Chapter 1 - The Funny Moon

Claire loved Wally, but lately she didn’t like him very much. Sometimes, when she thought of him, she shuddered, as if sucking on a sourball. Other times, when she looked at him, she felt as if she were having an allergic reaction.

            Her friend, Roz, said, “You’ve been married for twenty-five years. It happens.”

            “It will be twenty-six in October,” said Claire. “And how would you know? You’ve never been married.”

            “I’ve seen what marriage can do to people.” Roz fluffed her hair. “Plenty of

married men have hit on me.”

            A thought flashed through Claire’s mind, and before she could rein it in,

she blurted, “Are you saying Wally hit on you?”

            “God, no!” Roz said, and laughed. “The only thing he wants to hit is a golf ball. Or haven’t you noticed?”

            Claire smiled weakly at her friend and looked out the large picture window of the café where they sat sipping their weekly coffee. The café was the lone alternative to the Starbucks just down Main Street and favored by all the independent thinkers, anti-corporate liberals, and tree-hugging hippies who lived in and around the small New Hampshire college town of Hancock, on the Vermont border. Roz wasn’t a full-fledged liberal like Claire, having made her fortune in commercial real estate in Boston before retiring early and moving back to her hometown a few years ago. Claire had met Roz soon after her return, through the dog rescue shelter where they both volunteered, and their political differences were quickly overcome by their mutual love of dogs of all shapes and sizes. It was Claire who insisted they patronize the café on behalf of social justice, and Roz didn’t argue. A poster in the window announced that unlike the corporate behemoth down the street, the café was locally owned and operated, paid a livable wage and didn’t report to its shareholders—just to its customers. All of which resonated like a warm hug with Claire.

            “See that man over there?” said Roz, lifting her chin toward a rumpled figure in wireless glasses seated in an alcove. “He’s been eyeing me like a cinnamon cruller.”

            Claire looked over. The man, seated in front of a laptop, appeared to be in his mid-forties, attractive, with a gray-flecked beard, curly brown hair and handsome face. He wore a faded plaid shirt, blue jeans and a well-worn corduroy sport coat.       

“Probably a professor,” said Claire.

            “A professor with tenure,” said Roz, holding her spoon and licking the length of it. “Total financial security.”

            “Control yourself, Roz.”

            “I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about you.”

            “I’m married.”

            Roz turned her gaze to Claire. “You didn’t say happily.” She lifted her chin toward another table. “How about a younger guy?”

            “Enough,” said Claire.

            Roz raised an eyebrow. “The way Wally behaves, he counts as a twenty-something. Maybe even a teenager. You’re enabling him, you know.”

            Claire looked down at her coffee, took a deep breath and sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. She paid as many of the bills as she could, while Wally’s once thriving creative services ad business slowly tanked. Her own business as a certified massage therapist and energy healer was thriving, but her work couldn’t cover everything.

            “Wally hasn’t been the same since his father died,” said Claire.

            “When was that, three years ago?”

            “More like two.”

            “Before you know it,” said Roz, “ten years will pass. You’ll be sixty and still married to an overgrown boy.”

            “He took such great care of his father. Especially at the end.”

            “I’ll give him credit for that,” said Roz.

            Claire sipped her coffee. “He can’t stop wondering what it’s all about.”

            “Like he’s the only one?” Roz leaned over the table toward Claire. “He needs a wake-up call!” She squeezed Claire’s hand. “It’s not the end of the world. Lots of husbands turn into adolescents.”

            “It’s not funny, Roz.”

            “Scratch the surface of any man and you’ll find a boy.”

            “He has a good heart.”

            “Maybe . . . but he still needs a good swift kick in the ass.”

            “What am I supposed to do?”

            “Kick him out.”

            “What?”

            “It’s for his own good—and yours. He’ll either wake up or he won’t. Either way, you’ll be better off.”

            “I can’t kick him out. I still love him.”

            “Yeah, but do you like him?”

            Claire turned to face the sunlight streaming in through the café window. Did she really want to answer that question? She leaned into the sun. After the long winter, she relished the warmth of May, when the weather finally felt more like Atlanta, where she had grown up loving the spring with its blooming azaleas and dogwoods, colorful blossoms and bright sun. Northern New England had no spring. Just a long cold winter, followed by mud season, and then, almost overnight, an explosion of green as summer seemed to

arrive instantly.

            Kick Wally out? Then what? Claire sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. When she first met Wally, her hair had been long and silky, a light brown streaked blonde by the sun. That was twenty-nine years ago in Greece. Now her hair was short and streaked with gray. Raising two boys would do that to you. Roz told her she should dye her hair, that every woman over forty-five should dye their hair, but Claire refused, partly because Wally said she was a natural beauty who didn’t need any phony hair coloring. Roz said Wally just wanted to get into her pants. Roz said lots of things. Sometimes Claire didn’t want to hear them. But this time she wondered if Roz had a point. Had she been too patient and kind? Too forgiving and supportive? Wally seemed worse than ever, living in his dream world. Would he really shape up if he were shipped out? Could she actually do that?

