Pack Up the Moon

by Kristan Higgins

  A man came running out of the restaurant with a mall security guard. “Fred!” Radley said. “It’s about time! That man was harassing his waitress. Then he threatened to shoot me.”

  “Do you want to file a report?” the guard asked. “I can call the real police.”

  “I don’t even have a gun!” the bully wailed from the floor.

  “We can still press charges for harassment,” the guard said.

  “Hm,” said Radley. “Well, seeing him lying in a dirty puddle of Pepsi is reward enough for me.” He turned to Josh. “Joshua? What do you think?”

  “I’m the one who’s going to file a report!” the man barked. “He hit me! That queer hit me!”

  Radley tsked. “Hate speech, terrible gaydar and a gun lover. Color me shocked.”

  Josh glanced at him, a little surprised that Radley wasn’t more upset. Radley correctly interpreted his glance and shrugged. “This happens more than you want to know.”

  The crowd was taking pictures of the anus lying on the floor. “Hashtag gun-threatening-homophobe, hashtag Providence-mall,” one person said. “What’s your name, homophobe? I definitely want to tag you. I filmed the whole thing. Bet CNN will love this.”

  “His name is Donnie Plum,” someone offered. “My cousin used to work with him. He’s an asshole.”

  The security guard asked if Josh wanted to call the police. Josh wasn’t sure why he was the one being asked. He had done the hitting, after all. “What do you think?” he asked Radley.

  “How about you ban him for life from this mall, Fred?” Radley suggested to the security guard. “I’ll file a report tomorrow if you want.”

  “Okay,” said the guard amicably.

  “Lifetime mall ban,” Radley called, and the crowd cheered.

  “I already have a hundred and six retweets and a thousand likes!” said the hashtagging person. “Donnie, you’re going viral. Bet you lose your job tomorrow.”

  Josh and Radley were told they could go.

  “Thanks for standing up for me. And the waitress,” Radley said as they walked to the car. “You’re a total badass. Seriously. That stuff is scary no matter how many times you hear it.”

  Josh nodded.

  As they got in the car, he remembered where he’d seen the waitress. At the vet. She’d had the really old dog. Rhode Island and its two degrees of separation.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in the Falconry, a gay bar over by Providence College. The place was bathed in red light, and the bass of club music pulsed through it. It wasn’t horribly loud, or that crowded, though Radley said by midnight, the place would be packed.

  They took a seat in a booth, which was spacious and comfortable. The waiter came over. “Drinks, gentlemen?”

  “I’ll have the watermelon mojito,” Radley said. “Joshua? What would you like? Drinks on me, since you protected my honor. Dinner, too, if you’re hungry.”

  He started to say he didn’t drink, then changed his mind. “Same,” he said.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Nachos, then,” Radley told the server. “They’re fantastic here,” he said to Josh. “You won’t regret it.”

  It was so strange, being out with someone he didn’t know. In a gay bar, no less. After a fight. He couldn’t wait to tell—

  Nope. He didn’t get to tell Lauren these things anymore.

  Too bad. She would’ve loved this story.

  Radley settled back and looked at Josh. His blue eyes were very kind. “So. Tell me about your wife.”

  An unexpectedly direct order. Josh took a breath and let it out slowly. “Um . . . her name was Lauren. She had . . .” How much did Radley want to know? He wasn’t good at reading people. “She was diagnosed with a terminal illness about a year after we got married.”

  “I’m so sorry. She was the love of your life?”

  “Yes.” It felt oddly good to acknowledge that.

  “I bet you two were the cutest couple ever.”

  Josh pulled out his phone and brought up a picture of them on their wedding day and showed it to Radley.

  “Oh, my God, she’s a Disney princess.” He stared at the phone. “You look super happy.”

  “We were.”

  The drinks came, and Josh took his first ever sip of alcohol. The drink was minty and sweet and went down easily. There was a slight, not-unpleasant burn in his throat, which must have been whatever alcohol was in a mojito.

