Oh, the Moon

Oh, the Moon

Patrick O’Brien, born in Ireland 1972 and moved to California 1978, tried to figure out an answer for his girlfriend Belinda, whom wanted to become an O’Brien this very Christmas. ‘It would be perfect with a wedding on Christmas Eve, then wake up and greet each other with kisses and gifts,’ she was saying. He did not really know whether to tell her ‘Of course!’ or ask her to come back in 20 years. He was not ready. But neither could he hurt her by saying no to her proposal.

‘Well?’ she asked, gazing up at him with her big, lustrous brown eyes that glittered like those of small children, eager to hear his reply.

Suddenly panicking, he said, ‘Wait here.’ Her smile told him she thought he would bring her a present – positively a wedding present – which he was not. Frowning, he hurried out to his car and drove all the way to Los Angeles, about 50 miles from home. Anxious, and quite scared, too, he was surprised to find he remembered exactly where his friend lived.

When Marty Little came to the door, he looked puzzled to find Patrick there. ‘Pat? What are you doing here? I thought you were spending Christmas with Belinda …’

‘I was until she asked me to marry her,’ he said and pushed through the door. He could sense Marty staring after him.

Then the friend followed. ‘Oh, okay.’

They sat in the living room, Pat on the sofa and Marty in the armchair. Patrick could not stop thinking about what had happened the last time. His first wife – Adrianna – had turned out to be a genuine nutcase, a real juicy fruitcake, belonged to a mental institution, deserved her own padded cell. But no, she was married to Pat. You see, Adrianna had become violent. ‘She tried to kill me,’ Pat said, startled to once again be hit by the memories after so many years. ‘She never wanted to harm me – still she tried to kill me. Just couldn’t help it.’ He shook his head.

Marty kept quiet, watched Pat with lines of concern on his forehead. He knew he was talking about Adrianna, not Belinda.

‘She was so sweet, tender … loving.’
Marty said nothing.
‘She cared about me,’ Pat went on. ‘I mean, really cared.’
Marty stared at the floorboards. Must have known what was coming.
Patrick felt awfully bitter. ‘And I killed her.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Marty was quick to object.
‘Yes, Marty, I did. I killed her in cold blood.’
‘Well, okay, you might have killed her, but it wasn’t in cold blood. You were just reacting in a most instinctive kind of way.’
‘Oh, it was cold blood,’ Pat insisted.
‘No, it was self-defense.’
‘Oh yeah? Self-defense?’
‘She struck you with a butcher’s knife, for Christ’s sake! What else could you have done than to fight for yourself?’
‘Maybe. Still it didn’t justify my act.’
‘She would have killed you, Pat. God, what would I have done without you? You’re like a brother to me! Nobody blamed you, they all knew who she was.’
‘She was my wife.’

They sat in silence, contemplating the past, their actions and reactions, days of loneliness and days of family gatherings, laughs and sorrows, good deeds and selfish ignorance. Some people might have claimed Pat was right in his self-criticism, but the woman had been crazy. Therefore it was just plain stupid to feel guilty about her death. Nevertheless, Pat remained convinced that if he’d only acted differently, been nicer to her, a more loving husband, he could have prevented the inevitable and cured her.

Stupid, he thought. She would have killed you in your sleep if you’d dared kissing her goodnight.

‘Have you decided what to answer?’ Marty asked. Another inevitable thing. Of course he had to know everything. The friend did not seem to notice the hostile glint in his eyes.

‘I’m going to say no, of course,’ he bit off, offended.
Marty looked confused. ‘But I thought you wanted to marry her?’
‘I never want to get married again!’
‘That’s not what you said this summer.’
‘So I changed my mind,’ Pat informed his old Buddy. ‘That illegal all of a sudden?’
‘No …’
‘Then shut it.’
He shut it.
‘I just don’t want to hurt her.’
‘You won’t. She’ll understand – she’s bright.’
‘No, actually she won’t,’ Pat said miserably.
‘Sure she will, she knows about old Andie, right?’
Pat remained silent.

‘What? You haven’t told her? Pat!’ Marty made a face that would have made any religious fanatic believe the end of the world was near.

‘And what should I have said?’ Pat asked acidly. ‘ “Yo, Belinda, I was married once before but I happened to kill her.” It’s not exactly something you mention over dinner. Sure, throw in a few candles, some incense, and a Stevie Wonder record and everything’ll be perfect.’

Marty sighed. ‘That’s not what I meant. What did you do, tell her you needed some time to think?’

‘I told her to wait for me at home, then I came down here.’

The doorbell rang. Marty reluctantly rose from his cozy armchair and went to get it. Outside, Marcus Mecklebaum stood, smiling broadly. He started to say ‘Hello Martin’, but was interrupted on the ‘o’ as Marty said, ‘What – you just left her there?’

Mecklebaum looked puzzled. ‘Left who where?’ he asked, stepping inside. His cheeks were a healthy red from the run he’d made from his house approximately two kilometers away.

Marty closed the door on the cloudy December night, a black sky hiding its precious stars from the menacing peeping toms. ‘Oh, sorry pal. Pat left Belinda at his house three hours ago just ‘cause she proposed to him,’ he explained to the newly arrived.

