The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  “It was a small thing. I thought nothing of it at the time.”

  “What does this have to do with my grade?” demanded Lori, who’d been growing increasingly impatient.

  “Who gives an excrement?” snapped Warren Grossman. “This is way better than infinitives or whatever.”

  “Thank you for your support, Monsieur Grossman. Mademoiselle O’Neill, the connection—which I admit may be tenuous—will be made shortly. In any case, I did not go to Mexico with Pat and Mark. No big deal. I worked the rest of the summer, then I went back to college for my senior year. Having no hot job prospects when I graduated, I returned to Hughes Aircraft.”

  Mr. Desrosiers paused a moment, then continued, “Walking down the hall my first day on the job, I saw my friend Mark, who greeted me with a handshake. I asked how he’d been, and how Pat was. He dropped my hand like it was a poisonous snake and looked at me. ‘You haven’t heard?’ ‘Heard what?’ I asked.”

  Mr. Desrosiers blinked and stammered, “‘Man…Pat was arrested.’”

  “I knew this was goin’ there! He was like, a perv, right?” said Felix.

  Mr. Desrosiers ignored the comment and continued, “‘Arrested? For what?’ He just stared at me. ‘Turns out, Pat is a stone killer, man. Been wasting people for years. Then he chopped ’em up and put the pieces in trash bags. Dumped ’em in the desert. The last guy was still in the bag when the cops found the body at Pat’s apartment. Know where he got the bags?’ ‘From right here—Hughes Aircraft Company,’ I guessed. He nodded. ‘Yeah. You know how we do things. Mil spec. Ours are the best. Thick. Sturdy. They don’t leak.’”

  “Dude, you’re making this up!” said Felix, grinning nervously. “It’s too Chainsaw Massacre!”

  Mr. Desrosiers shook his head. “Sometimes I think so, too. But it happened. Monsters exist. This one’s name was Patrick Wayne Kearney. There’s plenty on the Internet.”

  “Like…what?” asked Lori, suddenly interested.

  “When they caught him, he’d been at it for over ten years. His targets were young men, mostly hitchhikers. Since Patrick was not physically imposing, he developed a particular method of killing his victims. Driving down the highway, he would steer the car with his left hand, and use his right hand to shoot the passenger through the head.”

  Mr. Desrosiers demonstrated, cocking fingers on his extended right hand. Several classmates took the opportunity to chip in sound effects, including Tom Richardson’s spirited rendition of a machine gun.

  Mr. Desrosiers shook his head. “A .22-caliber pistol is not an Uzi. It makes a discrete ‘pop!’ And it creates no exit wound.”

  “Yo, slugs check in but they don’t check out,” said Lamont.

  “Exactly. Less evidence to clean up,” said Mr. Desrosiers. He continued, “Patrick said in interviews that he’d known since he was eight years old that he would be a killer. And in fact he became the most prolific serial killer in California history. He eventually confessed to thirty-five murders.”

  “Like, you coulda been number thirty-six, know what I’m sayin’?” said Lamont.

  “But you read him, man, you knew!” said Felix.

  Mr. Desrosiers shook his head. “I noticed…something. A very small vibration, just enough to disturb me. But I didn’t know. No one did. Everyone described him the same way. A nice, quiet man. Calm. Reasonable. Perhaps a little dull. A typical engineer. All true, as far as it went. But superficial. Patrick Kearney was most adept at concealing his raging core. Mark had actually given his apartment key to the greatest serial killer in California history. The man had had it for three years.”

  Mr. Desrosiers looked at us with a tired smile. “So, who will google Patrick Kearney tonight?”

  For once, every hand in the class shot up enthusiastically.

  “Then you would say that my story was effective? It held your attention? It made you want to know more?”

  “It made me want to know if you’re lying,” said Warren.

  Mr. Desrosiers shrugged. “This was nonfiction. To compete with reality, fiction writers must have inventive minds. That is what I expect of you. Mademoiselle O’Neill, to be judged of truly high quality, your work must be more than error-free. It must be compelling. Write about something worthy of our interest and tell the story with conviction.”