  “So, uh . . .” Josh said. Lauren was always the one who initiated conversation. What would she say? “Tell me about yourself, Radley. Is that your first name?”

  “Yes. Radley Beauchamp. And my parents were shocked that I was gay. I told them if they’d named me Joe, I’d be an ironworker with a wife and four kids by now.” He laughed, and Josh smiled obligingly. “Not much to tell, really. I work at Banana Republic, I have two sisters, I grew up in rural Maine and I’m going to school part-time to become a licensed therapist.”

  “No wonder you were so good in the store. Thank you for that.” To hide his embarrassment, he took a long sip of his drink. Really tasty.

  “Thank you,” Radley said. “I appreciate it. My parents hated me being gay, because they’re the type of Mainers who love camping, Jesus, and squirrel for Sunday dinner. So what’s a gay kid to do except leave home and become a shrink?”

  “It’s a great profession.” He assumed so, anyway. He’d never been to one.

  “What do you do, Joshua?”

  “I’m a medical device engineer.”

  “That makes you sound very smart.”

  He shrugged. When the waiter asked if they wanted another round, he said yes.

  They talked about life in Providence, drank, and ate nachos. There was definitely some comfort in talking to someone who didn’t share his loss, didn’t have memories of Lauren, didn’t miss her.

  “So . . . my wife wrote these letters for me,” he told Radley. “That’s why I was shopping tonight. She told me to get new clothes.”

  “Wise woman,” Radley murmured.

  Josh smiled. “She was.”

  “Maybe there’s more to getting new clothes than new clothes.”

  “You definitely sound like a therapist now.”

  Radley smiled. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And sometimes it isn’t.”

  A man came up to their table and slid in next to Radley. “Hey, Radley. Who’s your friend?”

  “Joshua . . . whoops, I don’t know your last name.”

  “Park.”

  “I’m Todd, Joshua, and I think you’re super attractive.”

  “Nope,” said Radley. “He’s straight and his wife just died, okay? Some space, if it’s not too much?”

  “Oh, shit, I’m so, so sorry,” the man said, backing away. “So sorry. My condolences.”

  Then Josh was laughing, all of a sudden. Maybe it was the alcohol, because he did feel sort of spinny and light, or maybe it was the other end of his sob-fest in the dressing room, but he laughed and laughed, and Radley sat back and watched him. “His name is Todd,” Josh explained. Why that was funny, he didn’t know. But it was.

  Radley shook his head and smiled. “I’ll drive your car back to your place,” he said, like a wise old uncle. “I can Uber from there.”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Josh said. “These nachos are really, really good.”

  An hour or so later, Josh was in bed. Radley had typed his name and number into Josh’s phone, took a selfie of the two of them for the contact picture and got into the Lyft Josh had summoned for him.

  Josh was dizzy and floating and not sad. Well, not just sad. He was a little bit happy.

  He’d had— Was it true? He’d almost had fun tonight. He’d punched someone. He had clothes that Lauren hadn’t bought and had never seen, a
nd for some reason, that made him feel better.

  And most of all, he was fairly sure he had a new friend.

  “Pretty sneaky, hon,” he said, and then he was asleep.

  13

  Lauren

  Sixteen months left

  October 10

  Dear Dad,

  I was going to make a bucket list but decided that was super cliché. There are, however, things I want to do, and I’m aware that I might not have all the time in the world. I want a doggy. I want to eat dessert as often as possible, which I already do, honestly. Um . . . other stuff? The truth is, my life is so happy, it feels wrong to wish for more experiences or possessions or pies (well . . . maybe the pies are okay).

  But life is normal now. IPF is a part of my life. I’m not smiting myself with ashes.

  You know how so many women say the best day of their life was their wedding day? Not me. The best days (note the plural) are the regular days, Daddy. The days where it’s sunny and dry and you can smell the donuts from Knead. When Sebastian FaceTimes me without Jen knowing and we have our private chats, or he puts the phone down and I just listen to him playing. When Bruce compliments me on something at work, not because he feels sorry for me, because he’s not like that, but because I did good work. Sitting up in the garden, spying on the people across the way and making up stories about them.

