The Moon Tells Secrets (2 page)

“I miss Mama Anna,” Davey said.

I nodded and wondered if he saw her in his dreams like I did. Did she whisper warnings like she did sometimes in mine?

Davey suddenly tensed and pulled into himself, but not enough to be dangerous; he only did that when he was scared. Had something frightened him? I studied him closely, looking for the danger signs so we could get out quick. But there were none, just a kid in the loose-fitting Brooklyn Nets sweatshirt he got from Mack, my boss and the owner of Nell's, the restaurant I managed. Davey used to say that Mack was his long-lost grandpa, and Mack would grin when he said it because he felt the same about Davey. Mack taught him to play poker, tie knots, make the chili he was famous for, like my granddaddy taught me stuff. Nell's was the best job I ever had, the best place me and Davey had ever landed, until a week ago when I knew the thing had found us.

The dog came first, sniffing around Nell's like it had business there, like it was looking for something to eat, slobbering at the mouth with those teeth pointed like they'd been filed, all white and sharp.

“Ain't never seen no hound like that before, hellhound it look like,” Jimmy the counterman said when he came back from trying to chase the dog away; he was shivering even though the sun was out. My ears perked up. We'd been here nearly two years and hadn't seen a hint. I'd started believing that Anna was wrong with all her warnings, that we'd finally have some peace from whatever she claimed was after us. Maybe it had just given up, gone away, left us alone. I pushed Jimmy for more. He'd given the hound some meat, he said, damn thing liked to snap his hand off, tried to run right through him, get its filthy self in Nell's, Jimmy said, and I know Mack wouldn't like that, would he, Rainey? A shiver slid down my back. But I told myself maybe it had just been “a hound,” like Jimmy called it.

Until it came back two days later.

Not every part of them makes it when they shift, Anna told me. That's always the way with skin-walkers. Something doesn't come back like it should, a nose looks like a snout, all wet and thick and nasty; an eye might be bigger than it should be and can't be kept closed, claw tip fingers instead of nails, something will tell you, but you got to see it, Raine, Anna would say, and when you do, take that boy and run for all you're worth. Don't leave a clue behind you.

And that was what I'd always done.

It was in biker guise when it came back again. Must have gotten hold of some poor biker's body and done God knew what with his soul. A red Harley was what it rode, heavy and loud, and the minute I heard it thundering down the road, I knew something was on its way. I watched it climb off the bike, keeping its thick body tight like it was guarding something that might bust out, face hidden by the visor on its helmet. Thick red gloves on its hands, walking on its tiptoes, cautious, like it hurt to move. It slid into a corner table, ordered coffee from Pam, our teenage waitress.

When the school bus dropped Davey off at Nell's that day, it stared at him hard, like it knew him, and said something I couldn't hear. Davey had just shrugged, given that funny halfhearted smile he always gave when he thought I worried too much, then joined me behind the counter. I warned him that night about talking to strangers, and he said he hadn't talked, only nodded, just being polite like I tell him to be. I didn't want to scare him, because I wasn't sure. And it wouldn't make its move right away. Anna had told me that it would play with us like a cat does its prey; it had to be sure the time was right, the night was right. Could be weeks before I saw it again.

But three days passed, and there it was, a dowdy old woman with white-streaked hair; full, pillowy breasts stuffed into a cheap flowered smock; eyes that stared from pink-tinted glasses as it ordered blueberry muffins; paws encased in delicate lacy gloves. I told Davey straightaway when I got home that night we had to go, and all he did was cry.

That didn't surprise me. We'd traveled so much since Anna died, to this town and that, up and down the East Coast from Atlanta to Newark, even up to Boston, then back to Jersey. Wherever we went, he was always the new kid who couldn't say where he'd been. Maybe kids teased him about that or sensed there was something “different” about him; he just never told me. Maybe that was why he cried so hard that night. I cried, too, knowing this was my fault for giving him this life, always running from something, scared to stay in one place long enough. Listening to Anna.