            “I’ve seen other wives do it,” said Roz. “It’s always for the best. Things move forward, one way or the other.”

            “I’m not kicking him out,” Claire said.

            “You are such a martyr. Such a Catholic schoolgirl—always bending over backwards.”

            Outside the window, Hancock’s Main Street was coming to life at ten in the morning. Cars streamed past, some drivers slowing to look for parking places, others impatient to get through town on their way to the medical center, the food co-op, a business meeting or a trip on the interstate. The sidewalks were filled with college students headed to and from class and other pedestrians on errands or social visits, all of them looking relaxed and happy, enjoying the May sunshine as much as Claire.

            “It’s just so extreme,” she said, turning to Roz. “Kicking him out.”

            “Extreme situations require extreme action.”

            Claire sipped her coffee and looked back out the window. A tall, lean figure on a motor scooter was preparing to turn down Main Street, the rider’s lanky frame completely out of scale with the machine beneath it, his knees flared out to the side like wings. He wore a black ice hockey helmet and a high school letterman’s jacket—maroon with white leather sleeves—both of which looked vaguely familiar to Claire. She couldn’t tell at first, but it appeared the rider was carrying something on his back. A bag filled with golf clubs! Oh, for cryin’ out loud.

            “Is that guy crazy?” Roz said, spotting the same rider.

            “Maybe,” said Claire softly.

            The scooter turned the corner onto Main Street, but the rider’s head did not turn with it. Instead, it stayed focused on the shapely figure of a lovely coed standing at the crosswalk.

            “Oh shit!” Roz cried.

            The scooter hit a car pulling out of a parking space, catapulting the rider off his seat. He flew through the air, golf bag on his back, and soared over the car’s trunk before disappearing from sight.

            “Oh my god!” Roz said. “Did you see that?”

            Claire wished she hadn’t. She leapt to her feet to make sure the rider was okay.

            “What an idiot!” said Roz.

            You don’t have to tell me, thought Claire.

            Roz raced out of the café. Claire thought about joining her, but she was tired of cleaning up messes like this. It was exhausting. She watched the commotion outside, where a pedestrian began directing traffic and two college students scurried over to collect the golf clubs littered across the pavement. The car’s driver, an elderly woman with silver hair, had gotten out to see what hit her. She stood by her open door, looking down, a shocked expression on her ruddy face. A middle-aged couple rushed past her to attend to the rider.

Doctors, perhaps. The town was full of them, thanks to the Hancock Medical Center.

            Roz bustled back into the café.

            “It’s Wally!” she cried.

            “I know,” said Claire.

            “He’s bleeding. On his cheek. But he’s talking and moving just fine.”

            Claire looked out the window, torn between relief and rage. The couple had helped Wally to his feet, each holding an arm, propping him up. He lifted a hand and adjusted his hockey helmet, smiling and nodding at his two attendants. Blood trickled down the side of his face. The woman dabbed the blood with a handkerchief and handed it to Wally, who pressed the cloth against his cheek, stemming the tide. He stepped forward to speak with the little old lady whose car he’d hit.

            “Maybe you’re right,” Claire said with a sigh.

            “Of course I’m right,” said Roz, patting her hand. “If he wakes up, you can take him back.”

            “And if he doesn’t?”

            “There are lots of fish in the sea, sweetheart.”

            “I’m not interested in other fish.”

            “Not a big, handsome tuna? With a treasure chest full of money?”

            Claire shook her head.

            “Look at him,” said Roz, looking back out the window. “Is he the luckiest fool ever? He could have been killed.”

            Claire watched Wally bend down and embrace the little old lady, who smiled at him and patted his shoulder before getting back into her car and driving away. The two college students handed him his golf bag with his clubs, and he shook their hands with a big grin. Then he shook hands with the couple that had helped him and pulled the handkerchief away from his face to show the woman how the blood had stopped. He pressed his hands together in a gesture of thanks and bowed his head. The man who had been directing traffic rolled Wally’s scooter over to the sidewalk and put the kickstand down. Wally thanked him, too, while the crowd of people who had witnessed the accident slowly dispersed. Among the last to depart was the gorgeous coed who had triggered the whole incident. Wally smiled at her, too, and Claire was surprised when the girl smiled back. She gave Wally a wave and a coy look, and then she strutted off, swinging her hips like a salsa dancer.

            “I guess if you can stop traffic, it goes to your head,” said Claire.

            Roz snorted. “In twenty years, she’ll be married to some jerk who’s cheating

on her.”

            “That’s a happy thought,” said Claire, and then she had a thought of her own: In twenty years, I’ll be seventy-one. Where did all the time go? What am I waiting for?

            “Another coffee?” asked Roz.

            “Well, I’m not going out there.”

            “I’ll get you a refill and a chocolate mousse cupcake. They cure everything.”

            Roz patted her hand and rose from the table. Claire gave her a weak smile and turned back to the window—just in time to see Wally climb on his scooter and ride off, golf clubs on his back, hockey helmet on his head. The bike looked far too small for his tall, angular body. Look at his knees sticking out to the side! It was as if he had taken a child’s toy and decided to go on a joyride. And really, wasn’t that the whole problem?