The Half Moon: a Novel

He never wanted to be there, clearly—who did?—but on that evening, something about his whole attitude made her angry. The weather was gorgeous—a perfect, cleansing May day. Would she prefer to blow off their appointment and go get a cocktail, sit outside somewhere? Of course. But this was supposed to be good for them. She noticed he’d gotten a haircut at some point that day. There was a pale line at the back of his neck.

She was about to ask him if he came to these appointments for himself or for her, if he agreed that there was something between them that needed fixing, when Dr. Hanley ushered them in and they sat down next to each other on the love seat. Malcolm glanced at his phone, and Jess felt her temper flare. So she crossed her legs, leaned forward, and before Dr. Hanley could ask how the last two weeks had been, Jess blurted out that she thought Malcolm had a problem with porn. Malcolm was so surprised he made a sound like a squeak, a sound he’d never made before or since, and then he looked up at the ceiling and sighed. She just wanted to say something new, and they both knew it. A few times over the years he’d suggested they watch together, and though she didn’t object—sometimes she criticized his choice, sometimes she covered her eyes and said “la la la la” until the wet sounds were over, sometimes she tilted her head and looked closely and said she could be in medical school for gynecology, this was probably exactly what it was like—they both knew that she’d never once implied that she was upset or offended. And she wasn’t, really. When she said the word “porn” in Dr. Hanley’s drab office, six miles from their home, in a room that smelled like Pine-Sol and was full of particleboard furniture made to look like mahogany, just days before Dr. Hanley would close his office for three weeks of fishing in Maine and she knew Malcolm was thinking, finally, he’d get a break from the guy, the doctor intertwined his fingers across his belly and tuned way in.

Jess could see that Malcolm was trying to seek out the doctor’s eyes to see if there was something to be understood between them. He did not have a problem with porn, he said. Some of what she said in that room might be true, but that? No. Okay, so he watched porn once in a blue moon, he said, turning red, and then he challenged both Jess and Dr. Hanley to find a man in the universe, okay any man with access to the internet, who did not, on occasion, watch porn.

“My father,” Jess said. Malcolm looked at the ceiling again, as if for help. He was, as she knew he would be, hamstrung by the fact that her father was dead.

“Sure” was all he said.

“You’re saying he did? Where would he even get porn?” Jess asked. He’d died after a long battle with cancer, and had never once, as far as she could recall, used a piece of technology other than the television.

“Where did anyone get porn before the internet?”

“I think we’re getting off base here,” Dr. Hanley said.

“You’re saying my mother rented X-rated videos for him? Are you remembering that he couldn’t drive for the last four years of his life?”

“I’m not saying anything, actually. You’re doing all the saying here.”

“Listen,” Dr. Hanley interjected. He leaned over his knees to tell them there was nothing wrong with anything, as long as both parties were in agreement. But it sounded to him like Jess was not in agreement.

Jess could almost see the adrenaline coursing under Malcolm’s skin and thought he’d either walk out or say something dirty just to get Dr. Hanley to change his expression. Instead he said, “Jess, I think it’s pretty standard.”

“Standard what?”

“Standard fare? For two people who’ve been having sex for as long as we have?”

“Are we having sex?”

He ignored that.

“It’s lazy. You’re hoping you don’t have to put in any work, so you pull up a porn and hope it does the job.”

“And it does. Sometimes. Doesn’t it?”

Jess felt mortified for three seconds, and then absolutely furious.

“If we’re going there, we should go there. Right? Isn’t that what you said? Jess? Have you not been pretty turned on by a porn a few times?”

She turned a fraction so that he was talking to the back of her head.

“I’m confused,” he said. “Isn’t this where we come to say honest things to each other?” He looked at Dr. Hanley, and then because he was already in trouble, he looked at his phone to read a text.

“I have to get to the bar.”



* * *



When he came home that night, he woke her by lifting her shirt over her head. He tugged down her underwear and she told herself to refuse, he’d been such a jerk in Dr. Hanley’s office, and that would teach him. He hadn’t even texted to apologize. But this was the apology, she supposed, or if not an apology it was some kind of message, and it was up to her to decipher it. She couldn’t help looking at him when he sat back on his heels for a moment to take off his shirt. She couldn’t help noticing that he was beautiful, still. He was the kind of man who’d get better with each passing year, because along with age would come a little wisdom, discipline, a flame trimmed back so neatly he could control its height, its heat. It was all there in how he carried himself, how he stood, how he listened. He was immovable, a rock. It was the worst thing about him and the best. But he was angry now—unusual for him to show it—and it was even more unlike him to stay angry for so many hours. He barely looked at her. His skin smelled like gin. It was like he was in a daze, not really seeing her at all, and though her mind and heart felt a little hurt, felt more than a little worried, her body didn’t seem to care. He gripped her hips. He splayed his hand against her chest and pressed her down. It was so fast, and once it was over, instead of collapsing next to her as he normally did, instead of drawing her close and breathing into her neck, he stood and walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower. She closed her eyes and could see his bare shoulders, how he’d hunch them toward the heat of the water, how he’d dip his head, how that long muscle across his abdomen would tense when he reached to clean himself, when he lifted one arm and then the other. She, on the other hand, was fading fast, or so it felt. Her youth was streaming out of her as if from a puncture she couldn’t find, couldn’t patch. After showering, he went downstairs to watch television without even glancing in her direction.



* * *



Siobhán had started out as Malcolm’s friend—she, Patrick, and Malcolm had been hanging out since high school—but over the years had become just as close to Jess. As Malcolm told it, it was Siobhán all those years ago who pointed out that Jess was different from the other girls, that she brought out the best in him. Once or twice Jess tried to talk about what was happening between her and Malcolm to Siobhán and their friend Alice—Jess’s best friend from high school. That her body had become a cage. That something sick was taking root, she could feel it.

Mary Beth Keane's books