Quarrel with the Moon Read online

  While the needles of water stung his flesh, Josh contemplated how he was going to deal with Cresta. Perhaps he would pick up tickets to that rock concert she wanted to see. Or else take a stroll through Bloomingdale's and select an expensive little nothing which might please her fancy.

  He knew it would take more than that. Hell, Cresta would much rather he stopped drinking. But, damn it, socializing made that impossible. Besides, he didn't always drink too much, and he didn't always have blackouts. Not always. After briskly drying with a towel, Josh went into the bedroom to get dressed.

  Even though the other members of the New York Institute of Anthropology did not approve his mode of dress, Josh wore what he pleased to work. As he was pulling on a blue knit shirt, the running scene flashed across his mind once again. The blur of images puzzled him. He seemed to be seeing them from a speeding car.

  "Maybe I run faster when I drink," he mused.

  Josh put on a pair of worn jeans, sandals, and threw a faded madras jacket in shades of red and blue over his shoulder. He took one last look in the mirror and hurried down the hall of the apartment. He nearly tripped over the guitar, which was propped up next to the closet. "Goddamn it, Cresta!" He picked it up and jammed it into the closet. "Why does she keep it lying around? She's never going to learn to play."

  Sometime during the night the rain had stopped. New York looked washed, battered, wrung out to dry. Ruffled gray clouds, rimmed in the west with pink, looked pinned against the sheet of startlingly blue sky. It seemed that the heat wave had passed and the people's spirits were high and their faces split by smiles. Like a gift from the gods, the clement weather had seduced the city into a false sense of security.

  Josh reached Central Park West and, preferring the closer contact with nature, crossed over to walk on the park side. Sunlight streamed through the branches of the trees overhead and scattered across the sidewalk like golden coins. A whey-faced nun in her drab, modern-day garb ushered a wavering line of unruly boys into the park. They were indistinguishable from one another, wearing the same school uniforms, bandaged knees and sly smirks. Several of them gawked admiringly at Josh, momentarily making him the object of their "I want to be like that when I grow up" fantasies. As he passed the bus stop a young woman waiting for the uptown express turned to openly admire Josh. He managed a self-conscious look and stifled a desire to tell her that he appreciated her appreciation of him. Josh knew that he was thought handsome by most women - Cresta had mentioned it often enough. He turned and favored her with a dazzling smile. She burst into self-conscious giggles.

  On the corner there was a newsstand where Josh picked up his morning newspaper. While he was waiting for change, his eyes scanned the magazines hanging by clothespins from wires. Cresta was on the cover of that month's Charisma, a leading fashion magazine. Josh was immediately struck by feelings of guilt, not only for the previous night and other nights in the past, but because of his playful game with the girl at the bus stop. He was, as always, incredulous that he was involved with somebody who was in some circles a celebrity. Josh touched the magazine cover with his fingertips. Cresta was wearing a designer's version of a farmgirl outfit and was posed against a background of straw. She was looking at the camera (and the viewer) with what one fashion wag had called "a million-dollar come-'n'-get-it look." Josh had seen that expression many times before. She unconsciously employed it when she was interested in having sex. The glossy cover shimmered in the sunlight, and Cresta the farmgirl was transformed into Cresta the beguiling bride. He recalled their meeting two years earlier in the spring of 1980.

  ***

  It had been a green-gold morning softened by a vaporous mist. The sun was a bright, yellow knot and Josh felt that he could reach up and pull it down from the sky. He had been up since before dawn and had already run two miles. He was about to leave Central Park by the Seventy-Second Street entrance when he was drawn to a small group of people gathered around the wisteria arbor just inside the park. At first Josh reacted like any native New Yorker and assumed that there had been some sort of trouble - an early morning mugging perhaps. Then as he came closer he noticed the lights, the reflectors and the camera. Apparently someone was shooting a photograph.

