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Luna
Loca From the back seat, I watch the sun set behind the trees, changing the North Carolina sky to a blood red. The car window is dirty, filled with greasy smudge marks from the people who have sat here before me. I can feel sweat lines running down my face. Outside, my ex-wife is discussing matters with two men, her hands moving whenever she talks. Red and blue lights keep passing over Marie's face in measured intervals. The window is open about an inch to give me air, but I can hardly breathe. I want to know what she's saying Marie can't be telling these guys anything good. Lifting myself with shackled hands, my fingers push into the sticky blue leather and my ear presses against the crack in the window, but I only catch meaningless words in between my own shallow breaths. My swollen eye is starting to pulse. Defeated, I fall back into the seat. It's not fair that my fate lies in my ex-wife's hands, not given everything that has happened. I turn away and look out the opposite window toward the ocean, the sky dark over the calm water. The sun is long gone from this half of the sky. My ice cream tricycle waits where I left it on the boardwalk, inches from the sand. The freezer lid is now shut, but the blue and white umbrella remains open, its flaps hanging still in the motionless air. I wish someone would close it.
The beach serves as a constant reminder of that day back in May. We arrived to find the sand like golden tinfoil, crinkled with the morning's footfall. Bella immediately sprinted away from me to find a place for us between the clusters of people. My eight-year-old daughter possessed the uncanny ability to select spots that would, nine times out of ten, be invaded by waves at some point in the afternoon. Looking out at the whitecaps, I thought that the water already seemed choppy, ready to soak me and carry my belongings into the ocean. I lived for Sundays, the one day each week Bella spent with me. That particular day, our beach time started later than usual because I insisted on a Denny's breakfast after Marie dropped her off. The night before had left me with a mild hangover. All I could think about was coating my stomach with grease and shrinking my throbbing head with coffee. Bella tried to humor me through breakfast, but couldn't hide her desire to be in the sun. "Are you done yet?" Her feet kicked the pole in the middle of the table as she hunched down on her side of the booth. "Almost, honey. I just want to finish my coffee." I motioned to Clara for the check. "So, how did your book report go last week?" Bella shrugged without breaking her steady beat on the pole. Her chocolate chip pancakes sat largely untouched, the whipped cream smile scraped off the top. "Please, no more kicking. Daddy has a headache today." Since the divorce, I found it hard to discipline her without suffering guilt for the whole next week. At some point, I had decided to let her mother play the bad cop role I wanted to be the parent she confided in when she broke a rule, not the parent who made the rules. I wanted Sundays to be the day she looked forward to each week and talked about with her friends. My daughter was the one part of my life I took pride in. Given what I had to show for the last ten years a failed marriage, a lousy paper-pushing bank job, and the start of an impressive beer belly she didn't have much competition. Bella looked up at me from under her blond bangs. The salt and pepper shakers continued to jump in unison. "Why do you have a headache?" "Sometimes adults just get headaches." "Mom told me you got a lot of headaches when you were living at home." She stopped kicking. "Is that why you and Mom got divorced?" Bella's face shifted into the blank expression she had adopted for conversations with me about Marie or the divorce. "Is that what your mother told you?" I felt flush with immediate anger. Bella didn't respond. Instead, she started kicking the pole again, looking down at her own swinging legs. I tried to soften my voice. "Bella, honey, what did your mother say to you? What did she say about the headaches?" Her shoulders went up and down once, a soft and dismissive shrug. I knew it was no use. Clara placed the check in front of me, and I dropped a twenty, ready to stop the kicking and head to the beach. Ten minutes later, I was still thinking about our conversation while I trudged after her, my feet slipping deep into the soft sand and breakfast sitting heavy in my stomach. I decided I would call Marie later and deal with it. At that moment, I wanted to focus on my daughter