Blue Moon Summer

Trigger warnings: cursing, discussions of abortion (non-graphic), light drinking.

“Hey, Houston, we have a problem.” Adam stands behind the screen door, head hardly visible behind a shedding ristra. His drawl is twangy and slow. “Dry off and get in here.”

“‘M finishing my drink.”

“I’m sure any woman in the next mile will finish it for you.” Adam, normally high and smiley, frowns. His curls are twisted and crunchy from the chlorine, kinky like the ties on a bread bag. “Come on, Jesse. For real.”

“Gimme a sec.” Jesse takes a sip for emphasis. “I’ll be in there shortly. What happened?”

“Jesse.”

“I’m coming.”

Adam runs a hand through his hair and yanks out a tangle. He turns and stalks back into the room.

Despite the negative connotations, Jesse Houston knows how to enjoy a frozen daquiri. In fact, he’s enjoying one right now, letting it melt in the muggy dusk—lavender and salmon and dusty, dusty yellow—of a Texan summer. Trails of sticky, technicolor cocktail run down his fingers while water laps at his other hand, making lazy circles in the water. The moon’s just coming out, a dull shine against the neon blue-light bug zapper hanging from the cabana, and somebody’s put Brooks & Dunn on the radio.

“Hey, Houston,” says a voice behind him, sliding with mockery. “Are you gonna get out?” A pruney toe pokes Jesse on the back. The smell of DEET and Banana Boat drift on top of the water like low-lying smog.

“No, sir,” he says, paddling himself in a circle to face Lyle. He’s leaning against the pool edge, arms spread wide on the decking. The neck of a cheap bear is clutched between two thick fingers; his chest hair sways with the small ripples of the water, like a forest of seaweed. “‘M gonna finish my drink first.”

Lyle smiles and takes a sip of his beer.

“Do you blame me?”

“No. I figure they’ll work it out. Stay,” Lyle says, scanning the garish, peeling motel doors surrounding them. His eyes stop on Adam’s door before adding, “Hate to be alone out here.”

“What, think someone’s gonna cut you?” Jesse hums, tube bumping against the pool’s edge. “Think you’re gonna drown?”

“Simmer down, Houston-Hundred-Pounds-Soaking-Wet.” He sets the beer bottle down and looks up. Jesse admires him, quietly, over the edge of his Solo cup. “What do you reckon is wrong with Adam?”

“‘Bout to find out,” Jesse says, slipping from the pool tube. He exhales loudly, heart stuttering, as the water splashes up under his armpits. “Goddamn, that’ll put hair on your chest.” His breath is a steam of alcohol and strawberries. He crosses his arms, slick from the tanning oil.

“Hair on your chest?” Lyle says, head dropping to his shoulder. He looks cute.

“Asshole.”

Lyle whistles at him.

“You coming?” Jesse asks, stepping out of the pool. A cascade of water falls from his trunks, slapping the deck. Rivulets of salt and chlorine run down his chest; the strings of his hat—woven, a Stetson from Daddy—stick to his back.

“Depends. Let me know what happens,” Lyle says, muffling a burp under his breath. Jesse nods.

His trip to the cabana is short. The rectangular pool is ringed by a rectangular deck—the bar dispenses towels. If you use a bath towel instead of the crusty, striped beach towels provided on the stone bar top, a sign warns you’ll have to pay a whopping fifteen dollars and apologize to the maid in person. Jesse whistles between his teeth and takes one from the stack, dusting a wasp carcass from its surface.

His wet feet slap to Adam’s room, ground-floor in the rectangle, decorated with a rusty “11” and a ceramic conch shell. He can hear the water slapping around Lyle’s body. It’s quiet for a Sunday night.

“Adam,” he says, knocking on the screen. He doesn’t have to duck under the ristra. “Come unlatch it.”

It isn’t Adam who appears; it’s Wendy, wearing a Walmart sundress and pink plastic flip-flops. Her eyes are puffy, nose red; she carries a half-eaten quesadilla between her fingers. Her nails have been chewed on. Neon grease runs between her fingers. “Hey,” she says, unhooking the door from its frame. “Come here.”

