The Boys Who Danced With the Moon

by Mark Paul Oleksiw

  A smile crossed his face. “I heard old man Carson is retiring from your firm.”

  “Rob, you left a year ago. Who told you?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “And what else did your sources tell you?”

  “They’re going to make you a partner, Kiran. Finally! You’re going to take over his practice.” He looked over at me as he drove, measuring my reaction.

  “I didn’t apply to be a partner.” My brows caved in. There was a detailed process in applying for the position. You had to want it and build a comprehensive business case with the support and references from other partners. Those who applied spent lunch hours and evenings at squash courts, golf courses, anywhere senior partners were, trying to win their support. I decided a long time ago to stand on the curb as the traffic whizzed by in this insane race and, if lucky, not get clipped by a stray tire.

  “Apply or not, they’re going to give it to you.”

  “Shit. When?” I knew as soon as I said it that Rob would react, and I had to stifle the potential insult in my reaction. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting it,” I quickly added.

  “It’s meant to be a surprise. It’ll come to fruition shortly after his retirement party in early June.”

  I faked extreme satisfaction and thanked him for the news. Way down inside, a knife tore through me, at first in a circular motion and then clanked against my now hollow interior back the other way. I wondered when I got home that evening if there was anything left to cut out, as the pulp had been consumed from the inside out long ago.

  When Rob and I arrived back at the apartment complex later, Avery was waiting in the hallway with a worried look on her face.

  “Everything okay, sweetie?” Rob asked.

  Avery could be a good liar—except when her eyes betrayed her.

  “The postman made a mistake and delivered this letter to our address.” Since that often happened at our apartment building, it normally wouldn’t be worthy of discussion. However, Avery’s face told an uncomfortable tale as she leaned forward to hand me the letter. Her eyes were transfixed on mine as if to record my reaction before and after seeing it. No one wrote personal letters anymore it seemed, and this did not appear to be a business solicitation or a windfall from a Nigerian oil property.

  “Yeah. Just a letter. Probably my old man.” I knew I was wrong because my dad never wrote.

  “Look at the return address.” Her eyes widened with concern.

  I looked at the top left-hand corner. There was no street address. Just: Pauley River.

  “Geez.”

  Rob looked confused.

  “It’s from his hometown,” Avery explained, looking at him with eyebrows raised.

  Over the years, Avery and I shared little about our personal histories other than what we felt comfortable discussing. We both had reached the west coast to escape. Avery knew where I came from and how I left after graduating from college. She knew how I almost died and how there were memories buried way down below. It was simple in some ways because I couldn’t remember much of that part of my life. We both agreed to move forward and leave the past as discarded litter on a deserted road.

  I took the letter and started walking into my apartment. Avery cautiously followed, as did Rob. They were going to stay close by until I opened it, and there was obviously no place to run and hide. I ripped it open nervously. There wasn’t much inside. Brownish, yellowish paper slowly floated to the ground as I shook the envelope. It was an old newspaper clipping. Looking down on it as it lay on my floor, I sensed the ink waiting to stain my fingers.

  As I picked it up and looked at the date, it paralyzed me. Without even reading the article, a feeling of foreboding overwhelmed me. Avery saw my reaction and pulled the paper out of my hand, almost ripping it.

  Local Boy Drowns, Another in Critical Condition

  Last night, an unnamed local boy is believed to have drowned in the Pauley River and another, who appears to have tried to save him, is in the hospital in critical condition. A third boy was found along the bank of the river uninjured. The circumstances of the accident and tragedy are unknown. The names are withheld due to their ages.

  Avery looked at me with the most sorrowful look.

  “You’re the boy in critical condition?”

  The hesitation before my next words lasted what felt like an eternity. It was almost as if I tried to think of some fantastic lie to tell her. In truth, my head only spun like a cheap traveling carnival ride riddled with evil clown images and spooky music. I was hoping to distract myself and awaken in a distant place. No such luck. “Yeah. The boy in critical condition was me, unfortunately.”

