Moonrise Page 3

  summer programme

  in the city.’

  ‘No, sir. I can’t.’

  He bit the insides of his cheeks.

  ‘I had to apply for funding for the programme.

  You didn’t get the place by accident.’

  His kid stood up in the cart,

  tried to climb over the side

  and make an escape.

  Mr Porter pulled him out, let the boy

  waddle up the cereal aisle.

  ‘Something came up, sir. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And you’ve missed a week of training.

  I’m kind of disappointed.

  You know my thoughts on your performances.

  But I can’t force anyone to want something

  and talent isn’t enough.

  You have to work hard.’

  I’d come into the store for toothpaste.

  I hadn’t planned on getting grilled

  by a schoolteacher.

  He meant well, but it was summer vacation –

  he’d no right to nag me.

  ‘I gotta go, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Is something going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Nah. Everything’s cool,’ I said.

  I don’t want anyone’s pity.

  HOME SWEET HOME

  The landlord kicks a pile of junk mail

  from the doormat,

  leads the way into the kitchen and

  rips opens the envelope I’ve handed him.

  He counts out the cash and

  holds a fifty dollar bill to the light.

  Flies hum around us.

  ‘No late check-outs. You got that?’

  He dangles the keys in front of me.

  I snatch them and he sucks on his teeth.

  ‘What are you in Wakeling for anyway?

  You know someone at the farm?’

  I turn on the cold faucet.

  Yellow water dribbles on to the mouldy dishes

  piled up

  then abandoned

  by the previous tenant.

  He shuts off the water.

  ‘It’ll run clear in a couple minutes.’

  He glances around like he might have forgotten

  something,

  then takes off,

  slamming the door behind him.

  I flick a switch.

  Nothing happens.

  I try another.

  No light.

  I dart to the door,

  holler into the hallway.

  ‘The electricity is out! Hey, there’s no light!’

  But I’m alone

  and the hallway

  is in darkness too.

  LITTLE MURDERS

  I murder close to twenty cockroaches

  with the base of a rusty pan.

  Their backs crack and crunch.

  ‘Dirty bastards.’

  The apartment smells worse than I remember,

  like whoever lived here

  let their cat

  or kid

  piss all over the carpets.

  In the living room

  I try opening a window

  but it’s painted shut.

  Grime and grease cake the pane.

  I check my phone.

  No one’s messaged or called since yesterday.

  Not Reed, Karen, not even Angela,

  which is sort of surprising and a bit shitty.

  Do they think I’m here

  soaking up sun and scratching my ass?

  I’m here for Ed. That’s it.

  I’m here cos he’s my blood.

  He needs me.

  It’s what I have to do.

  But if I had a choice?

  I’d be on a plane home –

  I’d be gone.

  A single roach scuttles out from

  underneath the spongy sofa.

  I stamp on it,

  then look up

  and realise

  the damn things are crawling

  the walls.

  NO REPLY

  I message Reed:

  Hot as hell here, man!

  SHIIIIIT! Wots happenin????

  After a moment

  I see he’s read the message.

  I watch my screen, wait for his smartass reply.

  But nothing comes through, and then

  he’s offline.

  So I put my phone into my

  back pocket and

  head out.

  STAR WARS

  We used to play on the sidewalk,

  brandishing long sticks as lightsabers,

  caning one another and

  really feeling the force of it.

  Then Ed got a real lightsaber,

  gave it to me grinning.

  ‘Join me,’ he said,

  Darth Vader croaky.

  But the dark side

  never really appealed to me,

  so I lit up my green sword

  and used it to

  slice him

  to pieces.

  He groaned, rolled on the ground,

  while the kids in the neighbourhood watched,

  jealous for a brother like mine.

  We watched Stars Wars obsessively,

  and during a bad storm,

  when school closed,

  saw every movie back to back,

  only stopping

  to grab bags of chips for nourishment.

  ‘Can’t we watch anything else?’ Angela groaned.

  Ed turned to her, horrified.

  ‘I feel like we shouldn’t be family any more.’

  He threw a pillow at her

  and she laughed,

  slumped on the couch next to us.

  ‘Seriously, Ange, you’re missing out.’

  ‘Angela doesn’t like fighting,’ I said

  to defend my sister,

  and Ed nodded sympathetically,

  then sucked on the back of his hand.

  ‘Yeah. She prefers kissing.’

  Angela covered her eyes with her forearm.

  ‘You’re grossing me out.