and not be pissed off. I looked up and saw Bella waving her white towel at me from a spot near the lifeguard chair. I arrived out of breath and looked around over the top of my sunglasses. "You trying to get your father swept out to sea, pretty lady?" I asked. "Do we always have to be right on top of the water?" "It's not that close," she claimed, hands on her tiny hips, a stance she had picked up from her mother. "Don't be such a baby." "Baby? Did you just call your old man a baby?" I dropped my towel and beach bag. "Now you're in trouble." I lunged to tickle her, and she let out a deafening screech. We circled the lifeguard chair, sand flying in all directions until both hands up, palms toward me in surrender she gasped a plea for truce. I curled her up under my arm and gave her a quick noogie. Laughing and breathless, she sprinted into the water, sending up a spray that soaked an ankle-deep teenager standing nearby. The girl looked crossly at me, arms folded across her flat chest. I gave a small wave and shrug in return. I laid our two towels side by side before taking off my shirt and smearing lotion on my chest and belly. My head still felt like it was being pounded with a hammer, but at least Bella seemed happy now. I lay back and spread the shirt over my face, the taste of coffee lingering in my mouth. I burrowed my ankles in the sand and let out a sigh. The sun worked quickly to warm my skin. I was just starting to relax when cold drops of water landed on my stomach, jerking me out of my reverie. I sat up quickly, my shirt dropping into my lap. "Getcha every
time," Bella said giggling. She dropped onto her towel, skin glistening. The sound of a tinkering bell in the distance erased my question. "Oh can I have money for a popsicle? Please, Daddy, please. Maybe they'll have the red ones this week." "We just ate breakfast. How can you want a popsicle already?" I pulled out a couple of bucks. "I don't want to hear about it later when you feel sick." "Thanks, Daddy," she said, kissing me on the cheek before her feet threw sand on my wet stomach. I brushed myself off and craned my neck backwards. Her legs were tumbling in the shifting sand, and her hair was stuck to her back in long clumps. Watching her go, I craved once more to have her in my life every day rather than once a week. I lay back down in frustration and tried to push the divorce out of my mind, focusing instead on Bella. What would we do next week? I remembered there was a new art exhibit for kids at the local museum, but then realized it wasn't open on Sundays. Why did Bella and I have the one day together when most places were closed? I was positive Marie had orchestrated it that way to keep us from having too much fun. What would convince her to switch my day with Bella to Saturday? I considered different arguments for a while but felt my mind slipping off in different directions. The deep-throated rumble of the waves crashed in the background and relaxed me. I don't know how long I lay there listening to the ocean. I thought it was only a matter of minutes, but it could have been longer. The next thing I remember is the shock of cold water climbing up my ankles, jerking me out of my comatose state. Bella's wet towel was empty next to me. Cursing under my breath, I stood up and wrung out the soaked towels while scanning the distant sidewalk for the ice cream cart. The boardwalk strip was empty. I had no idea what time it was. I didn't remember falling asleep. Everything seemed to have changed. The sun had shifted in the sky and lowered itself toward the tree line. The whole beach felt rather deserted for a Sunday. Where had all the people gone? Where had my daughter gone? I stood up and called out her name. Bella. I shouted up to the young lifeguard. I remembered a skinny brunette girl in a red one piece suit. Now it was a guy with dark dreads. He called down to me that he hadn't seen her or anyone in the water for the past half hour or so. I called her name again. She had to be somewhere nearby. I moved between the scattered groups of towels, now farther apart and less full. I asked if anyone had noticed an eight-year-old blonde girl. Pink and green swimsuit, maybe eating a red popsicle. No one had seen her. I called her name into the ladies' bathroom. My voice echoed back, unanswered. I finally ventured inside and poked my head into each empty stall. A strand of toilet paper stuck to my left foot, and I leaned down to swat it away. I returned to our towels, desperate. The waves had grown high and unfriendly. A row of parallel white lines forecast the approaching swells. Bella.
