The Moon Sisters: A Novel

by Therese Walsh

  JAZZ

  A few days before my mother died I began reading The Plague, by Albert Camus. The book had been in her college trunk, which I’d found one snowy day in the small space under the stairs. The orange scythe on the cover intrigued me, and the first line of the second paragraph hooked me:

  The town itself, let us admit, is ugly.

  The town’s name was Oran.

  I read half of the book that first night, and thought about it all the next day as I sifted together flour, baking powder, and salt, cut in shortening, and added milk to make biscuits for Susie’s. I arrived home late that afternoon, eager to consume the last half. My mother stood in the kitchen, still in the robe I’d seen her in that morning, her arms locked against the table, and her eyes focused on something beside her clunky typewriter. This was not an unusual sight, finding her staring at papers or off into space.

  I set a bag of biscuits on the counter for dinner, and was ready to slip by my mother and head to my room, when I realized that what she stared at was a newspaper clipping. We didn’t get the paper at our house, because Tramp didn’t have a paper. Kennaton was the closest city that put out the daily news, but we’d decided the money my father brought home would be better spent on food and clothes than on information about a city that didn’t involve us. So it was strange to see a clipping. A note lay beside her, too, and I recognized the bold teal stripe at the top of the stationery used by my mother’s sometimes-friend Bonnie, who lived in Kennaton.

  I peered over her shoulder and read:

  ORIN HOWELL

  Orinthal “Orin” Howell, 73, passed away on February 12, 2013, at Kennaton Hospital. He was predeceased by his parents, John and Victoria Howell; his first wife, Suzanne Howell; and his daughter, Beth Howell. He is survived by his second wife, Helena Howell, and five stepchildren: Stuart Marshall, Liza Monahue, Treena Marshall, Joseph Marshall, and Gretchen Schultz. Orin Howell founded and managed Future Bright Bank during the 1980s. A special thanks to the staff at Kennaton Hospital for the exemplary care provided to Orin in his final days. Funeral Services will be held on Friday, at 2:00 P.M., at the Rutherford & Son Funeral Home, 245 Main Street, Kennaton, with calling hours held an hour before, from 1:00 to 2:00 P.M. Burial will be in Kennaton Hills Memorial Park.

  Orin Howell. My grandfather.

  Beth Howell. My mother.

  I’d known for years that my mother had been disowned by her father, but seeing it in black and white—that she’d been listed in his obituary as a deceased child—made the room chill by degrees even for me. I couldn’t imagine how she felt. And, of course, her father was dead. Her father, who must’ve seemed like a stranger then. She’d missed his funeral by a day, too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and touched her arm. “Do you need anything?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Mom? Want me to go back to the store and get Dad?”

  She shook her head and began to fold the paper. In half. Into quarters. Into eighths. She folded that piece of paper until it no longer resembled squares; it looked like a tiny ball. And then she stuffed it into the pocket of her robe.

  “Don’t say anything to anyone about this,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I tried to give her a hug, but she rolled her shoulders, wouldn’t be touched. Rebuffed me, as I’d rebuffed her so many times. So I left her there, went up to my room and opened The Plague.

  The world’s a bitch, and then you die, said Camus, throughout the course of two hundred and seventy-eight pages. It’s a world that’s unsympathetic to people’s individual plights. It’s a world without meaning, even though people tried, all the time, to find significance in everything. You may or may not agree, but here’s the truth: Rats die. Diseases spread. Criminals thrive. My mother’s father disowned her, and his second wife had her officially killed in his obituary. One week later, my mother died in our kitchen with the gas on, contained there as neatly, as utterly, as a citizen of Oran.

  I removed the horrific, concentrated ball of meanness that was my grandfather’s obituary from the pocket of my mother’s robe long before my father got rid of it, and said nothing about it—to honor my word and because there was no point.

  No crumpled piece of paper had ever felt so heavy.

