Valley of the Moon

by Melanie Gideon

  In the fall of my senior year, my father called in some favors and managed to get me into Newton College of the Sacred Heart, an all-women’s school outside of Boston. I think at that point he couldn’t wait to be rid of me.

  —

  My parents dropped me off at college on August 29, 1968. It was a cool, humidity-free day—fall was in the air. I could smell the Charles River as I watched the Plymouth drive away from my dorm window. When it was out of sight, I went downstairs and hailed myself a taxi.

  “The Greyhound bus terminal,” I said.

  Three days later, I was in San Francisco.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “I have time. The jambalaya has to cook for another two hours,” said Rhonda.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s in the past and what matters is now. What he’s doing now. My father came around without me—I’m not a part of this. He’s not reaching out to me.”

  “He’s reaching out to Benno; ergo, he’s reaching out to you.”

  “No, he’s cheating. He’s trying to skip the vegetable and go straight to dessert.”

  Rhonda ran a bunch of fresh parsley under the tap and shook it, sending droplets of water flying into the air. “You’re the vegetable, I take it.”

  “Yes, and Benno is the dessert. Who doesn’t want dessert? It’s sweet and creamy and just slides down your throat. Of course my father adores Benno—he’s easy to adore.”

  Rhonda threw the parsley on the cutting board and chopped it vigorously. “Well, at least it’s something. It’s a beginning. He’s trying.”

  I sat down on a stool. “Jesus.”

  “Lux, he didn’t go to the lake—the trip he’s taken every summer for years—because he wanted to spend time with Benno. And he’s offering to pay for your son to go to a fancy private school in Newport. That’s amazingly generous.”

  “He works there; he gets a discount on tuition. And it’s not that simple. There’s way more to it than that—he’s sending me a message. It’s his way of saying I’m not taking care of my son properly. Do you want me to peel the shrimp?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Sure.” Rhonda handed me a bowl for the shells.

  We worked in silence for a few minutes. The kitchen smelled delicious, buttery and savory.

  “Benno would be better off in Newport with my parents, wouldn’t he? That’s what you’re trying to tell me,” I cried. “Admit it, that’s what you think.”

  “No,” said Rhonda carefully. “And it doesn’t matter what I or your parents think. What matters is what you think. What do you think, Lux?”

  “I don’t know. What should I think?”

  She smiled gently at me. “You’re a great mother no matter what you do for a living or how much money you have in the bank. That’s what you should think.”

  —

  I wanted to hate Ginger Signorelli (he was stealing my best friend away), but damn, I loved him.

  He was funny, guileless, and smart. He was the kind of person who made you feel endlessly interesting. The kind of person who nudged other people into the spotlight.

  The first thing he said to me was, “Lux Lysander. Tell me everything about you.”

  By the end of the night, he was family.

  —

  Benno walked through the gate, holding tightly to the hand of his escort, the retired stewardess named Jill.

  I greedily took in the sight of him in his denim overalls. He needed a haircut. Even though he’d only been gone for two weeks, he looked older. Taller. Or maybe it was just the distracted expression on his face.

  “Benno, Benno!” I cried. “Over here!”

  Both he and Jill swung their heads in my direction. Jill whispered something to him. Benno saw me and took a step backward, apprehension in his eyes. This was not the reunion I had planned.

  I walked toward Benno, calling to him softly like you would to a feral animal. “It’s me, sweetheart, it’s me.”

  When I got to within five feet of him, he broke away from Jill and started walking in the other direction.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked.

  “He’s confused. Don’t take it personally.”

  She went after him and he let her scoop him up into her arms while I tried not to panic. I’d known it was a mistake to send him to Newport. Had my father brainwashed him against me?

  He buried his head in Jill’s shoulder, exactly the way he had buried his head in my shoulder two weeks ago while we were driving to the airport. I watched as Jill comforted him, my throat swelling with guilt. After five minutes of Jill reassuring him, he finally took my hand.

  We didn’t speak on the walk to the car. But once we got on the road and he turned the radio to a song he liked, he relaxed. He leaned his head back against the seat and said, “Hi, Mama,” in the softest of voices.

  “Hi, sweetheart, hello.”

  “The car smells different.”

  “Oh? What does it smell like?”

  “Popcorn.”

  “Really? Well, I’m not sure why. I didn’t eat any popcorn in the car while you were gone.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t have popcorn without you.”

  I got on the highway and headed into San Francisco.

  “So what happened back there, Benno? Why did you run away from me?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t understand.”

  “What didn’t you understand?”

  “Time got jumbled up.” He knelt in his seat to see better out the window.

  “It did? How did it get jumbled up?”

  “It felt like I saw you yesterday. Like we were at the airport yesterday. But then at Grandma and Grandma’s house, I was there for so long. And then I was back in the airport and you were there again and that was a surprise ’cause I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

  “Benno! Of course you were going to see me again. You just went on a vacation.”

  “The other grandma was there.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “You told me he wasn’t going to be there.”

