by Paula Fox
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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF PAULA FOX
Winner of the Hans Christian Andersen Award
Winner of the Paris Review’s Hadada Award
“The greatest writer of her generation.” —Jonathan Franzen
“One of America’s most talented writers.” —Publishers Weekly
“Consistently excellent.” —The New York Times
“Fox has always been adept at writing apparently simple stories which on closer examination prove to explore the essential meaning of relationships … and to illuminate our understanding of the human condition.” —School Library Journal
“Paula Fox is so good a novelist that one wants to go out in the street to hustle up a big audience for her.… Fox’s brilliance has a masochistic aspect: I will do this so well, she seems to say, that you will hardly be able to read it. And so she does, and so do I.” —Peter S. Prescott, Newsweek
“Fox is one of the most attractive writers to come our way in a long, long time.” —The New Yorker
“As a writer, Fox is all sensitive, staring eyeball. Her images break the flesh. They scratch the retina … Fox’s prose hurts.” —Walter Kirn, New York magazine
“Fox’s achievement is to write with magnificent restraint and precision about the interplay of personal and historical, inner growth and outer framework, the process of learning to think about oneself and the world.” —Margaret and Michael Rustin
“Fox has little of Roth’s self-consciousness, less of Bellow’s self-importance, and none of Updike’s self-pity. Unlike all three men, Fox does not jealously save the best lines for a favoured alter ego, and her protagonists do not have a monopoly on nuance. Instead, she distributes her formidable acumen unselfishly, so that even the most minor characters can suddenly offer crucial insight, and unsympathetic characters are often the most fascinating: brilliant, unfathomable and raging.” —Sarah Churchwell
“There are no careless moves in the fiction of Paula Fox.… [Her] work has a purity of vision, and a technique undiminished by homage or self-indulgence.” —Randal Churb, The Boston Review
“Paula Fox is as good as her revived reputation suggests.” —Fiona Maazel, BOMB
The Moonlight Man
ALA Notable Children’s Book
Booklist Editors’ Choice
School Library Journal Best Book of the Year
An NCTE Teachers’ Choice Notable Children’s Trade Book
“Stunningly written.” —Kirkus Reviews
“There’s been little in young adult fiction with this kind of plain intensity.… Miss Fox writes with wit and candor about painful change and growth. Her language is exquisitely controlled, reaching for meaning in the patterns and pauses of ordinary conversation, often in words of one syllable.” —The New York Times Book Review
“A cause for celebration … Fox’s subtle use of language and unique storytelling gifts create a world so complete and so rich that the reader hates to leave it. At one point, Catherine reflects that her father ‘seemed about to lead her into a dance to music she had never heard.’ This story, too, is music as we only rarely hear it.” —Publishers Weekly
The Moonlight Man
Paula Fox
For Martin
One
The sound of a flute awakened Catherine Ames. She went from her bed and knelt on the window seat’s worn cushion. Her face close to the rusted screen, she listened intently, wondering who it was who walked, playing music, along the narrow street below. But as the music grew fainter, the question that plagued her days rose in her mind. It was like a pain from which only an odd event—a flute played in the middle of the night—could distract her.
Where was he? Where was her father?
She heard a distant flutter of notes; someone banged a window shut. She saw how a strand of moonlight touching the fingers of her hand outspread upon the sill made them ghostly. She felt like a ghost, like nobody’s child.
Through no intention of her own, Catherine overstayed the spring semester at the Dalraida Boarding and Day School by three weeks. The large wood and stone house, which looked from the outside much like the other nineteenth-century mansions in the old Montreal residential neighborhood between Sherbrooke and Ste. Catherine streets, didn’t seem like a school since the other seventeen boarding students and eleven day students had left for their summer vacations.
If only that flute player had gone down some other street! She might have slept through the night. It was hard enough to get through the days trying not to look out the window for the postman, trying not to listen constantly for the telephone to ring.
Harry Ames was supposed to have come for her at the end of school and take her back to Rockport, Massachusetts, where he lived with his wife, Emma, and where Catherine was going to spend seven weeks with him, their first long time together since he and her mother had been divorced when she was three years old.
Mr. Ames had not arrived on June 7 when he was expected, nor on the next day or the next. Madame Soule, the director of the school, had telephoned Mr. Ames’s Rockport number. Catherine, standing next to Madame, heard the operator say the phone had been temporarily disconnected.
“What am I to do with you, my girl?” Madame had asked, the sympathy in her voice making Catherine even more miserable than she had been on that morning she waited for her father in the school entrance hall, her packed suitcase beside her.
“I think I must send a telegram to your mother,” Madame said resolutely. Catherine, trying to be calm, trying not to plead, had persuaded Madame to wait. Her father, she explained carefully, was always late, even for those short visits, themselves so infrequent, which had been their only contact over the last twelve years. She did not tell Madame there had been other occasions when he hadn’t turned up at all. But those times had involved the loss of an hour or two with him—not seven weeks. His unexplained absence now was so serious, it made Catherine feel giddy, as though she might faint even as she explained it. What kept her on her feet, kept her from throwing herself into Madame’s arms and asking for comfort, was a dogged insistence in herself that he would come.
