Day Moon Howl

DAY MOON HOWL

B.H. NEWTON

CONTENTS

Day

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Moon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Howl

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 B.H. Newton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For V.

DAY

1

He never did let me see his hand.

She encountered him on one of the more recently launched online dating sites, during a hot summer on the tail end of the early 2000s that would encompass the first decade with no identity to call its own. The http:// address led one to a clunky list filled with the recently divorced looking to jump back on the bucking bronco, the rare recently widowed drowning in loneliness or the hopeful yet tragically unlovable. Small talk was insulated in primitive chat form. Attempting to be clever and yet appealing was a tightrope six inches off the ground. He seemed able to hang with her witty banter, gave as good as he got. His pictures didn’t paint an image of some Adonis but what low-res images scanned in could do one justice? Ideally, she didn’t see herself as caught up on appearances anyway. The liberated woman cared more about what was inside and she prescribed to that bitter pill. A mixture of curiosity and recklessness led her to at least meet him for dinner. It was a small blind bet. She was a modern woman with a good job and wasn’t looking for a white knight. Just to spend time with someone entertaining, break up the monotony of carbon copy days. He may have wound up a complete douche canoe with bad dandruff, or maybe a serial killer trolling the dusty corners of the World Wide Web for the next dismembered conquest, but a girl had to take some chances. It was called putting yourself out there.

He had offered her tidbits of his history and present circumstances, a dim flashlight in a dank, strange house. It was a glossed over tale of bad luck and woe with entire chapters torn out and thrown in a trash barrel fire. Still a part of her felt a thrill in seeing him face to face and connecting the dots, an amateur detective stringing yarn across the wall. She was to meet him at his present albeit temporary place of employment, one of those supersized truck stop slash convenience stores that pull truckers and minivan families off the interstate like a big cartoon magnet. She found the right exit but for whatever reason when she pulled into the lot there were no lights or vehicles as if the place had sent all its friends home and bedded down after a busy day in the fields of beef jerky and overheated hot dog wieners. Alarms sounded in that large part of her brain that handled self-preservation. She felt for the pepper spray in her purse. It was all quickly feeling like a horror movie when the smart girl realizes that she is IN a horror movie. A ratty sports car pulled up beside her in the opposite direction, so their driver sides faced each other. She made sure the doors were locked. The window was manually rolled down, it was him. Paler, sicklier than she had expected but maybe it was just a parlor trick of the blue moonlight? He smiled, giving off a friendly, harmless vibe. So did Ted Bundy, that hyperactive slice of her brain offered to the group. She rolled down her window but put her right hand on the gear shifter ready to lay rubber at the slightest hint of nopes.

Hi, he offered to break the ice with a toothpick. She sensed that he expected her to just drive away. She could almost smell a damaged soul in the fetal position under the steel-toed boots of life.

So, you…work here? She felt she deserved an explanation. Was this place even in business? She wished she could cup hands and look through the glass, see if there was milk in the fridge.

He opened the flue, talking fast, and sounding rehearsed, Yeah, been a helluva day. Our card readers went down this afternoon, lordy what a mess. Nobody carries cash anymore. Try telling a giant truck driver that he can’t have his No Doze and can of chewing tobacco because we can’t take credit. Anyway, they was trying to fix all that and then Dottie, the manager, was back there where all the wires and breakers are, and she flipped or pulled something wrong and killed the power. Didn’t sound like it was gonna be an easy fix and electricians don’t grow on trees, so they just pulled the plug, literally, on the whole enchilada. Speaking of, I’m a starvin’ Marvin. You?

