And All the Phases of the Moon

by Judy Reene Singer

  I watched as he made his way down the stairs, first step, second step, cane down, leg swinging out and set down, third step, slowly, carefully. He was so careful. Actually, we had both been careful. There had been no commitments, no declarations. I was merely being kind; and he, grateful.

  But I was struck. My heart felt motionless, like a deer frozen in the headlights of memories. I couldn’t move from the top of the steps. It had been two years since I felt someone’s arms around me. This had been so effortless, so natural, as though it had never been taken from me. He made it safely to the bottom and I ducked into the kitchen, out of the rain, still feeling the strength in his arms.

  A few minutes later, I saw his car light up and pull away. The dog returned; I gently wiped his body dry with a towel, feeling bones and spine under his skin, a mere outline of a dog. I put out the lights and we went to bed.

  * * *

  The room was dark—there was no moon; it was behind clouds. The dog was curled on my blankets sleeping peacefully. I was left alone to think. Sam and I had reached for each other and comforted each other, this one time. It meant I still had a working heart, didn’t it? I felt a spark of hope—I wanted to keep my heart.

  In the end, we were only a man and a woman, both of us bruised and broken, yet it seemed we had also found a small piece of grace.

  And, ha!—we had done it behind the moon’s back.

  * * *

  He called early the next morning; it was barely dawn. Maybe we could spend the day, he asked. I reminded him I had to work. “Okay,” he said, “maybe dinner?”

  “I don’t date,” I reminded him.

  He was just going to get some dinner for himself, he explained. He didn’t want to eat alone. Would I mind just coming along?

  I laughed at this iteration but managed not to give him a definite answer.

  Then I called Shay. It had occurred to me she might not be up to working anymore, and I wanted her to have a good pregnancy. I asked her if she wanted to stay home and rest.

  “I don’t mind working,” she insisted. “I feel great really, except for when I have to puke.”

  * * *

  The dog and I got into my car and I drove to the Galley. Exactly five blocks down Mainsail Road and a right turn onto Beach Six, passing all those houses I knew since childhood, so pink or yellow or blue or sea foam, so perfectly trimmed in white, painted in harmony, with their cerise beach roses and orange daylilies growing like a paschal meditation on life. Now they seemed corrupted, more in rigid lockstep than picturesque agreement. I used to take such pleasure imagining what was happening behind each pastel façade, who was eating breakfast, who was getting ready for work, who would be coming into the Galley for milk and eggs later. I thought I knew them, knew what they ate, and how they thought and what they cared about. My surrogate family, benign, friendly—all of them—visiting the Galley every day. I didn’t have much family, but I had them.

  And now I am thinking how naïve I was. How disappointed I am. For all my silly imaginings about being a part of my town, a part of one big extended family, I am thinking of Tommy, how his behavior had to be learned from somewhere, and how I never really knew my town at all.

  * * *

  Shay came through the door an hour later, holding a homemade bouquet of pink and purple hyacinth and red tulips to replace the wilting daffodils from a few days before. She was in her usual tee with jeans, her black curls tied up in a dozen tiny happy plaid ribbons, like a party. I couldn’t help but notice that her jeans were getting a little snug.

  “Promise you’ll let me know when you get too uncomfortable to work,” I said.

  “I promise,” she said, “but I’m happy to come here.”

  She grabbed the old flowers from the mayonnaise jar. “Always throw out dying flowers,” she announced, rinsing the jar. “They emit negative energy—it’s a feng shui thing.”

  “I should be giving you flowers,” I said, admiring the new ones, looking so fresh and cheerful.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “My heart is filled with flowers.”

  The day flew by. The usual sales, the usual requests, the usual scrutiny from Mrs. Skipper, who warned me that she had heard things about my dog.

  “What things?” I asked her, smiling at her empty statement.

  “Things,” she said, nodding. “Just things.”

  * * *

  Shay had yogurt for lunch while I had the Sandwich. The dog was on his best behavior, and before we knew it, it was closing time.

