The Eclipse of Moonbeam Dawson

by Jean Davies Okimoto

  “Hello.”

  “This is Jim Goltz. I’m calling for the Dawsons.”

  “This is me, Moonbeam. Hi, Jim.”

  “Hi, son, is your mother there?”

  “She and Harvey went somewhere; they’re supposed to be back around noon.”

  “Well, I can tell you anyway. We’d like you to work for us at the lodge. In fact, the sooner you can start, the better.”

  “Oh, man, that’s great! When do you want us?”

  “Actually, tomorrow.”

  “Cool!”

  “We need you in the kitchen, where you’ll probably do a bit of everything, dishwasher, prep person, some bussing.”

  “Hey, you name it. I’ll do it.”

  “We could also use your mother in reservations and reception. She mentioned yesterday that she had worked at the Empress. That’s about the best reference we could have. But we need to formally process her application.”

  “Great! What time do you want us to come tomorrow?”

  “First thing in the morning, then if you want to live in the employee apartments we can—”

  “We do, we do. That’s exactly where we want to live.”

  “Then you can move your stuff in, get settled, and be ready to work on the dinner shift.”

  “I don’t have that much stuff. I could probably be ready to work lunch.”

  Jim laughed. “Dinner’s fine. The first day is more like on-the-job training and Saturday we’ll go over your questions, then take you in town to get the clothes we require for work in the dining room. Unless you already have black slacks and a white shirt?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “We’ll get you set up. Just be at the boat at the same place tomorrow at nine o’clock.”

  “Okay, and uh, Mr. Goltz?”

  “Jim.”

  “Right. Jim. Well, there’s just one thing. I’m going to change my name. It’s not going to be Moonbeam anymore.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Maybe you could just call me Dawson, until I get it figured out?”

  “Sure, Dawson. Whatever you say, as long as you can handle the work in the kitchen I don’t care if you want to be called Humpty Dumpty.” Jim chuckled. “See you in the morning, Dawson.”

  Moonbeam hung up the phone and pounded his fist on the counter. “Y-E-S!” Then he grabbed another piece of pizza. He chewed the pizza, bounced an imaginary basketball, and took his famous hook shot. He could just see himself shooting hoops at Stere Island Lodge, hanging with all his new friends who worked there. He stopped and looked out the kitchen window at Kathryn Bay. Humpty Dumpty. I’m sure. Not funny, buddy. And I’m not your son. But, he grinned, you’re the boss. And I’ve got the job!

  Moonbeam finished his breakfast, threw the empty pizza box in the trash, and decided to hitch out to Long Beach. It would be a good place to think about his new name and there didn’t seem to be any point in hanging around Harvey’s place. Besides, it would be another few hours before his mum got back and he could tell her the great news.

  Hitchhiking was a common form of transportation around Tofino. It was the kind of place where people assumed they had more to fear from nature, from wild storms and getting lost at sea, than they did from their fellow humans. Moonbeam figured it was fine to hitch, although his mother had a real thing about it. Growing up in a city in the States, her fear was deeply ingrained. Evil can happen anywhere, she always cautioned him. Although when he got to be in his teens, she finally gave in. As long as he promised never to hitch alone, to always be with at least one other guy.

  Well, my name’s not the only thing I’m going to change, Moonbeam thought as he left Harvey’s place and walked toward the road. There’s no other guy around, so I’m hitchin’ solo.

  He stuck his arm out and walked briskly along the road south to Long Beach. They had camped there when they were here in ninety-three. It was an exquisite stretch of hard-packed white sand adjacent to a Native village on the Esowista Reserve that had existed there for hundreds of years.

  Moonbeam heard a car and began walking backwards, so the driver could see him. He tried to look like a decent, friendly person who would be most grateful for a lift. He knew that usually the locals gave each other rides, since everyone knew everyone else in a small town, or at least had seen each other around. Maybe the driver would think he looked familiar. He wanted to look like he belonged here. The car got closer. It was a late-model Honda, a woman by herself. No use. Moonbeam put his hand down.

