The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

I thought about my time at the Fellowship Center and shook my head. “The Buddhists I know didn’t seem much like this. I have no idea if they share any of the same ideas.”

  “Some, no doubt,” he said. “But you’re aware there are as many different sects of Buddhism as there are of Christianity.”

  “And that’s a shitload,” I said, the profanity escaping before I could choose a more appropriate word.

  “Precisely,” he said. As usual, Mr. Smith took it all in stride.

  We watched as the design slowly grew. Then Mr. Smith put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve got to get to Beverly Hills for a showing. Have you any interest in seeing how this all comes out?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  He nodded. “What if we come back next Sunday to see the finished product and the dismantling ceremony? It’ll take a few hours.”

  “Can I bring someone?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “Perhaps your mother will be available as well.”

  “Uh…”

  Mr. Smith gave me a thoughtful look, then said, “On second thought, let’s just make it the three of us, then. You, your friend, and me.”

  The finished mandala was an enormous, colorful, incredibly complex design. Mr. Smith, Jasmine, and I gazed at it, then Jasmine quietly said, “It’s so colorful.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “They used every crayon in the box.”

  “The one with forty-eight colors,” she said.

  “Or even ninety-two,” said Mr. Smith.

  “Uh, ninety-six,” I corrected. “Crayons always come in multiples of eight or twelve. Ninety-six is actually a multiple of both.” Jasmine gave me a look. “Sorry.”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Smith. “I stand corrected. Speaking of large numbers, if you look closely you should be able to make out 722 individual deities.”

  “I couldn’t even do ‘Where’s Waldo,’” laughed Jasmine. “So I don’t think I’ll find them all.”

  “Maybe just the guy in the middle,” I suggested. “He’s supposed to be Buddha.”

  “Is he, like, their God or something? My mom always said you should rub his belly and make a wish,” said Jasmine.

  “My mom said that, too,” I agreed.

  “People have quite a proclivity for wishful thinking, don’t they? Blow out the candle and make a wish. Throw in a penny and make a wish. Rub a statue’s belly and make a wish,” said Mr. Smith.

  “Can you imagine someone rubbing Jesus’ stomach?” asked Jasmine. “Instead of good luck, they’d probably get killed.”

  “It would be ill-advised,” said Mr. Smith. “But Buddha is not the Buddhist God. The term means, ‘One who is awake,’ or, as we would say, ‘enlightened.’ In fact, there were many recognized Buddhas, some of whom did not take themselves too seriously.”

  There was music from the monks, more questions from Jasmine and me, and more answers from Mr. Smith. Then the monks got out their brooms. With their typical efficiency, they neatly swept up every grain of colored sand they’d spent the last eight days painstakingly arranging into an amazing design. In a few minutes it was gone, the remains packaged in Ziploc baggies that were distributed to the audience. I looked at the muddy swirl I held in my hand.

  “I kind of feel like someone died,” I murmured.

  Mr. Smith nodded. “Ashes to ashes, and all that. I think you’ve got the point.”

  “What are they going to do with that?” asked Jasmine, pointing to a large urn one monk held while another poured the remaining sand into it.

  “Ah! That’s meant to be taken to the Santa Monica beach, where it will be thrown to the waves to bless the fish,” said Mr. Smith. “We’re invited, if you’d like to go.”

  I looked to Jasmine, who nodded. “We’re in,” I said. Jasmine excused herself to use the bathroom first. Mr. Smith and I waited awkwardly, then he cleared his throat and said, “She is quite lovely.”

  Jasmine and I hadn’t been touching each other or anything, but I guess he could see there was something between us. “Mom would say she’s way too old,” I replied.

  “What would you say?”

  I wedged my hands in my pockets, thinking this was not my favorite subject. “I am a lot younger.”

  “Ah…you’re an old soul, Moon. That’s what counts. And she is certainly fond of you.”

  I shrugged, and Mr. Smith gestured at the monks. “Have you learned nothing from this? Live in the moment. Embrace the impermanence of life.” He clapped me on the back and added, “And don’t tell your mother. I certainly won’t. None of her business, really.”

