Moonglow

by Michael Griffo

  “She recovered, of course, and you were a healthy baby. We forgot about the curse, and soon Barnaby was born,” my father says, recapping our early family history. “But a few years later while she was working at The Retreat she started having nightmares.”

  My father doesn’t have to say another word. I know exactly what kind of nightmares she had. They’re all about me.

  “About werewolves and killings,” he describes anyway. “The nightmares got worse. They started to plague her while she was awake, and one day at work she collapsed, fell into a coma, and hasn’t woken up since.”

  “Until today,” I correct him. This comment triggers my father to turn his back on his past and to return to me completely.

  “Yes, until today,” my father agrees. “And that’s why I know the curse has come true.”

  He may be convinced, but I’m not.

  “This is a really interesting story, Dad, but I’m not buying it,” I say. “I am cursed, I’ll give you that, but only because I killed my best friend!”

  For the first time my father touches me; his hands grip my shoulders tightly so I stop moving, stop shaking.

  “This is why you’ve been changing lately. Your aggression, your outbursts, the physical changes, they’ve all been leading up to your final transformation,” my father explains. “It wasn’t a coincidence that there was a full moon on your birthday.”

  The pieces fit together neatly; it’s just that the picture they create is so obscene I can’t look at it. My father forces me to.

  “That’s why I wanted you home before dark, that’s why I wanted to be with you—to prevent something bad from happening.”

  “Well, something bad did happen!” I scream. “What am I supposed to do now? Tell everyone that I turned into a werewolf and couldn’t help myself from killing my best friend?!”

  “You don’t say anything! Do you hear me?!” my father commands. “Dominy, you didn’t kill anyone.”

  “But Jess . . .”

  “Was killed by an animal, not you!” my father stresses. “You have got to understand that!”

  “Even if I do . . . even if I do believe that, Dad, how do I live with myself?” I ask. “How do I live like this?”

  My father’s arms feel so good around me. So comforting.

  “I promise you, I’ll figure a way out of this.”

  So suffocating.

  “You’ve already had sixteen years to figure a way out of this, and you failed!” I spit, breaking free from his hold. My actions are so quick and harsh and final that my father doesn’t try to reconnect; he simply stares at me in shock and then leaves my room without saying a word. That’s it? He drops a bombshell of supernatural proportions on me and just leaves? I’m about to chase after him when he returns carrying a metal box, olive green, rectangular, with a broken lock. He places it on my bed.

  “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “This is everything I’ve accumulated so far,” he says. “There’s a clue in there about how to break this curse; I’ve just never been able to find it. Maybe you can.”

  This time when he leaves the room he shuts the door behind him; he won’t be coming back tonight. I sit motionless for a few minutes, but curiosity wins out, as it often does, and slowly, I open the lid. I’m no longer looking inside a box; I’m looking into a mirror. A picture of a wolf is staring at me. Its fur is a glorious shade of red; its eyes are ice-gray; its fangs are bared, but it doesn’t look menacing, not at all.

  It just looks like an animal.

  It just looks like me.

  Chapter 12

  Jess would definitely approve of her casket.

  It’s pale pink, and whatever material was used is shiny, lacquered I guess is the right word, so it has a glossy finish and looks like one big fingernail that’s been drenched in several coats of pink nail polish. Instead of having the traditional carved roses on all four corners, the coffin has an embossed ribbon of cherry blossoms wrapped around the entire base. Very Japanese. Very joyful. Very Jess.

  But as much as her offbeat send-off fills my heart with a bittersweet warmth, the rest of my body is shivering. It’s beyond cold outside.

  Inside St. Edmund’s Church, where her funeral has just taken place it was like a sauna. Jess’s death—or unexplained murder as Lars Svenson dubbed it in the Three W—attracted a huge crowd of mourners, gate crashers, and curiosity seekers. It was S.R.O. And the heat was on extra high because outside the temperature had finally dropped, at last making it feel like December. At least one thing feels normal.

