Luna Rising

by Selene Castrovilla

  She stared at her cell phone until the five gave way to a six.

  No pink line.

  She wrapped the stick in a wad of toilet paper and chucked it in the trash. Then she opened the door and stepped out to face the urgent knocker. It was an old, gnarly, hunched man. “All yours,” she told him, forcing a fake smile. He grunted and shuffled past her, slamming the bathroom door.

  Luna headed down the cereal aisle toward the entrance, past all the people browsing bran flakes and granola.

  She wasn’t pregnant after all.

  And even though it was a relief and certainly for the best, she also felt an overwhelming sadness, like she was grieving for something she’d never had.

  Luna went home to try and write yet again. But Trip kept invading her thoughts. She mostly wasn’t surprised he hadn’t called her back, but part of her was. Her emotions were as complicated as her relationship with Trip.

  She rolled her desk chair back and forth, back and forth. The wooden chair creaked just a little from the pressure; its wheels sank silently into the dense beige and white carpet.

  Luna stared at the blank computer screen and considered Trip yet again.

  Maybe he was like Seth from City of Angels.

  A messenger.

  Sent to teach her what?

  She tried to distract herself by looking at the rippling inlet outside her window. The current was moving toward the right. After all these years, she’d recently noticed that the current changed directions. Didn’t that disturb the fish? What about the ducks? Did they just go with the flow?

  The current seemed so fast lately too, like it had picked up speed. The water used to be so restful. Now it rushed, practically frantic to get wherever it was going.

  Not to the ocean, at least not today—the Atlantic Ocean was to the left. It was a zigzaggy, bending path to the sea, but not that far if you had a boat and knew where you were going.

  Luna didn’t, but she hated the ocean anyway. She hated the way it had of being endless.

  There were no ducks today, but her friend the egret plodded through the marsh grasses that stood sentry at the border between land and water.

  Back and forth, back and forth he went, so slow that in each step he seemed to be awakening from a trance. Always searching for food, waiting for his next tiny meal to swim by and brush against his yellow, stickish legs; barely moving so as not to scare his prey. Every once in a while his head and long white neck would dart into the water and he’d snatch something with his beak.

  You had to hand it to him—he had patience, spending his life practically on pause, all for a bite to eat.

  She looked back at her screen, but it was no use. There was no writing to be done today.

  She decided to try CraigsList again. If she found someone new, she could forget Trip.

  Right?

  She entered the site and placed a “woman looking for a man” ad: “A lot of love to give. Forty-year-old seeks emotionally available divorcee or widower for reciprocal long-term relationship.”

  The sleazy replies rolled in:

  “I’ve got eight inches to reciprocate.”

  “I’m not only available emotionally, I’m available for your pleasure tonight.”

  “Let’s start in bed and see where this goes.” It probably goes on this guy’s hidden webcam, Luna thought.

  Within twenty minutes she’d gotten eighteen replies, all inappropriate and/or riddled with grammatical mistakes. Ugh. She was about to log off her e-mail when another response came in: “Hi. I just read your ad. I’m 36, divorced and have a lot of love to give, too. Hope you’ll write me back  Perry”

  Why not?

  “Glad to hear from you, Perry,” she wrote. “I was beginning to wonder if there were any nice guys left in the world.” She felt a little pang when she hit the “send” button. She still felt loyal to Trip for some insane reason, but luckily there was no time to wallow. It was time to go work out with Joe.

  Of course, Luna discussed everything with her boxing coach/guru.

  Joe scoffed at Luna’s suggestion that Trip was an angel. “That asshole ain’t no angel. He’s a pimp.”

  “A pimp?” Luna was hitting the heavy bag. Jab, Jab, right, right…

  “Well, he’s not really a pimp,” Joe amended. “He’s using a pimp’s technique.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Every woman wants one thing desperately. A pimp finds out what that is and gives it to her. Then, he takes it away. She’ll do anything to get it back.”

  Luna stumbled mid-twist. The heavy bag bopped her right in the face.