Sure, I could eat. Internally she was looking to poke holes in the story. She would have slapped a toddler for a pair of night vision binoculars to check out the guts of that convenience store. Instead, she followed his smoker’s cough Mustang lurch back out to the interstate and some semblance of life in the distant streetlights. His name was Marvin. Was he just taking advantage of a trite rhyme, or did he speak in the third person? That was a sign you were dealing with a maniac she seemed to remember from one of the CSI shows. Her subconscious took over the wheel as she continued to drive on, half of her straining to read his crooked bumper sticker, the other half screaming You dumb bitch! pleading with the hands at ten and two to careen over the median and crack off double the speed limit back to the safety of the city.

She was finally able to make out the bumper sticker as they pulled into the parking lot of ‘El Corneo Coyote’, home of the foot long flauta. The sticker was from a high school, the very high school that her fifteen-year-old daughter attended. Another bank of alarm lights went off on the board. There was a connection to her, her family, which she previously had no idea about. Was he a parent? A former janitor fired for stealing the paper-thin toilet paper from the custodial closet? Maybe he just bought the car used and he was too lazy to scrape. She would broach the subject stealthily over dinner, pull a second color of yarn out of the conspiracy theory basket.

The place was moderately busy, not enough to have to wait but enough to where you could feel safe in a crowd if things were to go sideways. Although there were tall red leather booths available, the square-shaped young effeminate Latino host with a face like a sweet potato pie sat them at a table about damn square in the middle of the place. While not affording an ounce of privacy, she welcomed the exposure. Let other diners look up from their chorizo queso and bear witness if there happened to be a court proceeding in the future. An obese snack cake factory HR rep would testify, He looked normal, frail, weak. I’m surprised he could even lift an ax, much less come down with enough force to crack a skull in half. Marvin kept his company jacket on as he sat down but removed his nametag deftly with one hand. The other he kept in his pocket as if tightly squeezing a handgun while building up the nerve to rob the joint.

They have good chips here. Always come out warm. He grabbed one with that same free hand, scooped up some salsa and crunched away. Someone must have told little Marvin that chewing with an open mouth conveyed comfort, being at ease with your meal mate. A few crumbs landed on his jacket. Maybe the chips were warm, but the room was hot. Too many fajita orders coming out she assumed. How he could sit in that jacket befuddled her. He had to be sitting in a pool of sweat under that thick canvas.

No chips for me. I’m watching the carbs. Pretty much eating plates of meat at this point. She studied the menu while stealing glances. He gave the chip basket the cold shoulder and flopped his menu down on the table, went down the lists with an index finger like a mentally challenged inbred aristocrat. A waitress appeared with a fake smile one reserves for orphans. She ordered carne asada, no rice, no beans. He did the same. A beta move she did not find appealing. The waitress took the menus and got the hell out of there. Online dates were so tragic.

You didn’t have to order that for my sake. I actually get a thrill out of watching people eat what I try to stay away from. It’s a vicarious experience.

No. It’s fine. Carbs are bad, right?

Do you know what carbs are?

I don’t think I could actually explain to you what a carb is, no. But I know that people say they are bad.

Have you had to watch your weight in the past? Men can get away with a lot more.

No, not really. My parents owned a restaurant growing up. Italian. Good stuff even though they were about as Italian as bangers and mash. I guess if I was gonna be a chubby boy it would have happened by now.

Well then, carbs are not your enemy. For me, they are.

You have gorgeous eyes. She did.

Thank you.

I used to be a teacher. I want you to know that because I have contributed a lot more to the world than stacking twelve packs of soda into symmetrical colors and shapes by the cash register.

OK. I am guessing at Pawford High?

How did you know that?

Bumper sticker. On your car.

‘Right. Go Hounds."

So…do you want to tell me why you are not currently a teacher? You don’t have to. Oh, yes he did. Give up the deets little man.

