Everyone Is a Moon

by Sawney Hatton

  “Lean your head back and keep your nose covered with this. Hold it there until I say you can take it off, okay?”

  He nods, his entire face almost hidden beneath the pillowcase.

  “But don’t smother yourself!” She springs to her feet, takes his hand, and leads him into their private bathroom.

  Floyd doesn’t seem particularly troubled by his present situation. He sings one of his doo-wop favorites, “Martian Hop” by the Ran-Dells. Muffled by the pillowcase, it is barely audible.

  Ruth dampens a washcloth with warm water.

  “Trade you your pillowcase for this warm towel.”

  Floyd gives her the crimson-blotched linen. She dabs his nose and lips with the white washcloth, cleaning them off. Blood still oozes from his right nostril. She drapes the cloth over his nose and again tells him to hold it there.

  He picks up his song from the top. “We juth dithcovered an important note from thpathe. The Marthianth plan to throw a danthe for all the human rathe.” He giggles. “My voith thoundth funny, huh?”

  An hour passes before Floyd’s nose stops bleeding, long enough for them to miss the morning vigil. They had heard the cue for it playing through the exterior loudspeakers, a shrill vibrato that sounded like somebody slowly deflating balloons. Ruth recognized it from some of the older science fiction movies Floyd enjoyed watching. “Space music” he called it, or rather, with his clogged nostrils, “thpathe muthic.”

  They make it to the refectory on time for breakfast. The capacious, high-ceilinged hall is furnished with three long wooden tables with equally long benches on each side of them. Ruth and Floyd wear their ecclesiastic robes, same as the other two dozen monks there. Floyd complains about the fabric being itchy. The bearded friar sitting next to him jovially says he will get used to it. Floyd responds by mimicking a series of beeps and clicks. The friar has no reply to this.

  A trio of monks rolls steel carts out a set of swinging doors. On each cart are trays of food, a steaming medley of scrambled eggs, sausage, beans, and hash browns, as well as pitchers of water and juices. No one begins eating upon being served. Floyd, a forkful of eggs at the ready, whines at Ruth when she grasps his wrist and mouths “not yet” to him. Once their task is done, the servers line up before the rostrum at the far end of the room. One of them strums an autoharp, signaling silence for the recitation of grace.

  This is when she first sees him.

  He climbs the three steps to the lectern and turns to face the congregation, Ruth only a couple of seats away from him. He’s very handsome, she thinks. Movie star handsome. No, more than that—beatifically handsome, with his wispy raven hair, frosty blue eyes, and a clean-shaven complexion that, honest to God, glows. His lustrous black robe is emblazoned with the same Star of Bethlehem emblem on its breast as on the Abbot’s.

  Everybody bows their heads and shuts their eyes, though Ruth cannot refrain from sneaking glimpses of him.

  His arms outstretched like Christ on the cross, the handsome monk starts to chant in Latin with the heavenliest of voices. Ruth doesn’t understand the language (except for the word “Domine”), but she imagines he is serenading her. She pictures him approaching her, closer, closer. Her heart quivers as he towers over her, gazing at her with loving, longing eyes. He takes her hands, coaxes her to rise, and guides her into a tango stance, their bodies joined at the hips. Still singing, he leads her in the sensual ballroom dance, swooping and swirling and swaying together, until his crooning culminates in a collective “amen” by the congregation.

  When Ruth raises her head, she realizes she is still gripping Floyd’s wrist. She releases him, saying he can eat now, then sees he already has crumbles of scrambled egg clinging to his lips, chin, and the tip of his nose. He grins at her. She admonishes him and tells him to wipe his face.

  After breakfast, Ruth and Floyd file out of the refectory with the other cenobites. They are met by the handsome monk, greeting them with a million-dollar smile.

  “Hello, Ruth. I’m Prior Weston. I’ll be acquainting you with our way of life here at the monastery.”

  “Great,” Ruth responds, doing her utmost to contain her glee.

  “Truth be told, we don’t receive many of the fairer sex here. But we’re an equal opportunity brotherhood. I, for one, adore a lady who adores the Lord. I find it very… appealing.”

