Long Made Short (19 page)

One last one. To the moon. Goes outside, first leaves his wife in bed. She was reading
while he was reading, fell asleep with her glasses on and holding the book to her
chest. He took the glasses off, book away, held her head while he took out the pillows
it had been against and laid them flat and rested her head on them. Two, she likes
to sleep with; he, one. Then shut the light and went outside. Has no clothes on. None
needed. Kids sound asleep—he knows, for he told them a story, then sang to them till
they fell asleep and sat ten more minutes in their room drinking his drink. House
in a remote area, not even lights from other houses can be seen, and they almost have
a 360 degree view of the hills around them, valleys, and so on. Way off, maybe five
miles, a lighthouse light in the bay below. So: naked, nice out, cool but not so cool
that he’s cold, more than a week before they have to leave this rented house, little
breeze, sound of insects—crickets, cicadas, one of those, maybe another—sound of breezes
through trees, every now and then loons in the lake about a mile away, which he can
now see only because it’s moonlit. So he’s outside and looks up at the moon. Full
face, no hair, nice face, cloud suddenly on top of it like a cheap toupee, toupee
blown away. Then face way he best likes to see it: open and clear. Moon, he thinks.
I’ve never really spoken to you. I still haven’t. “Moon, I was just now thinking,”
he says, “I’ve never really spoken to you before, never have at all that I can remember,
and my memory’s pretty good, very good, nobody I know has a better one, so I haven’t
spoken to you, period, far as I can remember, at least not aloud. So what do I want
to say to you? What was I leading up to with that long intro? Something, that I know—way
you light up the night and how good it looks and makes me feel? Maybe that but much
more. But it’s so bright tonight I can almost read out here from your light. If I
had a book with me, which I left on my bed. Not that I would read; I’d just look and
at anything but the book if I’d brought it along. Anyway, what do you say to what
I just said? Any to all of it, just that I want to speak to you but really, though
I thought I had something, don’t know what to say. Silly, I know, or another word,
but if you can, do.” Waits. “I’m serious, I’d love an answer from you of any recognizable
kind. That means…but I don’t think I have to tell you.” Cups his ear, aims it at the
moon, listens. “Or could be you speak so low I can’t hear you. Or one has to make
an appointment to speak with you since so many may want to. That it? Well of course
you can’t answer if it was: the necessary appointment first. You might not even be
listening. But you’d have to be if one did have to make an appointment to speak to
you, but forget it, all to most of that. To be safe: all.” Thinks: Why am I talking
so ridiculously? Moon making me do it: full, and calm face that makes me nervous,
besides the heavenly night? From now on just look at the moon, forget talking to it,
because you also might wake one of the family. Looks. Nice round face, round nice
face, some cultures—no, don’t start saying what some other cultures see in the configurations
of the moon that we see as a face. Rabbits, monkeys; one culture, just the profile
of a duck. But he told himself not to say. Just look, see what comes from that. Does.
It’s a nice sight, that’s all. Meaning: that’s plenty, maybe more than plenty, so
what more can he say? Nice sight, nice round face, in ways there can be nothing more
beautiful anywhere at any time than this kind of night with this kind of light. Bright,
clear, full moon, stars, no other light but from that lighthouse five or so miles
away, perfect weather so to speak, perfect night so to speak, every now and then bird
sounds, loons, steady clicks and hum of harmless insects, no planes, no disturbances,
no natural or man-made rumblings, beautiful view, everything perfect, so to speak,
his health good, life with his wife very good, kids healthy and fine and sound asleep,
rest of the world’s what it is, but most of it now seems at peace. Things seem to
be going relatively well almost everywhere right now, better in the universe that
he knows than at any time he’s known it. This is a great moment, these have been great
minutes, everything near to being perfect as things can come near to being that, so
to speak, mind alive, active, excited, enthusiastic, he feels good, he doesn’t know
how he could ever feel better, if he went to bed now and felt like sex he’s sure no
matter how tired his wife was she’d comply. But he could fall asleep with her or alone
on that chaise longue there and it would feel as good. There are no threats, demands,
regrets, nothing he wants, right now everything’s right, what more could he want than
this night, what more any other day or night could he want? So this is the end then.
The end. This is it, so to speak. Can’t think of anything else. Can’t speak. Stares
for a long time at the moon. Minutes. Tries to see if he can stare at it without anything