  That must be how you kiss your girlfriends.’

  We were creased up but hushed as

  Mom slithered into the sitting room.

  ‘I’m ordering takeout,’ she said.

  Her eyes were black-rimmed,

  sweatpants and hoodie creased.

  She coughed and coughed

  until she had to leave the room,

  then called in from the kitchen.

  ‘Angela, can you phone for pizza?

  My voice is cut to crap.’

  ‘Sure, Mom!’ Angela said,

  her tone like sunshine,

  as though Mom wasn’t a complete screw-up.

  ‘Can we get plain cheese?’ I asked.

  ‘Course we can, little man,’ Ed said, pulling me close,

  turning up the TV.

  R2-D2 slid across a spaceship.

  Angela dialled for dinner

  and we watched Star Wars

  into the night

  while Mom threw up in the bathroom.

  She said she had a bug,

  told us not to come close

  in case we caught what she had.

  And even though none of us bought the bug story,

  we all kept out of Mom’s way.

  WHEN THE COP GOT SHOT

  After the first call came through from Ed,

  Angela tried to explain

  what he had been accused of

  and what might happen next.

  But I never really got my head around it.

  When kids in my class asked

  for the details

  I couldn’t think what to say.

  Ed had taken off months before,

  right after his big bust-up with Mom.

  I had no idea where he was

  the day Frank Pheelan got shot.

  The day it happened

  I was on a field trip to

  the Liberty Sci
ence Center,

  eating a bologna sandwich,

  thinking about space,

  Mars mostly,

  a planet so close, so completely inhospitable.

  I wasn’t thinking about cops or death.

  And until Angela explained it,

  I didn’t know that to be accused of murder

  in the wrong state was

  fatal.

  ICE AND FLAME

  Aunt Karen took me into New York City

  the Christmas after Ed was convicted

  so we could skate in Central Park,

  something I hadn’t done before.

  She held my mittened hand,

  stopped me slipping on the ice.

  All I was thinking was

  how much

  funnier the trip would have been with Ed.

  He’d have made Karen lighten up, laugh,

  instead of worrying about

  the other skaters’ blades

  chopping off our fingers if we fell.

  Afterwards we walked down Fifth Avenue

  to St Patrick’s Cathedral

  where Karen lit red candles,

  and in front of the tiny flickering flames,

  prayed for our family on her knees.

  I lit a candle for Ed,

  thought about him alone during the holidays

  in a cell with no tinsel or twinkling lights,

  no chance of seeing a full moon

  or any moon

  for that matter.

  ‘Did you pray?’ Aunt Karen asked on our

  way out,

  dipping her fingers into the stone font

  and crossing herself with holy water.

  In the street I admitted,

  ‘I prayed for the cops to send Ed home.’

  Karen knelt again, in the middle of the sidewalk,

  this time to look me straight in the eye.

  ‘I’ve read the reports and spoken to the lawyers, Joe.

  Forget about Ed.

  He isn’t ever coming home, OK?

  Ever.’

  People nudged me with the corners of their

  fancy shopping bags.

  ‘He told me he didn’t do it,’ I said.

  ‘He’s lying,’ she said.

  ‘You’re lying,’ I never said.

  Instead I decided right then

  never to defend Ed again,

  and

  let my aunt

  believe I didn’t love him any more.

  MIRACLES

  Sue is outside Bob’s Diner,

  smoking and

  blinking at the sun.

  ‘You’re here,’ she says.

  ‘I thought you was full of bullcrap.’

  ‘Where’s the car?’ I ask.

  She uses her hand as a visor,

  looks me up and down.

  ‘You gonna fix it with superpowers, hun?’

  I lift my baseball cap,

  scratch the hair beneath it –

  I hadn’t thought about tools.

  Sue snickers.

  ‘Bob don’t got a needle and thread,

  but lucky for you

  I borrowed my Lenny’s toolbox.

  He sees something missing, I’m for it,

  so you give it back how you found it, right?’

  She wags a bejewelled finger at me.

  ‘You’ll also need a miracle,

  but Lenny didn’t have none of those.

  You looking for a miracle, hun?’

  I shrug.

  Try to look tough.

  ‘Who’s at the farm?’ she asks.

  ‘Huh?’

  First the landlord, now her?

  Is it written on my face?

  She sucks deeply on the cigarette.

  ‘Look, no one shows up round here

  unless they got business at the farm.’

  I hesitate. Do I trust her?

