Summer on the Moon (7 page)

His mother’s voice ripped though his sleep like it was a school morning. “Rise and shine!”

Groggy and confused, he opened his eyes.

“I gotta go.” She stood over him, already dressed in her ugly brown and orange Phat Burger uniform. “Feed the General, okay?”

“Go away!” Socko moaned.

“As soon as you get your butt out of that bed.”

“Ten minutes.” He closed his eyes.

“Five.” She thumped back down the stairs.

“I don’t even want to be here!” he called after her. He covered his head with the pillow and rolled up on his side, the stretched canvas of the cot giving under him with a strained
creak
.

He slid back into sleep.

Thud … thud … thud
He woke to the sound of Delia rocking up the stairs again.

“The General’s getting antsy! Get
up
, Socko. I have to leave!”

Today he would be babysitting a cranky old man. Tomorrow and the next day too. Every day, all summer. Great. Just great.

His mother fiddled with a button on the front of her blouse. “There’s a little problem with food. There’s only one burger left, and some dry cereal, no milk. Who knew a skinny old guy could eat so much supper?”

Socko didn’t mention all the food Damien had scarfed before they even hit the road.

“I’m on from seven to three. Tell him lunch will be late but plentiful.” She walked out the door.

He pushed up on his elbows. “How are you going to get home? There’s no bus!”

She stuck her head back in the room. “I’m working on it! Just make sure the General puts on some clothes. I’ve seen more old man than I can take before my first cup of coffee.”

“What?” Was she leaving him with a naked old guy?

“You can call Damien,” she added as she started down the stairs. “The phone’s on the kitchen counter. Just don’t talk too long.” Delia paid for minutes, or as she called them, “emergency minutes.”

Giving him permission to call Damien had to be her way of saying sorry I screwed up your entire life.

Was it too early to call? Yeah, probably—plus, the phone was downstairs with a naked old guy.

Socko heard the car start in the driveway, but he didn’t get to hear it drive off because downstairs the General started hacking like he was trying to get rid of a lung.

Socko stared at the white, white ceiling over his bed and the metal air-conditioner vent. No demented clown here.

“Hey, Sacko!”

Only a demented great-grandfather.

Could the old guy be all-the-way naked?

When Socko had gone to bed, Delia and the General were arguing. “I give you a house and what do I get? A vinyl chair instead of a bed!” Delia said she kind of thought he’d bring his own—and she didn’t know about the wheelchair when she’d picked a house with the bedrooms upstairs.

Had the General gotten so mad he’d taken his clothes off?

“Hey!” the voice scraped again. “Roll out, private!”

“Okay, okay. I’m up.” Socko stepped into the shorts he’d dropped by the bed and scuffed his feet into his sneakers.

Wary of what he was getting into, he crept down the stairs. He
leaned over the railing to check out Delia’s recliner. A snot green afghan he’d never seen before spilled out of its seat and onto the floor, but the General wasn’t in it.

Socko slid into the living room. The old man sat turned away, his wheelchair facing the picture window. Above the chair, Socko could see bare shoulders and the knobby bones of the old man’s neck. Below, a pair of skinny bare calves. All the General seemed to be wearing was a pair of dingy crew socks. Was he flashing their new neighbors?

Socko wanted to snatch up the green afghan and drop it over the old man, but tangling with the General would probably be like picking up a stray cat.

The chair whipped around. “There you are!”

Socko drew a relieved breath—not that the view wasn’t scary. It definitely was. The hair the old man didn’t have on the top of his head grew white and wiry on his shoulders and chest. It waved in the breeze from the air-conditioner.

The good news was the General had on plaid boxers.

“What’re you looking at?” his great-grandfather demanded. “GIs always sleep in their drawers!”

Socko read the tattoo on the old man’s skinny shoulder and grinned.

“What?” snapped the General.

“Is your tattoo supposed to say ‘MOHTER’?”

“Only if you’re lit and so is the guy giving you the tattoo. Now, where in the Sam Hill did Delia Marie hide my valise?”

“You going somewhere?” A bubble of hope rose in Socko’s chest.

“I’ll be going after
you
if you don’t bring me my clothes so I can get dressed.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good idea.” Socko had carried the suitcase upstairs to the room Delia had set aside for the General. But it looked like they’d have to rethink that. The General was never going to be able to make it up the stairs.

Which meant there was one whole floor of the house that was General-proof. And
two
extra bedrooms.