  “That’s when you lost your memory,” Rob added with his lips pressed together as if satisfied in connecting the large dots.

  “Yep. I was in a coma for a few weeks.”

  “So you can’t remember anything?”

  “Not really,” I said in an agitated voice, trying to stifle further inquiry. I took the newspaper clipping out of Avery’s hand. “Bits and pieces here and there. I suppose it’s best not to remember and, after all, here I am.”

  She whispered to Rob. “Who the fuck would send this to him?”

  “I can hear you, Avery,” I said laughing, trying to break the tension. “I have no idea. It was so long ago.”

  “What are you supposed to do?” Avery asked rhetorically.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It was a long time ago. It was a very tragic event, and there isn’t a return address. Maybe it’s just a bad joke. If someone wanted to reach me, they would have left a return address or even called or emailed.”

  I saw the look on Rob and Avery’s faces. Rob was genuinely confused. He didn’t know very much about my past and never was interested in asking. He was always forward-looking and focused, which was exactly what Avery needed.

  “Seriously. I’m fine. It’s been an eventful day and quiet time would do me wonders.”

  Avery looked at Rob. “We understand. Damn it, Kiran. If you need anything, we’re down the hall.”

  “I know, and that’s very comforting. But you guys just got married. You don’t need me bumming you out.”

  Rob’s eyes sparkled. “Umm . . . besides, there is good news. Pretty soon Kiran will be a partner.”

  Avery looked at me and our eyes met. She knew there was no happiness in my eyes nor joy. She also knew of our agreement, and she didn’t pursue it. Our pasts were our pasts. The anchors were too heavy to drop onto one another to carry.

  I went into my apartment and lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling all night. Who sent me this? Why now? It was just the beginning. It was the first of a long trolley line of sleepless nights.

  The newspaper clipping made its way around my apartment. Next to my bed on the nightstand one evening. On the fridge for the next two. Everywhere except the blue recycling bin. I couldn’t throw it out. Avery and Rob thought I had dismissed it since I never spoke of it. But it preoccupied my days and nights for the next couple of weeks. In the back of my mind was the date of Mr. Carson’s retirement and how, if Rob was right, I would be made partner. It was not a bloodletting ceremony, of course. To me, in some ways, it was much worse.

  It was late May and the California days grew warmer exponentially. Each morning, I would look in the mirror and examine myself. The darker tone around my eyes had expanded, and I was gaunt. Rob never noticed. Without a doubt, I knew Avery would, so I avoided her in any way I could.

  Who would send me a news clipping from twenty years ago, without a name or a message or some other clue? I worked long hours to avoid being alone at home with my thoughts during this time. That article was always nearby and begging me for investigation. I looked at it again carefully, even subjecting it to a small magnifying glass. There were no handwritten notes or messages attached. All the way here across the continent, I was saf
e from everything but my mind.

  One day about a week or two later, there was a rare late afternoon shower as I arrived home. I picked up my mail from the box, and there was an envelope there. This time, there was no return address. As soon as I touched it, my hand trembled, somehow connecting to some unseen force. I quickly tucked it under my shirt and retreated to my apartment before Avery or Rob would notice.

  It sat on my kitchen table. It was a solitary rectangle on my round wood table. It wasn’t standard envelope size. For sure it was no regular junk mail. I shivered from the heavy dampness of the clothes against my skin as my air conditioning took effect. I left the room to change and was drawn back in by the letter. It sat there patiently waiting for my return.