  “I thought he wasn’t. I guess he changed his mind. Was that okay? Was he nice to you?”

  Benno slumped back down in the seat. “I’m tired, Mama.”

  “I’m sure you are. Why don’t you close your eyes and I’ll wake you when we get home.”

  Benno made a big show of closing his eyes and pretending to sleep, his little rounded tummy rising and falling, his plump hand on the seat beside me.

  —

  Benno made me take him to the Hallmark store the next day to purchase cards to send to the two grandmas.

  Snoopy for my mother and Charlie Brown for my father.

  “What do you want to write to Grandma?” I asked.

  “Dear Grandma,” he dictated.

  I wrote Dear Grandma in big block lettering. “You should be writing this yourself.”

  “You write better.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It would mean so much more to them if it was in your handwriting.”

  “Grandma says my handwriting is like chickens scratching.”

  “Which grandma?” I didn’t really have to ask—I knew.

  “The other grandma.”

  “You mean Grandpa. Pa is for the man. Ma is for the woman.”

  “No, they’re both grandmas,” he insisted.

  “Fine.” In his grandparent hierarchy, grandmas were the one and only, the most important. Grandpa would just have to settle for being “other.” I have to admit this made me happy.

  “Dear Grandma. I miss you. I love you. Have a great day,” he said.

  I printed out his message and slid the card over to him. “You sign your name.”

  He clutched the pen laboriously and bent over the card. B E N N.

  “You forgot the O.”

  “I’m not done.”

  E T T, he wrote.

  “Bennett? Really?”

  �
��That’s my name. My real name.” He glared at me suspiciously, as if I’d withheld this information from him.

  “Yes, it is. Do you want me to start to call you that? Do you want to be Bennett now?”

  His eyelids fluttered, his bravado rapidly abandoning him. He wasn’t ready to give up Benno.

  “That’s okay, you don’t have to decide now. Do you want to do the card for the other grandma?”

  “Dear Grandma,” he said. He put his head down on the table and closed his eyes.

  I tousled his hair. “You’ve got jet lag. It’s five here, but eight in Newport. In Newport you’d already be in bed.”

  “What’s eight minus five?” he asked.

  “You tell me.”

  He stuck up eight fingers and I pushed down five of them. “Three, Benno. There’s a three-hour time difference.”

  He looked horrified. “What happened to the hours? Where did they go?”

  “They didn’t go anywhere, Benno. Newport and San Francisco are in different time zones.”

  He shook his head. “The hours can’t just go.”

  —

  On Friday two letters arrived, one for Benno and one for me. He tore open his envelope. Two pieces of Juicy Fruit gum slid out and he yelped with excitement. He tried to read the card and frowned. “What kind of chicken scratch is this?”

  “Let me see.” It was written in my father’s cursive, handwriting I hadn’t seen in years.

  Dear Benno,

  I am already thinking ahead to your visit next summer. You will have to arrange with your mother to come in July next year, because on July 4, 1976, it will be the nation’s bicentennial, and all the Tall Ships from around the world will be gathering in Newport. Eighteen ships from 14 different countries! Imagine! It will be quite a celebration. You must not miss it.

  By the time you get this letter you will be back in school, I imagine. You’ll be learning about the planets and the constellations, mammals, farm animals and sea animals. You’re a smart boy. You already know how to count to 100 and you can read. You will do fine in first grade. Your grandmother sends her love and so do I. Do keep in touch.

  Warmly, Grandpa

  Warmly, Jesus. Benno unwrapped both pieces of gum and stuffed them into his mouth. “What’s a tall ship?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  He stuck his lower lip out. “A ship that is tall?”

  “Do you want to go back next summer, Benno?”

  “I must. The other grandma said so.”

  “Just because he said so doesn’t mean you have to. It’s your choice. Think about it.”

  “Okay, I thought about it and I think yes.”

  He was so accommodating and easily swayed—how would he ever make it in the world? I glanced at my letter. It was from the San Francisco Public Library.

  “Why don’t you go down to the Patels’. Anjuli’s been dying to see you.”

  He raced out of the apartment.

  San Francisco Public Library

  200 Larkin Street

  San Francisco, California 94102

  Re: Census records for Martha Bell, Joseph Bell, Fancy Bell, Lars Magnusson, Elisabetta Sala, Matteo Sala, Bernardo Sala.

  August 28, 1975

  Dear Ms. Lysander,

  We regret to tell you there is no record of the person(s) named above in the California census records dating from 1850 to 1910. In fact, there is no record of the person(s) named above in any of the U.S. Census records from 1850 to 1910.

  If there is anything else we can help you with, please let us know.

  Sincerely,

  Lavinia D. Pearson

  San Francisco Public Library

  So there was no record of what had happened to the residents of Greengage—it was like they’d never existed. But they were a reality: people I’d sat beside, eaten with, laughed with, and learned from. They were flesh and blood, as real as Rhonda or me.