  When Jasmine returned we piled into Mr. Smith’s car and followed about thirty other vehicles in a caravan to the Sand and Sea Club in Santa Monica. There, surrounded by bodybuilders, beach bunnies, roller skaters, bike riders, and homeless people who looked on with curiosity, the brightly robed monks flung the gritty remains of the Wheel of Time to mingle with less distinguished sand in the Santa Monica Bay. Then they seated themselves and began a prayer for the well-being of us all. As we lowered our heads, Jasmine discretely moved next to me and took my hand. After a moment, I reached for Mr. Smith’s.

  The sonorous drone of the monks’ deep voices enveloped us with their benevolence. The best I could, I opened my senses to enjoy and record every detail of this fleeting, wonderful moment on the beach, knowing we’d never have another like it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Fortunately/Unfortunately

  My first grade teacher was named Miss Marsh. She was very tall and smiled a lot, but I knew that she was not happy about anything that would bring joy to her students.

  I didn’t trust Miss Marsh and I was afraid of her. Her eyes bored right through me with a knowing stare that penetrated to my evil first-grader core. Her gaze evoked shame and confusion. So I stopped looking up at her face, which was kind of like peering to the top of a towering redwood tree, anyway.

  Instead I spent most of my time looking at her calves and feet. Miss Marsh always wore stockings and high heels. She mashed her feet into shoes that were far too small, and then compounded the self-inflicted torture by the ridiculous angle the heels forced on her feet and legs. Riding the prolonged acid trip of early childhood, I would meditate on Miss Marsh’s legs, wondering why she was punishing herself, and if her pain was responsible for her perpetual ill-humor.

  Since I avoided eye contact, I was often chastised for not listening to the teacher. But I was listening. At least once a week, Miss Marsh would read us her favorite book, which was called Fortunately. Then we’d play a game inspired by the pattern of the story, in which the class and Miss Marsh would compose a story together, alternating sentences. It would go something like this:

  Chris: Fortunately, Jennifer got a new bike

  Miss Marsh: Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to ride it.

  Barbara: Fortunately, the bike had training wheels.

  Miss Marsh: Unfortunately, it didn’t have brakes.

  Greg: Fortunately, there was no one in Jennifer’s way.

  Miss Marsh: Unfortunately, there was a wall—and she smashed right into it.

  And so it would go: for every fortunate turn of events, Miss Marsh would add an unfortunate complication to the story. As the narrative developed, the tension would steadily mount, with Miss Marsh inventing increasingly dire dilemmas that challenged the class’s resourcefulness to conjure amazing ways to save the protagonist du jour.

  Though the picture book happily concluded with a final fortunate occurrence, our games did not. Miss Marsh always wound up with the last word, ending things on a frustrating unfortunate note. She would smile with malevolent satisfaction as her students—initially seated in their best criss-cross-applesauce posture on the classroom rug—wound up writhing at her feet, deliciously frustrated that their best efforts were once more thwarted by their teacher’s relentless ability to foretell disaster.

  I now realize this routine served as a form of brainwashing, which, at least in my case, suc
ceeded in its objective. I began to view life as a series of events in which nothing good occurred without subsequent catastrophe. In Miss Marsh’s fairy tales, the heroes always wound up living “unhappily ever after.”

  Just as prison has its own currency, so, too, does first grade. Along with pencils, erasers form the backbone of the little kid economy. At the beginning of the year, every student was issued a ration of one gum eraser, which was intended to last all term. Like millions of children before and after us, our immediate action was to hold the erasers to our noses and inhale deeply. Ah, the smell of money!

  Some kids developed such a reverence for their eraser that they refused to use their own, perpetually cadging one from their friends. I, however, did not use mine for a different reason: it was missing. This loss provoked guilt, insecurity, and a total dependence on Ellen Stacy, a blackmailing cutie pie who sat next to me. In return for the use of Ellen’s eraser, I was forced to commit one of the seven deadly sins of elementary school: I had to let Ellen copy my paper.