Marcus eyes widened. ‘She proposed? Hell, I would have run away too if I were him – marriage is suffocating. Besides, if a woman proposed … I would have screamed at the top of my lungs.’ Mecklebaum was gay. ‘He’s here? Can I talk to him?’ He’d also been ‘secretly’ in love with Pat for the last ten years or so. He went in and out of relationships, desperately seeking someone else to fall for, and every time he failed. He thought he hided it so well when in fact everyone knew. Eager to see his loved one he started toward the living room.

‘It won’t help,’ Marty said.
Mecklebaum turned around. ‘What won’t?’ he asked.
Marty was about to say ‘your flirtatious manner’ but quickly changed it to, ‘Never mind,’ before the forbidden sentence left his tounge.

Mecklebaum shrugged, smiling vaguely; continued down the hallway. Marty found him sitting opposite Pat, which meant he had to give up his armchair for a seat next to the would-be engaged man in order to keep an eye on the lovebird’s attempts of seduction. It would not help, just as he had said. Pat only seemed amused – and flattered – by Marcus’s compliments and faltering come-on lines. Marty guessed he was used to it; after all, it had been going on for 10 years, ever since he met Adrianna.

Mecklebaum finally succeeded to send Pat home; his shy smiles and girlish giggling could tire anyone. But when Pat returned, the bungalow was deserted. There was only a note which said: HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW, ‘CAUSE THE WEDDING’S OFF. I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, PAT. I’LL CONTACT THE POLICE IF YOU EVER COME NEAR MY PROPERTY, SO DON’T YOU EVEN THINK OF TAKING ME BACK. HAVE A HELLISH LIFE.

Pat was surprised by the honesty and forthright loathe of the short letter, though he knew Belinda could have some temper. Taking a second look at it, he thought, OK, I will.

Days went by and turned into months. Pat was feeling all the more lonely. He missed having someone in his life, and Mecklebaum’s pining was far from enough. But he was also terrified of marriage and because of the fiasco with Belinda he did not dare try again. As if this wasn’t enough, Pat suffered recurrent dreams about Adrianna, dreams in which she pursued him through their old house and which all ended with him killing her in a whole different way every night. Everywhere he went, he saw her face on the passers-by, saw her reflection in the windows, heard her voice beckon to him. It only got worse when he tried to ignore her. Evidently, her restless spirit had come back to haunt him, to make sure he paid for his sins – for murdering her. Marty tried to calm him when he hysterically exclaimed that Adrianna was back to finish the job he’s prevented her from doing, but nothing helped. Mecklebaum offered him a place to stay, a shoulder to lean on. ‘Yeah, like I wouldn’t know what you’re after!’ he’d said and baffled the queer. He never came on to Pat again. He actually got himself a boyfriend.

Pat eventually developed what normal people call ‘paranoia’, but which he claimed to be an involuntary reaction to a nasty form of the flu. Never fooled anyone but himself. Should have known better since his younger sister, Piper, had suffered from the same disease just two years ago – and she hadn’t come out of it alive. Yet e kept deteriorating.

Marcus stopped his struggling to keep their friendship going, but Marty was always there to admonish him when he got off track, and to encourage him when he found his way back.

One spring day in 2005, almost exactly one year and three months after Belinda’s final departure, Pat left town to see Marty, but unfortunately he never arrived. His car went out of gas halfway to LA. At first he considered calling a tow truck, then reconsidered. He had to get to Marty tonight, did not know why, just felt in his bones that it was important, that he had to tell him he loved him as a brother, how much he appreciated his support and affection.

He decided to hitchhike.
Waiting, he looked up at the sky, at that big, glowing circle that formed the night’s face. Stunned, he heard himself say, ‘Oh, the moon!’

The first car to stop was evidently driven by a man as crazy and maniacal as Adrianna had been at the top of her fruitcake career. Pat did not realize it until it was too late. ‘Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if you could give me a ride to LA, I have to get there before nine o’clock. My car …’ He stopped when he recognized the bloodthirsty expression on the man’s face, the maniacal glint in his iron eyes, and the pleased grin that distorted his features. Pat was leaning in the car window and did not have time to back away before the deranged stranger had put a gun to his nostrils.

He neither saw nor heard the shot burn off; he was already dead.

The second car was too late; a woman got hurt. Marty arrived shortly after the incident. He’d been waiting for Pat to come and started to worry when the man did not show up. Now, he regretted that he’d asked his friend to stay with him for a while. Crying, he knelt by Pat’s side and tried to bring him some comfort. Should have done that months ago – a whole fucking year ago!

Now he was gone. It was all too late.

Marcus Mecklebaum mourned O’Brien for nearly two years, because, as it turned out, he was still smitten by the Irishman.

Marty just thought it trading – and rather ironic. His friend had survived one crazy wife and three years of depression. For so many years, Pat had been fighting the demons of the past, almost succeeded – then was killed by another lunatic. At least it was a comfort that he had not felt any pain; death had been instantaneous.

So Patrick O’Brien, thirty-three years old, left this life for a better one, and hopefully a second chance to happiness.

Skriven av: Sara Karlsson