The sweat on my chest and in my hair dried quickly in the air conditioned police station. My jaw clenched, fighting the shivers running through my body. I stood at the tall counter in my swimsuit with the wet sandy towels over my shoulder. The police officer asked me a round of rapid-fire questions. When was the last time you saw her? I pictured Bella's face. Her eyes were big with the promise of a popsicle. Why didn't I get it for her? Her little legs running toward the boardwalk why didn't I go with her? Why did I let her go alone? My head was starting to pound again. Do you know anyone who would want to take Bella away? It had been months since the divorce. Months since Bella had greeted me at the front door after work. Months since I'd watched her play with friends and have sleepovers. Months since I had left work early on Friday to pick her up at the playground. Who did she know? Maybe she'd met someone at school? Or at the after school program? Marie would know. Has she been taught Stranger-Danger? She learned a couple of years ago kindergarten? We practiced in the backyard. Do not talk to strangers. Keep at least three big steps in between you and the stranger. Yell if you're frightened. Find an adult. Run away. Did you two have a fight before she disappeared? Her unhappy face at breakfast. The table shaking with her kicks. I felt my eyes water as I stared at the officer, determined to look like a good father, wondering what he was thinking. But I gave her money for a popsicle. She was happy when I last saw her. Would she have run away? From me? My legs felt weak. I wanted to sit down. The officer filled in the paperwork. I watched him. My hands tapped the counter. Anxiety built with each faltering answer I gave. Every minute counted. The officer continued to scribble notes while explaining there were too many possibilities at this point to guess what might have happened. He mentioned that kidnapping might be one explanation. "Bella's too smart for that," I argued, delirious with fear and agitation. "She wouldn't just go off with some stranger." "She may not have had a choice, sir. We'll question the lifeguards on duty and talk to the ice cream vendors to find out if anyone recalls seeing your daughter." The officer looked at me. His eyes seemed to ask what kind of idiot loses his daughter. "Do you have a photograph that we can use? We'll put her picture on the Missing Child list, and you can release it to the newspapers." At that moment, the front door of the police station slammed open behind me. Without turning, I knew it was Marie.
My home is now a studio apartment in the Playa, a predominantly Latino area near the beach. The crevices in the tiled floor are filled with sand that sticks to my bare feet they haven't been clean since the day I moved in. There are two front doors, one that acts like a screen door but instead has white metal bars that run from top to bottom. Because there is no air conditioning, I keep the solid door open for ventilation through the bars. Talk shows and Spanish conversations filter through, sounds that were new to me when I moved in but are now white noise. I rented the place three months ago it's all I can afford on my new salary. I quit my job at the bank after Bella disappeared. People treat banks like libraries; no one speaks above a whisper. Within an hour back at work, my mind was exploding with the emptiness. I needed to be outside; I needed to be searching. I now ride up and down the beaches, attracting children like the Pied Piper with the cling-clang of my bell and the promise of ice cream. A permanent callus has developed on my index finger. Each child's face becomes a hidden treasure map that I study, looking for familiar features. My path winds from the warehouse down to the boardwalk where I ride along the row of beaches, each filled with bare limbs and white lifeguard chairs. When I get to the city limit, I circle back. The beaches are my route. I work them every day. Every day is the same more children, more unfamiliar young faces asking for ice cream, none of them Bella but I keep riding, unwilling and unable to give up. My next-door neighbor Jorge used to ride ice cream carts, but recently he was promoted to manager. He is now my boss. Jorge spends his days at the warehouse checking inventory and managing folks. He nicknames all the gringos he likes, calling me "Luna" on account of my round baby face, wide eyes, and the stack of Moon Pies that fill my kitchen cabinets. Marie stopped buying them about a year before our divorce she thought the chocolate and marshmallow treats were contributing to my gut. Every night after work, Jorge comes over with a six-pack of beer. He always looks at the photograph of Bella hanging on the refrigerator door. It's my favorite picture of her, taken last November on our first Sunday together shortly after the divorce. We had gone fishing off the pier next to the beach. Bella had seemed bored right up until the moment the line suddenly went taut her first fish and fear and excitement exploded across her face. I had held her around the waist to keep her feet firmly on the pier and had given quick words of advice in her ear. It had taken all her strength to reel it in, but the fish finally emerged from the water, its tail flapping spastically. She had handed me the pole scared to touch the scaly fish, her nose screwing up in disgust but once it stopped moving and I held it up for her to see, she made a low sound of awe, her mouth pulled together in the middle and her light brown eyebrows as high as they could go on her forehead. I had been planning to photograph the fish but instead quickly snapped her picture so I would never forget her expression. Every time Jorge sees this photo of Bella, he asks me the same question. "What would you do if you found the tirσn who took her away from you?" Every time, I know the answer, though I never speak it. I'd have to kill him. I hear the ringing of my bell as I fall asleep, the hollow metal pitch filling my head with dreams. I chase her across miles of sand, calling her name over and over. Bella. She keeps running toward the bell, toward the promise of popsicles. The splash of her green and pink swimsuit jumps across the bright sand. I try to call to her, to bring her to me. Bella. Bella. She runs, always runs, laughing, her laughter echoing the ringing bell.
