Strangers

"Cal Sharkle. He's a long-haul trucker movin' freight between Chicago and San Francisco."
        "He stops at the Grille most every trip," Faye said. "Sometimes, when he's beat, he stays overnight. Calvin's such a nice man."
        "What company's he drive for?" Dom asked.
        "He's independent," Ernie said. "Owns his own rig."
        "Would you know how to get in touch with him?"
        "Well," Ernie said, "he signs the registry every time he checks in, so we'll have his address… around Chicago somewhere, I think."
        "We'll check later. First, let's look in that other envelope."
        Faye opened it and produced another Polaroid. Again, it was a shot of a man lying in one of the Tranquility Motel's beds, an IV line in one arm. Like all the others, he had no expression whatsoever, and soulless eyes that reminded Dom of horror movies about the living dead.
        But this time, they all recognized the man in the bed. It was Dom.
        
        Las Vegas, Nevada.
        When Marcie's bedtime came, she was sitting at the little desk in the corner of her room, occupied with her collection of moons.
        Jorja stood in the doorway, watching. The girl was so thoroughly engaged by the task that she remained unaware she was being observed.
        A box of crayons lay beside the album full of moons. Marcie was hunched over the work surface, carefully coloring one of the lunar faces. This was a new development, and Jorja wondered what it meant.
        In the week since Marcie had begun her collection with magazine clippings, she had filled the album. She had few sources for photos, so she drew hundreds of pictures to add to the monotonous gallery. Using templets as varied as coins, jar lids, vases, drinking glasses, cans, and thimbles, she traced lunar forms of all sizes on tablet paper, construction paper, paper bags, envelopes, and wrapping, paper. She did not spend most of her time with the album, but each day she devoted a bit more time to it than she had the day before.
        Dr. Ted Coverly, the psychologist treating Marcie, believed the anxiety that had generated the girl's irrational fear of doctors had not been relieved. Now, the child was expressing that anxiety through her lunar preoccupation. When Jorja noted that Marcie did not seem to be particularly frightened of the moon, Coverly said, "Well, her anxiety doesn't have to seek expression in another phobia. It can show itself in other ways… such as an obsession." Jorja could not understand where her daughter's extraordinary anxiety came from. Coverly said, "That's why the therapy - to seek understanding. Don't worry, Miss Monatella."
        But Jorja was worried.
        She was worried because Alan had killed himself only yesterday. Jorja had not yet told Marcie of her father's death. On leaving Pepper Carrafield's apartment, she had called Coverly to ask his advice. He was astonished to learn that Alan, too, had been dreaming of the moon and had independently developed an intense lunar fascination of his own. That one would take time to ponder. Meanwhile, Coverly thought it wise to withhold the bad news from Marcie until Monday. "Come with her to the appointment. We'll tell her together." Jorja was afraid that, in spite of Alan's inattention, Marcie would be devastated by his death.
        As she stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Marcie diligently applying a crayon to one of the moons, Jorja was stricken by an acute awareness of the girl's fragility. Although she was seven years old and in second grade, the three-quarter-scale chair was still too big for her, and only the toes of her sneakers touched the floor. Even for a macho man armored with muscles, life was tenuous, and every additional day of existence was against the odds. But for a child as petite as Marcie, continued life seemed downright miraculous. Jorja realized how easily her precious daughter could be taken from her, and her heart swelled and ached with love.
        When at last Jorja said, "Honey, better put your pajamas on and brush your teeth," she could not keep a tremor out of her voice.
        The girl looked bewildered, as if she were not quite sure where she was or who Jorja was. Then her eyes cleared, and she gave her mother a smile that could melt butter. "Hi, Mommy. I been coloring moons."
        "Well, now it's time to get ready for bed," Jorja said.
        "In a little while, okay?" The girl appeared to be relaxed, yet she