Moondogs - Alexander Yates [25]
Howard looks up as he walks, feeling disconnected from his feet falling invisibly below him in that pleasant, drunk way. The smog is low tonight, and the moon is full and weird looking. He stops and rubs his eyes. Is it just his drying contact lenses? He looks again and sees that, no, it isn’t—the moon has a ring around it. An unbroken halo of hazy light, about two thumb-to-forefinger lengths from the center as measured by his outstretched arm. The far ends of the ring are marked by a faint pair of flares, looking like lesser siblings to the nearly full moon. Howard knows what they are. He’s always had a memory for scientific miscellany—especially something as beautiful as this. They’re called moondogs, caused by ice or some such in the upper atmosphere, and God, aren’t they something? The sight delights him. He wants to tell somebody about it. He wants to tell his son, Benny, about it. He’s so, so glad that they’re speaking again.
Howard opens his phone and scrolls through work contacts—a country in parentheses beside each name—to Benny’s number. He pauses before pressing call to check his watch and do the math. Early Saturday morning here, late Friday afternoon afternoon in Virginia. Classes should be out at the school where Benny works. This thought makes Howard happy enough to notice his happiness and be doubly pleased.
The phone rings for some time, and the connection is lousy. He thinks he hears Benny pick up, but realizes after saying hello that it’s just voicemail. He wonders if he needs to leave a message; something to justify the unexpected call. But no. They’re talking again. They’re now people who call each other. He doesn’t have to justify anything.
Howard’s knees begin to hurt under the strain of walking. He hasn’t always been overweight, and the fat sits poorly on him. More apple than pear-shaped—his abdomen and gut bulge while his neck and legs are still a trim impersonation of good health. He used to tell his wife that he’d rather be big all over than look made-from-pieces like this. She said it was proof he wasn’t meant to be a fatty. He’d lost friendships over less, but coming from her, even over a chilly phone line, it sounded light and forgiving. He’s tried to call her, once or twice, since her funeral. Or at least come home late and caught himself calculating the time in Chicago to see if it would be okay to call. The lapses always please him. It’s nice to imagine that she’s only far away.
HIS HEAD A LITTLE CLEARER NOW, he decides to go only as far as Gil Puyat and then flag the next empty taxi that passes. He reaches the end of the promenade—the bay beyond this point reclaimed by artificial land with artificial buildings on it—and crosses Roxas again. About halfway across the wide boulevard he realizes that the three stray dogs have been matching his pace on the opposite side, and he turns back. The dogs come upon an upturned trashcan and circle it like a kill, nipping at one another’s hindquarters. From the pried-open lid and strewn debris, Howard can tell that squatters have already been through it. There won’t be any food. The strays realize this after some searching and then just stare dumbly at the can. They bark at it, and at each other. Their bodies tighten and expand—each animal pulsing.
He has no desire to get near them when they’re worked up, and decides to wait for a taxi on this side. He sits on the crumbling curb. It’s a whole process—lowering himself down. A stoplight above