Picking up the suitcase, he imagined letting Junebug have the room
the General would never use. She’d be safe from Rapp here. But how many miracles did one guy get? In his experience it was usually less than one.

“Did your ‘mohter’ like your tattoo?” Socko called as he slid the last burger out of the microwave.

“Does your ‘mohter’ serve this pickled monkey all the time?” the General shot back, glaring at the plate Socko set on his knees.

“Pretty much.”

“Doesn’t she know about fruits? Vegetables?”

“She knows, but they’re expensive.”

“Another meal or two like this is going to stop up my plumbing.” The single eye glared at Socko. “And I’m not my usual sweet self when I’m plugged up.” He took a bite and chewed in silence.

Socko sat down and ate a handful of Lucky Charms straight out of the box. He wished there was a second burger, but he got less and less hungry watching the General chew. With each bite the old man’s face seemed to collapse.

The General stopped after the third bite. “You always watch people eat this closely?”

“No.” Socko stuffed a handful of cereal in his mouth.

“No,
sir
. Great breakfast you’re having. Is milk too expensive too?”

“We’re just out right now, okay?”

The General thrust the gnawed Bun Buster at him. “You eat it. I can feel my guts locking up.”

Socko hesitated. Finger-shaped depressions dented the damp bun.

The General whapped Socko’s hand with it. “Take it!”

Socko took it, but he wasn’t eager to eat it.

“Chow down,” the General ordered. “I suggest you keep your strength up. You’re going to need it.”

“For what?” Socko took a bite out of the unchewed edge of the burger.

“For later.”

Socko was scoring major points against alien invaders when the General’s wheelchair rammed the sofa he was lying on. “What?” He kept his eyes on the screen of his Nintendo DS.

“You plan to kill little green men all day?” the General demanded.

Maybe it
looked
like he was killing little green men. What he was really killing was time. Unless wondering about a best friend who wasn’t answering the phone, worrying about how his mom would get home, or watching an old man stare out a window counted, there was nothing to do here.

A hand blocked Socko’s view of the small screen. “Show me how to work that fool thing.”

“Aren’t you kind of old for video games?”

“I could say the same of you.” The old man took the DS.

For the next hour they took turns killing little green men. Socko always had the higher score, which miffed the old man and made Socko as close to happy as he’d been since leaving the neighborhood.

“Winning’s easy for you, you have quick young hands.” The General made it sound like being young was a form of cheating. “Give it time. Arthritis will get you too.” He frowned at his own hands.

Seeing the long yellow nails, Socko tried to banish the word “talons” from his mind. Why didn’t the old guy cut them? He wasn’t exactly too busy. “Your turn.” He tried to hand the General the DS, but he waved it away.

“Enough thumb exercise! It’s
my
turn to pick the game, and I say it’s time for a little real-world action.”

“Like what?”

“Like what,
sir!”

“Yeah, whatever, sir.”

The General glared, but let it pass. “This little game is called Recon Mission.”

“What would that be … sir?”

“Recon. Reconnaissance.” The General looked around as if he was appraising the living room. “This is Central Command—that’s CENTCOM in the lingo—and I’m the commanding general.”

“Who am I?”

“You’re the buck private who reports back.”

“Back from where?” Socko’s gaze followed the line of the old man’s gnarled finger.

Outside the window, the sun beat down on the dry dirt that was their yard.

“You kidding?”

“I know modern kids are delicate indoor creatures,” the General said. “But too bad. It is your mission to scope out the territory.”

That made Socko mad. He was an outdoor creature, just one who had been caged in a small apartment most of his life. He’d never had any outdoors to explore—but the little bit of the outdoors he’d seen driving into Moon Ridge was a dead zone. “What, exactly, am I looking for?”

“Figure out the lay of the land. Check on the rest of the troops.”

“The rest of what troops, sir?”

“The other inhabitants of the moon! Find out who the heck else lives in this godforsaken desert.” He slapped the arm of his chair. “Now get your lazy patoot off that couch and deploy!”

Socko thought about pretending to need a drink so he could go to the kitchen and try Damien again. He had just opened his mouth to say he was thirsty when the General roared, “Why are you still here, private?”

Socko stood on the concrete steps of his new house in a downpour of sunlight, squinting against the glare bouncing back at him from the blistered white dirt of the yard. Heat radiated through the soles of his shoes.

He remembered a show about desert lizards that stood on two feet at a time, raising and lowering them so no foot was on the sand long enough to burn. All
he
could do was walk fast.