Well… And, of course, the food showed. While the bombshell momentarily eluded her, she was ready to see how he would cut and eat his steak with just the one hand he had so far offered for view. He was a lefty or at least had learned along the way. The cutlery gods had awarded him a sharp enough fork, as he was able to cut off ragged bites and chew on the same side of his mouth as if anything on the other side of his body was out of order. She ordered a shot of tequila. He did not match her there, stuck to a sweet tea, which to her always tasted god awful as if it was syrup that no one bothered to carbonate. He smiled meekly at her with his mouth continually full, a smile hinting he was physically unable to continue the story at least until they pushed the plates away. She filled the chasm of awkward silence with small talk about herself, nothing too revealing, standard first date stuff: her job as a law professor at a small college, and her multi-branched family of black sheep and dedicated American dreamers. A table full of kids next to them stole giggling glances at Marvin, his concealed appendage was a natural pull for inquisitive minds. She thought of giving them evil eye, but she felt too much kinship and even went so far as to sneak them a wink. He ignored them all, stared down at his disappearing steak as if it held the answers to the cosmos. She picked at hers, holding true to the ladylike rule of being a conservative eater in front of a strange man. She thought of dropping her napkin over on that foreign shore of his, see if he would slip up and reveal the goods. By then it was too late, the waitress had wheeled back to retrieve the plates, the most unsavory part of the job.

"Box?’ The waitress asked her as Marvin’s plate was a quick rinse away from being right back in circulation.

Yes please, he answered, too quickly for her. The waitress raised her eyebrows and took her leave.

‘Sorry, he hurriedly added, Hate seeing things go to waste." If three quarters of a carne asada would bring him a sense of duty to a wasteful society, who was she to begrudge?

So, you were telling me why you aren’t at the school anymore?

The waitress returned with the box. He grabbed it and then her plate, sliding it in as he talked. Yeah, the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, like a seventies bad sitcom kind of misunderstanding. I just decided to pick up work at the truck stop until I decide on next steps. He didn’t stop with the meat. He dumped the basket of chips in, the salsa along with the porcelain cup it was in, a napkin, the saltshaker, and his fork and knife that he had somehow sandbagged from the waitress. She was afraid he might try and stuff the table accent candle in when the check arrived.

I forgot to ask y’all. Together or separate? Marvin froze. Whether it was to deflect from his restaurant supply theft or a reluctance to offer to pay she couldn’t discern but it was most likely both. She reached in her purse and pulled out a card that she knew had the lowest interest rate.

I got it, she announced cheerfully. He breathed a subtle sigh of relief. The bum could have at least offered. Chances were, he got a disability check to supplement that gravy truck stop gig.

Thanks. I’ll get the next one. He smiled, a fat piece of cilantro caught snugly between the bicuspids. He dabbed some sweat from his brow with her napkin, which was in itself a whole another level of repulsiveness and gathered up his heavy Grinch box of goodies. Just like that, dinner was over as they made their way out into the still-humid night.

He hovered by the car door. I had a great time. Did you?

She most definitely did not but if she went in for a hug maybe he would have to use both arms? Was it worth it? No. The cons had stacked up, towering over the pros, choking out the light. She emitted a pity laugh and got into her car. Marvin didn’t quite get the hint and leaned down to the window. She heard the casual thump of his Styrofoam steamer trunk on the roof of the car. Bastard better not have left a dent up there. She lowered the window an inch, maybe an inch and a half, not quite enough to get his good hand inside.

Let me know where you want to go! Remember, my treat. Do you like Indian? He laid his fingers on the rim of the glass, hoping for some semblance of affection, an affirmation that this wasn’t a one and done deal. She nodded and rolled up the window. He pulled his fingers back in the nick of time.

Good night, Antonia! he yelled out into a cloud of invisible evening dust. He grinned a grin of obliviousness. That went pretty well, he thought.

The forgotten crate o’ spoils made it a quarter mile, fighting the wind and g-force turns before it surrendered its life and contents to the unforgiving pavement of the interstate.

2

The hottest girl in school. Made zero sense.