  In a few minutes he heard another one. Walking backwards, he thought it looked like there were two people. Maybe this would be it. He stuck his hand out and smiled like a friendly guy. There were two of them, a couple in a shiny Dodge van who didn’t give him so much as a glance. Moonbeam turned around and kept walking, noticing the California plates. It figures, he thought. Tourists would never stop.

  Maybe the third time’s the charm, he hoped as he heard another car. Moonbeam turned around for his backwards walk, which he was now perfecting, to see that it was a truck. Not only was it a pickup, but it was slowing down! All right! Slowing down and pulling right over. The driver, a burly guy wearing a baseball cap, motioned for him to get in.

  “Hey, thanks.” Moonbeam opened the door.

  “Where to?” The guy looked in the rearview mirror as Moonbeam hopped in, then pulled out into the road.

  “Long Beach.”

  “That’s easy. I’m going to Port.”

  “Are you from around here?” Moonbeam asked.

  “Ukee. Been here most of my life.”

  Moonbeam had actually never been to Ucluelet. He had seen the billboard, UCLUELET: EXPERIENCE LIFE ON THE EDGE, advertising the attraction of Ucluelet’s location on the edge of Pacific Rim Park. But most people in Tofino added the phrase “of a clear-cut” to the slogan. Directly across Ucluelet Harbour stood a hideous monument to clear-cut logging, Mount Ozzard. Its barren earth, scarred with desolate stumps and the debris from the mountain’s pillage, suggested the devastation of a war; far from attracting tourists, it repelled many, who flocked to Tofino at a rate of about ten to one.

  “I’ve never been to Ukee,” Moonbeam said, using the town’s nickname.

  “Where you from?”

  “I lived near Heather Mountain for a while, but I’m going to be from here. I’m moving to Stere Island tomorrow. Got a job at the lodge.”

  “I hear it’s quite the place.”

  “Sure is.” Moonbeam smiled. “Say, do you know anything about Ellis Lake?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like why somebody would go there?”

  “As far as I know there’s just a campground on the north end. And that hippie place on the south shore. Got a lot of tree huggers and granolas living in shacks there, that’s about all I know.” He pulled over to the side of the road. “Here’s the road to the beach. It’s a little less than a kilometer in.”

  “Okay, thanks a lot.” Moonbeam jumped out and waved as the guy pulled out into the road.

  Must be a logger, Moonbeam thought, as he watched the truck pick up speed as it rounded the corner then disappeared out of sight. Tree huggers were what they called the environmentalists, and Moonbeam was glad the guy hadn’t asked him his name. His new name was going to be a regular name, that was for sure. Tom Dawson had sounded pretty good when he imagined being in the nice foster home with the beautiful daughter, Andrea. But he wasn’t sure that was the one he definitely wanted to settle on for his new life at the lodge.

  The wind was stronger as Moonbeam walked across the parking lot and along the trail to the beach. As he got closer to the end of the trail, the roar of the ocean got louder. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the salty ocean air, then climbed across the huge driftwood lots that had been tossed against the bank from countless winter storms. Shading his eyes he looked north, wondering if he could see Stere Island from here. He could hardly believe it. They’d only left Heather M
ountain three days ago and they already had jobs, and not just dumb jobs. Jobs at this fantastic place! What luck!

  Moonbeam picked a stick from the driftwood debris and walked across the wide expanse of beach closer to the water where the waves broke over the hard-packed wet sand. He wrote his last name in the sand in big letters. D … A … W … S … O … N … and then began thinking of possible first names. Something quite ordinary and easy to say. Like maybe Tim or Bill or Bob, he decided. Then he took the stick and pulled it through the wet sand, carefully writing the letters of each name.

  TIM DAWSON

  BILL DAWSON

  BOB DAWSON

  After writing each entry, he stood back and studied the names in the sand, trying them on for size.

