—
Irene was still gone the next morning when Owen woke up. He texted Luna to see if she’d heard back. Luna said she had not.
She remembered her invitation for an eight-thirty run and thought she might find Irene doing laps around Dover Cemetery, where they often met. Luna threw on her sweats and sneakers and headed out.
She walked through the greenbelt behind her yard. Her elderly neighbor, Mr. Kane, had bushwhacked a clearing years ago. He maintained the passage year-round, in winter driving his snowblower through the woods. It gave him a shortcut from his house to his wife’s grave. Other neighbors began using the same shortcut, and soon it was a well-worn path that led not just to Dover Church and Cemetery but to town.
Luna began running under the tunnel of foliage, the dirt soft and tacky underfoot. Her body felt stiff and creaky. Within just a few minutes, her breath became hard as an asthmatic’s. She hoped Irene wouldn’t show up and race around her like a gazelle. Luna slowed down, caught her breath, and walked along the edge of the graveyard, noting the names and dates of the dead as she had so many times before.
Then she heard the squawk of carrion birds looping overhead. She spotted a swath of red fabric against the stone and greenery. She stumbled up the hill, past the graves of those who’d died last century and before. There hadn’t been a new burial in more than sixty years.
Luna’s knees buckled; her body understood before her brain. Irene was lying on her side in a fetal position. For the briefest moment, Luna thought Irene might be asleep.
“Wake up, Irene,” Luna said.
Irene didn’t move. Luna stepped closer and saw the blood and the blue hue of Irene’s face. She turned away and then looked back, thinking maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her brain. Irene’s entire chest was the same color as her red windbreaker.
October 2003
PARTY, Saturday, @ 2100 hrs Hosted by Luna and Owen
Owen and Luna. Luna and Owen. Their names said so often as one, like twins or a romantic couple. Outsiders could never figure out what it was. Friends would often ask what their deal was. The truth was they were just friends. That’s not to say there was never any attraction. They’d each thought about it. But neither of them wanted to mess with what they had. Whatever it was had become essential to their lives. The pair had been inseparable since the day Owen stuck his fingers in Luna’s mouth.
One year and one month later, Luna and Owen were hanging out in his dorm room in Watson Hall. Luna was chomping on potato chips and watching Owen iron his shirt. She provided a running commentary, as if she were observing a sporting event.
“You’re really taking your time between the buttons, aren’t you?” Luna said.
“Don’t get chips on my bed,” Owen said, eyes focused on his chosen task.
The iron fired steam like a dragon, Luna thought.
“Any knucklehead can de-wrinkle the shirttails, but your sleeve work is mighty impressive. I give you an eight out of ten,” Luna said.
Owen regarded Luna, who was lounging on his bed, wearing threadbare jeans and a ratty old T-shirt that read “Camp Sunshine.” She had this way of making herself at home in his space, which somehow made him feel more at home.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Owen said.
Luna checked her outfit, then turned to Owen, with an expression of wild confusion.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Luna asked. “You can see what I’m wearing, right?”
“I can.”
“I’ll confirm that what you’re seeing is probably at the very least a close approximation of what I’m wearing, taking into account any weird visual anomaly and perceptual errors.”
Owen shut off the iron. Luna pulled the cord from the socket.
“Shall we?” Owen said as he checked his watch. Luna threw on her satin smoking jacket as she and Owen stepped into the hallway.
“Mason!” Luna shouted when she saw her friend leaving a room just a few doors down.
Mason spun around, startled. “Oh, hey, Luna.”
Mason and Owen nodded at each other. Once, Owen had tried to talk to the guy. He asked Mason what he did when he wasn’t smoking pot. Dude, that’s like a really personal question was Mason’s response.
Mason was exclusively Luna’s friend at the time. Owen was convinced that it was because Mason had weed. He always had weed. He even smelled like it. In a good way, Luna thought; in a bad way, Owen thought. Most people called Ralph Mason just Mason, since it was generally agreed that Ralph sounded like a grandpa or something you did after a drinking binge. Mason was a math major with crooked teeth and a haircut that always began with a comma on his forehead. It was pure coincidence that Mason lived in Bing Hall, commonly known as Bong Hall.
“What are you doing here?” Luna asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Mason said.
“You’re coming to the lab party, right, Mason?” Luna asked.
“Maybe. I can’t commit to anything right now,” Mason said quite earnestly. Mason liked to live in the present. He rarely committed to anything that might take place in the future.
Luna found this quirk endlessly amusing. She was always trying to get Mason to pledge himself to a future endeavor.
Mason, let’s go see that Wim Wenders film on Saturday.
Mason, will you study with me tomorrow?
Mason, will you meet me at the dining hall in fifteen minutes?
Mason, promise me you’ll go to sleep later tonight.
Mason’s answer was always some variation of the theme: We’ll see. Let’s play it by ear.
But then Mason broke one of the primary tenets of his life and said, “Hey, Luna, can I talk to you later?”
“What’s up?” Luna asked.
“Later,” Mason said. “When you have time.”
“I don’t know,” Luna said. “Let’s play it by ear.”
She finally understood Mason’s resistance to making plans.
* * *