  I finally summoned some courage and slowly tore it open with my fingers. I could see that there was one page on the inside: old-style loose-leaf paper with discernible blue ink. My heart pulsated, almost exploding. I pulled out the folded paper and unraveled it. The paper had clearly been water-damaged and was rough where it had been wet. There was a brownish yellow staining around it as though touched by the earth. I froze, paralyzed even before I read the first line. It was rarer nowadays that someone wrote by hand. Despite that, there was one thing I could quickly decipher, albeit from years ago. The handwriting was my own. I was startled and almost screamed. I closed my eyes and prayed it would go away until I read the first line and saw the form the letter took. I was too overwhelmed to move. It was a poem and in my distinctive handwriting dressed in blue ink. A poem that should not have existed anymore found life suddenly. My hands trembled as I stared at the letter. A bright light was shining on my past. My memory remained hidden in a chasm desperately trying not to be exposed. It was mine, but I refused to accept it.

  The next thing I knew I awoke to a knock on my apartment door. It was just after 11 p.m. I had blacked out. The first blackout episode in a long time. I had been masterful at staying in between the lines for so long that the foray outside the perimeter overcame my atrophic mind.

  It was Rob and Avery.

  Rob looked at me. “You seem out of sorts. Why didn’t you come to our place for dinner?”

  “I must have fallen asleep.”

  Avery walked around me. Her eyes were darting across the room with the buzz of a dying fly. She could sense something was not right. I had tucked away the letter into my pocket. There was no way I was showing them this. They would send me for tests. Years ago, I was warned that due to the memory loss there could be occasions when I blacked out and forgot more recent events. My doctor said I should keep track of it. I didn’t. It hadn’t happened in so long. I had been strong enough to keep the door shut and not let my mind wander outside of the cell I had built for it.

  Rob looked around the room smiling, having moved on from my mystery and to the point as always. “Tomorrow is the Carson retirement party, right? Have they said anything to you yet?”

  “Yes. I meant to tell you. McCastle scheduled a meeting with me next week. He said it was important.” Mac McCastle was the managing partner of our firm. You either saw him when you were being fired or promoted.

  “Ah!” Rob laughed. “I’m sure that’s when they’ll tell you. Congrats.”

  Avery looked at Rob with her brow arched ever so slightly. “Rob, you totally spoiled his surprise!” She was annoyed that Rob had distracted the conversation from my plight.

  I stopped Avery before she could say more. “No, Avery, it’s okay. I hate surprises.”

  “I suppose so.” Avery stared at my face. “You were sleeping, right? It looks like you haven’t slept in days.” Avery zeroed in and would not let go. For someone so young, she was very in tune with peeling away false expressions of normalcy.

  “Totally fine, Avery. I’ve just had a bad cold and kept to myself.”

  They brought me leftovers and stayed with me for the next hour. All Rob could talk about was my imminent promotion. Avery just stared at me with a perplexed look. Meanwhile, the letter ate away at my pocket as it slowly made its way into my head where it would surely take root, burn through my skin, and strangle my heart for one last time.

  Over the next few days, I came very close to putting the letter into the recycling with the usual junk mail. I never found the courage. I handled the letter in my hand so often that I cut myself on one of the edges at one point. A smear of blood mixed in with the ink. Finally, with a labored gasp, I slipped the two pieces of mail into a drawer and tried to forget about them.

  Something about it was very obviously wrong. Two letters, one with a cryptic handwritten return address, the other with none, both coming as ghosts from a time years ago buried in dust. Every day I would check if there was more mail or anything else. I took longer and longer walks along the beach.

  One night a storm cloud gathered off the coast. I could see the evening skies losing light quickly. There were rarely tornadoes here but the winds had picked up dramatically, and a strong gust hit me and knocked me off balance. For a second, it was as though the sun disappeared and there was nothing except black clouds. I ran in and closed the windows, fast expecting a heavy rain that never came. The sun eventually returned. The fear remained. My whole world grew more sinister. I never knew black existed in so many shades.

  The sleepless nights continued. It started with my breathing becoming more and more rapid. Thoughts raced in and out of my mind. Images, faces—mostly ones I didn’t recognize— paraded before me. The ones circling in my mind were erased so quickly that I couldn’t identify them; I only sensed they were familiar and threatening. I often went to the washroom to cool my face off with a cold cloth.

