Undressing the Moon Page 18

  I studied him as he ate, watching his hands. He caught me and smiled, a bit of ketchup on his knuckle.

  “Quinn, I’ve been thinking maybe you should think about Boulder,” I said. I could barely believe I was saying this. “It’s not so far away. I could always come see you. I could take a bus or something cheap like that.” Suddenly, I wanted him to know that I would be okay. If he believed it, then I could too.

  Quinn finished his burger quickly, silently, and crumpled up the foil wrapper.

  “Really,” I said, my eyes welling up with tears. “I’ll be fine.”

  He looked at me, at the tears falling against my will. He handed me a napkin from the dispenser. I looked at him through the warbled lens of tears.

  “Really. It’s going to be great,” I said. “I promise.”

  Becca invited everyone to come to my apartment for Christmas. Boo and our friends Doug and Susan and Lizzie. Her neighbor, Larry the Lawyer, and Kit, another teacher from the high school. She brought home twelve bags of groceries and wouldn’t let me help with anything. On Christmas Eve, I lay bundled up on the couch, watching Holiday Inn on TV. Bing Crosby’s Vermont was so clean and bright. I imagined him trying to get his sleigh through the muddy roads to the Pond.

  Becca made the whole house smell like Christmas. Nutmeg. Cinnamon. She gave me a taste of her homemade eggnog with chocolate jimmies and whipped cream. She was a flurry of activity, anxiously checking her watch every few minutes.

  “What are you waiting for?” I asked.

  “Nothing, I’ve just got like fifty-five things in the oven.”

  She bent down to pick up something and banged her head on the counter when someone knocked on the door. “Coming!” she hollered, and skipped down the hall to the door.

  I couldn’t imagine who would be stopping by at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve. Carolers, probably.

  “Who is it?” I asked, hearing only muffled voices. I turned back to the movie.

  Quinn came to the couch and threw his arms around me, hugging me so hard I could feel his heart. Kayla stood next to him, smiling.

  “Merry Christmas,” Quinn whispered and kissed me hard on my cheek. He needed a shave. I was grateful for the sharpness of his scruff. It made him real.

  Becca was in the kitchen fixing hors d’oeuvres: mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat and cheese, baked Brie and pesto, tiny triangles of spanakopita. When everything was ready we made a feast on the coffee table and drank eggnog spiked with rum, forgetting why we were here, forgetting everything but the warmth of the fire, the buttery taste of the pastry, and the way it felt to be together again. Bog lay down next to me on the couch, resting his long snout on my leg. Quinn sat on my other side, with his head on my shoulder.

  Becca had gotten Kayla and Quinn a room at the Days Inn near the interstate, but only Kayla went back to the motel that night. She gave Quinn a kiss and hugged me. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I said. “This is the best present.”

  Becca drove Kayla to the motel on her way home, and Quinn stayed with me. We talked and ate leftover hors d’oeuvres until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. And then, as I drifted off to sleep, he told me stories about the kids at the ski school where he teaches. About their little cabin at the foot of a mountain. About the way the snow falls in Colorado, softer than here. Cleaner and brighter. Pristine. He said it looks like white glass, like the color Mum called opal. He sat up the whole night, brushing my thin hair with his fingertips. He said he wouldn’t fall asleep; he promised he wouldn’t leave.

  At school the weekend after Mrs. Applebee’s accident, everything was strange. Lucy wasn’t at school, but her friends were. Melissa Ball and Toby Hunter. Jessica Miller and Annie True. All the town girls whose families lived on the park. They huddled tightly together, even more than usual. In the cafeteria at lunch, Principal Stanton made an announcement that anyone who wished to send sympathy cards to the Applebee family could drop them off at the office, that a care package was being assembled by the secretaries. A small cry rose up from the table where Lucy and her friends usually sat, and Melissa Ball ran out of the cafeteria, clutching her books.

  Grief was something private in my family; it was strange to see misery on parade. But everything in the lives of the town girls was amplified, as if their accomplishments and their pain mattered to the rest of us more than our own quiet happiness or despair. Becca and I sat at our table, silently watching this display, and I envied the small explosions, the acceptable tears. For the rest of us, sorrow was something to be hoarded. It was the only thing some of us really owned.

