There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (12 page)

              Looking into the cracked mirror over her dresser Josie ran a comb through her fragrant, wet hair. She applied no makeup, nor did she slip on any jewelry or earrings. Fact was, she didn’t own any of those things. Josie was as low maintenance as a girl could get without being a butch lesbian. She tossed the comb back onto the dresser, pulled her bookbag over one shoulder, and left the room.

Joel was digging into a bowl of Count Chockula at their rickety old, enamel-top table, trying to figure out the puzzle on the box, when Josie entered the kitchen. Shayna, as usual, hadn’t gotten up yet. Her drunken snores reverberated throughout the house.

              Josie grabbed her brother by the hair, slapping her other hand over his mouth. His eyes bugged out as she hissed into his ear:
“Joel…the next time you come into me bathroom, I swear to Vincent Price, I’m gonna take a switch to your little freckled fanny!”

             
Joel tried to kick her shin but Josie was used to his tactics by now and easily evaded his flailing limbs. Knowing his sister wouldn’t release him until he surrendered he fought her till his face turned blue. His male pride wouldn’t have it any other way.

At last he nodded his head in defeat. “Jeez alou,” he gasped. “It was just a little old dart! Get a sense a humor, why don’t you! Those things don’t even hurt!”

              “That’s not the point,” said Josie, getting a strawberry Pop Tart out of the cupboard. A roach skittered away from the sudden light. Josie ignored it and tore open the foil cover. She pulled the O.J. out of their wheezing refrigerator and drank straight from the jug. She grimaced as she screwed the top back on. The refrigerator, like most everything around the house, was falling apart. She put the tepid orange juice back into the fridge and sat across from her brother, pointing her finger at him. “For one thing, kiddo, you’re too old to be coming unannounced into me room. At my age a girl needs her privacy.”

Joel had taken after their father. With his curly red hair and all-over freckles, he was the spitting image of Joe Rusty O’Hara. Josie had been spared the worst of that particular Irish trait, though oddly enough it was Josie who spoke like her father, with his lilting Irish accent, while Joel had his mother’s soft southern twang. Physically, Josie had taken after Shayna’s Swedish/Italian side-of-the-family. She had her mother’s thick hair (although Josie’s was red, not blonde), Shayna’s curves, and her light-olive skin-tone. As for her dad, Josie had at least inherited his best feature: those gorgeous green eyes, which had made him so popular with the girls before he got engaged. She had at times caught her Uncle Ham staring at her eyes. He liked to tease her that she must have stolen them straight from her daddy’s head. Despite the ghoulish overtones, it made Josie proud to hear that. Because otherwise she didn’t look anything like her old man. Then again, looks are the most superficial of all human attributes. Josie had taken after her father in all the ways that really mattered: his gentle temperament, his empathy for his fellow man, and best of all, his integrity and courage of character. In those regards, Josie O’Hara wasn’t anything like her mother.

              Joel rolled his eyes, affecting indifference. He recognized the warning look on his sister’s face, though. Josie reserved it for times when she really wanted to get a point across. He shrugged, not understanding what all the fuss was about; his mom and sister always went around the house half-naked, grossing him out—although Josie had recently become more circumspect. For the life of him, he didn’t know how they could go through life with those silly things wobbling on their chests. Seemed so impractical.

             
“Is that milk any good?” she asked him, picking up the milk carton to smell for herself. Joel had come to the O’Hara household almost a decade after Josie had been born, an overdue bundle for her parents, who for years had had trouble conceiving another child. Josie had always adored him, even when he got on her nerves, like this very morning. One of the last things their father had done, before vanishing underneath that emerald sea, was to convert the storage closet in the hallway into a bedroom for his yet to be born son. Joel was inordinately proud of that windowless cubby—like Harry Potter living underneath the stairs. Sometimes he felt it was the only connection between him and his dad.

             
“Yeah, it’s not very cold though,” he said, tipping the sludgy remnants from his cereal bowl into his mouth. “When are we going to get a new fridge, Joe?”

             
“Not until I win the lottery, love.”

