“Huh,” Owen said. “It’s enough that she dresses like a mobster.”
“You have any other response to what I just said?”
“How’d she find out?” Owen asked.
He felt mildly queasy and took another sip of his drink, which didn’t help.
“Don’t know,” Luna said. “Tell me about her, your…paramour.”
“She’s just a sculptor with spectacular tits.”
“You need to listen to yourself sometimes,” Luna said, rolling her eyes. “Does she have a name?”
“Amy. It didn’t mean anything,” Owen said.
“Did it mean something to Amy?”
“No,” Owen said. Although he couldn’t say for sure.
“Was she the first?” Luna asked.
Owen tried to ignore the question.
“How many?” Luna asked.
Owen knew that she was asking not as a concerned friend but as an advocate for Irene.
“Not many,” Owen said.
“Oh god. Jesus, Owen.” Luna made a face like she’d swallowed a bug.
“Only two. I really tried for Irene,” Owen said.
Luna finished her drink and threw a few bills on the bar.
“Don’t tell her I told you, okay?” Luna said. “Whether you stay together or not, she’s my friend too. I’m not taking sides.”
“Bullshit, Luna. You can’t be Switzerland.”
“Watch me.”
That night, Owen returned to an empty home. He left a few more messages on Irene’s cell and wondered how she had learned of the sculptor. Another man might have called the police. Owen went to bed.
* * *
—
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.