  It would be easier to avoid Mr. Hammer now that the play was done. I had planned to use the other stairwell so that I wouldn’t walk past his classroom, and to catch a ride with Quinn right after school. I thought it would be as easy as that. I thought that if I really believed I’d imagined it, it would disappear. Becca and I would go to Boo’s the way we used to. We would play dress-up again, like little girls do.

  But he found me. I was coming out of the bathroom after last period when he stopped me.

  “Come to my room for a minute?” he asked.

  He was holding on to my arm; it was the first time he had touched me at school.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have to meet Becca.” I yanked my arm away from him a little harder than I had intended.

  “Please,” he said. “I promise, it’s not about … It’s about a summer music program. For high school students. It’s in Woodstock.”

  I looked at him suspiciously. I couldn’t shake the way I’d felt, as if he were going to crush me.

  His hair was disheveled; there were deep plum circles under his eyes. “I promise,” he said.

  In his classroom, entire paragraphs were diagrammed on the chalkboard, sentences dissected. Photos of famous writers were push-pinned to the bulletin board. Bookshelves overflowed with books. His desk was a chaotic pile of papers and books.

  He sat down at his desk, riffling anxiously through the mess. Finally, he found a manila envelope in the middle of the pile. He reached into the envelope and pulled out a colorful brochure.

  “Piper,” he said. The expression in his eyes was familiar. Longing. Want was something I could understand, but now, it only made me feel strangely sorry for him. Pity stabbed my heart like pinpricks.

  “Can I take this home?” I asked. I was supposed to meet Becca by the auditorium. I knew she was waiting for me. I knew that Quinn was waiting too, his car running.

  Mr. Hammer looked at me, and nodded. His eyes were wide. Pathetic. He walked toward me, holding his arms out to hug me. Careless. I looked toward the open door where I could see students opening and closing their lockers.

  I took the brochure and moved away from him toward the open door.

  “Thank you,” I said, but what I really meant was Please, let me go.

  He reached for me again. “Piper, please …”

  I pulled away, hard. “Stop it. I can’t do this anymore,” I said.

  Mr. Hammer’s face was pale. He looked at his hand, clutching my hand-me-down sweater, and then his fingers let go. I ran out of the room, downstairs, and out the door.

  Outside, Quinn was sitting in his car.

  I leaned into the window, breathless. “Where’s Becca?”

  “She took the bus. She said she had to get home to do some homework,” he said. “Get in. I’m gonna be late for work.”

  I waved him away. “Go on ahead. I can walk to Boo’s. Pick me up there when you’re done.”

  “You sure? If we hurry I can get you there,” he said.

  “I’m fine. It’s nice out.” I thought the fresh cool air might clear the pounding in my head. I thought the breeze might lift the dirty feeling off my skin.

  “See you at seven, then,” he said and drove away.

  I slung my backpack onto both shoulders to distribute the weight. The walk from Quimby High to Boo’s is
about a mile and a half, not too far. I would have to cross the covered bridge, though, where Mrs. Applebee had fallen in the river. I walked as fast as I could so that Boo wouldn’t worry. I kept thinking I probably should have called her from the pay phone at school.

  I decided to cut through the cemetery to save time. Some of the snow had melted in the warm weather and I skated between the headstones, skidding across slushy grass. I wondered what they would do with Mrs. Applebee’s body. The ground was too cold to dig a grave this time of year. Maybe there was a special place where they kept all the people who were unfortunate enough to die in winter. I wondered if Mr. Hammer’s wife was buried here. The idea of being buried in a cemetery was strange to me. I thought that when I died, I would have my ashes tossed into the Pond. They’d probably float on top like sawdust.

  When I got to the road again, I could see the covered bridge in the distance. Vermont is famous for its covered bridges. They’re always in the calendars and magazines, but most of the bridges are so old and in such bad shape you can’t drive over them anymore. A lot of times there’s a brand-new functional bridge right next to the covered one. The bridge where Mrs. Applebee died was one of the few still being used. Walking through it was always a little scary because some cars didn’t bother to slow down. I walked as close to the side as I could, quickening my pace. A car approached me from behind just as I was out in the open again.