  Joe was right.

  Trip had given her what she wanted, then taken it away.

  He’d given her love—in brief moments.

  Luna balanced herself again, and did a combination. Jab, right, jab, right, left hook, right hook, left hook, right hook. The bell rang. “Rest,” said Joe.

  Between heavy breaths, Luna asked, “You think he did that on purpose?”

  “Why does that even matter?” Joe shook his head. “You could spend your life analyzing pricks, but bottom line, they’re pricks. What more do you need to know?”

  “I guess.” But Luna wasn’t absolutely positive that Trip was a prick.

  Joe laughed. “You still got it for him. He must’ve given it to you real good.” The bell rang again. “On the upper cut bag. Go!”

  Luna came home sweaty and exhausted.

  She logged into her e-mail to see if Perry had written back.

  He had: “Good news. There is at least one nice guy left, and I am him. Hope you’ll allow me the opportunity to show you just how nice I am. I’m attaching my photo. Cheers!”

  Perry’s picture looked okay. Blond, Nordic-looking, nice eyes.

  He was no Trip.

  But wasn’t that the point?

  She wrote him back again, and sent her picture.

  Minutes later, he responded again.

  He asked her for a date on Friday night.

  Am I ready for a date?

  She didn’t reply.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Luna decided to talk with Aunt Zelda, who had been pretty passionate towards the other sex in her day. In a recent interview she’d been asked, “What is your favorite sport?”

  She’d replied, “Attracting men.”

  Zelda hadn’t had much luck in the men department. Her first husband, a violinist, had been drafted into World War II and killed in combat within a month of their marriage.

  Her second husband, also a violinist, died of alcoholism in a Las Vegas hotel room while touring with a road production of Jesus Christ Superstar.

  Luna had only been six, but she remembered his violent temper. Sometimes when Luna had stayed with them, she’d woken up in the night because Uncle Toby was screaming at Aunt Zelda, and she could smell the gin on his breath from the top of the stairs.

  Once little Luna had asked, “Why do you love Uncle Toby? He’s so mean.”

  Aunt Zelda had replied, “Child, he plays the fiddle like a god.”

  Aunt Zelda was practicing her fiddle on the stage when Luna walked in.

  “Dearheart!” she called. “I’m just finishing up.”

  Luna sat in a back row and watched Aunt Zelda play. Her fingers moved up and down the strings, while her bow plowed straight across with great gusto. It was a beautiful piece, even though Luna had no idea who had composed it. She’d never had a great interest in music no matter how hard Zelda tried to instill it, and unless it was something she’d heard many times, she was clueless about the composer.

  “Chopin,” Zelda said when she stopped, as if she’d heard Luna’s thoughts.

  She rose from her hard-backed chair and put her violin in its case. Then she strolled down the aisle to Luna and gave her a kiss. “How are you, kiddo?”

  Aunt Zelda didn’t remember Luna’s birthday, because she didn’t do birthdays. If Luna mentioned that it was her birthday, Zelda would write her a check, but she’d never
buy a gift or pick up the phone. She just wasn’t that way.

  “I’m kind of sad,” Luna answered. “I broke up with my boyfriend.”

  “If that made you sad, why’d you do it?”

  Luna told Aunt Zelda the story of Trip. She’d never gone into it before, partly because it was complicated and Aunt Zelda always seemed so bogged down with enough stuff, and partly because she was afraid of what Aunt Zelda would say.

  After hearing the beginning, Aunt Zelda said, “I think he’s afraid. It’s vulnerability.”

  But when Luna told her about how he’d show up in the middle of the night and display no emotions, Aunt Zelda said, “Fuck him! Out! He’s a chiseler wearing at your soul!”

  “I thought you said he was vulnerable.”

  Aunt Zelda shrugged, “He’s a vulnerable chiseler.” She took a swig of the red wine she always had at hand these days. “You know what I’d say to him, right?”

  “I love you, darling, but the season is over.”

  “Right!”

