and only firefight, I froze, and then I ran away. My heart was beating so fast I almost passed out. I was given a medical exam and found unfit for duty.” I avert my eyes. “I’m chickenshit, Mr. Christie.”

“Tell me about the firefight, Daniel, and please, spare none of the details. I want to hear everything, son.”

I take myself back to that Monday afternoon, the fourth of July, three or four weeks ago: “Well, sir, no one was actually killed, or even wounded. We were on patrol in the city, Kandahar, not far from the air base. Six of us, one by one, slid out of the Humvee, five grunts and then the lieutenant, his flak jacket sagging with 40mm grenades for the M.203. I was the boot, and like the others I’d pasted photos inside my helmet, of my mother, and of Liz.” I pause, look down at the floor and say in a dispirited tone, “She’s like some lost part of me I have to fit back into place or I will die.”

“Yes, I understand,” Mr. Christie says sympathetically. Please, continue.”

Reluctantly I go on, “The midday sun was beating down on us, as we walked slowly along a narrow backstreet, as timeless as the conquest of Alexander the Great, or so it seemed, towards the open-air market. Suddenly there was incoming, the metal streaming all about. Lacking cover, we dropped to the ground, our backs against a mud brick wall. The lieutenant was shouting, ‘Rooftop! Rooftop!’ He was pointing at a dwelling about fifty yards ahead. The other grunts were already putting rounds downrange from their M-16s. They lived only in the instant, while
my
mind simply stared at itself. I guess the snake of envy, my constant companion, slithered after me in Afghanistan, too, sir.”

“Yes, yes, what happened next?” Mr. Christie asks impatiently.

“I, uh, released my weapon and hugged the handset as if it were Junior, the stuffed monkey I’d clung to until I turned twelve, until my father took him away. Then the lieutenant started barking: ‘Air support! Tell ‘em we’re takin’ enemy fire!’ It was my job to call for the Apache. I was the communications specialist and I should have answered, ‘Roger that, sir!’ But I lay chilly in the packed sand, unable to speak. My eyes were fastened shut.”

“It’s good to be fearful, Daniel.”

Although my hands are trembling, I go on, “Then the firing stopped as abruptly as it had begun and someone wrenched the field radio from my hands. Turned out to be Blade, he could sneak up on anyone. I started to shake. My heart was pounding on the walls of my chest. ‘Pick up your weapon, Private Rosen,’ the lieutenant commanded. I opened my eyes, but I wasn’t capable of securing my M-16. Instead I found myself jumping up and fleeing the hot zone, running so purposefully I could almost feel the earth tumbling under my feet. That’s basically it, sir.”

Mr. Christie stares thoughtfully at me, as if he’s searching for something more in my eyes. “That’s quite a story, Daniel. Thanks for sharing it with me. You were brave enough to join up, and you have the courage now to speak candidly about what happened. That says a lot about your character, my boy. We’re not all meant to precipitate death. Frankly, I was stunned when David told me you had enlisted.”

“I needed to get away, after Liz broke up with me and then the thing with my mother happened. I had to wait until I turned seventeen, but joining up seemed like a good idea.” I let out a long sigh, and then continue, quietly, “I suppose I wanted to experience the thrill of combat and have the opportunity to do something courageous.” I chuckle. “To survive over there you have to almost hide from the things you see. You can’t be too sensitive, like I was. Fortunately, they gave me a hardship discharge, under honorable conditions.”

Mr. Christie smiles warmly. “I understand, son. Your experience in Afghanistan brings to mind this mysterious business of the moon’s orbital shift. Never thought I’d live long enough to witness such an apocalyptic event, and perhaps I will not. But if something isn’t done soon to correct the situation, we’ll all be stuck with enormous tidal bulges that will bring tsunamis at least once daily. Not to mention the fluctuating weather conditions unlike anything we’ve ever known. It can only end with a horrific collision, but none of us will be around by then to see it.”

I haven’t been giving this moon thing much thought, but Mr. Christie is probably right. News reports on the moon’s changing orbit, the fact of its slowly spiraling towards earth, and interviews with leading scientists, like England’s Stephen Hawking, have been going viral since CNN broke the story last month. “I’m sure something will be done, sir, before the problem gets too far out of hand,” I reply.