Today marks the three-month anniversary since Bella disappeared. A message from Marie on my answering machine this morning served as an unnecessary reminder. Her messages have shifted over time. Anger has replaced desperation; accusations have replaced fear. Only pain is constant. The Friday sun was hot when I walked to work around noon. August is unrelenting on the North Carolina coast. I had just finished a late breakfast at Denny's where Clara now holds the same booth for me every day. I still feel the table shake from the phantom kicks. I arrived at the warehouse feeling sweaty and dehydrated. I picked up a cart with a blue and white umbrella and filled the freezer with ice cream and popsicles, just as I've done every day for the last three months. The beach was packed with children when I arrived. I started my slow ride down the boardwalk, ringing my bell. The tinkling sound alternated in my head with the last two words of Marie's message. Find her. A wave of kids moved toward me with clenched fists of bills. I stepped off my bike and slid the umbrella up before opening the freezer lid and handing out ice cream. Short kids, large tummies, brightly colored swimsuits, and sandy faces packed themselves around me. Suddenly, I saw her. Her hair was slicked back and her eager hand held crumpled singles. Her two front teeth, slightly crossed, flashed at me with her smile. My vision faltered, and my eyes filled with tears. I pushed through the children and grabbed her in an embrace, lifting her off the ground. Her small frame held tight in my arms, I promised myself never to let her go. Her voice screamed in my ear. "Daddy! Daddy!" "I'm here, honey, I'm here," I whispered over and over. Her scream got louder. "Daddy, help me! Help! Dad-dddeeee!" I suddenly felt a strong hand grip my bicep and realized that Bella was being stripped out of my arms. As I tried to grab her back, I was shoved in the chest and sent flying backwards into the cart, its hard metal jarring my spine. "What the hell are you doing?" said the large man who now had my daughter. He was turned half away, arm raised with palm up to hold me off. Bella was sheltered under his other arm, out of my view. "That's my daughter give her back." I tried to see her again, bending down and moving in circles. The man kept her on his right side, moving in sync with me. I cried out to her, "Bella, it's me, it's Daddy." "You got the wrong kid, buddy. Now get lost before I call the police." The man was pulling my daughter away toward the beach. I launched myself at them, grabbing Bella by the arm. "Give her back." "What the hell?" He swung around and connected with my left eye. Bright spots clouded my vision. I fumbled to see Bella one last time before I landed on my knees and fell forward into the sand.
"He doesn't know yet." Marie's words reach me through the window crack. My view out the window is suddenly blocked by the buckled torso of one of the cops, his gun holster and mace in front of me. He opens the door and the bigger policeman pulls me out by my arm. I am still dizzy. My feet feel like they are shackled when I struggle to find footing. "Your wife has agreed to take you home" "Ex," she corrects. "and the guy whose daughter you grabbed has agreed not to press charges on account of your, um, circumstances." I turn to Marie, who dismisses me with a shake of her head. "Wait until we're in the car," she says. Marie doesn't look at me when she breaks the news. She stares ahead at the red stop sign on the corner of my block. Her eyes never move. Mine never leave her. "Are they sure it's her? Couldn't it be a mistake?" A body has washed up on the shore in a town half a mile down the coast. Marie received the call today that they had positively identified it. My mind reels for an explanation. Another child, any child but ours, Bella was kidnapped, someone has her, she has to still be alive. If she drowned, it means "Tyler, it's her. Don't make me say it again."