  “Well, the note I wrote him was a bit longer, but that was the gist of it.”

  “Good riddance!” She took Luna’s hand and pressed it—a pretty hard squeeze for an old lady. (Zelda would describe herself as “one tough cookie.”) Then Zelda said, “Although maybe he can’t help his behavior. Each man is the sum total of all that’s happened to him.”

  They were both silent for a moment. Luna considered what Aunt Zelda had said. Did it apply to her, too? Was she the product of all her experiences? Could she somehow add up to more than that? Could she use them to become more?

  But all that was off topic¸ and it wasn’t like Zelda had the answers, anyway. She’d just say something else deep and mysterious if Luna pursued that vein, and Luna already had Jiminy posing enough deep, mysterious things. So Luna said, “I miss Trip. A lot.”

  “Well, you can take him back, but you know what he’s like and you have to accept that. Don’t kid yourself into thinking you can change him.”

  “I know. And that’s why I’m not going to call him.”

  “I think it’s time for you to date someone else. Or a few someone elses.” Aunt Zelda gave her a wink.

  “Someone did ask me on a date…but, I don’t know. It’s so hard to find someone to like.”

  “It’s fucking impossible to find someone to like!” Aunt Zelda declared, taking another big burgundy swig. “So you’re saying that, in addition to loving him, you actually like this Trip, despite all that he’s done?”

  Luna nodded. “I’m sorry…”

  “Never apologize, child!” Aunt Zelda thumped her hand on the table. “You are a loving person who I adore. Plus, you’re pursuing your art, so you can’t go wrong. I applaud you!”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I would still go on that other date.”

  Luna laughed. “Okay.”

  When Luna got home, she wrote to Perry and agreed to go out on Friday night.

  He got back to her within minutes, suggesting Ruby Tuesday’s.

  It was close to home and it had a salad bar, so she replied, “Sure.”

  So now she had a date. She could leave Trip behind.

  Ding! She had a text — from Trip! Was he psychic?

  Before she could tell herself not to read it, she read it: “I miss u.”

  Wow.

  Easy there, Jiminy chided. Remember what he’s like.

  “But he misses me!”

  That’s all well and good. But that doesn’t mean he can give you what you need. You have to recognize the difference.

  She took a deep breath in and let it out. “You’re right.”

  I really love it when you say that, Luna.

  “And I really love you, Jiminy.”

  Luna didn’t respond to Trip’s text. Instead, she hunkered down on her writing.

  He texted again, a few hours later. “I thought about the things you wrote in your letter.”

  Damn. She really wanted to answer him. “But thinking about them isn’t the same as changing, right Jiminy?”

  That’s my girl!

  A third text dinged, just as Luna was going to bed: “I want to try again.”

  She hit REPLY.

  I thought we agreed you were a no! Jiminy piped in.

  “I think he deserves an answer,” she said. “I’d sure want one.”

  She typed: “No. Sorry, but you’re out of chances.”

  Trip responded: “I can change.”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “Try me.”

  “Too late. I have a date on Friday night.”

  There was no reply for about fifteen minutes. She thought he’d given up. Then he wrote, “Let me coach you on dating.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why? I’m a guy. I can help.”

  Luna didn’t think he could help her date, but he could help her out bed until the time was right to sleep with Perry—if ever. She wrote, “I don’t want to date you or have your advice, but I wouldn’t mind if you made half-love to me.”

  “Half-love?”

  “That’s what I called it when we had sex. Except now it’s not going to be half-love anymore. Not it’s just sex. Friends with benefits. Deal?”

  He didn’t answer for a while. Then finally he responded, “Deal.”

  They decided he would come over on Friday night.

  Friday night arrived, and Trip was actually on time. He knocked on the back door, and Luna jolted from the noise. Honestly, she thought she still had at least an hour to write — judging by his previous track record.

  A blast of cold hit her as she creaked open the door, raising hairs on her bare arms and goose bumps on the nape of her neck. Winter’s last stand, holding out against spring.

