The Waking Moon

Chapter Twenty-One

“Did you try the door?” Rhodes came up behind me, his voice startlingly close. He stepped in front of me and turned the knob. It opened. “Hooray! Carelessness saves the day!”

He let himself inside, and then stopped abruptly.

“Jesus, Paulie.”

I stepped in beside him, hearing that terrible, low voice singing in my head. The couch pillows were strewn all over the floor, and a halogen lamp was lying on its side, its glass shade cracked. My cell phone had skittered halfway under a side table. I picked it up and slipped it in my pocket. Then I busied myself picking up the pillows, one by one, assembling them carefully on the couch. Rhodes watched me in silence. Then he went into the kitchen. I followed.

Most of the cabinet doors were thrown open, and half-devoured food covered nearly every inch of counter space. An open container of soured milk sat on the counter. Several half-eaten TV dinners had been left to fester on the table. Bags of potato chips and Oreos and boxes of frozen pizzas were scattered across the counters. The floor was littered with smashed cookies and blobs of shiny gristle. Rhodes stood rigid in the doorway, his face grave. 

“What happened here?”

I met his inquisitive eyes, but said nothing. Instead I got to work cleaning up the mess, wiping the crumbs from the table and the counters, filling the garbage can with rot. Rhodes watched me, jaw tense, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers.

“I’m calling the police,” he said.

“No, don’t.” Like a zombie I continued to clean.

“What is wrong with you!” he yelled. “It’s pathological the way you hold things in! The way you won’t even trust a friend! What the hell happened to you? Who did this? Who hurt you?”

I pulled away. “Why can’t you just mind your own business?” I shouted.

“Because, Paulie, I happen to care about you. Because you show up at my house beat to shit, your parents gone, and now we come here to find this place…well, obviously the scene of something seriously bad. I’m your friend. I’m your friend, okay, Paulie? Can you handle that?”

“I know!” I yelled. “And I’d like to keep it that way!”

“What does that mean?”

I pulled away, hugging myself defensively. I walked to the kitchen window, my feet scattering the crumbs on the floor. Outside, swirling, white-gray clouds had replaced the mountains. No one would ever believe what had happened. And so I had to deal with it all alone. It wasn’t fair. I’m sick of feeling alone! I thought. I’m so sick of it! Suddenly furious, I picked up a plate from the counter and hurled it to the ground. The crash was startlingly loud and satisfying. Rhodes held up his hands and took a step back.

“Whoa, Paulie!”

I saw a glass on the counter, clouded with a film of old milk, and swatted it hard with my good hand. It shattered against the lower cabinets. I hurled the package of Oreos to the ground. Then the open gallon of soured milk, which glugged into a fetid white puddle that crept slowly across the kitchen floor. I threw everything I could get my hands on until the white linoleum was covered with shards of pottery and glass and rotting food.

My hands ached and my fractured arm felt as if it were submerged in lava. The rage ebbed and I collapsed into a kitchen chair, and sobbed. Rhodes quickly approached. He knelt down right in the muck and looked at me. The instant I saw the pity in his eyes, I understood what he was thinking. I was the victim of some terrible act of violence. And he would be my savior.

For a long time he remained there, kneeling before me, waiting for the sobs to subside. When they did we sat listening to the low hum of the refrigerator. Then Rhodes got to his feet. Without even bothering to brush off his pants, he walked to the closet doors and searched until he’d located the dustpan and broom. He went to work without a grimace or a word of complaint.

I watched him impassively, too numb to move. But after while, I managed to get to my feet. Silently, I helped him clean up the mess I’d made. I got a bucket and a mop and began to clean the floor. We worked side by side, clearing shattered glass, sweeping up the black crumbs of smashed cookies, mopping up sour milk. We didn’t look at each other and we didn’t speak. When we’d finished, Rhodes drove me back to his house before his seventh period class began.

I opened the car door, but lingered for a moment. “Hey, Rhodes…?”

He looked at me, and I was relieved to find no anger or judgment in his face. “Yup.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave me a quick wink. “Get outta here.”

I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck. He sighed quietly and hugged me back. Then he nudged me gently away.

“I’m here. Whenever. Whatever. No pressure, I swear.”

I nodded, truly grateful. He smiled warmly.

“Seriously, chica. Get outta here. I’m late for class.”

I climbed out and closed the door, blinking out at the cheerful sunlight dappling through the bare trees. I watched Rhodes pull away and drive down the street. Then I let myself through the front gate and traveled the long path to the empty mansion. I was tired of feeling alone.