“I am aware your father is not entirely reliable,” Madame Soule had said, “but I am obliged to let your mother know you are still here. It is her right, after all. She did leave you a hotel address in England for emergencies. I think this is an emergency, Catherine.”
“Not yet,” Catherine replied quickly. “You don’t know my father.”
“But I do know him. I met him before you came to our school. I saw that he was charming, likable. But—” She broke off and shook her head as though in disagreement with some thought she was having. “What if something has happened? His wife might be sick. Anything can happen.”
“Someone would let us know,” Catherine insisted. “And you don’t really know him. But my mother does. She wouldn’t think this was an emergency.”
Madame scowled ever so slightly. Catherine then told a lie. “Anyhow, Mom isn’t at that hotel in Windemere. She and my stepfather went to the Orkneys. She wouldn’t get the telegram.”
She watched Madame Soule’s face intently. If her mother, who wasn’t going to the Orkneys until the early part of July, learned Mr. Ames hadn’t come to get Catherine, she would fly home to the rescue. And she would never forgive him. Catherine wouldn’t be given a chance t spend such a long time with her father until she was old enough to do as she wished.
Madame Soule sighed. “I am sure your mother left a forwarding address in Windemere, too,” she said gently. “But—all right, then. We’ll give him a few more days.”
Triumph
ant and ashamed, Catherine had gone to her room and unpacked her suitcase. The same day she wrote to her mother in Windemere, telling her she had decided to spend a couple of weeks with a good friend in Toronto before going to her father’s in Rockport. It occurred to her that her mother wouldn’t believe that—couldn’t believe Catherine would give up a moment with her father. What she was counting on was that her mother, only recently married to Carter Beade, had a lot else on her mind. She wrote to the Dalraida student, Betty Jane Rich in Toronto, telling her to keep any letters that might arrive from her mother—she’d explain why in September when school started.
It had all been dreadful, explaining what she didn’t understand herself, excusing what she knew to be inexcusable, covering up to gain a few days, and always with her father’s unanswering silence. But how much worse to have dragged her mother back at the beginning of her long-delayed honeymoon; how much worse to watch Carter do his I-am-a-patient-wonderful-superior-step-father routine!
Wasn’t it possible that her father had changed his mind at the last minute, and instead of sending his wife off to Virginia alone to visit her family, had gone with her? But even if Catherine had known Emma’s maiden name and where her family lived, she wouldn’t have told Madame or tried to track down her father among his in-laws.
Her labors had been in vain; she had tried to freeze everyone as though she’d been it in a game of Red Light where each player had to stand still until she stopped looking at him.
The game was over. Madame had said she must wire Catherine’s mother. Madame and her husband were leaving for Dijon, France, in a week. Madame LeSueur, the history instructor, and the only teacher still in the house, was going to Rome the next evening. Even the small housekeeping staff was going on vacation. The school would be closed, empty, until the end of August. In September, everyone would know Catherine had been left stranded in school.
But as bad as that would be, it would pass. She did not think she would ever get over her disappointment at her father forsaking her.
She glanced at the clock. It was a minute after midnight, June 28. She turned back to the window, feeling a rush of relief. Giving up made things easier. “What the hell,” she said aloud. Maybe her mother would let her fly to England and meet them and go to the Orkneys. When her father finally did show up—if he did—she would be gone.
She stared fiercely at the oriel window on the top floor of the house across the street. From now on, let her father wait on street corners, in restaurants, in hotel lobbies! She caught a flicker of movement. It must be the man who lived there, whom she and her roommate, Cornelia, called the Great Illusion. Sometime last autumn, he had realized they were watching him. He paraded up and down in front of his window, dressed in a plum-colored velvet smoking jacket, waving at them enthusiastically. When the weather was warm, he moved a phonograph to a table where they could see it, played Charles Aznavour records, and danced, throwing them kisses. They had thought him extremely handsome, with his small mustache, his glossy dark hair, and narrow face. One May morning, Cornelia spotted him coming out of the house to the sidewalk. He was so tiny, he would barely have come up to her waist. “Why don’t I fly downstairs, grab him, and bring him back up to our aerie,” Cornelia had suggested, and they had laughed wildly and flung themselves about the room. “We shouldn’t laugh,” one or the other would say, and that would make them laugh even harder.
Now Catherine could see him distinctly as moonlight touched his face. He was looking up at the sky. She could sense he was brooding, awakened perhaps by the flute player, as she had been. His face was in repose, pale as a moth beneath the dark hair. He feels as sad as I do, she thought, wondering why the relief she had felt a few minutes ago didn’t seem to matter any longer. She had been almost happy. It was baffling the way feelings changed, each as fleeting as a cat’s-paw across the surface of a lake. How she wished she had gone with Cornelia to her home in Dallas! But when Cornelia had invited her, she’d been proud, sure of the summer ahead.
The Great Illusion disappeared from the window. Catherine wandered out into the hall. Silence. Even Roland, Madame’s Irish setter, was silent. Usually you had to get to sleep before Roland did or his snoring would keep you up all night. Cornelia claimed that on cold winter nights when Roland slept deeply, he was known to have wakened people in Calgary.