  Leaning on the edge of the doorway with his arms folded, Trip gave her the same quirky smile he’d shared in Starbucks the night they’d met. It was kind of sweet. His eyes gave out a sexy spark, but he also had a hesitant look—like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen in the dilemma of whether to run forward or go back.

  She’d really hurt him.

  And he’d hurt her.

  They’d resolved nothing, except for the fact that they fucked well together.

  For tonight, that was enough.

  He sauntered in, and the wind blew the door closed behind him.

  Luna clicked the lock, twisted the knob to double-check, and padded across the carpet behind Trip. Neither said a word.

  They headed upstairs, Luna still following Trip. The stairs creaked. It seemed like they groaned with each step.

  Trip groaned too as he kicked off his sneakers onto Luna’s bedroom rug and stripped out of his thermal jacket, T-shirt, jeans and tube socks.

  He looked at Luna hesitantly. “Do you suppose…Could I still get a massage? Just to unwind?”

  Luna nodded. The truth was, she enjoyed massaging Trip. It was nice to relax him. She could do it as just friends. Professional masseuses did it all day long to people without any emotion or attachment.

  “Thanks.” He stretched across her bed, stomach and face down, sinking into her comforter.

  Luna took off her oversized NYU T-shirt and Happy Bunny skull-and-crossbone pajama bottoms, dropping them on top of Trip’s things. His clothes reminded her of how he’d never left anything with her—not even sweatpants. The times he’d brought them with him, he’d stowed them away safely in his backpack when he left in the morning.

  Trip was nomadic, wandering with his toothbrush tucked in his backpack’s side pocket, blue bristles peeking out like the face of a papoosed babe. That toothbrush was probably the closest thing to a baby he was going to get. He might’ve said he wanted a family that night they’d met, but his actions had done everything possible to avoid it.

  Luna straddled Trip’s back, smoothing her hands across his tired muscles.

  When he rolled over and took her, it was in haste. It wasn’t a good haste, springing from mutual urgency. This was an impersonal hast
e, in which everything seemed to be on fast-forward.

  He cut right to the chase, entering her immediately. This might’ve turned out all right still, but it was quickly over.

  He let out a grunt and fell backward off of her, plopping into the pile of throw pillows propped against her baseboard, his head landing right on top of poor Fred.

  Next thing she knew, he was snoring.

  Loudly.

  Luna sighed.

  Trip was a ragpicker, a hobo, just like Dylan had said.

  Except Trip stored his rags internally, piled inside, insulating and muffling his heart.

  He was lying the wrong way on the bed, his feet pressed against her butt, his head snuggled on Fred. Twiggy orange legs with webbed feet splayed out from under Trip’s chin.

  The wind outside beat at the two glass doors leading to the balcony, huffing and puffing only to be contained in plastic bubbles. Luna’s sealant sheets had made it through the season without any tears. The wind shrieked; the plastic crinkled with every expansion and contraction. She’d gotten used to sound. The instructions had said to shrink the plastic taunt with a hair dryer, but Luna didn’t own one.

  A train horn shrilled. The tracks were across town, near where Nick lived, but the inlet carried noise, sometimes delivering warning blasts through the quiet as if the train actually approached her home.

  Sometimes—like tonight—she could even hear the train’s body rattling down the tracks.

  The ragman slept, fitfully jerking every so often, whistling out his breaths.

  If this was the way things were going to be between them, he could go fuck himself.

  FORTY-NINE

  At seven a.m., Trip groaned again and rose. It was weird how he made noise climbing in and out of bed, but he was stone silent during sex. “Gotta go to work,” he said, putting on his clothes. She thought he was going to leave, but he reached out and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry I let you down…last night, I mean. I was beat. I’ll make it up to you Sunday night.”

  She looked him in the eyes. “Will you?”

  She saw something so sincere in Trip’s eyes that she thought maybe, just maybe, he actually cared about having let her down. Then the wind made the plastic wrap flap. Perfect timing for him to look away. “I’ll take care of this for you, when I come back.”