  “Hey, Piper,” a voice said.

  It was Jake, driving a beat-up truck. Gopher was sitting next to him. Both of them had grown beards after football season ended. They looked similar now.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You need a ride somewhere?”

  “I’m just going to my aunt’s house up the road,” I said.

  “Get in. I’ll give you a ride. It’s no trouble.”

  My feet were wet, the soles of my boots almost completely worn through, and Boo was probably worried, so I walked around to the other side of the truck and Gopher scooted over to make room for me.

  “Hi,” I said to Gopher as I got in.

  “Hey.”

  I slammed the door shut and Jake took off. It was a tight squeeze, and Gopher had to keep moving his legs every time Jake needed to shift.

  “It’s right up here,” I said, pointing to Boo’s house.

  Jake said, “Do you mind if I just stop by somewhere real quick? It’ll only take a minute.” Gopher smiled at him.

  “It’s right here,” I said. “Just drop me off here.”

  Jake kept driving, past Boo’s, and faster down the street. My hand tightened on the door handle. I could smell cigarettes; the ashtray was overflowing. There were butts on the floor beneath my feet. The smell was making me sick to my stomach.

  I remained silent as Jake pulled off onto the road that leads to Gormlaith. Maybe he’s just going to take me home, I thought. Maybe, he’s only taking me back to the Pond. Gopher reached behind the seat and pulled out a bottle of something in a brown paper bag. He unscrewed the cap and the smell of liquor filled the cab. He took a swig and handed it to Jake. Jake took a swallow and then handed it to me. I shook my head.

  “Come on,” he said. “I thought you liked to party.”

  My ears were buzzing with fear. We sped past Hudson’s, through the woods to the point where the foliage breaks and you can see Gormlaith through the trees. We drove past Mr. Hammer’s cottage, past the McInnes camp and the treehouse, past Becca’s, and then Jake turned onto the logging road that led to the Pond.

  He and Gopher kept drinking straight out of the bottle. I thought I might vomit from the smell. I rolled down the window and leaned my head out, like a dog.

  “Where are we going?” I tried not to sound afraid, but my voice trembled in the wind.

  Gopher chuckled and threw back his head for another swig.

  Jake parked the truck in a clearing and got out. Gopher slid out the driver’s side and shut the door. I tried to figure out how I could escape, how I could get out of the truck and run. But the soles of my boots were worn thin, and the road was sheer ice. It would be like trying to run on an ice rink.

  Jake and Gopher sat at the edge of the Pond, drinking, and lighting up a joint Gopher pulled out of the pocket of his Army jacket. Every few minutes, one of them would look up at me. Maybe if they get drunk enough, they’ll forget about me, I thought. But as soon as I pressed down on the handle and the door of the truck creaked open, Jake was there, pinning me to the truck with his body.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. “Don’t you want to party with us? Blue says you’re quite the little party girl.”

  I started to cry, silently, only the jerky motions of crying.

  “Besides, I thought you liked me.” His breath smelled sour. Dank. He struggled with his belt; the buckle was large and silver, a mighty buck protected by silver trees. “Come on,” he said. “Sing to me.”

  Gopher came over, stumbling from the ice and the liquor. He swallowed hard and then held the bottle over my face, the last few drops landing on my closed lips. I spat at him.

  “Fucking whore,” he said, raising the bottle and smashing it against the hood next to my face.

  I wonder if she learned to lie on a bed of broken glass. I wonder if she learned how to sleep on shards.

  I suppose I could have stayed there after they were done with me and waited for my mother to find me. Just something glimmering in the mud. Just another buried broken thing. But my mother wasn’t coming back, so I crawled out of the mud, prehistoric, amphibious. I found my backpack in the ruts left by their tires and put it on my back.

  I don’t remember the walk home from the Pond. I don’t remember anything but the smell of mud and curling up on the kitchen floor next to Sleep.