  Even if I don’t,

  I can’t keep Ed a secret for long –

  not in a town this size.

  ‘My brother’s down to die next month.’

  Sue raises her eyebrows.

  ‘And you’re in Texas alone?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I lie.

  I kick the dirt.

  ‘Is he guilty?’ she asks.

  What am I supposed to say?

  Well, Ed says he isn’t

  and he’s never lied to me before

  but who knows?

  Guys on the row must lie all the time.

  She drops the glowing butt of her cigarette,

  grinds it into the ground

  with the heel of her rubber-soled shoe.

  ‘You want a hot breakfast, hun?’

  I nod.

  Why the hell is she being so nice?

  She doesn’t know me and

  what she does know is the bad stuff –

  the stuff I usually keep to myself.

  ‘Junker’s open out back. Good luck.’

  THE FARM

  When dogs get put down

  parents tell their kids

  the mutts got sent to a farm

  to live out their last days

  with peppy ducks and rabbits.

  And it’s as though the state of Texas thinks

  we’re all just as stupid as kids,

  calling the state penitentiary

  ‘Wakeling Farm’ –

  like inmates lie around on hay bales

  and spend their afternoons milking cows.

  But just like the dogs,

  most guys who go to this farm

  don’t ever come home.

  THE JUNKER

  It really is a junker:

  dried out grass growing around the wheels;

  hubcaps gone or stolen;

  the hood infected with rusty scabs;

  not a dribble of oil in the clapped-out engine;

  no gas in the tank.

  I’ve no idea where to start.

  But if I want to eat,

  I’ve got to get this crap heap running.

  Soon.

  INSIDE OUT

  When Ed got his driver’s licence

  Aunt Karen acted like he’d made honour roll.

  ‘Look at you! Driving!

  Soon you’ll be married

  and how old will that make me?’

  She smacked him playfully.

  Ed grinned.

  ‘Ah, Karen, you got good genes.

  You’re gonna outlive us all.

  Anyway, it’s about time …

  I should’ve got my licence last year.’

  Angela looked up from her book.

  ‘He’s being cute cos he wants your wheels, Aunt Karen.’

  ‘What? That’s real suspicious of you, Angela,’ Ed said.

  ‘But … if our very cool aunt wants to lend me her car,

  I won’t say no.’

  He jabbed at Karen’s coat pocket.

  Keys clinked.

  She backed away.

  ‘Oh no. Borrow someone else’s car.’

  Karen was tough, but that day

  Ed was persistent;

  he spent twenty minutes

  wearing her down

  until she handed over the keys

  to her twelve-year-old Mitsubishi.

  ‘Be careful,’ she pleaded.

  Ed said,

  ‘I won’t go over a hundred, I promise,’

  and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

  He smelled of spicy deodorant and spearmint gum.

  ‘You coming, co-pilot?’

  Aunt Karen slumped on the sofa next to Angela,

  who put down her book and

  pushed her feet into a pair of purple Converse.

  ‘I’ll go with them, Aunt Karen.’

  She turned on the TV.

  ‘You enjoy Ellen. We’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Where’s your mom?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Work,’ Angela said,

  when we all knew sh
e was probably at a bar

  or with some guy she’d just met.

  Ed was in charge of the driving,

  Angela of the music,

  and I was in the back seat feeding them snacks

  after we’d stopped at a bodega and

  bought a whole bag of candy.

  ‘No way,’ Ed groaned, as Angela turned the radio

  to a station playing pop.

  ‘Oh, what would you prefer, DJ Badass?’

  ‘Anything, dude. Anything.’

  Angela fiddled with the dials, then stopped.

  ‘Elvis!’ Ed cheered.

  ‘Jesus,’ Angela said.

  ‘The King,’ Ed replied. ‘Turn it up!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ed.

  Want a blanket for your knees too?’

  He smacked the steering wheel.

  ‘Turn it up!’

  And she did.

  And the windows were down.

  And Ed was singing.

  And then Angela was singing.

  And the song wasn’t too difficult to learn.

  And I started singing.

  After Elvis

  it was Johnny Cash,

  then The Supremes

  and more singers and songs that I didn’t know

  but I sang along anyway,

  screeching out the windows

  as we boomed along Third Avenue.

  Aunt Karen was waiting on the stoop,

  wringing her hands on a dishcloth.

  Angela turned off the music.

  ‘Cool drive. Thanks, Ed,’ she said

  and jumped out of the car,

  practically skipping into the house.