  The stress of the situation finally drove me to Miss Marsh for resolution. I explained the situation to her and she smiled knowingly.

  “Fortunately, I gave you an eraser,” she said. This was novel. Miss Marsh was reversing roles with me. But I was game.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t find it.”

  She nodded. “Fortunately, Ellen will let you use her eraser.”

  “Unfortunately, I have to let her copy my paper,” I concluded, certain this could not be the end of the story.

  But it was. Miss Marsh gestured expansively to indicate that the matter was resolved. It simply wasn’t conceivable for her to say something like, “Fortunately, I can give you another eraser.” All stories concluded with “unfortunately” and this tale could end no other way.

  I marvel at people who adopt the opposite point of view, seeing good fortune in every crisis. Hit by a car? I was lucky—it coulda been a bus. A hurricane wipes out New Orleans. Nature’s form of economic stimulus—think of the jobs it’ll take to rebuild. Falsely convicted of manslaughter? Take up bodybuilding and catch up on your reading. Your five-year-old daughter dies of cancer. God took her to a better place with Him.

  These relentlessly upbeat individuals genuinely seem to be comforted and reassured by their faith that the last line in the story will begin with the word “fortunately.”

  Unfortunately, I don’t believe that.

  This was on my mind as our domestic situation began to contort under the weight of Mom’s bizarre social life.

  Fortunately, Mom did not go out with Lance again.

  Unfortunately, she became a serial dater of a slew of equally abhorrent man-boys.

  Fortunately, Moss and I saw less of this revolting spectacle since we now began to spend every weekend with Dad, giving Mom more “space.”

  Fortunately, Dad was careful never to inquire into Mom’s affairs, so when we were with him we could make like ostriches and pretend none of this was going on.

  Fortunately, I was still tutoring Jasmine, which obviously would tend to take my mind off anything less pressing than the detonation of a nuclear device in my immediate vicinity.

  Fortunately, Moss was deep into his skating and preparing for the Free Flow finals, so he was in a good place, too.

  One Saturday night Moss and I were at our usual table at Fanatics. I was working on an essay about A Tale of Two Cities and Moss was “reading” US history. Naturally, it was not holding his attention, and he spent most of his time gazing into space.

  Suddenly he elbowed me, murmuring. “Bro, it’s the Boobster.”

  “Betty Bridges, here?” I gulped out.

  “Coming this way. Quick!” he said, sliding under the table. I followed suit and joined Moss on the floor.

  We crouched and waited for Betty to pass, but instead of walking by us, she stopped.

  “Hey, there’s a table here, they just have to clean it,” she called, oblivious to the textbooks still lying open.

  “Look closer, you fool,” breathed Moss. I stifled a giggle.

  “Hey, can you clear this table? We’ll sit here,” suggested Betty. A waitress’s shapely legs appeared beside Betty’s. I recognized them as Jasmine’s. Somehow I had regressed to first grade, once more obsessively focused on women below the waist.

  “Before and after,” observed Moss.

  “I prefer before,” I whispered.

  “No doubt. But there’s always the Boobster’s better half,” whispered Moss.

  “More like three-quarters,” I whispered. Moss snickered.

  “This table’s taken, miss,” said Jasmine.

  “I don’t see anyone,” said Betty.

  “Maybe they’re in the bathroom. It’s the owner’s sons. They always take this table,” said Jasmine. I cringed, not exactly sure what we had to hide from Betty, but pretty sure it was something.

  “Oh, I know them,” Betty said brightly. “I’m a friend of their mother.”

  “Oh,” said Jasmine. From her tone I could tell she realized it was time to stop being so helpful. “Uh, a customer needs me,” she said and scurried away.

  “Hm. I wonder where they are,” said Betty, continuing to think—if you can call it that—out loud. To our relief, her legs took off back the way they had come.

  Moss looked at me. “We’re busted. Let’s brazen it out.”

  “Yeah. It looks bad to be hiding under a table, don’t you think?”

  “Exactly. Like we’ve got something to hide.”

  “Right. What have we got to hide?” Neither of us made a move. Since Moss was the big brother I figured he had the honors. “See if it’s clear.”