But despite our travels, Davey kept up with school however he could, and after a couple of months he always ended up near the top of his class. He was a reader, like my grandfather was, and he'd read anything you put in front of him—Harry Potter, Percy Jackson—maybe he identified with kids who had a wizard's special edge. Comics he loved, too, and newspapers. Always did his homework—working till it was perfect. But in school he stayed to himself, shy of other kids, because they were shy around him. Yet this place was different. Maybe it was because of Mack helping him feel like he belonged, maybe because we'd managed to stay so long. He'd felt safe enough here to make some friends. Hard-earned friends. Two years was a lifetime for a kid.

“So, Mom, where we going this time?” he said, voice cheerfully fake, his eyes focused on the Spy Mouse app on the Android cell I gave him last Christmas. A sharp pain etched itself into my heart.

“Baltimore.”

“Yuck!”

“How can you say that? You've never been there.”

“We're not going to be able to take all the stuff we packed, are we? We're going to have to leave most of it behind.” He turned off the game and glared at me, lips tight, all pretense of cheerfulness gone.

“We'll take most of it with us.”

“Just most?”

“Yeah, most.”

“How?”

“We'll rent a truck, okay?”

“Bullshit!”

“Don't curse in church!”

“Don't lie in church!”

“I don't know how we'll take it.” I met his glare with my own, and he looked away, unwilling to meet my eyes. “We'll take the important stuff. All your stuff. Maybe we'll rent a car. A van.” Mine would fit in a shoe box: photographs of Elan, of Davey as a baby, and of my grandfather David. Valentine cards Elan gave me before he died, birth certificates, mine and Davey's. Davey's stuff filled three of our four suitcases—books, DVDs, video games. Spider-Man toys from when he was three. But it was all important, even if it meant buying new clothes; his “stuff” was his anchor. It had taken him most of yesterday to pack it.

“Promise?”

“We're in church, aren't we?” He nodded. A truce.

The notice in the paper said the viewing would be from nine to ten thirty; we had been here since nine, but nothing was happening. A long oak table stood before an altar covered by rows of lit white candles of various heights. I hoped things would start soon because we needed to be on our way. After this was over, we'd grab something to eat, then get a cab and swing over to the apartment and pick up our things. I'd told the landlord I'd be gone for a couple of days. I didn't give any notice, even though it meant losing my security. I didn't want to risk him mentioning to anybody that we were gone for good.

I looked around the church, suddenly uneasy.

Two others were here besides us. A plumpish woman dressed in white, like a nurse, sat in the front pew. A silk veil as light as gossamer covered her shoulders and her reddish brown cornrowed hair was piled into a loose bun. Her head was bowed as if she were praying. A friend of Aunt Geneva's, waiting like me for things to start, I decided. A man about my age sat next to her. Even from where I sat, I could see he was attractive, his well-toned body nicely filling out his dark business suit. Occasionally, he'd glance at the woman with protective concern, like a preacher does, and I figured that's what he must be.

Davey shifted in his seat, letting me know he was ready to leave. Mack had a brother near Baltimore who'd promised me a job when we got there. Unlike my landlord, I'd given Mack some notice, even though I knew he'd give me a good reference no matter what. I told him not to tell anybody we were moving, and he'd studied my face for answers but promised he wouldn't. I knew he was a man of his word.

We'd take a cab to the bus station as soon as we left the apartment. Despite what I'd said, there would be no van; I was too broke for that. I needed to save every cent until we were settled and I could tell the bank where to send the money that was left from Anna's estate. I glanced at my watch. There was a bus at three; we couldn't stay much longer.

Was it a mistake to have come? We should have gotten up this morning, gone straight to the bus station, and waited in a public space. We could have been halfway to Baltimore by now if I'd done that. But when I saw that name in the obits section of
The Star-Ledger
last night—
GENEVA LOVING
in big, bold print—I knew I had to come. I needed to hold on to some piece of me that was permanent, that I couldn't toss out like so many parts of my life. Luckily, she'd kept her maiden name, as my mother had, something all the women in my family did. Our tie to ancient roots, my mother used to say before she died.