  I’m happy, Dad. I’m really okay, and I’m so happy. Don’t worry about me, okay? I love you.

  Lauren

  Pebbles, their newly acquired Australian shepherd mutt, could dance, walk herself by holding the end of the leash in her mouth, sing along to the radio, sneeze on command and catch a Frisbee in midair.

  She also ate toilet paper, was terrified of pigeons, consistently shat underneath Josh’s desk and spontaneously peed when she heard the word ride.

  “Now I see why she was put up for adoption,” Josh said, cleaning up her sixth pile of poop of the weekend. “Don’t tell my mother she crapped inside. Our whole house will be bleached.” Stephanie was on the obsessive side of clean, one of her many attributes. Who else had a mother-in-law who’d clean your kitchen for fun?

  Poop aside, life was good. The foliage had been especially bright this year, and they’d spent the day at the Waterman Street dog park, throwing balls and sticks for half a dozen canines as Pebbles tried in vain to herd them. Now, Lauren was on the couch, using her oxygen because it had been a vigorous day. Pebbles was equally tired, curled up at Lauren’s side, head on her lap. The silkiest ears in the universe. Sure, Pebbles had chewed up the clicker last night, and she was a bed hog, but these ears.

  “You doing okay?” Josh asked once the trash was emptied and he’d scoured his hands.

  “Yep. A little tired.”

  He looked at her, squinting as if he didn’t believe her.

  “A lot tired.” She didn’t want to tell him too many details every time something came up, husband or not. Her bones felt sore, and her muscles ached and her eyes felt dry and sticky. But tired would cover it.

  “How about a foot rub?” he asked.

  “Is there a woman on earth who’d turn down that offer? Sold, handsome.”

  He sat down and pulled one of her feet from under the blanket, his hands warm against her cool skin. “‘Did you ever think that you’re a hero?’” he began to sing, grinning at her. His voice was adorably off pitch, and she smiled. Goofing around was a conscious effort for Josh, so it made her all the more thrilled.

  “Not that song,” she said. “Anything but that one.”

  He raised an eyebrow and kept singing. “‘You’re everything I thought I should be.’”

  “Wrong words. Please stop or I’ll stab you.”

  “‘I can fly higher than a seagull . . . ’”

  “Eagle. Keep singing and you won’t get laid tonight.”

  “‘Cuz you are the’— Whoops, song’s over.” He kept rubbing her feet, smiling at her.

  “That was the song Jen picked for the father-daughter dance at her wedding,” she said, the memory making tears prick at her eyes.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, honey.”

  “No, no. It was sweet. And it was the perfect song for them.” She swallowed.

  “What would your song have been?” he asked.

  “‘Everything I Am’ by Celine Dion,” she answered instantly. “I picked it the first time I heard it. I was probably ten.” He looked blank. “It’s basically the best father-daughter song in the world. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Do you ever think about your father?” she asked gracelessly.

  His hands paused rubbing her feet, then resumed. “Not really. I never had a father. Ben was a great stand-in, as you know. Taught me to ride a bike and throw a football, which was funny, because he couldn’t throw to save his life. We made paper airplanes a lot. Really good ones.” He looked at his hands on her feet.

  “Ben is the best.” She hesitated, then went on. “But just out of curiosity, you never checked Facebook or Ancestry or anything?”

  “Why would I? Whoever he was, he left before I was born.”

  “I don’t know. Hovering at the edge of death as I am, these things occur to me.” She bit her tongue . . . he didn’t like when she made jokes about her health, but he let it go this time and even rolled his eyes.

  “Well, don’t think about it. And drop the melodrama.” He switched feet, his hands strong. The man had skills.