  As I sat in a pew in the front of the church, my father on my left and Caleb on my right, I felt like I was dreaming. This can’t be happening, I told myself. Why was I listening to Father Charles talk about Jess as if she were dead? Didn’t he know that the church doors were going to fling open any second and Jess was going to race down the aisle to sit next to me? Not that we’re regular churchgoers, but when we do attend—on Christmas, Easter, and of course Ash Wednesday, the only day that you can advertise to the rest of the world how holy you are—Jess is always late. At one point I actually turned around when I heard a noise in the back of the church. Wasn’t Jess. Just some other late arrival.

  Now that I’ve had a week to consider and reflect, I know I couldn’t have killed Jess. File it under I for Impossible. We must have been attacked by a wild animal; I blacked out, and Jess was killed. An unfortunate tragedy, a senseless act of violence, but not willful murder. It has to be that simple; there can’t be any other explanation, especially not my father’s hypothesis that I’m the victim of some family curse, even though it’s a theory so wild and over the top that it would get Jess’s approval. And so what if the wolf in the photo in my father’s treasure chest and I share the same hair and eye color and look like we could be featured on Separated at Birth: The Cross-Species Edition? It’s all nothing but a series of ludicrous coincidences.

  I believe this Luba woman—or, as I’ve dubbed her, Psycho Squaw—said some mumbo jumbo to my father when he was a kid that freaked him out, and since he got away with accidentally killing her husband, he’s given her words power as a way to pay for his crime. His guilt is his self-inflicted punishment, and that’s what makes him believe this curse is real, even though there isn’t a shred of tangible evidence.

  And even though there’s no real proof linking me to Jess’s death, I need to get a better handle on sustaining my father’s lie. Barnaby too. If we don’t, my father will probably be tossed in jail for a number of highly criminal offenses, and we’ll become orphans, wards of the state. I’ve convinced Barnaby that, even if he wants to tattle on me and expose my role in covering up the details surrounding Jess’s death, he has to understand that his squealing will have far-reaching ramifications that will cause him to suffer just as much as I would. The look of fear on his face was guarantee enough that he’ll keep quiet. Now if only my father were as easy to handle.

  Ever since he confessed to me that he accidentally killed a man when he was my age and tried to convince me of the subsequent fairy-tale curse thing, he hasn’t let me out of his sight. Constantly watching me, constantly texting me, constantly picking me up from school or the library or Caleb’s house. But because every other parent in town thinks some sick maniac or wild boar is on the loose and their kid is going to be killed next, his actions are perceived as perfectly normal and to be emulated. They all think he’s doing his duty as a father. I wonder what they’d think of him if they knew he’s the real reason Jess’s casket is empty. And I wonder what they’d think of me if they knew I was the last one to see Jess alive.

  At one point during the service I felt Caleb’s hand on my knee. I thought he was trying to console me, but he was just trying to stop my leg from shaking. Even when I’m not aware of it, I’m reacting to losing Jess, to lying about it. Too bad I don’t know how to meditate, transport my mind and soul to a happier place, maybe a place where Jess and I can be together
again and swap clothes and give each other makeovers. Too bad, because that skill would’ve come in handy so I could have tuned out the parade of speakers during the eulogy marathon.

  First Dumbleavy spoke as a representative of Two W and painted a picture of Jess as the model student. It was laughable. Even her parents knew he was embellishing. Jess was a solid B student, a rah-rah girl, but only in the subjects and clubs she was rah-rah about. He did score points when he announced that this year’s play, Miss Saigon, would be dedicated to Jess’s memory. Vietnam is sort of like Japan, so I know Jess was thrilled by this news.

  A few more teachers spoke, and then the mayor droned on. Finally, Archie took the podium, and I could listen again. He misses Jess almost as much as I do, and as expected he choked up a few times. Unexpectedly, he proved to be far more thoughtful than anyone imagined and ended his piece with a Japanese proverb, kishi kaisei, which he explained meant “wake from death and return to life.” If only.