As he approached the house next door, he wondered what he would tell the neighbors if he got caught looking through their windows. I’m on a recon mission? That might work if he was five years old. At thirteen it could get him arrested.

He peered through a picture window into a living room identical to his own. “Definitely no troops here.” Except for a box of nails and a roll of masking tape on the floor, the house was empty.

Socko crossed the road at a sprint. The house opposite his was even emptier. No nails, no tape, just trapped air and slanting light that tagged window shapes on the floor.

He shaded his eyes and stared at the house one lot over. No signs of life there either. It was too hot to walk that far. But he didn’t want to go home.

Instead he squatted in the skinny strip of shade next to the house and checked out the street. It was wide, with zero cracks. The only skateboarding hazard would be the deltas of sandy soil that flared out at the end of each driveway. Without Phase 2 lawns, wind and rain were gradually moving the yards into the street. But the sandbars would be easy to avoid; they might even add a little interest. Especially for a pro skater like Damien.

In the old neighborhood Damien worked the curbs and railings. He skated fakie, apologizing to anyone he almost knocked over. With so many obstacles, he rarely achieved what he called “warp speed.” Now, his eyes half closed, Socko could almost see Damien flash down the street in front of him.

It took a while for him to even notice a faint, persistent tapping. Across an expanse of dirt and tar that shimmered in the heat, an old man in a wheelchair was rapping his knuckles against the glass of a
picture window. An impatient arm movement summoned Socko inside.

Sweat dripped off his bangs as he made his report. “I saw four houses, sir. Three were empty.”

“One was occupied?”

“Yeah. Ours.”

The General snorted. “Look at all those big boxes out there. You did a fast check of four and then you sat on your keister! I gave you a job.”

“You call that a job? I call it sunstroke,
sir
.”

The General thumped a knuckle on a paper bag that had held kitchen towels. “Draw me a map.”

Of what?
he thought. But Socko drew four quick squares. “The houses.” He scribbled a pair of parallel lines. “The road.”

“Which one of these boxes is us?”

Socko added a star.

“The name of the road?”

“How should I know?”

“Are the houses exactly opposite each other like you drew them? And what’s past the four houses?” The rapid-fire questions pelted Socko. “And where’s your compass rose?”

Compass rose?
Socko didn’t answer. Copping an attitude was better than looking stupid.

“Ask or stay ignorant.” When Socko kept his mouth shut, the General stabbed the paper on the far side of one of the boxes. “What’s behind the houses?”

“
Behind
the houses?” Socko didn’t really want to go there. Although he knew it wasn’t true, this new neighborhood felt fake to him, like a movie set—like it might really just be walls with nothing behind them. “You want me to trespass?” Being old, the General probably respected private property.

“Not trespass,” the General snapped. “Reconnoiter. And while you’re out there, note the location of the sun. You’ll need it for that compass rose you don’t know a blame thing about.”

Socko took a long, slow drink of water. He chewed the ice. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. But in the end, he stomped back out into the withering heat to reconnoiter. This was the dumbest game ever!

He stood in the middle of the street and looked right, then left. Okay, the houses
were
exactly opposite, so perfectly opposite that their vacant windows stared across the street at each other, as if each house were daring the other to blink first.

Past the four houses he had drawn on the map, the road turned into a lollipop. On the brochure these streets to nowhere were called “cul-de-sacs.” They were supposed to be “highly desirable” because there was “no through traffic.”

To Socko, it looked like the place you’d get caught if you were running from somebody.

Burning sand sifted into his sneaker through a hole in the toe as he walked around to the back of one of the five houses that ringed the cul-de-sac. He put his face up to a kitchen window. Counters and appliances had been installed, but a large cardboard box with the words “Base Cabinet” printed on it sat in the middle of the room. It looked as if the job had been finished in a hurry. In the second house, a spackle knife lay on the counter. Socko tried the door, but it was locked.

On the back patio of the third house, something caught his eye. He approached the metal lunch box cautiously. Before trying the latch, he looked over both shoulders.

Slick move
, he thought. Who did he think was watching? The old neighborhood had a million eyes. This one was blind.

Socko tried to flip the rusty latch, but it wouldn’t budge. He sat down and clamped the box between his knees. It took both thumbs to creak the latch open—all that “thumb exercise” was paying off. The stiff hinge squealed when he forced the lid open.

“Oh, gag!” He jumped to his feet. The box tumbled to the ground, spewing out a black banana and a Baggie full of greenish fuzz.

Socko held his breath and knelt for a closer look. Best guess? Tuna sandwich.