She leaned over the suitcase railing, staring down into the darkness. The house smelled stale, hot and faintly syrupy from Madame LeSueur’s perfume, or else from the sherry she was said to take baths in. How glad Catherine would have been for Madame LeSueur’s amiable company, no matter how much sherry she’d soaked up since five P.M. when she always drank her first little glass.
Catherine’s resolution to be patient and stalwart melted away; she felt foolish, ghostly. She’d been pretty good that first week when her father hadn’t shown up, not quite as good the second week, and now, at the end of the third week, she didn’t feel bad or good, just gone.
She’d dutifully practiced the piano every morning after breakfast. She’d helped Madame Soule with various chores, gone to concerts with Madame LeSueur and listened gravely to her gushing about the divinity of music, her mind elsewhere. She had even dropped in to the badminton and squash club the Dalraida girls belonged to, and she’d discovered that their instructor wasn’t drinking tea, as everyone had always assumed, but bourbon from the white coffee cup he kept on a wicker table in the viewing balcony above the courts. Maybe she would laugh about that when she told Cornelia. She had found only a ten-year-old boy to play a badminton set with; she’d beaten him effortlessly and, she admitted to herself, rudely.
“You’re mean,” he had said to her when he walked away, his badminton racket tucked under a skinny arm. In the evenings she’d played two-handed bridge with Madame LeSueur, whose heavy, jeweled fingers kept her cards in a tight curve. Around ten each evening, after many glasses of sherry, she would stand, lay down her cards in a fan shape on the table, and walk up the stairs to her room with wobbling dignity. Madame Soule never appeared to notice Madame LeSueur’s condition, and if Madame Soule’s husband, a Scottish lawyer, noticed, he didn’t say a word. Cornelia said that Madame Soule’s head was so full of grand ideas there was no room in it for ordinary things. She and Catherine joked and laughed about her but they admired her immensely. How she wished Cornelia was here!
She filled her cheeks with air and blew it down into the stairwell. As though in response, a strong smell of the lamb Jeanne had cooked for dinner floated up to her. Oh, she was getting sleepy.…
In two days, she would have to be in touch with her mother. She went to her bed and fell on it, knocking the pillow to the floor. Her head felt stuffed with socks. She started up briefly, thinking she heard the faint ring of the telephone from the hall leading to the kitchen. She dragged up the pillow and covered her head with it. Now the phone—if it was a phone—sounded like a bell buoy far out at sea.
Her father loved villages by the sea, islands, rocky headlands. One of her happiest visits with him had taken place on a Saturday when she had expected only lunch and a movie or a walk to the Central Park Zoo. But he had arrived in a rented car and taken her out to the end of Long Island. It was early November and most of the summer people were gone. He had driven over a carpet of hog cranberry right up to a dune and parked there. They got out and both ran down to the edge of the sea.
It was a chilly day with brief moments of sunlight, windy, the sand shadowed by scudding clouds. The great stretch of beach was empty except far ahead, where a young man ran with his dog.
As they trudged through the sand, keeping out of reach of the breaking waves, he told her a story about a man who lived alone in a lighthouse with no telephone. He had had an attack of appendicitis and set out in agony for the nearest village, several miles away. In the dark night, close to death, he struggled on, draining the poison out of himself. By the time he reached help, he was out of danger. She wondered if the story could be true. She knew her father would sa
y a story was always true in some way, even if it wasn’t factual and couldn’t be proved. Facts, he had said to her, could lead in any direction you wanted them to, but there was only one truth.
What truth was that? she mused, and musing, fell asleep. Almost at once she was awake. The overhead light was on. Madame Soule, wrapped in her long, green silk dressing gown, was standing beside the bed shaking her shoulder.
“Catherine, your father is on the telephone.”
Catherine staggered up.
“Let him wait a minute,” Madame said with a certain sharpness. “He’s kept you waiting a very long time. You’re still asleep. Wake up entirely or you’ll trip on the stairs.”
Behind Madame stood Roland, his leash gripped firmly between his jaws. “Don’t be ridiculous, Roland,” said Madame. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.” Roland groaned through the leash. “Night has no meaning for this creature,” Madame remarked. She looked as though she had more to say but Catherine didn’t wait to hear. Her bathrobe thrown over her shoulders, she ran out of the room and down the two flights of stairs to the hall, where she grabbed up the telephone.
“Daddy?”
“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry—you can’t know how badly I feel,” he said.
“But what happened?”
“Catherine, I wasn’t fit to be around. I’m afraid I lifted a few too many glasses in my wretchedness. The first blow was a perfectly terrible row with Emma. She didn’t want to horn in on us and our plans, but she discovered a cousin she detests is going to be in Petersburg while she’s visiting her family. Like a lot of peaceable women, she’s wild when she’s crossed—”
“You could have telephoned or written,” Catherine interrupted.
“I did telephone a week ago, dear Rabbit. A Tuesday evening, I think. I spoke to a person so swoggled I thought I’d been connected with your local loony bin. I shouted my name at her—and yours—but all she wanted to do was to talk about Mozart—or perhaps it was Moss Hart—it was hard to tell.”