Law class could get dull, and she knew from experience that when things get dull, brains direct their focus to other things like butterflies outside the window or who the hell gave you crabs last Saturday. So, when estate law started to bog them down, she would reel the kids back in, regale them with horror stories from her dating life where the duds far outnumbered the studs. The late-teen college libidos drank from the saucy well, boys and girls alike hung on her every word. One side already resided in a healthy hot for teacher fantasy world and the other bled sympathy for her older woman plight to just find one normal dude in a sea of creeps.

So, he said he worked at a truck stop but he used to be a teacher. He had me meet him at what probably used to be a truck stop in the middle of absolute nowhere. We were the only two in the parking lot. No way the place was open for business. His name was Marvin. Marvin ate everything on his plate but still stole everything left on the table and never even mentioned his right hand, which I never saw once. On top of that, the next morning there was salsa all over the back of my car which is yet another mystery. The class laughed and offered answers to the riddle all at once. Maybe he was Captain Hook, a former shop teacher recovering from a horrific band saw accident, a CIA hand model that was sworn to secrecy. Cecily, a plain straw-brown-haired girl who Antonia vaguely remembered had graduated from Pawford High raised her hand with aplomb to cut through the clutter.

Ms. S. I know that guy! Everyone hushed. The usually shy Cecily had the floor. She took a deep breath to calm herself. He was a teacher when I was at Pawford. Marvin Spangler. We all called him Mr. Spanker. I was in his history class. He wasn’t that great. Most kids slept or played paper football. He did not make history come alive, that’s for sure. He also ran a club. It was weird, like an auctioneer’s club. You know those guys that talk super fast that you can’t understand? 50, 50, 50 do I hear 75? They entered competitions, I think. Somehow, he got caught having an affair with this girl in the club. It was all very hush-hush in school but there was like a trial and everything. Helen McDermott was her name. The whole thing didn’t make any sense. She was sixteen but looked twenty-five. Gorgeous. Like one of those runway models that sneer at everyone because they just don’t have time for life. No one could figure out why she even bothered with the club. I mean it was like for farm boys, not popular girls like Helen. Even the football team followed her around like a pack of puppies. I heard they were going to some stabbin’ cabin Mr. Spangler had up in the Smokies and a couple of other kids in the club followed them and saw everything. Had the whole school confused. It didn’t add up at all. Then one day he was just gone. At least history class got more interesting. I think it was like right around the civil war. If he had stuck around, I don’t think anyone in the class would have even known who won.

"Did you ever see his hand?’ Antonia was enthralled. It was if she was coming in at the tail end of an interesting movie and wanted to change the channel so she could start later from the beginning and not spoil anything.

I never noticed anything in class. Not that anyone paid much attention to him. He could have had three hands and people would have still zoned out. Like I said, he was not a good teacher. Helen just disappeared too. Probably transferred or moved. She would have so been prom queen her senior year too. Sad. Cecily paused as if to respect the tragic waste of beauty. Actually, I heard he got sent to prison. She was sixteen. Marvin Spangler is a total sick-o.

I bet they auctioned off his ass in there! Two, two cartons of menthols! Do I hear three? another student chimed in. Even Antonia smiled at that in spite of herself. That was terrible. She realized she was in even deeper now. She had to know the finer details. It would need to be without ever seeing him again though. One-handed ex-con pedophiles were not her jam no matter how fascinating they tended to be. Ole Marvin. Talk about flying too close to the sun.

OK, as enthralling as all this is, let’s get back to it. She fired up the PowerPoint. She had to show some discipline even if they could chew on this T-bone of juicy gossip for hours.

I don’t blame the dude, a string bean young buck piped in from the back row just as Antonia was about to dive back into the debt of the deceased. He had that smarmy weasel face that was destined to be on a bus bench advertising his services to those hurt on the job. The class turned a 180, some in disgust, some secretly happy it was said. Antonia had no choice but to let him offer his dissenting opinion. Think about it. Bored ass white guy teaching badly at best in a high school with no life and no chance of one. A young hottie all the guys want to break a piece off of shows him attention. Suddenly he is the chosen one, even over the coolest mo-fos in school. Beating them at their game. There was no way he was gonna resist that ass. It was his last chance to bite the forbidden fruit.