  When Quinn found me he had already called the police from Boo’s. But they had told him they wouldn’t start looking until morning. They were busy with the investigation of Charlene Applebee’s accident at the bridge. I wasn’t “missing” yet. I’d probably only run away.

  I remember his hands finding my face first and then the rips in my clothes. I remember how gentle his voice was saying, “Was it Blue?” and his confusion when I shook my head. Blue becoming hyacinth, azure, aquamarine. I remember thinking about Daddy. If he knew what Jake had done, he would have to come home. He would have to leave Roxanne and come home, to take care of me.

  To be my father. But what scared me most was what I would do when he didn’t come home.

  And so when Quinn’s fingers (only looking for things broken) found the music camp brochure in my coat pocket, I only remember nodding and then saying, “Yes. It was him.”

  FOUR

  Quinn waited for Boo to arrive before he stormed out of our house. As Boo helped me into the bathtub, I could hear the car start up, the engine revving angrily, and the sound of tires struggling against the icy gravel in our driveway.

  The water was hot; steam rose up around us in wet clouds. I curled my knees to my chest as Boo washed the mud out of my hair. She used a soft washcloth on the sharp curve of my spine. When the water started to grow cold, she pulled the chain attached to the rubber stopper and ran more hot water into the tub. When she left me alone, after I’d assured her that I was okay, I sank under the water and listened to the sound of water in my ears.

  I imagined it this way: Quinn pulled onto Mr. Hammer’s lawn, stopping just short of the wooden swing. He got out of the car and went to the door, trying the knob before knocking. When Mr. Hammer opened the door, Quinn pushed into him with all his weight, sending him stumbling backward into the dark living room. I could see the way the dim light fell on the piano keys, the way Quinn’s fists fell on Mr. Hammer’s chest. I could almost hear his words, trying to explain. But he was not innocent; his fingers had memorized the curve of my spine. And so when Quinn demanded to know if he had touched me, Mr. Hammer told him yes. Quinn left him there, hurt but not dead, reminding him that he could have killed him. Should have killed him for hurting a little girl.
And I knew that Mr. Hammer thought about Felicity first, about his own little girl, and maybe that was why he nodded. Maybe this was the first time he’d thought of me (the dark-haired orphan who came to him and came to him) as someone’s daughter.

  That night, after Quinn had come home, sat next to my bed, and asked me what I would like him to do next, Mr. Hammer disappeared. While I pleaded with Quinn not to tell Daddy, not to call the police, Mr. Hammer packed his car with the things he would need to start over somewhere else. But though I knew the way the muscles on the insides of his legs felt, I didn’t know what he would take. When I pictured his suitcase, I pictured it empty. I dream-packed it with the books he read, with sheet music, with the glass I had given him.

  I didn’t go to school for the rest of the week. Every morning, after Quinn left, Becca came and sat with me. She brought PopTarts from home and we sat in my room eating them until the frosting made us sick. She didn’t ask questions; she only fed me and talked to me and watched me sleep. She knew. She knew about Mr. Hammer and me, and it made me feel ashamed. Not because of what we’d done, but because I hadn’t told her. And the same way she knew about those Sunday afternoons, she also knew that he would never have hurt me. That he wasn’t the one who took me to the Pond and left me there, bloodied and muddied and shattered. But she didn’t demand answers. She didn’t make me tell. She only rubbed my head gently, and waited.

  I dreamed that I had breasts again. I dreamed myself whole. I dreamed that I emerged from the Pond that day fully realized. Complete.

  Becca keeps trying to get me to do the visualization exercises outlined in the books we’ve taken out from the Atheneum and endlessly renewed. I’ve never believed in them before, but on Christmas morning, when I woke up, I felt well. I didn’t even need the painkillers that have been a staple of my diet lately. I could breathe and breathe and breathe. I thought it might be one of those miracles you always see on TV this time of year. I thought about being healed. In the bathroom, after I had dressed in a dark red turtleneck sweater and Christmas-colored jammie bottoms (an early gift from Becca), I took the first Tamoxifen, letting it sit on my tongue like communion and then swallowing it with a prayer.