She hurried her brother from the table, holding out his school coat for him to put on.  She looked up at the clock over the kitchen doorway, checking the time. It was one of those funny black cat clocks. Funny strange, not funny-ha-ha. The cat’s tail and eyes ticked off the seconds, sliding slyly back and forth. A cornball cliché for many a bad horror film. Josie had bought it last year as a Mother’s Day present for Shayna. Her mom liked that kitschy kind of stuff. Josie had since come to loathe the ugly thing. It was already seven-thirty. Gnat would be waiting outside.

“Are we poor?” Joel wondered aloud. He wiped the back of his mouth on his new navy-blue blazer. Josie had bought the sport coat with her own money earned from babysitting. Too bad it wasn’t the coat Joel had his heart set on. What Joel really wanted was an army coat, like the one his idol Bud Brown wore every day. The fact that Josie and Rusty wore the same garment made it seem like a reasonable goal to him. Joel wanted to be
a
Cree
p
more than anything else in the world. He figured if he pestered Josie long enough, like everything else, she’d eventually cave in to his demands. So far that hadn’t been the case.

Josie picked up the dishrag and wiped the smutz from his blazer. “Well, we sure aren’t rich,” she said, pushing him out the screen door. The hinges screamed like some irate jungle bird. She set Joel’s bowl into the sink, and the milk back into the asthmatic fridge. “We’re off to school, Shayna!” she shouted, waiting a beat at the door.

Her only reply was a phlegmy snort.

Josie let the screen door slam shut behind her.

              Her best friend, Rusty Huggins, was checking out her brother’s latest Hot Wheel acquisition on the front stoop. Rusty’s army coat was at least two sizes too big for him—the Surplus store only carried adult sizes.

When Rusty saw her walk from around the backyard, he stood up and checked his watch meaningfully. It dangled loosely on his bony wrist.

              “Jaysus pleezus,” she said, rolling her eyes. Rusty could be so anal at times. Despite their one-year age difference, Josie and Rusty had been best friends ever since they were in Pampers. She spent more time over at his house than she did her own. She loved Betty Ann like a cherished aunt and considered Ham a surrogate dad…

             
The thought of her father came to her unbidden and unwanted—unwanted, because thinking of her daddy only made her sad these days. Josie remembered that awful time as if it was yesterday, her brother oblivious in his infancy. She knew, in fact, that the thirteenth, five days away, would mark the eighth anniversary of his passing. About half of her life. The pain may have dulled somewhat over the years, but it was always there, ready to cut deep when she least expected. Triggered by seemingly random events: A certain song on the radio; a happy instance she would have loved to share with him, a traumatic day for the very same reason. Anything on the news that smacked of selfless courage. That was her Pop: a hero, through and through. Holidays were the hardest, though. Her daddy had been such a geek about Christmas! Celebrating it like some goofy kid who still believed in Santa Claus and Peace on Earth. Even had his own stocking by the fireplace.

             
Rusty could tell right away she was feeling blue. “All Right?” he asked her, not digging too deep. Joe wasn’t one of those silly girls who liked talking about her feelings.

             
“Aye. All right,” she replied. It was her mantra.
That’s what they’ll put on me tombstone,
she thought sourly.
Here lies Josie Lee O’Hara. Aye…She’s All
Right
.

In front of them, other island kids made their way to the Moon River Academy, a mile-and-a-half up the dirt road. The lighthouse loomed paternally over their shoulders, designating the end of the East Side. Behind it emerged the lofty pine spires.

Rusty tried bringing Josie out of her funk by telling her about the badass movie he’d taped on
Turner Classic Movies
last night.
Freaks.
A film so outrageous at the time, it was banned in nearly every country. “Turned that bitch into a damn chicken! I kid you not, Joe!” His friend just stared straight ahead, lost in her memories and grief. 

She was nine years old when her father died. October 13
th
, 1996. A tragic night in so very many ways, for so very many people; the consequences of which she and her family were still living with, some eight years later. His passing had left a huge void in her life. A hole so massive, Josie at times thought it might swallow her whole.

If Josie had taken it bad, her mother had simply quit altogether. Josie recalled the days when her mother had been a vibrant, vivacious woman, forever doting on her children. As involved with the Moon River Academy as Mrs. Brown and Betty Anne Huggins. Back then, Shayna would laugh so easily! Always smiling, always happy. A glass of wine with dinner was as far as she would imbibe in those days. It was hard to believe the smelly drunk sleeping it off in the darkened bedroom was the same woman at all!