Why would she do that? Helen would never. Cecily was not going to let this rando make Helen out to be some old-man-chasing slut.

She did that shit simply because she could. Maybe she was bored too, just playing baby games. Probably went too far but he clung to that fresh-fresh though, gave him a reason to jump out of bed in the morning. I mean if he got caught, it didn’t really matter. What was the dude really losing?

Cecily got fired up for maybe the first time in her life. He was married! He has kids!

A collective oooohhhhh sounded out. That bag of flour thickened the plot considerably.

3

The man had it all. Wanted none of it.

Dinner dishes were piled into the dishwasher, the TV still warm from some reality show that held zero emotional attachment. It was the calm after the storm, a nice cup of hot tea, some Chet Baker playing it low, the girls were in their bedrooms gabbing on a party line or whatever they did late at night, hopefully not deciding which former friend was a total slut. Antonia was on the twin-sized bed on top of the covers, lying on her stomach, crossed legs bobbing in the air throwing shadows from the illuminated laptop screen. Now that she had a full name, some real detective work could commence. Marvin’s sordid story was all over the interwebs. Illicit teacher student relationships were way up there on the morbid fascination ladder. News articles from multiple regional cities all shared the relevant details: Marvin Spangler, history teacher at Pawford High School and coach of the auctioneering team; husband of Dr. Lydia Spangler and father of three: a wheelchair bound son and young twins. Arrested and convicted of statutory rape and various other offenses in relation to his dalliance with an unnamed minor. Sentenced to ten years in the state pen but apparently had gotten probation in two if her math was right because he was out and about going on dates. She thought she should read up on this particular section of criminal law, see if there was a plea down to something that wouldn’t put him on a permanent marker map of sex offenders. Did he still see his kids, was the family dynamic beyond reconstruction? Wouldn’t one be more concerned with pulling their shattered life back together instead of trying to get laid online?

She scoured the sensational details but what about the hand? There was no mention anywhere and no images showing anything other than his face, which by now really gave her the willies. There was a sorta lazy eye that seemed to just not want to look forward anymore. An unshaven face from the denial of anything sharp. She went and deleted her dating app account, at least until she tied all the loose ends up on this. Life had given her enough bowling pins to juggle. What was he doing right now? Sitting in a lukewarm bath in an extended stay motel plotting a mass shooting made sense. Or watching an old Married with Children rerun eating cheese balls and laughing at Al Bundy, a kinship forged in misery. Did he still see his kids every other week at a supervised visit at a burger joint that had a ramp from the parking lot? How did he even wind up marrying a doctor? High school sweethearts or a chance meeting at the DMV? Ole Doc Lydia was obviously the breadwinner, as long as the student loans were paid off. Did that emasculation help drive him into the seducing Lolita Helen’s arms? Was it the burden of kids? She couldn’t imagine handling a child with special needs and then adding twins to the mix. Was he wheeling his son around in between changing diapers and warming up double bottles of milk while his wife worked her sixty-hour weeks? Maybe her class bad boy was right. Helen McDermott offered quite a diversion from those heavy burdens. A forbidden fruit that tasted almost too sweet. She wanted so badly to peel the onion that was Marvin Spangler but couldn’t really explain to herself why. She should just let it go, learn from it, and move on. A bullet dodged. He had just been a sad ship in a malevolent storm, making mistakes in navigation that led to the rocks. Now he was soaked and cold in a one-oared dingy clinging to the sides hoping to stay afloat until the sun broke through the black. Eventually the blue screen pulled her under into a restless sleep where she was bidding at an auction for children. She couldn’t understand Marvin the auctioneer but raised her paddle involuntarily. He directed the bidding with a gavel for a hand. She didn’t want the children but kept winning. They were being led off stage through those restaurant porthole window double doors into a loud steam-emitting kitchen. She heard screams but couldn’t get out of her car. She was in a drive-in theater, and everything was being projected on the big screen. Kids dressed as bloody carhop waiters were coming out of the kitchen on roller skates as other children were filing in. Plates full of meat were being served to the cars. One of her daughters, the youngest wearing the garish make-up of a prostitute, placed a plate in her hands. She knew it was a human steak but picked it up with her fork-shaped hands and started devouring it anyway. Grease rolled down her chin, but she didn’t care. The idea that it was forbidden was what made it taste oh so good.