  Boring. They were all boring. Maybe a name from sports or some kind of hero would be better than these names. Moonbeam had been a big hockey fan when they lived in Victoria. Even when they lived on Heather Mountain, he and Meadow MacLaine still tried to keep up with the NHL. Meadow’s father had a radio that was pretty good, and they could get the games to come through if they took it to a clearing near the highway about a mile from the commune. It was so great sitting out there at night with Meadow, bundled up, stomping up and down to keep warm, and yelling their heads off for the Canucks. Maybe he should think of some of the really all-time-great hockey names. People like Bobby Orr, Gordy Howe, Phil Esposito, Wayne Gretsky (although he had never forgiven him for leaving Canada), and Mario Lemieux. Mario Dawson? Gordy Dawson? Phil Dawson? Hey, maybe he should let fate decide. He would write the initials of each name in the sand where the waves washed up and the first name to be touched by a wave would be the one. Fantastic! His new name chosen by Neptune, God of the Sea.

  Moonbeam trotted to the edge of the water and carved a G for Gordy (as in Gordy Howe) and D for Dawson. He stood with his back to the sea, bent over the sand, so engrossed in carving the initials that when a large wave rolled in, breaking higher on the sand than any of the others, he got caught. Drenched. Completely soaked up to his shins.

  “So much for letting fate decide.” He trudged back through the sand, his shoes squishing water with every step. Moonbeam looked down at his water-logged feet, imagining a pair of fantastic new shoes. Cool! With this new job there’d be money to get some incredible shoes. Like the players on the Grizzlies wear. It was so great that Vancouver was one of the first Canadian cities to get a team in the NBA. Maybe he could go to Port on his day off with his new friends and watch their games on TV and buy a Grizzlies T-shirt when he got those shoes.

  Climbing back over the driftwood at the edge of the beach, he turned to look back at the ocean once more before setting out on the trail. The wind had picked up and the waves rolled into the shore, the white cascading foam spreading in great arcs far up onto the sand. And surfing, too. He’d buy a fantastic board and a wet suit and he and his new friends would head to the beach on their days off. By then he would have forgiven Wayne for leaving Canada and his new name would be Wayne G. (for Gretsky) Dawson. His new friends would call him Wet and Wild Wayne Dawson. He’d be a surfer king. Yes, he definitely liked the sound of that. Wet and Wild Wayne Dawson, King of the Surf.

  Moonbeam jogged along the road, deep in thought imagining surfing with his new friends. Many of these new friends were girls who looked wonderful in their wet suits and in the little bathing suits they wore under the wet suits. Maybe one of these new friends would ask him to help her zip up her wet suit.

  “Hey, Wet and Wild Wayne,” she’d smile sweetly at him, “give me a hand with my zipper, will you?”

  “Yeah, Surfer King,” her beautiful friend would add, “me, too. I need a little help with my zipper. I seem to be all thumbs.”

  Moonbeam saw himself reaching for their zippers, helping them get the tight black suits closed around their beautiful bodies in their little bathing suits, when he heard the sound of a loud crashing.

  Oh no, she’s right. Never should’ve hitched alone. Maybe it’s that logger guy, come back for me. He found out we were at the protests in ninety-three and he’s going to hit me over the head with his hatchet … then get out his chain saw! More rustling, then another loud crash. Moonbeam froze and stared into the brush.

  A black bear stared back at him. Moonbeam tried to think but his brain was stuck. They’re more scared of us than we are of them. He could hear his mother’s voice. The only time to worry is if you have food and if they are very, very hungry. Oh no! What if I smell like the pizza I ate! Maybe he doesn’t like goat cheese and artichoke heart pizza. Maybe this is a very traditional bear, only goes for cheese and sausage, or maybe pepperoni. He looks kind of skinny, though. He’s probably a young bear, a teenager bear without a lot of experience. Maybe he doesn’t know that he’s not supposed to eat people. They’re more scared of us than we are of them. That’s what she had told him alright, when they first moved to Heather Mountain and he saw bears for the first time. But he had been six then and she had held his hand. If I move, will he smell the pizza? Maybe he doesn’t like garlic. That pizza had a lot of garlic on it. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. Worried that if he moves, I’ll shoot him. That I’ll want to eat him. More people hurt bears than bears hurt people. There was her voice again. Guess the odds are on my side. Moonbeam cautiously took a step forward. He waited a bit, then took another, and with that, the bear turned and disappeared into the brush.