  “Do you hate him, honey?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m disinterested. He was a deadbeat jerk who abandoned my mother. Why would I want to meet him?”

  “Maybe just to see what your ethnic background is? Find out where that black hair came from?” His mother was white blond, and Lauren wondered if maybe his father was Latino or Native American or Italian. “But it’s your call, of course.”

  “Don’t . . . don’t do anything, Lauren. Don’t reach out to him or anything like that. This is not that sappy television show.”

  “I won’t, honey. I was just curious.” She paused. “Also, I love that show.”

  He looked at her sternly. “He’s a nonentity. The end.”

  “Got it.” She tickled his ribs with her free foot. “If you promise to bake me a pie with those apples your mom brought over yesterday, I’ll have sex with you right here and now. Couch sex, and you know how hot that is, big guy.”

  “Pie, huh?”

  “Those apples aren’t gonna eat themselves.” She reached for his hand and tugged him closer. Pebbles groaned and rolled over on her back. “The dog read my mind,” Lauren whispered.

  Josh smiled, and even though she was bone-weary, she knew she wouldn’t regret the next half hour. “Move the dog,” she whispered. “She’s a perv, and I don’t want her watching this time.”

  They made love, laughing here and there, humor interspersed with reverence and lust and a little pride that they could make each other feel so good. After a cuddle, Josh got to work on the pie. Lauren took a shower and had a nap, then answered emails and did some tweaking on the new project Bruce had given her—a courtyard for a new condo complex. Fun.

  The pie smelled like heaven, and Josh had cleaned the kitchen till it gleamed. Stephanie keenly believed cleanliness was next to godliness, and though Josh had been a slob when Lauren first met him, his mom’s genes were finally clicking into place. That and his fear that a random germ would make her sick.

  “Dinner is served,” he said. “And please note there’s no sugar in here, because the apples were sweet enough, and the pie crust is made with whole wheat—”

  “Don’t ruin it, babe. Grab a fork and join me.”

  “It’s all for you.”

  “I’m feeling kindly and big-hearted,” she said. “Come on! Share.” The truth was, eating too much made
breathing more difficult.

  Josh took a fork and started eating. No plates necessary.

  A knock came on the door. “It’s Sarah!”

  “Come in!” Lauren called, then coughed. Josh gave her a close look, assessing, always assessing. She wondered how much research he’d done on IPF while she was napping.

  “I brought you a pie—oh, my God, it already smells like pie in here!” Sarah laughed. “Great minds think alike. Well, maybe you can freeze this sucker.”

  “Sarah! You’re my best, best friend!”

  Josh stood up. “Let me take that from you. Thank you. It’s very kind.” Lauren almost rolled her eyes. Josh had never really warmed up to Sarah, and he tended to get too formal around her.

  Someday, though, they’d be friends. She knew it in her bones. Sarah was such a good person, smart and funny, and she loved dogs, as she was demonstrating by letting Pebbles lick her face.

  “Hello, Pebbles, my baby! Hello! Hello! Yes, I love you best, doggy. These two don’t even come close.” She came over and sat on the leather chair. “How are you guys? What’s new and exciting?”

  Josh and Lauren glanced at each other. “Um . . . nothing. Nice quiet day.”

  “So you just fooled around. I get it. Damn you smug marrieds. Josh, please find me a husband.”

  He looked at Lauren, and she made an encouraging face, letting him know it was a joke. “Yes, of course. It’s my top priority.” Good lad.

  Sarah glanced at the oxygen at the base of the couch. “Rough day?”

  “A great day. I’m just a little tired now.” Talking about her health was boring. “Hey, did you get the invitation to Mean Debi’s birthday party?”

  “Yes! When did she deign to like me?”

  “I have no idea.” Debi was a girl from their old neighborhood who’d been (and still was) a right bitch. “I’m not going. I’m only on the list so she can feel saintly.”

  “I’m not going, either. I hated her then, I hate her now, I will always hate her. Remember when she told everyone my father was in jail?”