When Josie’s dad died, the O’Haras’ sole source of income died with him. Of course, there was the hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy Joe Rusty had provided for his family. Money that Uncle Ham knew wouldn’t last for very long. Not the way Shayna was pouring it down her throat.

After talking it over with Betty Anne and getting her blessing, he’d told Shayna that she’d never want for money; that he’d take care of her and the kids from now on.

Without missing a beat, Shayna told him he could shove it right up the old dirt track. That didn’t stop Uncle Ham. He wasn’t about to let Shayna’s vulgarity prevent him from doing the right thing by
his
godchildren! The first chance he got, he confided to Josie that he would pay for her and Joel’s college education—no matter
what
kind of hissy fit Shayna chose to throw his way. What he didn’t tell Josie was that he’d already paid their tuition at the Academy for the remainder of their years there. As far as Shayna and the kids knew, that had been Joe Rusty’s doing. Ham felt it was the least he could do.

When it came to Ham Huggins, Shayna never hid her true feelings. She let the hostility fly like feathers in a chicken coop. Yet it took alcohol to bring out the truly turgid depths of her hatred. On those occasions when she’d had one too many, she’d rant and rave about how Ham had left her husband
“Out There”
to die.
“He saved your worthless hide
twice
! Where were you when he needed you? Huh?
Huh
!
You fuckin’ piece of black
SHIT!
YOU LEFT HIM OUT THERE TO DIE!!!!”

She’d shout this and uglier things at the top of her lungs, while Josie and Joel huddled together on Josie’s bed, waiting for the vodka induced storm to pass. It shamed Josie that the Huggins’s might have heard her mom on some of those occasions. Then again, if they did, Rusty never mentioned it. Her mom hadn’t worked a single day since the tragedy, and Josie felt certain that Shayna had burned through the insurance money since then. Their house, though paid for, was in terrible disrepair, and Shayna wouldn’t let Ham so much as paint their mailbox. The only reason she’d relented on Josie’s bathroom was because her daughter had shamed her into it.

Said she couldn’t get ready in the morning with the stink of her mother’s vomit in the air.

Since then, Shayna didn’t seem to have much use for her children. Over the years, she’d tried to poison their minds against Ham, but Josie knew better. She refused to listen to any of her mother’s bitter diatribes. She knew the truth and she made sure that Joel knew it, too. Ham was their daddy’s
best
friend—brothers, when you really got down to it. The man had stayed out there, searching the vast Moon River for days and days; refusing to come in until he’d collapsed from exhaustion and grief. Except for his own family, no one loved Joe Rusty O’Hara more than Ham Huggins. Anyone but a damn fool could see that! Shayna had seen her children’s loyalty to Ham as the worst kind of betrayal and had all but shunned them for it. This didn’t bother Josie overly much (or so she told herself). She tended to her and her brother’s needs quite ably.

Still, she would have enjoyed reminiscing with her mother, especially at this time of the year.

              “Hey, who’s that roly-poly over there?” Joel said, pointing ahead at the solitary figure coming out of the newly remodeled Moonlite Drive-In. 

             
Josie shielded her eyes from the morning sun with the back of her hand. As always, the morbidly obese boy had his head down. As if looking at the ground made him less conspicuous. He had on tight khaki pants and an even tighter polo shirt. Josie winced at the sight. Tugging at the seat of her snug britches, she could easily relate. A doughy band of flesh bulged out between his strained belt and his shirt. His right hand kept pulling down on the polo, in hopes it would eventually stay that way. In his left hand swung a red and white lunch pail—the web-slinging superhero embossed on both metallic sides. Despite the jeers it provoked, he always toted the Spiderman lunch box around, like it was his good luck charm or something. Josie respected him for not caring what others thought or said. Non-conformists were her favorite sorts of people. “He’s in our class. He’s new and pretty much keeps to himself. Don’t call him
roly-poly
, Joel.” Josie scowled down at her brother. “I didn’t raise you to be a jerk.”