Under the New Moon -Chapter 1-

         My hands shook as I unlocked the car door and stepped out. Here I was, at last, gasping with enthusiasm like a teenager on her first date. But I was no stirred-up teenager. Not by any means. One could hardly call a forty-nine year-old divorcée with crow's feet at the corners of her eyes a teenager. A lump danced in my throat and tears blurred my sight, flooding my cheeks with the joy of ownership. I was excited because, right there in front of me, the welcoming pink stucco façade of my newly-bought two-story house beamed under the Florida sun.

         The movers' van hadn’t arrived yet. I carried a few items from the car and piled them up in one corner of the living room. The van would be bringing my bed and a few other pieces of furniture from the condo which I deemed to be only suitable for the porch. I skipped to the front door to check again if the van was anywhere in sight. It wasn’t. But my Honda’s door was ajar. While closing it, I noticed on the back seat two Publix bags of groceries I had forgotten to bring in. I took the bags to the side of the house where the kitchen door was. Just then I caught sight of the van down the street. I dropped the bags on the grass and rushed to the front door.

          ‘Such a big house, Ma’am,” the movers' bowlegged foreman remarked. “You have your job cut out for you. It will take you months to fill this place up.”

          “I’m not that particular,” I shrugged, signing the bill. “I think I can pull it off since I like to keep the place light and airy. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

          “Thank you, Ma’am!”

         The foreman shared the tip with the two other sweaty movers.

         The foreman had a point. It was a big house, maybe too big for one woman intending to live by herself in search of something. What was that something? Independence? Identity? Both were “I” words and I was determined to find or unlock whatever that “I” was.

         Puttering around and arranging things, I recalled the day when I first met my house.


          The real estate broker had shown me three houses in this neighborhood and, to make them sound precious, she referred to this one in disparaging terms while we were driving on the street in front of it.

          “Now, this house has been on sale for four years now. We are reluctant to show it and the buyers reject it. Who needs to deal with a house which has stayed empty for so long?”

          “I want to see it,” I said.

          “Are you sure?” Carol, the real estate broker, sounded surprised.

         As I stepped out of her car, “I’m very sure,” I said, “I love the canal in the back.”

          “Oh, I wouldn’t call it a canal,” she said. “It is the tip of one of the forks of the St. Lucie River. And this house is at the end of the tip. In other words, here you have the river-view. Let’s walk to the back and see.”

         It was late afternoon and behind us the sun was shrinking to the west. Some unexpected bright rays still shone through the breaks among the trees and other lush vegetation. The river, quenching the thirst of the hollowed subtropical earth, lay untormented inside its dark cloak speckled with fallen tree branches, leaves, and water plants. Several egrets by the water clapped their wings and flew away into the dimmed dense thicket when they saw us approaching.

         The backyard of the house edged the river. On the left side stood a wooden dock with its slats broken and legs buckling.

          “That contraption will need fixing real soon,” Carol commented. “There are too many things inside that need attention too.”

          “I don’t need a dock,” I said. “I wouldn’t step inside a boat. I am afraid to go in any water, even a bathtub. I’m a shower gal, pure and simple.”

          “But the value of the house will decrease if you get rid of it. And as it is, it’s an eyesore. Besides, it would be tough to get a new permit for a dock, if you decide to sell it later.”

          “I won’t sell it.”

         Carol gave me a funny look. “You haven’t even seen the inside yet.”

          “Then, let’s go,” I urged her. It seemed so unusual for a real-estate broker not to want to sell any property.

         I walked through the front door into the open arms of a house I had already fallen in love with. The entrance hallway opened into a large living space with an airy cathedral ceiling. I walked to the middle dazzled by the light coming from the outside.

          “Come back, Mrs. Ferguson. Let’s start here,” Carol said, opening a door to the left to exhibit a full bath. “Now, who’d put a full bathroom at the foyer?” she ridiculed.

          “I may be able to live with that,” I said. “Call me Lynn. I’m Laura Lynn. Most call me Laura but I like the Lynn part better.”

          “Okay, Lynn.” She opened another door adjacent to the bathroom, baring a large laundry-room without appliances.

          “Great,” I said, “I can even do my ironing here.”

          “These stairs lead to the second floor,” Carol pointed to the spiraling wrought-iron staircase. “That door behind the staircase opens to the kitchen. You also have access to the kitchen through the dining area.”

         At the back of the house, the living area had several sets of sliding doors opening to a mesh-covered porch. Inside the porch, a swimming pool showed off its bright turquoise water. There was also a cabana with a shower, a sink, and a commode. On the other side of the pool a brick built-in barbecue pit was positioned to face the sliding door of the dining area.

          “The owner sends a pool-man once a week and a landscaper takes care of the lawn. You can’t build a fence around this property or anything else. You can plant some things but not just anything you want due to the regulations of the neighborhood association. This is a restricted-deed area.” Why was Carol talking this place down?

          “Let’s see upstairs,” I urged her again.

         On the second floor, it was a surprise to find three large bedrooms plus two baths and lots of closets with one walk-in, considering that the cathedral ceiling of the living area had taken half the floor space upstairs. My mind was made up.

          “I’ll take it,” I said.

          “Okay, then. I’ll draw up the necessary papers. You’ll probably need repairmen and such. Since you’re new to this town, I can recommend a painter, an electrician, and a plumber, if you wish.”

          “Yes, that would be wonderful. Thanks,” I said.