4

We were different kinds of smart.

He didn’t even remember who approached who. They exchanged names and pointless small talk about majors at Danny’s cheesy surfer party, which amounted to playing the sorry ass Beach Boys and having a bathtub full of wine coolers. When she bullied the point across she was pre-med, he felt the urge to just excuse himself and hunt for easier game. Back then though she still had that dirty leg appeal under the smarts. He could almost smell it under a lemongrass body mist. She was an outlier, a girl from the wrong side of the tracks out to prove her holier -than -thou dirt poor Brussels sprout farming daddy wrong and become that pinnacle of female success, a doctor. She was attractive and curious enough to have done her time in the backseats of junky cars with different colored side panels. One of those empowered, tall, pixie-haired girls that equated feminism with screwing around with whoever she wanted whenever she wanted on her way to the top tax bracket. If he played his cards right, he would at least get to third base before she found her recently budding virtue gleaned from university workshops and gasped that bummer of a four-letter word ‘stop.’

You want a drink? The purple passion punch is pretty good.

‘What?" she shouted an inch from his ear. Old ass Brian Wilson was crooning through the crowd, and they were six feet from a wall of speakers. He grabbed her arm and she thought he wanted to dance. She started shaking her butt and he was not too disappointed to see a thong creeping up over low hung jeans with strategic holes scattered about. He shook his head and pulled her into the kitchen where a drinking game was hanging by a thread over a chasm of total chaos. There were dice, a ping-pong ball, and playing cards on foreheads. The rules were dissolving as the debauchery boiled over. Danny sat at the head of the table and whistled a drunken catcall at the sight of a fresh female but that was that dumb ass’ thing. It never worked. He found a cup that wasn’t too used and dipped it in the punch bowl, evading a cigarette butt that was seeking a rescue from the concoction.

Here ya go. He offered the cup, but she had eyed the source. Her cute nose crinkled up and it made something stir in his cold soul.

No thanks. Not much of a drinker. I got a mid-term tomorrow anyway.

"He dropped the cup and all back in the bowl, realizing he would have to crest this mountain without his trusty Sherpa, alcohol.

Why come to a party when you have a mid-term? He felt he was owed an explanation for this bait and switch. He felt that sinking feeling when you bet big on a poker hand, and it is too late to fold.

I have so many tests that if I followed that credo, I would never leave the library. Anyway, I don’t need to get shitty to have fun. Shitty girls get into trouble. You looking to get me into trouble? She folded her shapely, down-covered arms. It was so damn sexy he could spit.

Not me. I’m trying to steer you away from all the predators. It’s like the Serengeti in here. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

You don’t have to protect me, white knight.

I don’t? Have you been to Danny’s parties?

No. You know why? She grabbed his hand and led him toward the back door on the opposite side of the room. He could do nothing but follow her elegant long stride. They stopped for a beat as she threw the door open and the night air curled gentle around their senses.

Why he said as they hit the wet grass and all the clutter and ugliness of humanity fell away behind them.

I’m a lion.

And that was it for Marvin and Lydia.

For better or for worse.

5

At least something got to suck on them.

There was never a chance to relax, to stop swimming upstream and grab a rock, an overhanging branch and just catch your breath. In the beginning they were both neck deep into school and it was fun to sit across from each other in the library and after making eyes at each other