The Moon and Nothing Else by Charlie Rogers

The Moon and Nothing Else | Charlie Rogers

The protesters in the park are shouting about peace. I think you’d find it amusing, if you were here—you’d turn to me, rolling your eyes with a judgmental snort. Peace, you’d say, and let me fill in the rest—they don’t even know what it means. I’d smile and shake my head knowingly. If you were feeling brave, you might let your palm graze my thigh.

Peace. It’s what I’m hoping to find here, today.

In the crowd of shouting teenagers, I spot a small girl in a bright purple coat, no more than four years old, tugging at the straw-plastic hair of a naked doll. A redhead, like you. Who would bring a child to an anti-war protest in late winter? No one around her looks old enough to be her parents.

We met at an anti-war rally three years ago. I lost my balance, and you helped me back to my feet. You told me you’d evaded the draft because of your asthma, while my lottery number was keeping me safe for the moment. We left together, and you took me to your tiny walkup below 14th Street, and we listened to Joni Mitchell’s “The Pirate of Penance” over and over—every time the song ended, you’d move the needle back—until I worked up the nerve to kiss you. By “Cactus Tree,” I was in love.

I spin the cold metal band you gave me around my finger. It’s not as tight as it used to be—I’ve had so little appetite since my discharge from the hospital—but I remember the moment you opened your palm to first reveal it to me.

It’s not real, not to them. But… we know. Chip, would you marry me?

The February chill seeps into my bones, and I tug my jacket tighter around me as I sit on our favorite bench in Washington Square. If I was a woman, you would have brought me back to Central Park, where we met, and sunk to a knee—so traditional!—instead of sliding this ring onto my finger as we stood at the stove, waiting for the coffee percolator.

Peace.

I thought the rings would give us cover. We’d sit in bed and make up stories about our fake wives. Pamela was your high school sweetheart, but you caught her in bed with the TV antenna installer. Janice was in the same secretarial pool as my sister, at a marketing firm uptown.

Snowflakes drift around my head, aimless. The abandoned newspaper by my side reads: California Supreme Court Voids Death Penalty. We planned to visit San Francisco this September.

I stand and jam my hands into my pockets—the ring catches on the lip of the fabric. It’s never done that before, in the year I’ve been wearing it. On my way out of the park, on my way through the crowd, I’ll walk past the spot where it happened.

Peace.

I’ve been asking myself: why us? We did everything we were supposed to. No holding hands, no displays of affection. We lowered our voices so no one would suspect anything unusual about us. You talked about Nixon’s upcoming trip to China. I was concerned about a hole in my boot. Then the boys appeared, four of them, teenagers in ratty coats, hovering in front of us like ragged shadows. One waved a butterfly knife in our faces, demanding money. The others hung back, paradoxically more scared of us than we were of them. We did as they asked, though we only had eleven dollars between us, and no valuables. Except—

“Please not the rings,” you said. In your fear you must have forgotten to keep your register low, and your affect came out. I heard it. I saw on their faces that they heard it. One of the shadow-boys stepped forward, wearing an expression of pure disgust. I knew what would happen, my worst nightmare rising up to greet me, and stepped forward to protect you.

I remember being surprised at how little it hurt when he stabbed me in the stomach. It felt like being punched, but I’d taken harder blows. After that, the memories swirl together like colored oils, and only flashes remain. The sound of the boys retreating, their shoes crunching against the light snow. The reek of urine as I realized I’d lost control of my bladder. Your eyes. Your beautiful, forest-colored eyes, reflecting the moon and nothing else.

It’s too much, the onslaught of memory. I stagger to the nearest bench and settle onto its rotted wood, biting back emotion. I thought I was strong enough to return here, where hippies dance on the spot our blood colored the snow, leaching onto the pavement like it was never ours. I close my eyes.

I try to summon your voice, its soft lilt, so I can beg you for guidance, but you remain silent.

Something taps my leg.

I open my eyes and find the little girl in the purple coat standing before me. She holds her doll to her chest, pudgy fingers gripping the toy by its legs, and her other hand restlessly twirls her hair. 

“Are you okay, mister?” She stares up at me with the greenest eyes I have ever seen.

I shake my head.

She nods, considering this.

I scan the crowd for her parents, but I see no other redheads, only her and the absence of you. Maybe they aren’t here. Maybe her father is off in the jungle somewhere, wondering about her.

She pushes the doll in my direction, an offering. 

Peace.

“No, she’s yours.” I shake my head again. “But thank you.”

The little girl clambers onto the bench beside me, struggling to hoist herself up. Once settled, she puts her tiny hand on my leg. “I’ll keep you company ‘til you’re better.”

I know it’s a coincidence that she resembles you. But in the moment, I imagine you’ve sent her somehow, the visitation I prayed for. I know it isn’t real. You’re gone. Forever.

“I’d like that,” I say.

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