  Rob saw my nervousness and assumed I was anxious for my upcoming meeting with Mr. McCastle. I had done millions of business meetings and never lost sleep over them. Besides, I should be happy. I was going to be a big-cheese partner. Sometimes your cheese just does not get moved when you need it. The worse part was to come.

  Two nights before my big meeting, I could feel the air sucked out of my lungs by some unseen force. My nose was blocked up as my breathing became more labored. I leaped out of bed and paced, making each breath more heroic and desperate. Finally, I ran outside into the summer night. The open space in front of me pacified my nerves and calmed my breathing.

  I realized when I went back to bed that an hour had passed. I knew it was a panic attack that seemingly went on forever. I was grateful it was over. You can indeed drown and not even get wet.

  More disconcerting to me was the mystery sender. Night after night, I would hold the article and poem in my hands and gaze. A tug of war ensued in my mind with my heart in the middle. Whichever side won, it would be a defeat for me. The nightmares were more like a knocking on my door day in and day out as I tried to ignore them. These dreams were bits and pieces of black confetti falling on my mind. They were absent of color, threatening and sinister. They were filling up every empty void in me. Eventually, they would suffocate me. I only knew as much because of how I felt when I awoke: tired and in a perpetual struggle for air. My past awaited its victory.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was less than forty-eight hours before the meeting with Mac McCastle, the managing partner at Beckett and Bells Investments LLP. I fidgeted in bed, with eyes wide open and unflinching, staring at the ceiling. The moon painted my room in its ancient light. I had forgotten how powerful the moonlight could be on a clear evening. I tried to baptize myself in it.

  The comfort I felt was short-lived as my thoughts surrendered to the present and my fear. The upcoming meeting and the letters tugged and poked at me. I slowly sat up and took an elongated inhale. I may have held my breath not for a brief second, nor ten or even twenty. Maybe if I stopped breathing I could go into suspended animation. It didn’t escape me that I had in fact been in a coma and nearly turned the trick once before.

  A vision of my future swept in as unsympathetic as a prairie winter wind dus
ting every hair follicle with an icy caress. I realized I needed to pour coats and coats of hard lacquer over me to focus on the one thing that was known: They were going to make me a partner. Clearly, Rob had pulled all his strings. He had become a bright, ambitious, and well-thought-of man in the industry. I had no doubt this was his gift to me for the years of friendship and mentoring, not to mention introducing him to Avery.

  If I focused on this meeting as an objective, I could keep the chains moving and run out the clock. Maybe the past would forget me. I resolved to make a go of it and started concentrating on the interview questions I would need to answer. Rob prepared notes and left them in my apartment. He was ever helpful, undoubtedly hoping to draw me further into his vision of success. I finally found them near the half-open window just as a spider had slowly started its web along the top of the pane. I picked up the notes, handling them as one would clutch a virus-laden tissue, and then scrutinized the question-and-answer style format. Bullshit. More bullshit and then real bullshit.

  Suddenly, I noticed the spider crawling on the back of my hand. My left hand instinctively rose to strike and end its existence. As my hand reached up ever so slightly, I just as slowly lowered it back down. The spider both fascinated and hypnotized me.

  I could feel the gentle bite and its syrupy poison slithering into my flesh. I did nothing other than move my hand to the open window and let it continue crawling to safety, nourished by my blood.

  The wind picked up, causing Rob’s notes to curl in my hand. Eventually, I succumbed to the pain and itch and my fingers shook. All of Rob’s tirelessly complete notes fluttered across the room like crazed moths released into a bright beacon. The moonlight invaded through my open window led by a beam of laser-like light darting across the chamber. The ray of light settled on the paper by my nightstand, illuminating it. The letter glistened like a diamond—the one containing the poem. I stared at it for an instant. The thought of what I could no longer avoid energized me. The newfound resolve I felt shook me. A burning bush would not have provided more clarity.