The name grabbed my attention the moment I saw it. Weren't all that many people named Geneva Loving in the world. Elan used to tease me about that. Raine Loving. Loving Raine. A good name for me, he said, because rain could be soft or hammer hard on a roof but always loving. Nature's way of making things bloom, and that's what I had done for him, he said.

I didn't remember much about Geneva Loving except she could look at your face and tell what you were thinking, and that had made an impression on me. I'd learned to hide my feelings like most folks in my family did, but I couldn't hide from her. How old was I when I saw her that last time? All I could remember was her voice, sweet and tender; it made you feel like something good had just reached out and touched you, and the dim memory of that sound was what had gotten me up and brought us here this morning.

“Stay here,” I whispered to Davey. “We'll leave when I come back.” Davey was getting restless, as ready to go as I was. Or had something made him uncomfortable? He nodded, a quick motion of his head.

When I got to the altar, the woman rose to greet me. Startled, I backed away, but she grabbed my arm, holding it tightly.

“Thank you for coming. You must be kin. We're about the only ones left, did you know that? I'm Luna,” she said, a grin spreading across her freckled face.

“Aunt Geneva's daughter?” I asked, even though her voice and eyes had told me.

“And you must be the reason Mama carried on so about having this memorial, wake, or whatever the heck it is in this old church. Mama never spent a day of her life anywhere near one.” She sighed wearily. “But she always knew what she was doing. So we must be cousins. What's your name?”

“Raine.” I stiffened, still unsure of her and always wary of strangers.

“‘Put it in the paper until somebody comes,' Mama said. I just thought she was going senile. ‘Mama,' I told her, ‘you know we don't have any family around here,' but she just stared straight ahead, like she always did, and said, ‘Post it, baby, just do what I say,' and I did, and here you are.”

Luna grabbed me, drawing me into her soft, lush body smelling vaguely of incense, and I let myself go, my whole body taking that breath Davey had told me to take earlier. Yet Anna's warning was still there: Be wary. Be afraid.

“When did Aunt Geneva pass?”

“A week ago. I cremated her like she told me to do, then started putting notices in the paper. I've been coming here every day since.”

People had always told me that half my mother's family was crazy and the other mean. I'd grown up with the mean half, and I wondered if I'd found the crazy. That thought made me smile despite myself.

“Don't worry, baby, we're going to just be fine,” Luna said, and in that instant I believed her. I wasn't sure why; I just did. “Oh, this is Cade Richards,” she added offhandedly, gesturing toward the man standing beside her. “He was kind enough to haul me over here this morning. My old Mustang finally gave out last night. Cade, my cousin Raine.”

His smile was shy and took a while to come, but he was as strikingly handsome as he looked when I'd first noticed him, not pretty like some men you see, but good-looking in an old-fashioned, solid kind of way, like Elan had been, like I hoped Davey would be. He struck me as the kind of man who could be leaned on and wouldn't give way, no matter how much baggage you carried. But there was sadness in his eyes; his lips smiled but his eyes didn't. They looked like they hadn't in quite a while.

“Luna's cousin? Nice to meet you.” He gave Luna's shoulder a friendly nudge. “You didn't tell me you had family coming.” His voice was deep, with a melody to it. It could've belonged to a preacher, but I didn't think so anymore; sexiness like that, preachers learned to hide.

“You're my good friend and neighbor, but you don't know half my business … don't want to,” Luna said with a saucy wink. There was an inviting ease between them that made me momentarily feel like a member of their circle, and it had been a long time since I was a member of anybody's circle. I was as lonely as Davey, maybe more so. Luna was older than Cade, and I wondered if they were a couple, but their shared glances were more fraternal than romantic—big sister–kid brother rather than older woman–younger man.

“So now I know why I came. It was for you, my dear cousin, and now it's time for us to go.” Luna picked up the urn on the altar, planted a kiss gently on the top, and placed it carefully into her oversized tote bag. “Thank you, Mama. As always, you were right, and now I'm taking you home.” She gave me a quick grin and added, “We're all going to my new house to send her spirit on its way with turkey sandwiches, tea, and in my case, a Bloody Mary. I'm old enough for that in the middle of the day.”