Hello, Moon

HELLO, MOON 

by

Brad L. Johnson

   Everything was ready for the ritual. It looked, well, dusty was the word, I guess. The moon, I am talking about the moon. As my gaze lingered, I could feel the moist earth etching it's image on my white crews. A symphony of frog song, hundreds I was sure, rose to crescendo then fell only to rise again stronger, and stronger still. Swirls of the scents of eucalyptus wafted past, around and dissipated. The compost pile teased at my gag threshold then drifted away, replaced by the thick, sweet of the lilac bush.

  My eyes sought her out above the horizon. She peeked through the eucalyptus, a white smudge behind the midnight clouds. She was sleeping, waiting. Waiting for me, she was nothing without me. 

   The dog, I mean...my dog, whined low at my side. Done now with his nightly ritual, the screen door clattered shut as I let him in. Better he stays inside. 

   I thought about ritual. The world turns on ritual. It moves through our lives like a demon. Work, of course, but not just the grind, the cubicle, the desk, the vehicle, the name badge or the uniform. Not just the braying alarm, same time, every damn day. The groggy shave, the careless choice of a tie, the commute that sucks the life out of you no matter how much music or audio books you push into your mind. I had done those, all of them. Over and over until...I just couldn't. Then I didn't. I came here. I came home and work did not follow. But that's not the ritual I was thinking about. It's the one's you don't talk about. It's those little strange things you do that you have always done, they must be done, but no one can see because that would be bad...very bad. It was almost time for ritual again. She was waking. The moon...I am talking about the moon. I was nothing without her.

   As I wait, I see myself, so long ago. I am a little boy lying on my side in the bed. The murky darkness betrays the lavender walls and plum colored beams that grace the ceiling. It is all gray. The only color in my world right now is yellow. She hangs just outside the open window. I am sick and the fever is high. The flu is very hard in me. This version, new and improved from previous years, almost sends me to the hospital. I am what my parents called "delirious". She, the yellow she, is talking to me. She will stay with me, comfort me, console me. And she will tell me things. Secrets no one else seems to know. She only asks one little thing in return. The moon... I am talking about the moon. Hello moon. I remember the boy and I know that when the fever breaks and I am steady on my feet I will do what she asks. Only because she promised I would get better. 

   The first time I did the ritual, her ritual, it was very messy. I threw up twice. This memory was old but still vivid and disturbing.I can still feel the slimy sticky warmth of what my grandma called "innards" squish between my fingers. Kneeling in the soft earth of my fathers vegetable garden at midnight, I see my hands reach out, trembling, toward the small living thing. I snatch it up quickly with both hands, and raise it up over my head. I offer it to her as I try to ignore the squeals of terror. I have to stop the sounds so I twist my hands, hear the tiny snap and lay it still on the ground. She is pleased. The moon, I am talking about the moon. The next ritual is the burying. Be careful, hide it well. She tells me that no one must find it. The next time she came it was easier. Every time it was easier. Even when the ones I chose got bigger and I could barely lift them or stop the screaming with my bare hands, when I had to use the knife. She spoke to me when I was 16 and told me I didn't have to bury them if I didn't want to, I could eat them. I felt the repulsive bile come up into my throat. She seemed to be laughing at me. "Your parents eat them", she told me. "Well, yes", I told her,"but they don't hear the whimpers, the cries. By the time they get them they are already quiet, and prepared when they cook them!" Then she told me that wasn't even the best part. She said I should eat them...while they were still screaming. I think I almost fainted that time and we spoke no more of it until I was much older. Now I am older, 40 years older in fact. 

   Now I must turn my attention to another problem. The grandkids are coming. Three of them and I must choose one. One who must know the truth and the secret. She, the moon-she, told me not tell my kids, that they would most certainly tell mom and then there would be hell to pay, oh yes. Maybe she will help me decide which one. We are nothing without each other and soon we will be three. I wonder which of the little ones it will be. I will teach her. I say "her" because I am almost certain that it will be one of the girls. Justin is much to old, I think and obstinate. I could almost imagine him telling my daughter just to see me squirm. It will be at night, I know. In my father's vegetable garden which I have inherited. I will have a few choices to begin with. A small furry one, a medium size smooth skinned one or the one with the hairy top. All are in abundance and none would be missed. I am sure I will not use the knife. When you use the knife they stop screaming to quickly. The hands, I will use my hands...and hers. My contemplation is broken abruptly. She speaks ! She is awake ! 

   Yes, yes I am here. The big one ? But I thought we should start small and work our way.... She cuts me off abruptly. She is right of course, how could I have been so stupid ! It's all in the explaining. If that is done right, the way she explained it to me, then it really does not matter the size, the shape ....or how loud they scream.

  But it did matter, I don't remember most of the days leading up to the arrival of my grandkids. For that matter, I just barely remembered choosing Jessie after they had been there just two days. What I did know now was that she was in the kitchen with her mom, my daughter... and she was trying to explain that everything was alright. That grandpa wasn't crazy and what he had told her was true. She did not like the screaming though. Now I have to go to the barn.

The King City Tribune headline read:

King City Resident Hangs Self In Barn.

   The rest of the article conveyed very little information for, in truth, very little was known. Something had happened between him and his granddaughter, of that the mother of the little girl was sure. And yes, she was sure there was no child abuse and no, she didn't know why her daughter would not talk to the child psychologist. Nor could she explain why her dad had a ritual of savagely mangling vegetables from his garden and burying them. They just wanted to go home.

   It's been 14 years since that sad day.

   My name is Jessie. I have just turned 18 and for some reason my Grandad left me his farm. I came up here to sort things out. Things have not been going well for me and maybe it was time for a change. My last two boyfriends thought I was too odd and I can't seem to hang onto a job for too long. My last memories of this farm are hazy. My mom tells me something bad happened and my Grampa passed away while we were here. Frankly, I just don't remember, seems like I must have blocked it out. Just as well, I got enough of my own problems. Like this thing I do at night. So I am standing here in my skivvies in the backyard, I can smell the lilacs. I can hear the frogs. I can see the moon as she peeks out from behind the eucalyptus tree. My contemplation is broken. She speaks !! She is awake !! The moon, I am talking about the moon. Hello, moon.