  When I felt the familiar tug to retreat after my talk with Olivia—and knowing that it would be a while before we could leave, thanks to those bee stings—I didn’t bother trying to repress it. I grabbed my backpack and left for a walk on J.D.’s land, a forest dense with young trees that showed off too much sky. I wandered over hills and thin streams, my head overfilled with everything my sister had said.

  I was the last one to see her alive.

  I’d known this, of course, but hadn’t spent time thinking about what that might’ve been like for Olivia.

  There was a letter by her side when she died.

  A letter that Olivia had kept secret for months. Because she preferred to hang on to her delusions rather than hear the truth? How could she still insist that our mother’s death had been an accident?

  I’ll never believe that she did it, that she could’ve. It can’t be true!

  Will-o’-the-wisps taste like hope.

  Was that what this whole trip was about, chasing after some form of hope that only Olivia understood? What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

  An overturned boat propped against a tree in the distance caught my eye, and I headed for it, kicking the heads off a dozen mushrooms along the way. My feet were still firmly on the ground when I leaned against its warm metal body, raised my crossed arms to my face, and squeezed my eyes shut.

  That letter. What were we supposed to do about that letter?

  It’s for Grandpa Orin, just like the others!

  What would Olivia do if she knew our grandfather died a week before our mother turned on the oven and closed the kitchen door? In my mind, there was no doubt that she’d killed herself. She’d wagered everything on some potential future reconciliation, wagered her family. All my life she’d polished me to be the trophy child, hoped I’d be enough to show off to the Great Orin, that he’d forgive her, then, for having me in the first place.

  And now he was dead.

  Cause. Effect.

  Even though part of me wanted to tell Olivia right then to set the record straight, another part warned that she wasn’t in the right headspace to hear the truth. The wild-eyed look of my sister when I’d pushed about the letter lingered behind my lids. That look screamed, Stop now, I’ve reached the edge.

  I wasn’t good at figuring things out even on my best days, and today was far from my best day. Today everything felt as wrong-sided, as upside-down, as the boat. I rocked its weight beneath me, back and forth, forth and back, trying to understand the way Olivia’s mind worked. Though I’d long believed that she had a different and sometimes infuriating perception of things, I’d never considered she might be in some ways fragile because of that.

  Will-o’-the-wisps taste like hope?

  Was I supposed to divine some sort of significance from that? Was that supposed to be as clear to me as how sending letters to a man, even if he were alive, could matter to any of us—least of all to a woman who’d decided that life wasn’t worth sticking around for anyway?

  What could this letter—this final letter—possibly say?

  Dear Family,

  It is over. Please carry on without me, and do your best to figure things out.

  p.s. Jazz, take care of your sister.

  “I hate this shit,” I said to no one, my chest once more filled with anger at my mother for leaving us. Leaving so many things unfinished. Leaving me to figure it all out for myself.

  What would hope taste like, anyway? Would I walk a week for a chance to savor it, if I could, if I needed it?

  What would I hope for?

  A thought crossed my mind. What might my mother’s life have been without judgment and condemnation from her father? What might it have been with accepta
nce?

  Could I do that for Olivia? Try harder not just to endure her point of view but to respect it, even though I could never share it? The last time I tried to put myself in her figurative shoes, I’d been a child. Once upon a time, I went through an entire storybook and colored all the letters to match what Olivia said she saw. A was red, I remembered. Tuesday tasted like pancakes. The sun smelled like Mama.

  I tried to remember what my mother smelled like.

  Fabric softener. Cherry lip balm. Coffee.

  Sometimes she’d smelled like rose water or garden soil or oniony ramps. Sometimes like the inside of a book.

  Dear Family,

  It hurts too much to carry on. I’m sorry if this hurts you, too, but know I will miss and love you for forever.

  “I hate this shit,” I said again, rubbing at my eyes with the palms of my hands.

  When I dropped my arms, I spied a slender trail between tall evergreens in the distance, the hint of a blue building obscured by brush. I walked toward the winding path, glad to escape my thoughts.