“You have more confidence in our species than I do, Daniel. Take nothing for granted, I always say. Now what about that game of chess we planned ages ago? I haven’t forgotten how you trapped my queen with your knight and ended my middle attack.”

Mr. Christie rises and saunters into the house. After a minute or two I hear the sweet sound of a female voice with orchestral accompaniment. It’s Puccini’s “O Mio Babino Caro,” emanating softly from the two stereo speakers that hang above the patio.

As I listen to the lovely aria, my eyes focus on Rattlesnake Mountain in the distance. I begin to imagine that I am able to see the congressman’s house (The Gables) clearly, and that I am able to look into a window and watch as my mother folds her clothes and places them in her suitcase, preparing to leave my father. She seems aware somehow that I’m watching her. In this absurd daydream it appears that I have found the courage, before it is too late, to tell Mr. Christie the truth about the congressman. Mr. Christie then convinces my mother to come to his cottage in Suncrest, where the three of us can live contentedly—

My reverie is broken as Mr. Christie returns with the chessboard and pieces. I stand quickly and move the card table, placing it between our chairs. We arrange the pieces on the playing board. As I contemplate the real purpose of my visit, there’s an uncomfortable measure of silence. Then I find myself blurting, nervously, “Were you in love with my mother, sir?”

Mr. Christie raises his eyes and calmly looks at me. He reclines and draws reflectively on his pipe, the outer bowl of which is carved into the likeness of the head of Zeus. Clouds of smoke drift upwards with a sudden liveliness. Mr. Christie’s thicket of white curly hair takes on a jaunty look, as if it has not yet learned to grow old.

By all indications, the squinting of his heavy-browed eyes, the smacking of his fleshy lips on the stem of the pipe, and the slow recurring nod of his head, Mr. Christie is about to embark on a statement of profound importance.

And so he begins, “The loss of a loved one, my dear Daniel, should cause us to strive the harder to rejoin her in that World-to-Be—and to be worthy to stand in her saintly presence. Your mother and I comforted one another from time to time, and if that is called love, then so be it. I have nothing more to say about ...”

Mr. Christie’s voice trails off, and a pensive melancholy seems to overtake him. He reaches out and gently presses my hand. “Your grief cries out to me, from your tender heart, Danny Boy. Know that my eternal friendship is sincerely offered.”

The smooth intonations of Mr. Christie’s voice pacify me. “Thank you, sir,” I say, and after a brief pause, I add, “It’s not only sorrow I feel about my mother’s death, but anger as well, towards my father.”

“Your father put an end to my friendship with your mother, God rest her restless soul. But she loved him dearly.”

“Mr. Christie, I want to go home. The congressman, strangely, has asked me to come home, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. My savings are gone. Going home may help me get Liz back. But I want to go home for an entirely different reason.” I clear my throat and continue, “I want to know why my mother ... of blessed memory ... well ... took her own life. I need to know if my father was responsible. I think he may have done something that caused my mother to, uh ... I want the world to know the truth about my father. He’s an evil prick!”

Mr. Christie’s dark eyes beam as he looks soberly at me. “Nothing soothes the mind as much as steady purpose, my boy, on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. You may never know for certain why she did it. You must accept this at the outset.”

I let out a long sigh. “Then, I should go home, sir?”

Mr. Christie hesitates a second, and then says, “I never asked your mother about your father. Perhaps I should have done so. But I think you’ve answered your own question, Daniel. The Ancient Greeks knew this all too well—they alluded to it beautifully in their tragic literature: Evil must be encountered, not evaded.”

Mr. Christie looks grimly down at the board. “Your move, son.”

A
bout a block from my house I stop walking again, abruptly, as my jaw drops and I stare in disbelief up the street. Suddenly the shameful image of a black Lexus, parked in our driveway, has become real. I can hardly believe it, yet there it is, right before my eyes!

Wait, I tell myself. Why would
he
, the mystery man, be visiting my mother in the afternoon like this? Unless ... my dream has come true! Obviously my mother wants to introduce me to him today, which can only mean that their relationship is truly serious. In fact they’re probably going to tell me they are engaged already, that they’ll be getting married almost immediately, which means I’ll have a dad again and we can all live happily ever after and my friends will understand why—