  Prior Weston’s soul-searching eyes linger on Ruth a few moments longer—she is sure she’s blushing!—then jump to her ward.

  “And this must be Floyd. Welcome, both of you. Abbot Mortimer has filled me in on your circumstances and may I say, Ruth, your mission is perhaps the most noble undertaking since our own Brother Lucas launched a crate full of the Good Book, with illustrations and recordings, into the farthest reaches of the universe.”

  “Wow,” Ruth says.

  “It was a costly enterprise, but who knows what of God’s other intelligent life forms may be illuminated by His Word.”

  “Like Marsians?” Floyd chimes in.

  “Martians perhaps. Or Neptunians, Plutonians. Even civilizations beyond our solar system. Imagine, someday we travel to the M81 galaxy and discover little green men quoting Scripture. Ooo, the possibilities give me goosebumps.”

  The euphoric Prior shivers. Ruth contracts her own case of goosebumps, though she is envisioning quite something else. She feels warm.

  “But I’m getting ahead of myself,” Prior Weston continues. “If you will follow me, we shall begin your introduction.”

  He leads them into the grand foyer of the main building, stopping before a tall stone mural—Ruth estimates it must be at least twelve feet high—into which is carved another image of Jesus floating in an outer space vista. For several minutes, the Prior expounds on the Monastery of the Celestial Christ’s teachings. Ruth stands beside him, spellbound by his honeyed voice. She is also pleasantly surprised to observe that Floyd seems to be listening as well, never once wandering off or crying out or breaking something.

  “And on the third day,” Prior Weston winds up his oration, “upon rising from the dead, He ascended into heaven, past all the planets and moons and stars of every existing galaxy, where He now sits at the right hand of the Almighty Father. This makes Jesus the very first astronaut. That is why we pay reverence not only to His works here on Earth, but throughout all of God’s celestial creations He may touch.”

  “That is so profound,” Ruth says.

  “Why aren’t we green?” Floyd asks the Prior.

  “Green?”

  Floyd points to the skin of his own arm. “I wanna be green.”

  “Ah, I see. God made us in His own image, Floyd. So God is obviously not green, nor blue, nor purple. If He were, we wouldn’t be the color we are.”

  “Marsians are green.”

  “I’ve never seen a Martian, so I wouldn’t know. Perhaps it’s the light on Mars that makes them look green, but their skin is in actuality just like ours.”

  “That sounds entirely reasonable, Prior,” Ruth says.

  “Please. Call me Wes.”

  “Brother Wes?”

  “Just Wes. I’m not a stickler for formalities.”

  The Prior steps over to a rectangular bronze plaque fastened to the near wall. On it is an embossment of a bald man gazing upward, beneath him the inscription ABBOT RUDOLPH BENNIGAN (1923-1995) and the Psalm verse “By the word of the Lord were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of his mouth.”

  “Abbot Bennigan was both a devout Christian and a knowledgeable astronomer,” relates Prior Weston. “After the moon landing in 1969, he established this monastery as a means of paying spiritual tribute to the wondrous vastness of God’s cosmos. He melded old and new approaches to monastic worship.” He beams at Ruth proudly. “We like to think of ourselves as St. Benedict meets the Space Age. Some may find that irreverent—”

  “Oh, no. Not at all,” Ruth reassures him. “I think it’s refreshing.”

  “I agree. I joined this brotherhood because
I was not just attracted to its cloistered, contemplative lifestyle, but also to its liberating take on, dare I say, the stuffy conventions of most other orders. By example, tomorrow you get to attend my afternoon service. We call it our ‘Shout and Twist with the Eucharist’ mass. A fitting moniker, I do say. I think you’ll enjoy it. Everyone does.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Ruth says. “I read about it in Divine Places. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  The Prior and Ruth lock eyes. There’s a connection there, she believes. Something electric between them. She wonders if he feels it too.

  Ruth hadn’t had many boyfriends growing up, partly because they distracted her from her devotions and partly because they were, according to her mother, “pathways to sin.” In grade school she once French kissed Randy Bennett behind the custodial shed, and in trade school she went on a single date with a Christian plumber who turned out to be less than Christianly as soon as she got into his truck. That was the sum of her romantic experience, but she never had very much interest in any boys other than the Lord.