Without Damien to share the gross-out, finding the lunch box was a waste. Unless … Socko thought about toeing the sandwich back into the box and springing it on the General, but maybe it was a dumb idea to prank him now. Sooner or later Socko was going to ask him to let Damien “visit” (and then forget to leave). For that to happen he had to stay on the old man’s good side. Make that
get
on the old man’s good side.

Wondering if there was anything else in it, he rolled the lunch box over with his foot. As it righted itself, it dumped two more things. “Cool!” Leaving the banana and the sack of fuzz on the ground, Socko nudged the other two items back into the box and picked it up.

Socko was almost home when he remembered: the General had asked him to reconnoiter the name of the street.

He walked past his own house, waving at the old guy in the window (a get-on-his-good-side move) but didn’t get a return wave. Did the General
have
a good side?

He pushed his sweaty bangs off his forehead and peered up at the street sign. The General was right about one thing—he needed a haircut bad. Tranquility Way. It sounded like a name made up by an English teacher. He checked out the other street name on the pole. Full Moon Circle. Not much better.

Lunch box under his arm, Socko walked back to the house. Before going inside he located the sun, not because he cared about the compass rose—whatever that was. He just didn’t want to get sent back out into the heat.

“Report?” the General demanded as soon as he stepped inside.

“Gotta chill first.” Socko threw open the refrigerator door. Holding onto a side with each hand, he stuck his head and shoulders between the shelves.

In the next room, the General muttered something about “a lack of discipline.”

His face damp but cool, Socko reported to the living room. “I found something.” He held up the lunch box.

“Map first. That’s the protocol.” The old man stabbed at the paper bag with a long nail. “Where was the sun?”

Socko pointed at the back wall. “Over there.”

With painfully slow movements, the old man drew two crossed lines that looked nothing like a rose. At the end of each one he printed a letter—
N
,
S
,
E
,
W
—then handed the pencil to Socko.

“I’ve seen those plenty of times.” He’d spent hours staring at the map beside his cot, those same little crossed lines right at eye level. “I just didn’t know what they were called.”

“Now you do.” The General pushed the paper bag toward Socko.

Socko added the cul-de-sac with its five houses, the four houses on the other side of theirs, and the street names. He expected another volley of questions. Is our road really that straight? You only looked at two streets? What’s over here?

Instead the General frowned at the lunch box, then looked away.

Socko grinned. The old man wanted to see what was inside it—but wasn’t going to ask. And Socko wasn’t going to offer to show him. The General wasn’t the only one who could come up with a dumb game.

“Okay!” the General finally sputtered. “What’s in the dad-blamed lunch box?”

“Stuff.”

The old man folded his hands over his small potbelly. “Whatever it is, it’s mighty ripe.”

“I got rid of that part.”

“So what
didn’t
you get rid of?”

“A couple of things.” Watching the General twitch with curiosity, Socko felt kind of bad about building up the suspense—the stuff in the box wasn’t all that cool.

When the hinge creaked, the General leaned forward. “Playing cards …”

Socko slid the deck out of the box and fanned the cards. They were old-school—numbers, kings with curly beards, queens dressed like the nuns at St. Ignatius—but Socko could tell the General liked them. He was old-school too.

“And Camels.” The old man licked his lips. “Unfiltered.” He reached for the cigarette pack.

Socko pulled the lunch box back. “You sure you should smoke?”

“Do I look like I need your permission?”

When Socko gave him the cigarettes, the General ran his thumb along the cellophane that covered the pack, pushing out a book of matches. He rapped the pack sharply against his knuckle. The top of one cigarette popped out.

“Gross. Those things have been next to a rotten sandwich for, like, eons!”

The General pulled the cigarette the rest of the way out of the pack with wrinkled lips.

“And what about that health issue with your lungs?”

“Huh!” The cigarette bobbed, the sound leaking out around it. “If you’re not breathing, then you have a health issue. Do I look like I’m dead?”

Socko didn’t answer.

“Been around too long anyway,” the old man mumbled. “And what’s it matter to you? The sooner I croak, the sooner this house is all yours.”

“I didn’t want this house in the first place. I was fine where I was.”

“Sure you were, getting knocked around by the local punks.” The General thumbed the cover of the matchbook open and bent down a match, then closed the cover behind it. With a flick of his thumb, the match blazed.

“Hey, do that again.”

The General lit the cigarette in his mouth, and then flipped the matchbook at Socko. “You figure it out.”