  My cell phone rang. I had left it next to the cash register.

  “It’s Sam!” Shay called out, grabbing the phone to hand it to me.

  “Leave it.” I didn’t want to talk to him yet.

  Shay raised her eyebrows. “I thought you kind of liked him,” she said, putting the phone back down.

  “I do,” I said. “We’re friends. I want us to just be friends. I think I might have made a mistake.”

  I told her about the previous night. She listened with pursed lips, then giggled. “Yep,” she said. “You kissed the wrong spot, honey. That kiss was a standard sex invitation. Big mistake. Your second one this month—the dog being your first.”

  My hand flew over my mouth, over my offending lips. “Oh God,” I said. “Now I’m mortified. What is wrong with me?”

  She shook her finger at me. “I don’t know. You don’t want to get involved, but you keep acting straight from your heart.”

  * * *

  Sam stopped by before I could close the store. Shay had left a little early; the dog, cued by the sight of my keys, was sitting by the door, and waiting. He leapt to his feet at the sound of the Cadillac pulling up.

  Sam was shining. His thick dark hair was combed and styled, and he had new brown slacks and a yellow shirt that set off his olive skin. Even his cane was polished. He looked happy as I exited the store. I locked the door before pulling the creaking old gate across the front of it and locked that, too.

  “I am taking myself to dinner,” he said with a shy grin. “Maybe you’d like some, too?”

  * * *

  He followed my car, smiling at me in my rearview mirror, parked at my house, and waited in the kitchen, closely monitored by the dog, while I scooted around grabbing up a simple blue dress and sandals, took a quick shower, and emerged from the bathroom, still slightly damp, with makeup more or less in place. He beamed as soon as I entered the kitchen.

  “Wow—you look terrific,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said, wishing it didn’t mean so much to hear that. “So, have you been to Provincetown? I suppose we could go there to eat. It’s about six miles from here.”

  “Haven’t been anywhere yet,” he said. “Except your beach.”

  I grabbed a light jacket and my purse. I never liked eating alone, and was looking forward to the evening. He stepped across the floor to open the back door for us, moving close to me. The dog ran to the door, and I realized that, for the first time, I would have to leave him behind. Alone.

  “Maybe we should take the dog,” I said. “Everybody walks their dog in Provincetown. And there are lots of places we can eat outside.”

  “I would like to spend the evening with you,” Sam replied softly.

  “He’s never been alone,” I worried, staring down at the dog who was now wagging his tail in a slow arc and expectantly staring up at me with compelling almond-shaped pit-bull eyes.

  “He’ll be fine,” Sam reassured me. “He’ll settle in and go to sleep.”

  Sam was probably right. The dog had just eaten a good dinner and had the choice of sleeping on any piece of furniture. He was safe and well cared for. And besides, I thought, what is a pit bull for, if not for protecting an empty house?

  Chapter 15

  Provincetown comes to life at night. P-town, as it is called, is a playful place filled with fun and mischief. The streets are alive with tourists and locals, with families of all colors and combinations. Couples stroll by, men with men,
women with women, straight couples, all of them welcome, and almost all walking dogs of every size and breed, some of them quite au courant in dog fashion. Though everyone uses the sidewalks, it’s practically a tradition to walk down the middle of the narrow streets while cars roll slowly and patiently behind you. The police are always smiling.

  All right, almost always.

  * * *

  I have loved going there since I was a child. And because of the Galley, my family was known by almost everyone. When I was a child, it was fun to play the pianos left out on the streets, watch the street magicians perform, or listen to talented musicians jam in the open courtyards outside the clubs.

  Sam and I had to take a brief walk from a lucky-find nearby parking spot to the small dumpling shop that I chose, just around the corner from the wharf. We were walking slowly, he holding my hand and taking in the dazzling atmosphere as we passed through the one-block theater district that always reminded me of a carnival.