coming into his head. Things come but nothing much. Feels so damn good, feels at peace.
Then gets a little tired on his feet and with just staring at the moon and the moon
seeming to stay in place and just about everything else around him seeming the same,
and heads for the house, thinks should he stay out a few more minutes, a single minute,
thirty seconds then to see if anything else comes into his head? Do. Does. Minutes,
looks at the moon. Sits on the chaise longue. Nothing else comes. No other good thoughts,
he means. And even more tired now, so goes inside, pees, not because he has to but
so he doesn’t have to get up later when he’s much sleepier in bed, gets into bed,
close to his wife, she’s on her side, he feels—can’t see much of her because the moon’s
on the other side of the house and doesn’t give off much light on this one, so he’d
want that, moon to be on this side shining through the window here, where he can see
it and his wife on her side, his wife nude with the covers off and on her side, the
curves that look like lots of things, hills, mountains, valleys, dunes, the moon and
various phases of it, where he can wake up his wife and make love with her to moonlight,
start to make love by moving his hands along the valleys and dunes and then make full
love, from behind, below, the side, atop, where the moon’s face can watch them, so
to speak, where the moon can make love with them, so to speak, or rather take part
in or contribute to that love-making in several ways he’ll say, just that they know
it’s watching, so to speak, and they’re doing it to its light. “Moon,” he says, softly
so she can’t hear, “come to this side of the house so you can give us some light.”
Moon does. Suddenly it’s there. There’s no way anyone can describe the moon the way
it is now—a bauble, a ball, a cheap ear pendant, a globe or lantern or round yellow
squash or fruit, none of those work, moon’s just there, all the light he needs. He
wakes his wife by saying her name several times. She says “What?” Did it also by shaking
her shoulder gently. He says “A miracle.” She says “What?” He says “You asking what
miracle or just what?” “What?” Back’s to him, all those curves. He glides his hand
over them and gets his mouth up to her exposed ear and says “I asked the moon to come
to this side of the house so I could see it and see you and your body and everything
and it did.” “What moon? What side?” “The moon; there’s only one; the moon.” “Where,
I mean? Why’d you wake me?” “To make love to you to moonlight.” “That’s nice,” she
says, “and you know me, always game,” and moves her head around so they can kiss.
After they do she looks past his face and says “I don’t see any moon.” “You don’t?”
He turns around—back’s been to the window-and looks outside. He sees it, right out
there, framed by the window, just the moon in a totally cloudless dark sky, how can’t
she see? “You don’t see what I see?” he says. “If it’s the moon you say you’re seeing,
no, I can’t.” “But it’s there.” “Where?” “Oh, well, I thought I had powers.” “Let’s
go outside then if you want to make love by moonlight,” she says. “That is what you
want to do, right?” “With,” he says, “but I’ll take without. But we don’t have a bed
out there, and the grass will be wet and, even if we brought two or three blankets
to lie on, they’d soon be soaked through.” “The chaise longue, of course.” “It’s too
narrow. One of us can barely lie on it straight.” “We don’t have to do it the same
old way,” she says. “It’s warm here.” “We’ll be warm,” she says, “don’t worry. But
if you don’t want to, fine, but I’m ready. I thought you’d try while I was reading.”
“I was reading too and I didn’t think you wanted to.” “Come,” she says. She gets out
of bed, grabs his hand. “Take a couple of blankets,” she says. He takes them off the
bed and goes outside with her. Moon’s there, full, bright, little beard this time
instead of a toupee. Beard disappears, and then it’s just a beatific face again or
what looks to him like one. “Sit,” she says. He does, where she tells him to, at the
end of the chaise longue. She sits on him, facing him. They do it this way. At the
end they both howl. Moon disappears at almost that exact moment. “Clouds,” he says
after. “Shame,” she says.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
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Stories in this collection appeared in the following magazines, to which the author
and the publisher extend their thanks: “The Rare Muscovite” and “Man, Woman, and Boy”
in
Western Humanities Review;
“The Caller” in
Triquarterly;
“Flying” in
North American Review;
“Crows” and “Battered Head” in
Boulevard;
“Voices, Thoughts” in
Story Quarterly;
“Turning the Corner” in
Threepenny Review;
“Lost” in
Yale Review;
“The Fall” in
Mississippi Review;
“Moon” in
To
and
Partisan Review
. “The Rare Muscovite” also appeared in
Prize Stories, 1993: The
O. Henry Awards
(Doubleday
I
Anchor Books). “Man, Woman, and Boy” also appeared in
The Best American Stories of 1993
(Houghton Mifflin).

Copyright © 1994 by Stephen Dixon

Cover design by Steven Seighman

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