“What’s the matter?” Jesse asks, itching from the water dripping down the back of his legs. “Why’re you crying?”

He hasn’t seen Wendy since the girls left for brunch and grocery shopping. Beer shopping, rather, at the 7/11.

The A/C air bites. The room smells like bleach and fresh linens, Mexican food and beer, watermelon wine wafting from an opened bottle on the floor. The terracotta tiles are smooth under his feet, the cream-colored stucco rough under his fingers. The Katydids sing louder in the overgrowth behind the screens of the opened windows; moonlight speckles the floor and their bare feet. Jesse drops his towel next to a grease-mottled brown bag of tortilla chips and clears his throat. Nobody’s talking.

He notices the beds are still unmade; it’s a relief. Jesse put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door when they’d gotten there on Friday and hadn’t taken it off since. Didn’t even take it off when the maid insisted their towels would mildew, nose pressed against the latched screen door. Not when Adam got bad shrimp and vomited all over the duvet, either. It sits in the bathroom corner like a dead body.

“It’s because of Lyle,” Jesse told Paula when she tried to tuck a sheet in. “He doesn’t like nobody making his bed. He gets it comfy."

“Don’t you want somebody to make your bed?”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “I like it however.”

Now, nobody seems to like anything. Don’t even seem to be alive. Paula sits on Adam’s bed, wrapped to the neck in his single sheet. Her brown face sticks out awkwardly, like the head has been decapitated from its body. Wendy stands next to Jesse, sighing and clicking her foot, peeling bicep brushing his shoulder.

On his and Lyle’s bed, a white pile sits unmoving. Hair pokes from it, a red spoon from a white snow cone. Adam stands behind the pile. Even drowning in a duvet and completely invisible, May is the center of attention as usual.

“May, tell Jesse.”

The pile doesn’t move. Jesse crosses his arms for warmth and looks up at Wendy. “What’s going on?”

Nobody answers. It’s getting hard to see; the ceiling fan clicks.

“What’s going on?”

Paula lets out a shuddering breath. “May, do you want us to tell him?”

No answer. Jesse moves towards his duffel bag, skin prickling. You shouldn’t be moving, he imagines Paula saying. It isn’t nice. He pulls a t-shirt over his head, the crewneck dampening from the water in his hair.

“Where’s Lyle?” May’s voice is muffled, but undeniably hers: rich and strong, like Reba McEntire, but sad. Like Fancy, Jesse thinks. He approaches the edge of the bed—his side of the bed, next to the window—and answers the pile.

“Outside. In the pool. What’s the matter, May?”

There’s rustle and a yank. The duvet is dragged away from her face.

Jesse thinks of Mama. May’s face is patchy, bloated, streaked with flecks of mascara. Snot glistens on her upper lip; her hair floats around her head in a matted halo.

When he told Mama they’d miss the annual Houston 4^th of July party, she chewed on her fist and cried off all her makeup and wouldn’t come out of the bathroom.

“Apologize to your mama, boy,” Daddy said in a distracted mutter, keeping his eyes on their putting green. His face, like an old leather boot, was crinkled in concentration. His shoulders were pulled taut. Once firm and fit, Donny Houston was squeezed and sweaty in his tennis whites, a water balloon grasped in the temperamental grasp of a toddler. One of Daddy’s friends—at least fifteen years younger—spat tobacco juice at Jesse’s foot and whistled.

“Who’re you showing off for?” He hollered, his snapback stained with sweat. “My daughter wears shorts like those.”

Daddy snorted. The caddy picked a wedgie under her skirt.

Jesse went to find Mama after drinking a vodka and purple Crystal Light in the pantry. She was sitting on the couch, fidgeting with her French tip manicure, nursing a mint julep.

“Hey, Mama,” he said, perching on the studded armchair. The cool leather pressed into his thighs; he tugged the hem of his shorts. “I’m sorry.”