  Curious, Josh edged his way to the periphery of the busy circle of people. No one paid any attention to him. They were all involved in a magazine advertisement shoot. Everyone - photographer, art director, makeup man, wardrobe mistress, and a handful of assistants - had their attention focused on the entrance to the arbor.

  The rustic log arbor was a structure left over from the Victorian age. It formed a tunnel of sorts over and around which the grapevines grew. The spring rains had been particularly abundant that year and the arbor was replete with lush vines and leaves. A perfect spot for a lovers' meeting.

  It was then that he saw Cresta for the first time. She emerged from the dark green shadows into the filtered sunlight. She was wearing a dazzling white wedding gown, a frothy confection of organdy and lace. She smiled in Josh's direction and, although he didn't think she actually saw him, he felt as if she had favored him in particular.

  Then a short dumpy woman stepped forward brandishing a wedding veil and began to arrange it on Cresta's head. A man wearing an impatient scowl, oversized sunglasses, and a pair of brown trousers which fit him like the skin of a baked potato, walked over to Josh. His voice was high but authoritative. "Where have you been? We've been waiting to shoot for twenty minutes." He quickly surveyed Josh's face and physique with appreciation and added sharply, "Is that what Minnie told you to wear? Not very chic."

  Josh stepped back and stared at the man as if he were insane. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You're the model from Macho, aren't you?" the man snapped. "Six feet, ruggedly handsome, dark hair, running clothes. Now, come on, we've been waiting for you."

  "You've made a mistake," said Josh. "I was running through the park and just stopped to see what was going on."

  Cresta, looking slightly vexed, joined the twosome. Without acknowledging Josh she spoke directly to the photographer. "Simon, aren't we ready? I don't like to complain, but this organdy itches like a son of a bitch."

  The photographer's reserve evaporated. "Well, you see, Cresta, this gentleman claims he's not the model we've been waiting for."

  Cresta turned to face Josh. "Are you sure?"

  Josh grinned. "I'm sorry I'm not. Not the model, that is."

  Cresta looked first at the photographer and then at Josh. "Simon, I've got another shoot at nine-thirty and it involves an elaborate hair style. I mean, wouldn't he do? He's perfect. Beautiful legs." She smiled at Josh. "You should be a model anyway. Why aren't you?"

  Josh began backing away. "Really, I don't think I ... They wouldn't like it where I work ... I've never...."

  The photographer interceded. "Look, you wouldn't even be recognized. You'd just be a blur running past Cresta here." He glowered at his assistant. "Find out what happened to that fag from Macho. He'll never work for Charisma again." Then back to Josh. "Look, I'll pay you the full fee, even though you're not a professional model. We've got to get this done. Like I said, not even your own mother will recognize you."

  "Please do it," murmured Cresta. "I can't be late for my next booking without really screwing things up."

  The photographer persisted, "All you have to do is sign a release, then run past that arbor where Cresta will be standing."

  "You must," pleaded Cresta. "My career depends upon you."

  Josh smiled self-consciously. "Well, if you're sure I'll just be a blur. Is there some way I could check the photographs after they're taken and before they're printed? What's this for anyway?"

  The photographer slapped his head. "Oh boy, now we've got an amateur who wants photo approval for a spread in Charisma. You probably don't know, but it's a women's magazine." He went on "patiently" explaining. "You see, this is a bridal shot. See the bridal dress that Cresta's wearing? Instead of hailing a cab, she's going to
be hailing a bridegroom. Get it? You, the runner. Very tongue-in-cheek and all that."

  Josh did not like the photographer's condescending attitude but couldn't resist the hopeful look on Cresta's face. "All right," he said finally, "I'll do it if it doesn't take too long and if you promise I won't be recognized."

  "Just a blur," sighed the photographer. "Now, come on, let's see what we can do with you."

  Cresta squeezed Josh's hand. "You're wonderful for doing this. I'd give you a kiss but Rudy's just spent forty-five minutes on my makeup." Nevertheless she brushed her lips against his cheek and hurried back to her position.