  The building itself was neat, with what appeared to be a fresh coat of blue paint over its pine exterior and a tar-patched roof. A set of wide double doors was secured with a padlock.

  I put my hand against the warm sun-streaked door and set my bag near my feet. Though I didn’t think anyone was around to hear me but him, I spoke his name quietly. “Red Grass?”

  “Girly?” he said from inside, not so quiet. “It’s about time you came to spring me.”

  “I don’t have a key,” I said, and rattled the lock with my hand. “But I have some questions.”

  He grumbled something indecipherable from the other side of the wood, complaining no doubt about my need for answers.

  “You’re a bounty hunter, aren’t you?”

  The idea didn’t seem outrageous, and fit what I’d come to know about him: He was tenacious, sneaky, and owned professional equipment. And payment could come directly from the coins. In fact, maybe the coins that had been taken from Hobbs at the restaurant were payment for hunting him. Maybe that’s why Red Grass had been so obsessed with getting them into his hands. For that matter, maybe that’s why he’d been so keen on buying drinks for everyone at the bar that night; instant wealth had a way of making a person generous.

  It was no surprise to me when he didn’t respond. Red Grass being forthcoming all of a sudden would be too great a change.

  “Are you working for Hobbs’s father?” I pressed my ear against the wood, squinted as if this might improve my hearing. Still, nothing. “All right, then, stay quiet. But I’m not sticking around. See ya.”

  “Wait a gosh dang minute,” he bellowed. “You can’t just leave me here!”

  “See now, you can talk just fine when it suits you, but you don’t give a thing. That’s not how it works, old man.”

  “You’ll ruin it all,” he grumbled.

  “What will I ruin, exactly?”

  He turned the subject. “You got my knife?”

  “Why? You don’t think I’m actually going to hand it over, do you?”

  “Oh, come on, missy. Have a care for an old man. They tied my ropes too tight and cut off circulation to my feet,” he said, and I felt a double pinch of guilt. But I also knew that Red could fabricate a truth when it served, and I had a hard time believing that J.D. would tie anyone’s ropes too tight.

  “Are you working for Hobbs’s father?” I asked, and this time he responded without a threat or bargaining chip slid across our mental table.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  His tone was all poker, though, too even to give anything away. Without being able to see his face, I couldn’t scrutinize his expression for dishonesty.

  “You’d better hope not,” I told him. “Otherwise you’re no better than one of the devil’s minions. From what I learned about that man last night, he’s about as bad as a person can get.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, and this time his voice cracked.

  I repeated what J.D. had told me about the way Hobbs was raised, the abuse he’d suffered. There was more to Hobbs than anyone could know from a glancing look at him and his life, I said, recognizing and giving voice to the stark shift in my feelings.

  I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be a part of Hobbs’s downfall anymore.

  And though I might not approve of him as a partner for my sister, neither did I want to play Orin in this scenario—trying to keep two people apart who liked each other. Burning bridges and birthing dysfunction by forcing Olivia to make a choice that wouldn’t be necessary with a little more tolerance thrown into the mix.

  “You’ve hardly shut up a second as long as I’ve known you, and now you have nothing to say?” I asked, when silence loomed after I told the story.

  “Just one thing.” He raised his voice. “I can’t feel my fecking feet!”

  “Here’s my best advice: Wiggle your toes.”

  He howled when he realized I wouldn’t give him the knife, but that’s how it would be, even if I did still feel a double pinch of guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Red,” I said. “I just can’t help without understanding the truth of what’s going on.”

  He didn’t respond. And then I walked away.

  The realization that I’d spent two hours in the woods hit when I saw that J.D.’s house was empty of life—and checked my watch. Maybe the others were out looking for me. Wherever they were, I felt sure they’d be back. I didn’t believe Olivia would run off again, not after the last time.

  In the bathroom, I traded my borrowed sweatpants for shorts, then stalled when my eyes met themselves in J.D.’s mirror. Physical and mental exhaustion reflected back at me, along with the swirl of questions I still had to answer.