  “Dahling!” I am greeted affectionately by an old friend, Lynne Guini, a drag queen in hot pink feathers that adorned her long sequined cape and tight, skimpy bikini. She was wearing her usual heavy makeup, a big blond wig, and impossibly high hot pink satin platform shoes and dancing in the street hoping to draw people upstairs to the performances. “What are you doing tonight?” She gave me a perfume-drenched hug and Sam a smoldering once-over. “We have new material!” I promised I would attend, not tonight but soon, and before Sam and I had taken a few more steps, her co-dancers, Summer Clearance and Starr Trek, greeted me effusively, with air kisses and finger hugs, while shedding glitter and feathers all over the street. Carmen Dioxide, in red body paint and strategic sparkles, handed Sam a flyer and gave him a long, lingering glance. Sam looked panicked and I just managed to pull him away before Carmen could make her usual offer.

  * * *

  While Sam and I walked, I pointed out every quaint store tucked up and down the cozy side streets that branched off Commercial Street, which ran through the center of town. I know who sells the real jewelry, the best homemade ice cream, where the fudge samples are generous, the locations of the funkiest head shops—courtesy of my grandmother—and where to get free Dramamine for the whale watches. And everywhere we went, I received a warm greeting, a hug, an invitation. And sympathy.

  Sam and I entered the small dumpling shop, inconspicuously tucked in the corner made by two diagonal streets, and were immediately bathed in a cloud of fragrant spices. I come here once in a while to take home a white cardboard box of favorites and bring them home, to sit alone on my deck and eat. The store is rarely crowded and I thought Sam might like that.

  He followed me in, first pausing at the door to quickly glance around. There were only four tiny tables on one side and a high counter with barstools on the other, now occupied by two young men holding hands. Sam chose a table against the wall, hooked his cane over the back of his chair, and sat down.

  I sat across from him. “Why do you do that?” I asked him. “You know, check the room out before you walk in?”

  “Do I?” He looked caught unawares. “I didn’t know I was still doing that.”

  Ling, the owner, interrupted us, greeting me by name. “Aila! So good to see you again,” she said, leaning over to give me a quick kiss on my cheek, then bowing politely at Sam before putting a handwritten menu on the table. We ordered tea and told her we needed a few minutes. I waited for her to leave before I spoke again.

  “You didn’t answer me,” I reminded Sam.

  He stared down at his menu without reading it, reluctant, it seemed, to speak.

  “You do it every time. Even in my house,” I pressed. “Check everything out.”

  Ling brought us a pot of tea and two cups. He waited until she left before he spoke again.

  “You got to have eyes on your surroundings at all times,” he answered slowly. “You got to make sure. Precautionary measures. I can’t stop myself.”

  “In a war zone,” I pointed out. “Which this is not.”

  He shrugged and stirred three packets of sugar into his tea. “That’s how I lost my leg,” he said, so low I could hardly hear him. “They didn’t clear the building and I thought they did. We all overlooked an IED. I gave the signal to leave the building and pick up the wounded.” He stopped abruptly. “So I made a mistake and paid for it. I lost a man, too. We should have stayed in the building, but we got ambushed. I waited with him to be evacuated. He died in my arms. I think about him all the time.”

  “But you’re safe here.”

  “Yeah?” he said, a touch of something—irony—in his voice. “You think so?”

  He picked up his tea, and his sleeve slid back. I noticed the thin silver metal band on his wrist, etched with faded black letters. I couldn’t read it. “What is that?” I asked, reaching out to gingerly touch the worn engraving. “What does it say? KI . . . ?”

  “Corporal Mike Edison—KIA,” he said. “Killed in action. That’s the guy I told you about.” He ran his thumb over the letters, rubbing a circle, then another, then another. “I always wear it. I even have a couple of challenge coins I was going to give him.” He grew somber. His eyes lost their focus, lost in the past.

  “That must be so hard for you,” I finally said.

  “He was twenty-two,” he replied. “He was a kid. Too young.”

  Ah, yes. Too young.

  “I would swap myself for him in a minute,” he said. “Because there’s nothing left of me.”