She looked at him, miserable. Patchy, bloated, streaked with flecks of mascara. “Oh, I don’t care, Jesse.”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer for a while. Jesse watched a dove torment a finch from the arching windows. When Mama looked back up, her eyes were dull, flat.

“I would’ve done the same thing when I was your age. We spent every 4^th of July on the road."

Jesse let himself smile at her. “You should come.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t smile back. “I’m afraid those days are over, baby.”

“How come? The night’s still young.” He stood and walked to her, letting his legs hit the arm of the couch. “So are you, actually.”

“I was, once.”

He leaned over. “Then come on. The gang won’t mind.” When she didn’t respond, he kissed her cheek. Still bouncy and firm under his lips. “Why not?”

“You.”

He stares at her. Rude. And awkward. Of course, it’s his fault.

Like May stares at him now. “Where is Lyle?”

“In the swimming pool,” Jesse answers.

“Go get him.”

“No,” he says. Guilt creeps up his spine. “You do it.”

“I’m pregnant.”

He stares at her. Flinches at Wendy’s hand on his back. “What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant.” Jesse blinks. “A baby?”

May glares at him. “Yes,” she growls. “A baby.”

“Are you for real?”

Wendy sighs. “She’s for real.”

“You have a baby?”

“Yeah,” May says. “I named it ‘fuck you.’”

“It’s Dickie’s,” Adam chimes in, voice strangely hollow.

“Oh, God.” Jesse turns away and runs his hands over his sides. “Oh, shit.”

“I can’t have a baby,” May’s voice cracked. “I can’t have a baby.” Jesse can’t tell if she’s angry or upset; May’s always been an ambiguous smoothie of emotions. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Wendy clambers onto the bed and throws her long arms over May’s midsection. “You can do this.”

“I don’t want to.” Jesse flinches at May’s tone. “I don’t want to have his baby. He’ll shoot it.”

“He will not,” says Paula.

He? Jesse thinks.

Dickie. Duh.

“He’ll shoot it. Like he shot my cat.” May sits up. She’s still wearing her bikini top. “I can’t have his baby. I’ll die.”

“You don’t have to,” says Paula.

“Right. What am I gonna do, recycle it?”

“Get rid of it.” Paula doesn’t seem guilty. Her wine-stained mouth is carved into a frown. “Nobody would blame you.”

“Except everybody,” May says.

“You can,” says Jesse. “You can. I can call Mama, she’ll help you.”

May clutches the duvet and leans forward, teeth bared. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“But if you could—” Jesse starts, but Adam’s hands grip his shoulders.

“You don’t have to do anything, May,” he says. Jesse deflates, leaning into Adam. “This is your decision.”

May flops back onto the pillows. She’s got Lyle’s under her head. If she wasn’t in such a bad way, Jesse would tell her to use his pillow instead. He won’t be able to stand it tonight, when Lyle lays on her scent, smelling her, wrapping his arms around her.

“How did you find out?” He asks her, shoving his hands in the limp, soggy pockets of his swim trunks. When Wendy bites through a tortilla chip, it sounds like somebody breaking glass.

“I’m late,” she says. “Got a test from 7/11.”

“With the booze,” Wendy offers, helpfully.

Jesse glances at the screen door, still wide open. Lyle is nowhere to be seen. “Anyone else know?”

“She just did it.” Paula is standing now, arms wrapped around her stomach.  

“Let me call Mama.” Jesse watches her, eyes wide, chewing on his lip. “Let me help you. She knows people. When she got pregnant, they took care of the whole thing. Daddy took her to Kansas.” Jesse avoids Adam and Paula’s gazes, inquisitive, wide-eyed. “It was fine. No big deal.”

“Your Mama is not paying for my abortion.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have to pay for it—”

“Right—” May coughs, nearly laughs. “Right, because I can afford it myself."

Jesse stays silent. May eases back against the headboard. She’s crying again.

Adam excuses himself. “I’m gonna go get a Coke.”

Wendy brushes her fingers through May’s hair and whispers, “You’re gonna be okay, Mama. I promise.”

“I want Lyle,” May responds thickly. “Lyle will make me feel better.”