  Moss wriggled up the bench and stuck his head out. “Olly olly oxen free,” he muttered.

  I pulled myself up and promptly got back to work on my essay, just as Betty flounced over with a girlfriend.

  “Moss and Moon, I’ve been looking everywhere for you two,” she said, peeved but pleased.

  “Why, as I live and breathe, it’s Betty Bridges,” said Moss. “Looking succulent as usual. Who’s your little friend?”

  Betty grinned. “This is Paulette. We came to watch the game.”

  “As did we.”

  “Are you Lakers fans?” I asked.

  “No,” said Betty.

  “Warriors fans?” suggested Moss.

  “No,” said Paulette.

  “You heard there were cute guys here,” I said.

  “You know me,” said Betty.

  “I’m not one to judge, girls, but I think you heard wrong,” confided Moss.

  “But the food and drinks are good,” I said.

  Betty noticed the blended beverages on our table. “What are you having?” she asked.

  “Smoothies. Strawberry banana,” I said.

  “There’s no liquor in them?” asked Betty.

  “Betty, we’re not of legal age,” said Moss. She looked unconvinced and Moss held out a glass. “Please, have a taste.”

  Betty took the glass and sipped. “Well, I don’t taste anything,” she admitted. She held the glass out to Paulette. “You try.”

  Paulette made a face. “I don’t want a smoothie.”

  Betty rolled her eyes and gave the glass back.

  “We’ll take a breathalyzer, but a blood test is out of the question,” I taunted. But Betty wasn’t letting it drop.

  “I don’t think you’re even supposed to be in a bar,” she accused.

  “That could be true,” said Moss, “but this is a restaurant.”

  “That serves alcohol,” said Betty.

  “Or you wouldn’t be here,” I pointed out.

  “Got that right,” said Paulette. “When are we gonna get some?”

  “In a minute,” said Betty, then turned back to us. “I don’t think it’s legal for you to be in here,” she whispered.

  “Betty, relax. Dad’s got a pinkie,” said Moss.

  “A what?”

  “A pink liquor license,” I said. �
�It’s what they call a ‘type forty-seven,’ for a restaurant. And under a type forty-seven, minors are allowed.” Moss and I had been somewhat concerned about this ourselves, and had done our homework. If you sound like you know what you’re talking about, it’ll deter most harassment.

  Moss opened his history book. “Well, we have some homework to finish, so why don’t you two run along and have a good time?”

  “Okay,” said Betty dubiously.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Paulette.

  “Absolutely,” said Moss.

  The two women headed for the bar. Moss and I looked at each other.

  “That wasn’t good,” I said.

  “No, not good,” Moss agreed.

  Unfortunately.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dakota

  Moss and I had a rating scale for our parents’ fights which we based on different types of severe weather. Conflict between our mother and father disturbed the atmosphere of our lives, so we thought of each fight as a storm. It could be a little scary, with thunder, lightning, high winds, driving rain—but it might blow over in a day, leaving rainbows, blue sky, and sunshine. A conflict of this variety we classified as a squall. Squalls featured a fair amount of emotional venting, but nothing that inflicted lasting damage to our world.

  There was also an ice storm, when one or both of our parents became so upset that they would stop communicating at all for several days. They would go through the bare motions of domestic life, either with suppressed rage or obvious depression, and we would do our best to maintain a safe distance. When frost blanketed our land, we used care in motion to avoid painful slip-ups that could be hazardous to our health.

  Then there were the hurricanes. These fights packed a wallop and produced serious devastation that could last for months. They were so significant that, like their meteorological cousins, Moss and I gave them human names. This made it easier for us to talk about them historically, since we could refer to “Hayden,” the fight that happened after Thanksgiving three years ago; or “Skyler,” which took place on Mom’s fortieth birthday; or “Angel,” which ruined last Christmas. It also gave us an illusion of control, since we were in charge of the rating and the naming, applying politically correct gender-neutral monikers. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much all we could do—just like folks trapped by a major tempest couldn’t flee for their lives and had to batten down the hatches to ride it out.