  I know about having nothing left. I know about death. I know about being too young, though, really, death has no preferences for age or plans or dreams. It harvests without prejudice, without strategy, without care. And it is greedy, always greedy for more, like the killer whales that roam the sea to devour whatever they come upon in their path just because they are hungry deep into their souls and the bait is there.

  * * *

  Ling returned and Sam and I ordered all kinds of dumplings except pork, because Muslims don’t eat pork. The dough was tender and delicately fried, and the fillings were a spicy mixture of chopped chives and meat, mixed with vegetables. Sam stared at his meal, no, past it, no, through it, for a few minutes until I touched his hand.

  “Why don’t you eat before they get cold?” I reminded him. His face snapped awake and he looked down at his plate.

  “Oh,” he said. “Right.” He took a pair of chopsticks from the table, picked up a dumpling, and dipped it into the little bowl of pungent black broth. A few bites and he grinned.

  “Good food,” he agreed.

  We ate in silence. He was enjoying his food but seemed removed. He ate, he commented on its quality, he sipped his tea between bites, but he was absent. His eyes were watching some remote action unfolding in the past, far removed from the little table in the dumpling shop.

  * * *

  Ling made us a special dessert, little dumplings with sweet red bean paste, and Sam’s attention returned. He ate a few and I was pleased that he liked them.

  “Terrific,” he said. “We are definitely coming back.”

  I smiled indulgently and thought that’s what people say on dates, but we weren’t dating.

  We finished our meal—he insisted on paying, even though I had taken out my wallet—then he pulled himself to his feet, picking up his cane and gently guiding me out the door with his hand on the small of my back. “We have to slow down a little,” he said. “But I’m ready for you to show me the rest of your town.”

  * * *

  The sun was setting, washing the sky and the air and the streets pale pink, like the inside of a rose. MacMillan Wharf meets Commercial Street at an odd angle and we crossed together in his now familiar rocking gait, the metallic click of his cane accompanying his every step, as we headed to the pier.

  The ferries and fishing boats were tethered along the wharf, each one next to its own gangplank, a kindergarten of smaller boats tied at one end, rocking gently in their slips, to some unheard lullaby from the bay. Gulls s
at in neat lines on the gunwales and crowded along the boat cabin roofs calling hoarse good nights to one another. A few fishermen had dropped anchor for the day and were traipsing down the ramps carrying coolers. Sam and I stood under the yellow lights of the pier, side by side, to watch as couples leisurely walked by, hand in hand, eating ice cream, bits of their conversation floating behind them like butterflies.

  Sam took my hand and I allowed him. How hungry I had been for the feel of a hand in mine to make me part of a couple. How much I craved someone to eat with me, walk beside me, to hear a voice next to my ear. We stared across the bay for a while, listening to the music coming from the clubs. Sam pointed to the ice-cream shop and raised his eyebrows. I nodded in response. We walked there slowly—the rhythm of his cane, click, click, growing slower and slower. He was tiring and starting to drag his leg. We bought double scoops of homemade pistachio ice cream in sugar cones. I led him across the street to the large courtyard called Portuguese Square in the very center of town, surrounded with red flowering bushes and wrought-iron benches, and we sat and rested and licked our cones in the perfect night.

  “So, you like running the Galley?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s always been my life,” I said. “For a time I ran the science department in a private school in Boston, but I seem to have come full circle.”

  “You were a science teacher?” he asked. I nodded. “You’re a smart girl,” he said approvingly, and it irritated me for the moment that he called me a girl.

  “What about you?” I asked. “What did you do before you went into the navy?”

  He looked across the court.

  “You don’t want me to ask you?”

  “I was a cop,” he finally said. “A cop. I can’t be a cop anymore. I’m nothing.”

  “But you can do other things,” I said. “What else do you like?”

  “What difference does it make?” He suddenly pushed to his feet using his cane and extended his hand to me. “My plans are to take each day as it comes, if it comes. Let’s walk.”