  I wondered if it wasn’t the absence of the fog that kept Brigette from coming back to Greengage—perhaps it was her lack of knowledge that Greengage was even there. Maybe she didn’t return because she had no recollection of the place. No recollection of her daughter or mother. They’d been cast not only out of time, but out of memory.

  How would I ever tell Joseph?

  —

  That night, Rhonda plunged her hands into a sink of hot soapy water and asked, “Did you hear back from the library yet?”

  No, Rhonda wasn’t psychic, nor had she gone snooping through my room—she was simply relentless. Until I’d given her proof that Greengage really existed, she’d keep at me. I’d have to deliver something, and soon.

  “Not yet,” I lied. “They said it would take weeks.”

  Rhonda looked out the window. “The moon’s almost full.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You’ve been keeping track?”

  I had, as a matter of fact. Not consciously. It wasn’t like every day I got up and checked a lunar calendar. But I was aware that the moon was waxing. Waxing, what a lovely word.

  “You seem anxious,” said Rhonda.

  “I’m not,” I snapped.

  She raised her eyebrows at me.

  “Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. All the excitement of Benno coming home.”

  Joseph’s formality. Goodbye, then. He thought he’d never see me again. The world had deserted them, but I couldn’t. It was one of my own deepest fears. That I would get lost and nobody would come looking for me.

  “Rhonda, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

  She rinsed a plate under the tap. “Don’t know. Ginger and I talked about going out for Chinese. You guys want to come?”

  “Maybe you could have takeout. Maybe you could watch Benno.”

  Rhonda pulled the drain and the water glugged out noisily. “Let me guess. You want to go back to the Valley of the Moon?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I admitted.

  “What for? The fog won’t be there. You said it would take years.”

  “I know. I just want to go. I don’t know why. Just to be there. I’m the only one who knows about them.”

  “Except me,” said Rhonda.

  “Right, but you don’t believe me.”

  Rhonda lit up a cigarette and leaned against the sink. She blew three perfect smoke rings. “Okay. Ginger and I will babysit. You’ll be back on Sunday, right? In time for dinner? I’ll make pork chops.”

  “Yes, I promise. I swear.”

  She picked a piece of tobacco off her lip. “All right, then. Say hello to the ghosts for me.”

  Time is a construct, one we all inherently begin to abide by the moment we are born. Yes, we will live our days hanging from its invisible scaffolding. Morning. Noon. Night. Weeks. Months. Years. Time civilizes us. It brings order to chaos. Without it, there isn’t any gravity, and no longer pinned to the world, we float away.

  Lux Lysander had catapulted me out of my own time, and so, like a fool, I waited for her to return. I’d been slowly resigning myself to our fate before she’d come, but now that she’d given me a taste of the world that lay beyond the fog, I despaired.

  Martha’s prescription for my malaise: a change in diet. Fewer baked goods, more vegetables, fruit, and nuts. She took away my nightly glass of wine and replaced it with a tisane so foul tasting I did not dare ask its ingredients.

  “Banish what she told you from your mind,” she said, staring at me intently, watching me drink every last drop. As if she could hypnotize my restlessness away.

  In my day I was considered a futurist. I’d had the foresight and vision to imagine a community where people of all races and classes could live together, not only peaceably but happily. I’d imagined it, planned for it, made it happen. I’d always prided myself on being a man ahead of his time.

  But on the other side of that fog, I’d be a relic. From my suspenders to my bowler hat, my once progressive views on women, politics, religion, and civil rights might even be considered an
tiquated now. I’d be laughed out of the salons, if they even had salons anymore, and judging by what Lux had told me, salons had long gone the way of the horse and carriage. Access to what she knew was the only thing that could save me from intellectual irrelevance.

  The next three weeks dragged on interminably. I threw myself into work, joining a different crew every day: fields, building, kitchen, orchard. I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I was so exhausted I would often skip supper and go directly to bed. Sleep, that prickly bastard, played tricks on me, though: I’d fall asleep instantly and wake an hour later. I spent the early mornings on the porch, smoking the last of my cigarettes, brooding.

  Finally the morning of the full moon arrived. It was impossible to believe that 13.8 years would pass in the next twenty-four hours. Approximately 3.5 days a minute. The sheer density of it was mind boggling. I had no choice but to surrender to it.

  —

  The morning after the full moon, I was spent, blurry-eyed with fatigue. We’d just finished our breakfast when Nardo yelled, “She’s back!”

  I watched Lux run across the meadow and my desperation finally gave way to relief. She wore a knapsack that bobbed up and down as she ran. She’d promised to bring me a surprise. I tried to wipe the anticipation from my face as she burst into the dining hall.

  “Jesus, you’re all here!” she shouted, searching through the crowd. Her eyes landed on me. She should be thirty-nine now, but she still looked young, preternaturally young.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” she cried, easily reading my face. “It’s only been three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “Three weeks,” she confirmed. “Well, nearly four, if you count the days I spent here.”

  The room filled with low but urgent whispers.

  “What made you come back last night?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I just had a feeling, I guess. Like something was pulling me here.”