  Some relatives, cousins I think, spoke next and relayed some anecdotes of Jess as a little girl. They described someone very different from the Jess I grew up with, but I figured that was because she acted one way around her family and like herself around me and her friends. They spoke of a girl who enjoyed playing baseball with her brothers and who staged impromptu arm-wrestling tournaments with her uncles. I have absolutely no idea who that girl is. Unless the prize was an all expense-paid trip to the Hello Kitty factory or free MAC products for life, there was no way the Jess I knew would ever do those things. Could it be that Jess was hiding a whole other side of herself from me? Maybe we’re all like that, two separate selves living in one body. I could swear I heard Jess whisper to me that I was correct, that everybody has a secret self, but the voice disappeared when Father Charles called my name. It was my turn to speak.

  Standing in front of Jess’s family and our friends, I felt as empty as Jess’s casket. The honey jar had finally been scraped clean, and there was nothing left inside. What could I say to these people that would make them feel better? What could I say that would make me feel like less of a fraud? Nothing. And so for about half a minute that’s what I said. And half a minute of silence in church when the congregation isn’t joined together in silent prayer feels like an eternity.

  I looked out at the sea of faces, and they were all staring at me, willing me to speak, but I refused. Gazing at their expressions, I could tell no one knew if I had stage fright or if I was about to break down. Neither. I just didn’t have anything to say. Until I saw the Jaffe twins.

  They were sitting next to each other about five rows back on the opposite side from where I was seated. The only reason I noticed them was because unlike everyone else they were talking. They were looking straight at me, but their mouths seemed to be moving in unison; I guess they were talking to each other, some sort of twin-code thing, barely above a whisper. I imagined it was their private form of communication. Whatever they were doing or saying was inspiring, and finally I found the perfect thing to say.

  “I’d like to tell you the story of the bee and the butterfly,” I began.

  Instantly, Nadine’s and Napoleon’s lips stopped moving, as if they knew I was talking about them.

  “A long time ago on a beautiful summer day God created two creatures—the bee and the butterfly—and let them loose upon the earth,” I began. “Even though they shared the same birthday and were both creatures of the wind, they didn’t like each other. The bee found nothing in the butterfly that it could respect, and the butterfly found nothing in the bee that made it smile. They were furious that God had given them the same birthday, binding them together for all time.”

  Another glance over at the twins, and it was like they were illustrating my story perfectly. Nadine was sitting at attention, with perfect posture, while Napoleon was slouched, head tilted, as if lost in a dream.

  “The bee found a place to live immediately, a well-built hive where she could live with other bees and where she found a purpose, and so she was content,” I continued. “The butterfly wasn’t so lucky. He flew for miles scouring the land for a place to settle, and although many places intrigued him and looked beautiful as he whizzed past, no place felt like home.”

  Now the twins sported new expressions. Napoleon looked heartbroken, while Nadine just looked pissed off. If I hadn’t been so intrigued—along with the rest of the congregation—by where my fable was going, I would’ve laughed out loud at how angry she looked.

  “One day as the bee was gathering pollen for her colony, she stumbled upon the butterfly. He was perched on a red rose and was enjoying the view,” I said. “By now the bee was convinced that the butterfly had followed her, and she was driven mad by the prospect of having to spend the rest of her life with such an inferior companion. So while the butterfly fluttered happily on the petal of a rose, the bee stung the butterfly and watched it fall to the ground, watched its fluttering stop, and watched it die.”

  I honestly don’t know if the tragedy of my story touched Nadine personally or if she was upset over Jess’s death, but she was greatly disturbed by what I had said. Once again her lips were frantically moving; I guess she was trying to engage Nap in a dialogue, but he wasn’t playing along. His lips were shut tight.

  “Overcome with grief about her heinous crime, the bee picked up the butterfly with its little claws and carried him back to her hive,” I finished. “And the bee stayed with the butterfly until the day she died.”

