One more time I feel the leathery wings rustle and unfold in the dark basement, hear once again the joyful whisper of a Passenger brushing off neglect and calling for happy reunion.
It’s time, it says, with a small cold thrill of seeing just how things must be this one more time like always. It is very much time.
And it is.
And so although I thought I had gone beyond all this, away from the rattle and slash of the Passenger, I was wrong. I still feel it, feel it now stronger than ever, pulling at me from that great fat blood-red moon hanging in the window with its leering, mocking grin, daring me to do what must be done and do it now.
Now.
And in the tiny still-wet corners of my new human soul I know that I cann
ot, dare not, must not—I have family obligations—I am holding one in my hand, the invitation to Deborah’s baby shower. Soon there will be a new Morgan, a new life to care for, an obligation not to be taken lightly, not in this wicked and dangerous world. And that molten brassy moon-voice, ever louder, whispers slyly that this is true; of course it is. The world is wickedness and danger, very true; no one would ever deny it. And so it is a very good thing to make the world a better and safer place, one small slice at a time, and especially when we can do this thing and meet our family obligations at the same time.
And yes, the thought comes slowly and uncoils with a sharp and perfect logic. It is true, very true, oh, so true and oh, so very neat as well, making perfect sense of so many messy little pieces that need to be nudged into line and made to behave and after all there are those family obligations and in any case there is that voice, that beautiful wailing siren-song voice, and it is calling far too strongly in its fat happy brassy voice for me to say no to it now.
And so we go to my dusty office closet and put a few small things into a gym bag.
And so we go into the living room where Rita and the children are watching TV and on Rita’s lap is Lily Anne—
And for just a moment I stop dead, looking at her, face snuggled down into the warmth of her mother, and for several long heartbeats the sight of her is louder than any song the moon could sing. Lily Anne …
But eventually we breathe, and the deep melody of this perfect night rushes back into me with the air and I remember: It is for her sake that we do this tonight. For Lily Anne, for all the Lily Annes, to make a better place of the world they will grow into, and the wild happiness comes back, and then the cold control, and we bend down to kiss my wife on the cheek. “I need to go out for a little while,” we say in a very good imitation of Dexter’s human voice. Cody and Astor sit up straight when they hear our voice and they stare wide-eyed at the gym bag, but we stare them down and they are silent.
“What? Oh—but it’s … All right, if you’re—Could you get milk on the way …?” Rita says.
“Milk,” we say. “Bye.” And as Cody and Astor goggle in awe at what they know will happen now we are out the door and into the warm blanket of metallic moonlight that has clamped over the Miami night and holds it now in taut readiness for us, for our Night of Need and Necessity, for the thing we will do, must do; we slip once again into the welcome darkness for that one perfect present for a baby shower, the wonderful gift for a special sister, the one thing that only her brother knows she wants, the one thing only he can get for her.
Bobby Acosta.