  For the next fifteen minutes Josh endured attacks from all sides. He was wrapped in an oversized towel while his green shorts and white tank top were quickly pressed by one of the flunkies. His face and body were dusted with a shiny orange powder and glycerin was dribbled over his temples and arms to simulate perspiration (his had long since evaporated). His hair was teased and sprayed until it was "perfectly unruly." And a piece of bright green fabric had been found to use as a headband. The photographer examined Josh with a critical eye and pronounced, "Christ, you look gorgeous. Can you really run?" Josh opened his mouth to answer. "No matter, we've got to get on with it."

  Josh spent the next half-hour streaking across the pathway directly in front of the arbor which framed Cresta. The young model was humorously posed clutching an oversized bouquet of white lilacs and green grapes, and, using two fingers in the mouth, whistling after the handsome runner. A message was implicit: today's young woman - the Charisma woman - was calling the shots.

  As soon as the shooting was over, Cresta dashed into the portable dressing room and changed into her working model's uniform - tight, frayed jeans, a halter top made of two red bandannas, and giant sunglasses. She carried a portfolio and a shoulder bag the size of a tire. Josh was signing the release papers when she rushed over to him, kissed him warmly on the side of the head and said, "Sorry, handsome, I've, got to run. No time for even a Bloody Mary. I'll give you a call. Really, I will. I want to thank you in person." With that she had dashed toward Central Park West in search of a cab.

  Josh had been sure that that was the last he would ever see of her.

  3

  "Hey, mister, you wanna buy that mag'zine or not?"

  Cresta the bride faded away, and Cresta the farmgirl came back into focus. Josh shook off his reverie, pulled the magazine from its clothespin holder and paid the grumpy newsman. As he continued his walk, he leafed through the September issue of Charisma and was surprised to find that Cresta graced many of its glossy pages. The world of high fashion was alien to Josh. It always surprised him that his lover was one of New York's ten top models. He accepted Cresta for what she was to their relationship and did not become a member of her audience. He would make a point of reading the magazine over coffee, and then he would be able to discuss Cresta's work with her. Josh knew that would please her more than anything he could do.

  The New York Institute of Anthropology was a sprawling brick and granite building. Constructed in 1892, it was considered one of New York's great monuments. Complete with rifle ports and graceful towers, the building evoked memories of long-forgotten operettas. The architectural integrity of the building had been preserved and the stained glass windows, designed by Lewis Comfort Tiffany, remained intact, despite constant attempts at vandalism.

  For decades the building had housed an immense collection of books, artifacts and exhibits on the evolution of man in the civilized world. These treasures were available to the public three afternoons a week and on weekends.

  Josh bounded up the staircase leading to the giant double oak doors inset with intricate brasswork. The guard, a relic of respectability, wearing an impeccably tailored uniform trimmed with gold braid epaulets and buttons, touched his cap as Josh entered. The young man was well aware that the guard's aloof attitude toward him was typical of the rest of the staff. Josh was the youngest professor and newest member of the professional staff of thirty-seven, not including those of lesser standing - security guards, janitors, and maintenance personnel.

  "Good morning, Muldoon," Josh called out affably. "Beautiful day, isn't it? How's the wife and kids? Sure hope it doesn't rain."

  Josh was considered an upstart despite his impressive credentials, the articles he had written for many publications (including Natural History, Smithsonian and National Geographic), and the series of trade paperback books he edited, entitled Plain Living. Despite all this, his position at the institute remained the same as if he were a newly arrived professor at a University. He would have to wait out his apprenticeship, and he resented it, although he was careful not to let it show.

  The institute was, as usual, as quiet and proper as a Boston library. Josh wended his way down the corridor past a series of tiny, gerrymandered office cubicles toward his own slightly larger office. He nodded brightly toward the various secretaries and study assistants. He filled a styrofoam container with dreadful coffee from the communal urn and went into his office.

  A buxom woman with Teutonic features was standing by his desk arranging the mail. Her name was Elsa Krupp; she was the secretary Josh shared with several other members of the institute.