  And now, Prior Weston.

  *****

  Ruth signed Floyd out of the hospital and, after making a quick stop at her apartment, drove him home. Everybody welcomed him back, and Ruth left him in the den with most of the other residents to either watch a dinosaur documentary on TV or draw their favorite thing on sketchpads. Her coworker Carla, with Debra and Victor assisting her, headed into the kitchen to fix them dinner, a grilled cheese casserole with tomato soup.

  Ruth slunk off to Floyd’s room. She loaded up a large laundry bag with his clothes and some toiletries. She had already packed a suitcase of her own belongings at her place. With everyone preoccupied, she could furtively shepherd Floyd back to her car and be well on their way before anyone was any the wiser.

  “What are you doing?”

  Ruth looked up to see Carla standing in the doorway.

  With the option of sneaking out foiled, Ruth decided to be honest with her, believing she would appreciate the importance of Ruth’s mission. She had to.

  “I’m taking Floyd away.”

  “What are you talking about?” Carla asked.

  “He needs to understand his role in the Lord’s design.” Ruth stuffed a few rolled-up pairs of Floyd’s socks into the sack. “Before he—”

  “Stop it, Ruth.” Carla stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “I know you’re upset. We all are. But you can’t do this.”

  “I must.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “It’s what the Lord has directed me to do.”

  “Really? How did he tell you this?”

  “Through Floyd,” Ruth answered with conviction.

  “So now you’re listening to Floyd, are ya? The other day Peter said he ran around the world without stopping. Should I call Guinness Book about that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have faith.”

  “I have common sense. That’s always worked for me.”

  “And I work for the Heavenly Father. I do His bidding, no questions asked.”

  “Well, I have questions.” Carla crossed her arms. “Like where do you think you’re going with Floyd? And for how long?”

  “I am bringing him to a monastic temple for spiritual enlightenment, for as long as required for him to embrace the Holy Spirit.”

  Carla lowered her voice. “And what if he dies on you on the road?”

  “If that happens, then it is God’s will. But I must try to help him.” Ruth cinched up the laundry bag’s drawstring. “I have been called.”

  “No, Ruth.”

  “I’ll take good care of him, Carla. I promise. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You leave here with him and I’m calling the police.”

  Ruth incredulously considered the woman she has worked alongside the past five years. “Carla—”

  “I mean it, Ruth. I’m not letting you do this. It’s against policy. It’s probably kidnapping. Not to mention crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy. I’m not crazy.” Ruth collected herself, clasping her hands together. “One month, Carla,” she implored. “Give us just one month. Then I’ll bring him back. Please. I need to do this. For his sake. For his soul.”

  Carla mulled over the proposition. Ruth observed her coworker’s—her friend’s—expression soften. The Lord had spoken through Ruth, and Carla had listened.

  “No. No way.” Carla shook her head emphatically. “I love you, Ruth. I really do. But you’re crossing the line here professionally. You know that.”

  Ruth huffed and stamped her foot.

  “Can’t you see you might hurt Floyd more than help him?” Carla said. “He belongs here, with his friends, with all of us. There’s no telling how he’ll react if you remove him from his familiar surroundings for a long period of time. He could freak out. And he may be more than you can handle.”

  “I am capable, Carla.”

  “You might be. But if not, if shit goes south… hell, even if it don’t… you’re putting Floyd, yourself, this whole facility at risk. I’m sorry, I can’t allow that.”

  Ruth sighed, resigning herself to what must be done.

  “Fine. He’ll stay. But I insist on a daily regimen of Christian mentoring.”

  “I suppose we can arrange something.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Ruth. You’re doing the sensible thing.”

  Ruth nodded. But is it the right thing?, she pondered.

  “Now how about comin’ to set the table?”

  Ruth smiled at her. “Lead the way.”