  Time for some choices.

  I would not tell my sister about our grandfather’s obituary, not until I had a better sense of her mind-set and could have a rational conversation with her about the letter she’d found.

  I would stop questioning Olivia’s trek to see—and taste—a will-o’-the-wisp. It seemed important to her, wrapped up in her processing of our mother’s death. I’d try to respect that, even though I felt as incapable of understanding it as of how she’d fallen for the likes of Hobbs.

  I’d try to control just two things today: our trip to the glades, and our trip back home.

  A stranger’s face appeared in the mirror beside mine, and I swiveled around, my heart like a battering ram against my ribs. Then I realized …

  “Hobbs?” His skin was free of color and, despite a few bumps that I recognized as scars, appeared utterly normal. “How did—? You removed your tattoos?”

  He smiled, revealing a dimple. “Not exactly.”

  As it turned out, he’d had the art on his face covered with makeup by a local tattoo artist. “Less painful, and I didn’t have a month to lose,” he joked, though I couldn’t find my voice to respond. He hadn’t covered his arms, but those, he explained, were easy enough to conceal with a shirt.

  “Chances of running into my old man down there are slim to none,” he said, “but if there’s one poster, there could be more, and I’m not stupid. Posters show a guy with color, though. No one’ll blink at this guy. This guy”—he gestured to himself—“is clean and smooth, lived a good life. This guy’s figured out how to wear an invisibility cloak.” He dipped his eyes, then locked them on mine. “And it means a lot to her, right?”

  A swell of emotion I’d never be able to dissect flooded over me, made my nose tingle. I spun around, turned on the faucet, and splashed water over my face, hoping he hadn’t seen it.

  After soaking her foot, Olivia had gone to sit alone in a shaded slingback chair near J.D.’s cabin, unaware of all that Hobbs had done. He was the first to close in on her, as J.D. and I watched from a few feet away. Disbelief morphed into joy on my sister’s face as Hobbs filled her in on his new appearance, and his intentions.

  “Come on, Wee Bit, and look. I know you want to,” he said, the
n bent his head until his face was all but on her shoulder.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said. “But you always were.”

  He smiled. “I’d let you kiss me, but you’d ruin my makeup.”

  She kissed him anyway.

  “It’s like Christmas,” said J.D. beside me, and somehow I knew what he meant.

  The afternoon passed in a haze of waiting. We ate sandwiches—ham on hearty rye, drizzled with mustard—and J.D. and I played cards in the grass. The plan was simple enough: Olivia, Hobbs, and I would go to the Visitors Center at the end of the workday, when everyone else would be filing out but we could still grab maps. We’d trek out to the glades, then resume waiting. I pocketed the cards for later; I was a master at solitaire.

  When it was time to leave, we made our way to the rough drive beside the cabin. I didn’t notice Hobbs hauling Red Grass’s tent until we were at the pickup, loading our bags.

  “Why do we need that?” I asked.

  “Because wisps come out at night,” Olivia said, opening the passenger-side door.

  “And Red wasn’t about to mind that we borrowed it,” Hobbs added. “I took his bag into custody, you might say, last night.”

  “We’re not—” I started, but Olivia cut me off.

  “Come on, Jazz,” she said with exasperation. “What do you think we did all this for? You can’t see wisps during the day.”

  I had to count to ten, remind myself of my newborn decisions.

  Her own perspective.

  Respect it even if you can’t understand it.

  Wisps taste like hope.

  “Fine.” I shoved my bag beside my sister’s in the truck. “But this is it. This is the end of me doing whatever the hell you say. And I want the tent.”

  “Okay by me,” she said. “I don’t plan on sleeping.”

  It wasn’t until we were on the road that I looked down at my sister’s suitcase, which had been bumping against my leg for the last few miles, and realized it. The letter our mother had written, her last words, might be inside. If Olivia was anything like me, she would’ve kept that close.