          “The good news is the price of this house is one third less than those built during the same year and its basic structure is faultless. It is a strong cement-block house. So it is a good buy there. But there is one thing I have to tell you. It is required that we do this by Florida laws.”

          “Sure, I’d like to know whatever that is.”

          “Someone has died in this house. The law says we have to inform the prospective buyers when such a thing occurs during the time a place was last occupied. That is why some places stay on the market longer than they should.”

          “Strange law,” I said. “People die all the time and Florida hosts an elderly population.”

          “Florida has many strange laws. When you have the time, check these things up in the library. Recently they built a beautiful library next to the middle school. It is within a short walking distance of this house you want.”

          “I might be working there,” I said. “I saw their ad and I’m looking for a job like that.”

          “Didn’t you tell me you were a translator or something?”

          “Yes, but I’d like to have a job to go to. Those things I always did from home. Tell me one thing. Who died in that house, an old person?”

          “On the contrary. It was a fifteen year-old boy. Very tragic.”

          “How awful! How did he die?”

         Carol swallowed her breath. “Accident,” she said. “It was an accident. He drowned.”

          “In the river?”

          “Yes.”

          “Then that means he didn’t die in the house.”

          “That is technically true. The family was devastated. The whole town was. Do you still want the house? There are many others I can show you.”

          “No, I’m happy with my choice. Let me talk to my sister and see what she says.”

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          “Look Sweetie, if you like it so much, take it,” Justine, my sister, sighed on the phone. “Don't pay attention to superstition. People die in houses all the time. We are nearing the twenty-first century. Never mind what people say, and call me if you need help, financial or otherwise. A house is better than any man. You can always get rid of it easily. I’m sure it will be less of a rash decision than that of your marriage and divorce."

         All my life I’ve looked up to Justine. Being five years older than me, my sister watched over me like a lioness taking care of her cubs. In contrast to my impulsive behavior, Justine knew what to do in any situation. I’d be penniless now if it weren’t for Justine. She had a mind for finances and it was she who secured that Darren, my ex-husband, wouldn’t take a penny away from my inheritance from Dad.

         I smiled whenever I thought of Justine; Justine was so adaptable. When she began working in the New York Stock Exchange, she turned herself around effortlessly into a business woman, elbowing her way to Wall Street on the Port Jefferson line of Long Island Railroad everyday. Justine’s fashion taste changed its colors as fast as a chameleon and she easily switched from her carefree jeans and tees to smart business outfits. Tall and slinky, she seemed even younger than before, a little boyish, and so stylish, hiding her large eyes behind the shaggy bangs of her short-cropped blond hair.

         Like me, Justine inherited blue eyes and blond tresses from our mother. Unlike me, what she inherited from Dad was a long Roman nose with a curved tip. But she took care of that with one simple operation just before she married our next-door neighbor Frank Severino, after testing his mettle for many years.

          “I wish I could be as smart as you,” I’d tell Justine.

          “I wish I had your looks,” she’d tell me.


         I sighed with content and fatigue. What a day it had been! Still thinking about Justine and our growing years together, I nestled inside a wicker armchair in the porch with a tall glass of diet coke and embraced the calm of my first night in my new home. The nocturnal beauty of the river shimmering under a full moon, flickering lights and shadows dancing through the dark embroidery of woods and brush entranced me. From the depths of that black water stretching along my backyard, mystifying night sounds hissed and whispered, sending their intuitive vibes to this new inhabitant as an occasional frog croaked somewhere.

         All of a sudden it dawned on me that, through the rush of the day, I had left the two grocery bags by the kitchen door. It had been a steaming Florida afternoon in May; it was doubtless every single thing in those bags was spoiled and that whole chicken probably reeked enough to make angels in high heaven hold their noses with clothes pins. I thought of stepping outside to put the bags in the garbage bin, but imagining the stink, I held back. Instead I fixed my gaze on the glittery coat of the serene water. So much beauty existed in its solitude. This river was grabbing hold of me like a dream solidified.

         Something moved. Staring intently I detected ripples arching outward from the waterside. Right near the dock, a fallen log sailed along in silence. A slight rustle; the log was moving out of the water. It inched its way on to the lawn. That’s when I saw HIM fully as the moonlight danced off the bumps of his hide, leaving the recesses in total darkness. The head, on which red-neon gleaming eyes flickered, had to be enormous. But he seemed to be one huge piece with that head attached to the body. Offhand, I guessed him to be at least twelve feet. A behemoth or an antique entity, he fitted well into the night for moonbeams defined him. But with him it wasn’t that which was defined. The breathtaking part was the part of him left in the dark.

         Watching him I suddenly felt more alive, with something inside me emerging, as life had emerged from sea to land. Mesmerized, I stood up and tiptoed to the side of the porch closer to him. On the grass hissing, he wagged his tail and thumped his head. Then he waddled toward the side of the house. The sound of a single crunch dashed through the air. “The Publix bags,” I speculated, remembering the chicken. “He’s cleaning up for me. Thank you, Alligator.”

         When he tottered back to where he was in my full view, his head moved and his mouth opened. A hollow roar or a bellow maybe, but not a fierce tone for sure; he sounded more like ancient windpipes playing Bach in mournful tones. In joint consciousness with him, I listened. His grandeur had blinded the full moon.

         The sound of a passing car echoed from the street. The alligator stopped moving for a few seconds; then, he slid on his belly into the water. Soon the river shifted to its previous splendor.


Next: "Under the New Moon - Chapter 2"