  Lori O’Neill nodded in agreement. “That’s cool. I can write some sick shit, excuse my French. Maybe even murder.”

  There were general calls of approval from the other students.

  “Just one thing I wanta know, Mr. D. Why do they call them ‘cereal killers’? What does murdering people have to do with corn flakes?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good question, Mr. D,” agreed Warren and several other students.

  Mr. Desrosiers regarded us with some amusement. “Ahhh. That would bring us to a discussion of the deadly homophone—which, by the way, can easily evade the pursuit of the computer spell check.”

  Before Mr. Desrosiers could start his explanation, I raised my hand.

  “Monsieur la lune…” he acknowledged.

  “Uh…I understand you told us this story to inspire us to become better writers…”

  “Oui…”

  “…but don’t you think there are other lessons we should take away from it?”

  Mr. Desrosiers nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps…such as…?”

  Martha Beasley’s hand shot up. “Trust your instincts. You did, and it kept you alive.” Mr. Desrosiers nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Don’t hitchhike,” said Truman Hoyle.

  “Like anyone does,” said Warren derisively.

  “Yeah, but they used to,” said Truman. “My dad did—and he’s always telling me I shouldn’t do it. I guess maybe he’s right.”

  “When you get in a car with a stranger, you are at a big disadvantage,” said Mr. Desrosiers quietly.

  Felix held up his hand. Mr. Desrosiers regarded the student’s mischievous grin warily. “Señor Hernandez.”

  “Always use the best trash bags.”

  The class moaned.

  Lamont Bridges called out, “Spend college years on a jerk-off major, probably wind up with a crappy job that might kill you.”

  The class laughed and Mr. Desrosiers nodded and said with distaste, “You might even end up teaching middle school English.”

  The class erupted into a chorus of vomiting, gagging, and farting sounds. Mr. Desrosiers held his nose dramatically. As the noise subsided I raised my hand tentatively. Mr. Desrosiers nodded.

  “You can never really know another person,” I said.

  Mr. Desrosiers regarded me seriously. “Perhaps not, if, like Patrick Kearney, the individual conceals his essence.”

  “Even if they don’t,” I persisted, “you still can’t really know them.”

  Mr. Desrosiers nodded. “‘Know thyself,’ advised Socrates.”

  “‘Lay low,’ advised Snoop Dog,” yelled Lamont.

  “That, too,” agreed Mr. Desrosiers. Several students launched into a rap, with others bleeping out the frequent obscenities, signaling the end of any serious philosophizing for the day. Mr. Desrosiers gave me an understanding smile and a French shrug, as the bell rang for lunch.

  Chapter Twenty

  Magic Hands

  Moss and I were gradually accepting that our parents’ marriage was ended. This bitter pill slid down more easily with each virgin strawberry margarita we hoisted at Fanatics. The waitresses, bartenders, kitchen staff, and customers had become our extended family—a reassuring network of adults who helped us feel part of something larger and more nurturing than our disintegrated family. In a way, these people also helped us know and understand our father, who was half of the puzzle. For even as Moss and I became reconciled to our parents’ divorce, we struggled to understand what could have ever drawn the two of them together in the first place.

  Most of Moss’s energy went into rolling, so I handled the investigating. Hidden like a private eye behind the cover of my textb
ook in our restaurant booth, I would stakeout my father for hours, studying him as he moved through his domain with the assurance of a giant cat on the veldt.

  Dad’s eyes never stopped moving, alert to customers to be greeted and seated, who might crave another drink, who’d dropped a fork, who wanted a check, who were waiting for their change. He saw plates to be cleared, repairs to be made, a waitress to soothe, a bartender in the weeds. He worked the room with a fluid rhythm, maintaining stability and control. He seemed happy and at peace.

  My father didn’t usually tend bar any more. But one busy Saturday, we were inhabiting our usual booth when the manager, Molly, came to tell him that they had an emergency. One of the bartenders had scarfed a piece of steak off a customer’s plate before it went to the dishwasher.