  Moonbeam trotted out to the road. Now that it was gone and he was safely back on the highway, he thought it was a pretty cool bear. He stuck his thumb out and walked backwards, but after a bit decided not to hitch. He’d jog back to Harvey’s. Seeing that bear had sure gotten his adrenaline going. Moonbeam jogged a little, then began to run. He felt like flying. He was so happy he felt like he could run forever, just keep going and going and going.

  He was even happier after a few kilometers when he came to the road to Harvey’s house, turned into it, and saw they were back. He couldn’t wait to tell her about their jobs! Moonbeam slowed down and then walked the last half of the road to the house, breathing hard, trying to cool down.

  “Mum!” He burst in the back door. Abby and Harvey were sitting at the kitchen table having coffee.

  “Moonbeam, where were you?” Abby seemed upset.

  “Long Beach. I just went out to—”

  “Didn’t you get my note?”

  “Sure. I got it.”

  “So why didn’t you leave one for me?”

  “I thought I’d be back by the time you were.”

  “It’s one-thirty. We’ve been back for almost two hours!”

  “I didn’t know how long it would take, exactly.”

  “And how did you get there, I’d like to know!”

  Harvey stood up and took his coffee cup to the sink. “I’m going to take Gretta down to the beach. See you later.”

  “Thanks.” Abby smiled at him. “Sorry about this.”

  Harvey put his hand on her shoulder and then left with Gretta. Moonbeam watched as the door closed behind them. Good. This is none of your business anyway.

  “Listen, Mum. I’m back. There’s no big deal. I don’t want to argue because I’ve got some great news for us!” Moonbeam grinned.

  “So do I.” Abby grinned back at him. “So do I.”

  “You heard, too?”

  “Heard what?” Abby was confused.

  “About our jobs! That Goltz guy called and they want us both!” Moonbeam dribbled his imaginary ball around the kitchen and took his famous hook shot. “He’s picking us up at nine tomorrow and we can move our stuff in those employee apartments. And I’ll start work tomorrow night on the dinner shift! Isn’t that great?” Moonbeam dribbled across the kitchen toward the hoop at the other end. This time he tried his famous slam dunk. The jam man. Y-E-S! “And all you have to do is fill out the application and they want you to work at the reservations. Just like at the Empress, Mum!”

  “Moonbeam,” Abby frowned. “Sit down.”

  “Why? What
’s the matter?” Moonbeam threw his imaginary ball over his shoulder and leaned against the wall.

  “I didn’t know Jim Goltz had called.”

  “Well now you know and we can get our stuff and—”

  “Will you please sit down!” she snapped.

  “I can talk standing up!”

  “Moonbeam, I’m not going to work at that place. I don’t want to live there.”

  “You’re kidding, of course.” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I don’t get it. It’s perfect. The lodge only takes up a small corner of the island. The rest of it is wild and completely undeveloped. Just what you love. And they have that store where you can sell your weaving.”

  “I can’t stand the people.”

  “We don’t know the people. Only Jim Goltz. What’s the matter with him?”

  “Not him. The guests. The kind of people who go there, it’s what I grew up with, they all have this attitude and I can’t stand it. The people from the states are the worst!”

  “My whole life you’ve told me not to judge people without knowing them. To give people a chance! And here you are trashing this whole group of people you don’t even know!”

  “Moonbeam, will you just listen? I found something today that really is perfect for me. It’s at Ellis Lake. I met the most wonderful woman, Artis Palmer. She owns about fifteen acres and there are some experimental solar-heated cabins.”

  “Another friggin’ experiment! You’ve tried it twice, this kind of commune crap, and it doesn’t work!”

  “This isn’t a commune. The cabins are for rent and people are on their own. If they want to pool their resources it’s up to them, but you can be as independent as you want. I met some of the people who were here in ninety-three. Moonbeam, I feel like I really belong on Palmer’s Land. When I met Artis it was like meeting a kindred spirit.” Abby looked at him, pleadingly. “Can’t you give it a chance? Just try it?”

  “You never once think about me and what I need! I’m sick of being weird and living in the sticks. I want to be with more people my own age.”