George drove the old Corvette slowly down Ridge Park Boulevard, the blood-red sports car anticipating speeding up as it was approaching Stone Avenue. It always revved up to make the light on Stone, but George was being gentle on the accelerator and they stopped for the light. Inside the car, George was hunched over the steering wheel, both hands gripping tightly. Red turned to green and George pushed his right foot slowly down, and the sports car inched forward, reluctantly it seemed. The car approached Monroe Place and George turned the steering wheel to the right and they entered Monroe Place, the car driving tentatively as if it feared being seen driving so slowly.
There was a full moon that night, illuminating everything below it to shine, to sparkle, to exalt in its glow. George did not notice that everything around him, the whole world, basked in the moon’s blue light, for his mind was in a state of confusion and indecision as he slowly drove to the little two story house at 323 Cherry Maple Lane, where Diane lived. Where he said he might stop by. She heard he would stop by. He finally understood what he was feeling; it was guilt.
George turned the Corvette off of Monroe Place and headed for Cherry Maple; the car knew the way. He drove in dread and mounting self-flagellation as he inched up to the corner where Monroe met Cherry Maple. He turned right and approached Diane’s house.
Diane sat in the window box of her dark bedroom staring out at the wondrous glow on the street below, on the pristine lawns with their straight sidewalks, the trimmed bushes and slim front yard trees, their leaves long having dropped and been raked away. She watched down where Monroe Place crossed Cherry Maple, and when she saw headlights approaching low to the street, her heart sped up and her face lit up and not because of the brilliant moon light. She followed the red Corvette as it drove past, seeing it speed up and accelerate down the street, and she watched in wonderment as her blouse buttons ripped off, followed by the skin on her chest ripping open, and her gleaming red heart twisted out of her body and fell to the wooden floor, then slowly oozed across the floor like a giant red snail, until it fit itself snugly into a corner where it calmed itself, the beat becoming regular, and the heart lay broken on its back. It seemed to be awaiting further instructions from Diane’s brain.
George drove past Diane’s house, being oblivious of the destruction he left in his wake, feeling relief in avoiding the confrontation, of her tears at his betrayal. He turned off Cherry Maple Lane, taking a right onto Lone Pole Road, which soon turned into a place where misery and blight had come to roost, various old houses with damaged front porches gleamed brightly in the moon’s bright illumination so that even Lone Pole Road appeared a mysterious wonderland.
On a street just off of Lone Pole, called Prosperity Way, there was a white colonial house with slim columns holding up a modest gable. Inside the house, the top of the stairs led to a small bedroom, a boy’s room from the wallpaper and the mess on the floor, illuminated by the moon shining through the window. In the bed lay a boy of about five, lying on his back with his cover down across his middle, his hair gleaming golden in the bright moon light, his bare torso shivering, in need of the warmth his squirming had lost. He sat up, eyes still closed, and pulled his thick coverlet up to his chin. His body immediately absorbed the warmth being trapped by the covering and his shivering stopped. He turned over on his right side and went into a deep dreamless sleep.
On the other side of the wall his twelve year old sister lay damp and miserable in her crumpled bed. Her eyes were wet with a night-full of tears. She got out of bed and walked over to the window. She became illuminated from the bright light streaming in but she seemed oblivious of the moon’s spotlight upon her perfect heart shaped face. She was staring at the rooftops of houses two streets over where her best friend’s family was spending their last night in their nearly empty house. They were probably finishing up last minute packing, ready for their early morning car trip across the state, driving away from their old lives and out of the girl’s life as well.
She saw a set of low riding lights driving fast down her street, and as it passed her house, she saw that it was a red sports car. She knew if her little brother could see it driving past like that, he would be overjoyed. She again burst into tears and thought herself ugly.
At the end of the hall the parents lay close together on the large bed, alternating a song of nasal snoring, with the father snoring, then calming and the mother first calm, then snoring. Had they heard the symphony of nasal sounds they were producing, they would be shocked, for during their waking hours they were seldom in symphony with each other. Minutes before waking for the day, each of them had their last dream of the night, the one they would remember upon awakening. The husband dreamed of being able to fly his own airplane to warm beaches with ever-open bars and topless sunbathing young women. His wife dreamed that she had married her college sweetheart and raised German Shepherds instead of children.
George drove fast now, as he was driving the back way home. In his mind Diane’s face, framed with long blonde curls, was fading, to be replaced by the adorable face of Delores, her large brown eyes framed by arching dark eyebrows, reflecting her flowing dark hair. His newest infatuation. He sure would like to see her face, in fact, all of her. He was holding the wheel with one hand and began whistling as he turned the Corvette onto his street, Strawberry Fields Forever Place.
A mile or two just before George was approaching his house, he had passed an abandoned Office Depot warehouse without giving it a glance. Behind the warehouse and unseen from Lone Pole Road, an old sedan was parked along the alley-way. Inside the locked car a man lay sleeping, folded up across the front seat, his large body covered by a battered but warming afgan. His body twitched and moved about as if it was making an attempt in sleep of settling. Disturbing dreams were flying all over the front of the car, swirling around the large man’s head, as if attacking him.
On the back seat lay his two children, locked together by their own snug bedding. The boy’s stomach was rumbling with want as he dreamed of food. His twin sister dreamed about her mother, and in the dream she wondered what she looked like now.
George pulled the Corvette into his driveway, locked the car door and walked up to the house. As he opened the front door, he sensed rather than saw his tom cat, Thomas, fly past him and into the dimly lit entrance. He started up the stairs when a voice cried out from above, “Is that you George?’’ “Yes, Mama,” he replied. “I’m fine, just fine. Go back to sleep.” She called out again, saying, “There was supposed to be a full moon tonight. Did you notice if there was?” He replied, “I really didn’t notice. Everything seemed normal to me. Thomas and I are coming up so good night again, Mama.” He heard the cat’s nails hit the first steps behind him and both of them climbed to the top.
Outside a small white Persian cat, glowing in the moonlight, was walking around and around the red Corvette, looking for her friend, Thomas. She meowed at the full moon, something cats are never seen doing. Then she raised her head and sauntered off down Strawberry Fields Forever, the memory of her search lost in the night.