Jesse pushes off the TV stand and masks a frown by wiping his nose. “I’ll get him.”

“Don’t tell him, Jesse,” Paula says, catching his arm. “Let her tell him.” Her voice is calm and smooth. Jesse shakes her off, ducking into the cracker-colored bathroom for his phone. When he comes out, Paula is glaring at him.

“Don’t tell, got it.” He pushes through the screen door. The deck is completely dark, save for the weak light of the bug zapper; Jesse stops. He steps through the herb garden, soft, cool dirt squishing between his toes. The phone in his pocket thumps against his leg. The stars, like sequins by the handful, reflect on the pool’s inky surface. Jesse doesn’t see Lyle at first.

“Hey.” His voice rings out, strong and rich. “You came back for me. Everything alright?”

Jesse shuffles his way to the plastic suntanning chair where Lyle is lounging, face barely visible in the blue light. His feet hang off the end. By the sound of it, a moth gets electrocuted to death.

“Hey,” Jesse says, sitting on the chair next to him. “Getting a tan?”

“I don’t need to get any browner,” Lyle says. “What’s going on in there?”

“May’s pregnant.”

There’s a silence.

“It’s Dickie’s.” Jesse searches Lyle’s face. He can hardly see.

“Well, goddamn.” Lyle shoves his hands under his head and whistles. “God-damn.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Jesse flops to his side. His back cracks. “Yeah.”

“But you did anyway?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

“Who cares?”

A pause. The Katydids keep singing. A beetle flies into the swimming pool, wings buzzing in panic. Jesse’s eyes are pinched and cross from staring at the moon. Lyle’s head moves slowly in the light, eyes vulnerable and sparkly in the neon.

“I better go love on her.” He doesn’t move. Jesse coughs and shifts, eyes watering. His heart beats sporadically, he can’t breathe. Blinking lazily, he curls his fingers around his sweaty palm. Water pools—stings, really—at his lash line. They both sit still. Jesses knuckles brush the concrete, warm from the afternoon.

“You think we’ll stay tomorrow?” Lyle asks.

“Nah,” Jesse replies. “Not anymore.”

A finger, thick and callused, brushes against the palm of Jesse’s hand. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. A gnat buzzes around his foot.

Lyle’s hand wraps around Jesse’s, softly, warm. It’s dry and rough from a whole day spent at the pool. Jesse wiggles his fingers. They sit. The world turns blue.

“I’m gonna go inside,” Lyle says, throwing his legs off the chair. Jesse’s hand goes cold. His temples throb; he swallows the ping-pong ball in his throat. “Wanna come?”

“Nope.”

Lyle swishes past, not before placing a hand against Jesse’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“Fine.” The ping-pong ball catches. Jesse coughs. “I’m fine.”

“I’m gonna go inside.”

“‘Kay.” Jesse tilts his head upward. Lyle’s hand brushes over his eyebrow.

“Don’t stay out too long.” He lets his fingers run down the side of Jesse’s face before they’re gone. Jesse hears Lyle walk away.

“Don’t let her sleep in our bed.” Jesse calls after him. He stops.

“Alright.” Lyle sounds offended. “Okay.” He lets the screen door slam behind him.

It’s Texas quiet. Rustling and rippling and waving in the nonexistent breeze. Jesse cries a little, in short, shuddery breaths. Slipping the phone from his pocket, he swipes past his home screen: a picture of him and Lyle, last 4^th, laughing in front of Jacksonville fireworks.

He knows Mama will be awake. He knows she’ll be thinking of him, crying, staring at Daddy, tossing around, hoping he’ll wake up. Her contact picture is familiar; blur his eyes and Jesse’d think she was one of his friends.

“Are you okay, baby?” The voice on the other end is hushed and muffled and alert—she’d been waiting. Tossing and turning and staring at Daddy and waiting for him. Jesse checks over his shoulder. He hears the bedroom door close behind her with a click and she’s covering her mouth. Acrylic fingernails tap on her phone case. He can smell her cold cream, just as potent as the chlorine in his hair.

“Hey, Mama.”