  *****

  Wes dominates Ruth’s waking thoughts and wildest dreams. He kindles an inferno of untapped desires in her. Lustful feelings yes, but surely not wrong ones. God must have a plan for them. She looks forward to whatever fruits it would bear.

  They had continued the tour of the monastery grounds, visiting its remarkable chapel, the gardens, the Bennigan Library stocked with Christian and astronomy texts, the famed zero gravity reflection chamber (available for MCC adherent use only), and the gift shop. The Prior gave Ruth a complimentary CD of his newest Christian rock album, The Lord Is My Rocket. She bought Floyd a small, handcrafted glass orb with an etching of Jesus soaring through the heavens.

  The three of them had both lunch and dinner together. Prior Weston showed an insatiable fascination in Ruth, asking her questions about everything from her family to her faith. And she shared almost everything with him—caring for her ailing mother during her final years, her father deserting them to become a sodomite, even that she was still pure. By nine o’clock, when it is time to retire, Ruth feels closer to him than anyone she has ever known.

  To her relief, Floyd hadn’t acted out at all, which may count as a minor miracle since she’d convinced him to not bring along his cassette player on the tour. Or perhaps something about the Prior—his voice, his personality, his presence—pacified him as much as it excited her. Whatever it had been, she is grateful to Floyd for not intruding on her and Wes’s blossoming communion. That night, she reads to him from the Gospel of John the amazing story of Jesus walking on water. After he peacefully dozes off, she too goes to sleep, more content than she has been in ages.

  The next day, Ruth and Floyd attend the morning vigil in the chapel. Throughout the entire service she stares up at Prior Weston on the sanctuary. While delivering the homily, he spots her in the congregation and slyly winks at her. Ruth swoons like a fangirl meeting her idol. She supposes she is, but she longs to be so much more.

  They go to breakfast afterward—to Ruth’s disappointment, Wes is absent from the meal—then perform their assigned duty of dusting the library shelves, a chore Floyd can manage well enough. This is followed by sessions of Bible study, silent contemplation (Ruth lets Floyd listen to his music), and woodworking.

  Right after lunch is the event Ruth has been eagerly anticipating all day, Prior Weston’s “Shout and Twist with the Euchari
st” mass. Divine Places magazine heralded it as “awe-inspiring” and “rapturous” and claimed that it will “make you feel like the blood of Christ Himself is pumping through your veins.” Ruth can’t wait.

  Ruth and Floyd file into the modestly sized chapel with the other monks. She shuffles down one of the alabaster pews, as near as she can get to the helical truss pulpit, and takes a seat. Floyd slides in beside her, bumping her hip hard.

  “Ow, Floyd. Be careful.”

  Covering the windowless walls of the fantastic chapel are riveted panels of burnished sheet metal, with upside-down pyramid-shaped sconces producing warm white light. Vertically arrayed on the vaulted ceiling are rainbow-colored neon tubes, blinking in sequence. (These were not on during the morning vigil.) On the altar is a glistening gold cross. Suspended above this, a huge glass-paned sphere with a stained-glass mosaic of Jesus gazing down on the audience.

  Though they’ve been here before, Ruth still marvels at the unorthodox magnificence of the decor. When she first saw it, Ruth thought it was much like Space Mountain at Disney, minus all the heathen tourists.

  “I gotta pee,” Floyd says to her.

  The chapel’s lights dim.

  “Can you hold it? The service is about to start.”

  On the opposite side of the rostrum, a scraggly-haired monk begins to play “space music” on a rectangular cherrywood box with a couple of antennae sticking out of it in different directions. He appears to create its eerie sounds simply by moving his hands in various ways about the antennae, never touching the device.

  “I really gotta pee,” Floyd reiterates.

  “Not now!” Ruth snaps.

  Floyd frowns and fidgets his legs.

  The overhead speakers emit a resonant drumbeat, evoking a steady pulse that Ruth finds rousing. Then, to her unbridled delight, from a spotlit trapdoor in the center of the rostrum rises Prior Weston, attired in what might be described as Elvis’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, a silver-sequined robe bedazzled with sparkling rhinestones. He also wears wayfarer sunglasses like the “Oh, Pretty Woman” singer.