  "Good morning, Elsa," Josh said without enthusiasm.

  Miss Krupp adjusted the large coil of blond hair wrapped loosely around her head; it resembled a slipped halo. As usual, she eyed Josh suspiciously. She instinctively distrusted good-looking young men. "I've arranged your mail, Mr. Holman," she said unnecessarily. "I'm going to be busy today typing that report on Tibetan herdsmen for Professor Seymour." As she lumbered by, Josh was struck once again by her body scent. It reminded him of stale pretzels. "That's all right, Elsa. I can manage my own typing." Actually, Josh preferred typing his own letters. Miss Krupp had a tendency to edit and formalize everything he wrote.

  His office had been part of a much larger room before the conversion to smaller compartments in 1948. At the far end two tall, mullioned windows offered testimony to the building's history. The other three walls, save for the door, were covered with modern bookshelves which had been painted white, as was the rest of the room. The shelves were haphazardly jammed with reference books, magazines, files, and personal odds and ends. Dominating the cluttered desk was a bronze reproduction of the famous sculpture which depicted Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, being suckled by a she-wolf.

  Josh sat down, sipped his coffee and quickly leafed through the copy of Charisma again, then irritably pushed the magazine aside. He hated to be reminded that Cresta earned more money than he did. Perhaps five times as much. Charisma and Cresta were quickly forgotten.

  Employing a dangerous-looking letter opener, Josh began opening his mail. Most of the correspondence was concerned with his specialty - wolves. After doing undergraduate work at West Virginia University, Josh got his M.A. in Anthropology at Princeton. Somewhat tired of the study of man, he took his Ph.D. in Zoology at Cambridge, England, specializing in the study of Canis Lupus - wolves - and their behavior patterns. He had been drawn to that particular branch of the animal kingdom for a number of reasons. Throughout recorded history man and wolf had been antagonists and rivals, and like man wolves were a symbol of savagery, ferocity and courage. And man's legends surrounding the wolf were the stuff of outrageous fiction - Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf, for example. Not to mention the fascinating study of lycanthropy - the werewolf.

  But there were deeper reasons.

  As a child in Jericho Falls, a small town in central West Virginia, Josh had lived at the base of the Appalachian Mountains, his family's home surrounded on the other three sides by an expanse of unspoiled forest. The small Josh had often been awakened during the night by the howls of wolves prowling near the house. Instead of being frightened, Josh found their predatory cries comforting and usually was lulled back to sleep by their mournful lullabies. Later, when he was a bit older, Josh investigated the nearby forests which had long captured his imaginat
ion.

  He learned to identify animals by their tracks, birds by their calls, and herbs and berries by their scent. The little boy was an explorer by nature, and his plain, hardworking parents, who were determined that Josh should have everything he wanted, encouraged his pursuits.

  One afternoon Josh ventured up the mountainside for the first time, a new excitement coursing through his veins. He felt like a young Columbus about to discover a new world. On a small plateau, he knelt to drink from a cool mountain stream fairly bursting at its banks. There he discovered fresh tracks. Wolf tracks. He followed them. He knew that wolves were fast disappearing from that part of the country. He had overheard adults speak of killing the wolves, bragging as if they were riding the countryside of a pestilence. It had never seemed that way to him, although he didn't fully understand why.

  Here the forest became sparse. The trees, which had been deformed by the high winds, jutted out at odd angles from the mountainside. Josh climbed over a ruined splitrail fence, a relic of the early nineteenth century. He lost the wolves' trail but continued on. The stream appeared once again, and nearby he discovered something else. The center of a large laurel thicket had been cut away, and there a still had been built. Of course, Josh had no idea what the furnace, still, barrels, and troughs were used for, but his instincts told him that it was not a place to loiter. At the edge of the thicket he picked up the trail of the wolves once again. His heart pounding in his ears like a jackhammer, he raced on. And then he saw them.