  “Tony?” asked my dad.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Figures. What a pig. So what’s the problem?”

  “He didn’t chew it good. It won’t go down.”

  “Serves him right. You give him the Heimlich?” asked Dad.

  “No dice.”

  “Is he blue?”

  “No, he’s getting air, but not too good. He’s scared.”

  “Yeah,” said Dad. “It could get worse. He’s gotta go to the ER.”

  “You want me to take him?”

  “No…have Miguel take him.”

  “Miguel?” asked Molly, surprised. “Who’s gonna pour?”

  “I’ll pour.”

  “Solo? We’re swamped.”

  “It’ll be okay,” said Dad, getting up to go to work.

  A minute later the two bartenders went out the front door, Miguel helpfully whacking Tony on the back so hard he almost knocked the smaller man down. Dad ducked under the bar and took over. I watched curiously from my booth, never having seen this side of my father.

  The orders were already stacked up. I could see Dad visibly relax, yet grow more alert as he flipped quickly through them. Then he began to move.

  There was no wasted motion as he glided gracefully around the bar, his large hands quickly icing glasses and, without a glance, finding liquor bottles where he expected them. He poured a line of drinks, topped them with the soda gun, started two blenders, pivoted and hit the coolers for a round of beer bottles, opened them and slid them to the waitresses. The blended drinks finished, he poured them off, filling glasses to the rim without overpour, rinsed the blender cups and readied them for another round.

  Jasmine had told me that my father was a “mechanic,” a bartender known for his ability to work with exceptional speed, precision, and style. I witnessed a man at home and at ease, performing with calm under pressure, confident in his ability. He didn’t rush, but he never stopped or hesitated; he seemed to always be doing several things at once.

  He wasn’t making the winning shot in the last second of the NBA finals, nor was he finding a cure for cancer. But he was doing the job he chose as well as anyone possibly could. He ran the bar with grace and skill and pride, and I was happy for him. And I was relieved.

  Maybe I’ve always worried about my parents; but when they divorced, I became keenly aware of my concerns. Not so much about my mother. But I fretted about my father. Who would take care of him if my mother didn’t? He ignored the interested looks he got from women in the restaurant; polite to them, yet distant, withdrawn. He appeared to have other things on his mind.

  But now, as he took care of business, he seemed to have nothing on his mind. He simply flowed through the night, wiping sweat from his forehead, pulling occasionally on a beer, relaxing into his labor.

  I watched, and realized my attention had gradually focused on my father’s hands. Large, deft, expressive, they roamed the bar, cleaning ashtrays, dealing cocktail napkins, mopping the counter, washing glasses, making and garnishing drinks, always where they were needed, never lingering, never faltering.

  I looked around the bar and restaurant, suddenly struck by something so obvious I couldn’t imagine how I’d forgotten it. This business was, literally, the creation of my father. The counters, cabinets, tables, moldings, doors—they were all crafted by his hands. With tools still in our garage, shrouded and long disused, he had hewn the lumber, formed it, stained and oiled it, and rubbed it to a silken sheen that thousands of customers had burnished over the years.

  I might have been only three years old then, but now the experience returned to me in a rush. My father would start early in the morning and toil late into the night, the garage alive with the roar of his saws, his lathe, his router—off-limits to a little boy, and even to Moss. We were allowed entrance only with our mother, who would serve Dad his meals and bring us to visit. Dad would pause a few minutes to eat at his workbench and we’d linger, savoring the pungent smells of walnut, mahogany, maple, and pecan, the three of us marveling at the product of my father’s hands. When he was done eating, my mother would take his place, resting on a stool at the bench as my father hunched over her, massaging her knotted shoulders, arms, and fingers, my mother sighing with pleasure.

  At home that week I scoured old photos to confirm what I thought I remembered. Wedding pictures, baby pictures—my parents at the beach, at picnics, around the Christmas tree. The evidence revealed a man and woman who, through the camera’s lens, appeared happy together.