Jorge rattles my bars shortly after I come home. Word of the incident at the beach spread through the warehouse at closing time. "One helluva shiner, amigo," he comments. Tonight, he's holding a 24-carton of beer. He hands me two cans one to drink and one to press against my black eye. I move automatically, opening the beer in a daze. The first can empties before Jorge joins me. An hour and a half later, aluminum cans cover my coffee table, haphazardly stacked in a mock war. Jorge lets out a belch that echoes through the apartment and mingles with the neighbor's evening news. My neck sticks to the plastic cover on the couch. I can smell stale cigar on his patterned shirt. "So, what were you thinking, fighting with a big guy like that?" His words sound a little slurred. "I'm gonna start calling you Luna Loca, man." He chuckles to himself, slipping deeper into the couch. "Luna Loca, that's funny." I make
a snorting noise and hold the cold can up to my eye. He doesn't know about
Bella. I lean down to pick up another beer from the unopened pile on the floor. "I wish there was some other way, you know?" Jorge says. "Or something I could do to help." "I just miss her." I hear myself from inside a deep cavern. "What would you do if you found her?" His eyes are glassed over. "If it was my kid and someone took her..." I'd have to kill him. Jorge's eyes shut and his breathing becomes slow and steady before I unclip his key ring from his jeans. Closing the metal bars behind me, I look back at him asleep on my couch and wonder if he'll blame himself in the morning. I hear Jorge's voice over and over, running through my head as I stumble down the street in the dark. I feel myself stepping to each word. Left, Luna, right, Loca. At night, this stretch of vast warehouse buildings is deserted and the air is motionless and silent, full of its own humidity. I fumble with Jorge's keys before finding one that fits. Sliding the garage door up, its recoil catches in the tracks above and slides to a standstill. I wait for the room to stop spinning around me, blackness chasing blackness. The shiny rim of a tricycle wheel appears, the distant streetlight playing on its curves. I push the cart over to the gigantic storage freezer and overfill the chilled compartment with cherry red popsicles. The bike is heavier now. I pull it onto the street and close the garage door, careful to lock it behind me. I throw the keys into the lone bush so Jorge won't get in trouble. Maybe he'll even find them tomorrow when he wakes up and comes looking for me. The bike sways under me when I start peddling, pushing down on the left pedal, Luna, then right, Loca. The streetlights dance around, nimble and hooded. Lines on the road swing up to meet me. White stripes, yellow jumping dashes are soon replaced by white sand, bright even at night. I aim for the dark mass rising out of the sand, accessible from the boardwalk. The pier grows bigger as I approach, a slanting springboard. I slide the wheels onto its creaking planks. Slowly, focused on my knees, I watch them move rhythmically up and down. Halfway down the pier, I stop in mid-push and bring the cart to a halt. I want to find myself in the black sky. Leaning back, there I hang. To a mere scar of moon, I ring the bell, sending its tinny twinkling sound into the night in greeting. I feel
my sweaty hands slipping on the handlebars and pull myself upright. I can see
the end of the pier over the top of my freezer. The darkness is broken by bright
pink and green swatches of color. I see her standing there, beckoning me closer.
I start peddling again, the cart bumping over the wooden slats. I gather
momentum and speed forward, a pilot without wings on his white chariot. Black
reigns before me. The end rushes up to meet me. The wheels touch off the final
plank but my feet keep steady on the pedals, moving easily now, the wheels
spinning without resistance. I recognize the empty space between, the space I've
been floating in for three months. I let go and reach my hands up toward the
crazy moon. |