  Later on I told everyone that I was describing Jess and how she was really two people. She was the no-nonsense bee who had a strong foundation in Weeping Water and a deep connection with her family. But she was also the whimsical butterfly, someone who wanted to travel the world with her friends, experience new cultures, and have amazing adventures. No one knew that I had been describing Nadine and Napoleon. Except maybe the two of them.

  “That was a beautiful story you told back in the church,” Caleb tells me, his hand gently cradling my elbow. “Where’d you read it?”

  “I made it up,” I say as I toss a cherry blossom on top of my friend’s casket.

  “You did not,” he protests.

  “Did too,” I reply. “I had no idea what to say when I got up there. Why do you think I stayed quiet for so long?”

  The icy dirt crunches underneath our shoes as we walk back to the Sequinox.

  “I dunno,” Caleb replies. “I thought you were collecting your thoughts, summoning up the courage to speak in front of everyone.”

  I shake my head. “Nope, just searching for inspiration.”

  We both turn back as Jess’s shiny pink casket is lowered into the ground.

  “Kinda cool that Jess helped you out when you needed it,” Caleb ponders, incorrectly assuming Jess was the source of my inspiration. “Guess she’s your guardian angel now.”

  A violent wind rips through the cemetery, the scent of cherry blossoms swirling in the air like a fragrant cyclone, and we hurry into the car. Inside the Sequinox the wind is banging against the windows; it’s as if Jess is trying to break through the glass, break through all the physical barriers, and make contact with me. I’m not ready yet. Not until I know exactly what happened the night she was killed. Not until I know if Jess is trying to break through so she can protect me or just the opposite.

  An hour later at the repast I’m still not ready to make contact with Jess; I’m not really ready to make contact with anyone. I’m back to hiding my feelings, keeping the truth to myself, and choosing my words in my head before speaking them out loud. It’s tedious, and it doesn’t feel natural, but I understand it’s the only way for me to keep my family and me safe.

  I know this house like I know my own, so I head for the one place where I know I’ll be safe on a day like this: Jess’s bedroom. I’m wrong.

  “Guess we had the same idea,” Napoleon says as the door closes behind me.

  I try to grab the door before it shuts, but I’m too late; I’m stuck. Stuck in Jess’s bedroom with the
butterfly.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Needed a little quiet time.”

  “Me too,” Nap replies. “I’ve never been to one of these things before. It’s harder than I expected.”

  He really is like a butterfly; it’s amazing. He’s standing still, and yet it’s like I can see his flesh ripple. Like there’s a layer of energy just underneath his skin that can’t be controlled. He would rather be anywhere but here.

  “I didn’t even want to come,” he confesses. “My mother made me.”

  Suddenly I can’t fight the urge to prove that Nadine isn’t the only one who has a good gut instinct. Or who knows how to put her brother in his place.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” I tell him. “Why didn’t you want to come? You were Jess’s boyfriend.”

  Napoleon picks up one of Jess’s many stuffed animals, a porcupine with raised needles all along its back that are merely wires wrapped in black velvet. He runs his hand over the porcupine’s back, and the needles bend and snap back into place.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” he whispers.

  I’m not sure if he’s asking me or the porcupine, but since Porcy’s not going to respond, I answer for both of us. “Sure.”

  “I never felt like her boyfriend,” he admits. “I liked Jess a lot, don’t get me wrong. She was a real sweet girl, real sweet, but . . . but I just didn’t like her that way.” He tosses the toy carelessly onto Jess’s bed with the rest of her stuffed menagerie then stares at me. “Do you know what I mean?”

  Only too well. “I think I do.”

  Slowly, he starts to walk around Jess’s bed, his long, skinny index finger tracing the curves of her footboard. I don’t know if he’s checking for dust or trying to be sexy.

  “You see, there’s somebody else,” he starts, “who, you know, I really like.”

  “But this somebody else happens to be in love with yet another somebody else,” I finish.

  My voice startles Nap, maiming his confidence, since he probably thought his secret was just that, secret. He abruptly stops at the corner of her bed and clutches the wooden frame. His lips are moving again, but no sound is coming out, and I wonder if downstairs Nadine can hear him.