  It wasn’t their faces that I studied for confirmation, but my father’s hands, which seemed always entwined with my mother’s, or caressing her shoulder, her hair, her arms. I thought one piece of the puzzle might be falling into place. But I wanted another opinion.

  The next afternoon I taught Jasmine how to solve quadratic equations by factoring. She was delighted that it was so much easier than she had expected.

  “You know what Einstein said,” I teased.

  “Uh, no…”

  I put on a campy German accent. “Quadratics are easy, it’s women I can’t figure out.”

  Jasmine laughed, and cocked her head. “You know what Marilyn Monroe said. ‘Just ask me, Mr. Einstein.’”

  “Okay…it’s about my dad…”

  “Um-hmmm…”

  “Uh…why would women like him?” I asked, suddenly wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

  Jasmine tried to put me at ease. “Your father is a very attractive man.”

  “Why?”

  “The way that he carries himself…with confidence. Why are you asking me this?”

  “I’m trying to understand something,” I said.

  “About your mother and father,” she said. I nodded.

  “Einstein couldn’t figure us out because we’re all different,” she continued. “So this is just what I think. It may have nothing to do with your mother.”

  “Okay. What do you think?”

  Jasmine jotted something on my notebook. “Download this and listen to it.”

  When I got home I went online and found the song. It was by an old band I’d never heard of. I burned it to a CD, and that night I played it for my mother as she was getting ready to go out.

  She looked at me in the mirror as she worked on her eyes. “Where did you get that song?” she asked.

  “A friend gave it to me,” I answered. “Do you know it?”

  “No,” she murmured. She hummed, picking up the tune. On the final chorus she joined in, singing:

  Your magic hands that cast a spell

  The palms I’ve kissed,

  Whose touch I’ll miss,

  Those fingertips that knew me well.

  “You don’t know this song?” I asked again.

  “Maybe I’ve heard it,” she admitted. She dabbed an eye with a washcloth. “Damn mascara.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cougarlicious

  The Amish practice a conservative form of Christianity that might be labeled fundamentalist. Though my mother is not drawn to strict forms of worship, I imagine that if there had been an Amish church in Los Angeles, she’d have dragged me there one of these Sundays. She would not have appreciated their taste in hairstyles and
clothing. However, Amish mistrust of nearly all forms of technology is a belief my mother deeply shares.

  I don’t think Mom would have enjoyed the Dark Ages either per se, but she certainly prefers to live in a world that is not well-lit. Dad had installed dimmers on all the switches, which was a start. But Mom’s new lifestyle required considerably more drama.

  A few months after Mr. Smith’s first visit to our house, he returned to find Moss and me absorbed in our new chore of lighting the dozens of candles which provided the flickering illumination to our castle. These were to be fired-up before any gentlemen callers arrived. Moss and I were running a little late.

  Mr. Smith paused in the doorway, exclaiming, “Egad, gents, has there been a blackout?!”

  “Nope,” said Moss.

  “Hmmm. Forget to pay the electric bill, perhaps? I had a wife who did that once.”

  “Don’t think so,” I said.

  “Just…something she likes, eh?”

  “Now you’re catching on,” said Moss.

  “Well…Caravaggio would have approved, you know. Lighting like this is dramatic.”

  “Mom calls it ‘forgiving,’” I said.

  Mr. Smith snorted. “That, too. Though one might wonder what the point of plastic surgery is if you still need to be forgiven.”

  “You said it, not us,” said Moss.

  “I didn’t hear anybody say it,” I said.

  “Me neither,” agreed Mr. Smith. “Now, have you equipped a seeing eye dog with one of those charming kegs around its neck? Here boy!” he whistled. “No? Well, then I’ll be forced to seek the scotch by Braille.” He began to carefully make his way through the living room and head for the kitchen. “If I can just avoid setting myself on fire, I’m sure we’ll have a nice evening.”

  Mom didn’t like phones much, either. It seemed like the only people calling us on the landline were her union or her school district, both of whom got on her nerves. We kept thinking about having the phone disconnected and just going with our cells, but there was the house alarm, a piece of technology that made Mom feel a little safer.