Boy of the Moon

8

Gerwyn Park was where they spent the afternoon, watching the sparrows pierce through the heat that radiated from rocks drowning in sunlight. Christopher-Elliot saw a little girl swinging on the plastic swings nearby and wanted to do the same, so they did that. Their little game of marine trivia was just getting started.

"Very well, Sir Christopher," said his father, "Then tell me this: how many grown adults like me can fit into the diameter of the artery of a blue whale?"

Christopher-Elliot squinted at the warm sun hitting him directly on the swing. He leaned forward and backward recklessly, terrifying his father who good-naturedly pushed him and tried to steady him in those anxiety-ridden seconds his hands were in contact with the seat.

"Is that a trick question?" asked Christopher-Elliot.

"I'm afraid not. I'll be expecting an answer to the nearest decimal place please, young man."

"Nearest decimal place!" yelped Christopher-Elliot, amused but mostly afraid of the person who had calculated how many adult fractions, let alone bodies, could fit into the dark arteries of a blue whale. Now, he was imagining a man-and-a-half running through a vein void of blood...

"Fine. To the nearest whole number. But no more hints for you," replied his father, serious façade flushing away.

"That wasn't a hint!"

"That was a hint, or my name isn't Simon."

They both roared with laughter, Christopher-Elliot's giggles traveling above and below the wind, and his father's choking into his bright yellow sweatshirt sleeve.

"Baba... your name... isn't Simon, it's -- it's Masoud!"

"That's right. It couldn't hurt to try my luck." He slipped his hand into his pocket and yearned to check if she had called or left a message or thought of him at all.

His phone rung. It wasn't her. The Universe seemed bent on teaching him to stop wanting things so bad -- he was clogging up the celestial wishlist with trivial things like a phone call.

In any case, it was Essie's brother Ian, and that was as close to her as he was likely to get. While his left hand continued swinging his son, his right hand held the phone long enough that he almost could not take the call. His worries materialized in front of him as tiny black dots, the kind you got when you stood up too fast: what if Essie had driven too fast and couldn't control the car? She was not only capable but had a track record for insane driving. What if she had found a more assertive, older man and Ian was just calling to notify him that she had decided to marry that guy instead of him? She had made it clear more than once that he couldn't take adequate control of his life for a twenty-three-year-old and that she was tired of looking after him. What if she had spontaneously combusted? That was worse than the former, but not by much since it would end with him breaking down in a park packed with children and their collected parents. He took the call. His hands shook.

.-.-.

Christopher-Elliot swung steadily on the swing like his father had told him to while he moved a few paces away to speak to Christopher-Elliot's uncle on the phone. Uncle Ian had ruddy cheeks and a really loud voice and his father usually held the phone well away from his face when talking to him. Under a newly leafing tree, his father acted strangely and pressed the phone to his ear with both hands, knuckles pink. This is why Christopher-Elliot wanted to listen. The little boy, so used to his father's low voice, could hear everything but Uncle Ian. This was enough.

"Hello, Ian? Hey, how -- yeah, yes, we're fine. He's taking it all just fine, going to school, doing his homework."

His father glanced over at him and smiled, more out of habit (to check he wasn't eating something off the ground, though those days had long gone) than to greet him, but Christopher-Elliot smiled back and waved. Then, half-listening to his father and half-swinging, he began to daydream.