Authors: Elizabeth Hand
Last Summer at Mars Hill
For Stephen P. Brown, who long ago helped me to find stories in the City of Trees
With love and thanks
And do not rely on the fact that in your life, circumscribed, regulated, and prosaic, there are no such spectacular and terrifying things.
—C. P. Cavafy, “Theodotus”
VEN BEFORE THEY LEFT
home, Moony knew her mother wouldn’t return from Mars Hill that year. Jason had called her from his father’s house in San Francisco—
“I had a dream about you last night,” he’d said, his voice cracking the way it did when he was excited. “We were at Mars Hill, and my father was there, and my mother, too—I knew it was a dream, like can you imagine my
at Mars Hill?—and you had on this sort of long black dress and you were sitting alone by the pier. And you said, ‘This is it, Jason. We’ll never see this again.’ I felt like crying, I tried to hug you but my father pulled me back. And then I woke up.”
She didn’t say anything. Finally Jason prodded her. “Weird, huh, Moony? I mean, don’t you think it’s weird?”
She shrugged and rolled her eyes, then sighed loudly so that he’d be able to tell she was upset. “Thanks, Jason. Like that’s supposed to cheer me up?”
A long silence, then Jason’s breathless voice again. “Shit, Moony, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
She laughed, a little nervously, and said, “Forget it. So when you flying out to Maine?”
Nobody but Jason called her Moony, not at home at least, not in Kamensic Village. There she was Maggie Rheining, which was the name that appeared under her junior picture in the high school yearbook.
But the name that had been neatly typed on the birth certificate in San Francisco sixteen years ago, the name Jason and everyone at Mars Hill knew her by, was Shadowmoon Starlight Rising. Maggie would have shaved her head before she’d admit her real name to anyone at school. At Mars Hill it wasn’t so weird: there was Adele Grose, known professionally as Madame Olaf; Shasta Daisy O’Hare and Rvis Capricorn; Martin Dionysos, who was Jason’s father; and Ariel Rising, née Amanda Mae Rheining, who was Moony’s mother. For most of the year Moony and Ariel lived in Kamensic Village, the affluent New York exurb where her mother ran Earthly Delights Catering and Moony attended high school, and everything was pretty much normal. It was only in June that they headed north to Maine, to the tiny spiritualist community where they had summered for as long as Moony could remember. And even though she could have stayed in Kamensic with Ariel’s friends the Loomises, at the last minute (and due in large part to Jason’s urging, and threats if she abandoned him there) she decided to go with her mother to Mars Hill. Later, whenever she thought how close she’d come to not going, it made her feel sick: as though she’d missed a flight and later found out the plane had crashed.
Because much as she loved it, Moony had always been a little ashamed of Mars Hill. It was such a dinky place, plopped in the middle of nowhere on the rocky Maine coast—tiny shingle-style Carpenter Gothic cottages, all tumbled into disrepair, their elaborate trim rotting and strung with spiderwebs; poppies and lupines and tiger lilies sprawling bravely atop clumps of chickweed and dandelions of truly monstrous size; even the sign by the pier so faded you almost couldn’t read the earnest lettering:
“Why doesn’t your father take somebody’s violet aura and repaint the damn sign with it?” she’d exploded once to Jason.
Jason looked surprised. “I kind of like it like that,” he said, shaking the hair from his face and tossing a sea urchin at the silvered board. “It looks like it was put up by our Founding Mothers.” But for years Moony almost couldn’t stand to even look at the sign, it embarrassed her so much.
It was Jason who helped her get over that. They’d met when they were both twelve. It was the summer that Ariel started the workshop in Creative Psychokinesis, the first summer that Jason and his father had stayed at Mars Hill.
“Hey,” Jason had said, too loudly when they found themselves left alone while the adults swapped wine coolers and introductions at the summer’s first barbecue. They were the only kids in sight. There were no other families and few conventionally married couples at Mars Hill. The community had been the cause of more than one custody battle that had ended with wistful children sent to spend the summer with a more respectable parent in Boston or Manhattan or Bar Harbor. “That lady there with my father—”
He stuck his thumb out to indicate Ariel, her long black hair frizzed and bound with leather thongs, an old multicolored skirt flapping around her legs. She was talking to a slender man with close-cropped blond hair and goatee, wearing a sky-blue caftan and shabby Birkenstock sandals. “That your mom?”
“Yeah.” Moony shrugged and glanced at the man in the caftan. He and Ariel both turned to look at their children. The man grinned and raised his wine glass. Ariel did a little pirouette and blew a kiss at Moony.
“Looks like she did too much of the brown acid at Woodstock,” Jason announced, and flopped onto the grass. Moony glared down at him.
Woodstock, asshole,” she said, and had started to walk away when the boy called after her.
“Hey—it’s a joke! My name’s Jason—” He pointed at the man with Ariel. “That’s my father. Martin Dionysos. But like that’s not his real name, okay? His real name is Schuster but he changed it, but
Jason Schuster. He’s a painter. We don’t know anyone here. I mean, does it ever get above forty degrees?”
He scrambled to his feet and looked at her beseechingly. Smaller even than Moony herself, so slender he should have looked younger than her, except that his sharp face beneath floppy white-blond hair was always twisted into some ironic pronouncement, his blue eyes always flickering somewhere between derision and pleading.
“No,” Moony said slowly. The part about Jason not changing his name got to her. She stared pointedly at his thin arms prickled with gooseflesh, the fashionable surfer-logo T-shirt that hung nearly to his knees. “You’re gonna freeze your skinny ass off here in Maine, Jason Schuster.” And she grinned.
He was from San Francisco. His father was a well-known artist and a member of the Raging Faery Queens, a gay pagan group that lived in the Bay Area and staged elaborately beautiful solstice gatherings and AIDS benefits. At Mars Hill, Martin Dionysos gave workshops on strengthening your aura and on clear nights led the community’s men in chanting at the moon as it rose above Penobscot Bay. Jason was so diffident about his father and his father’s work that Moony was surprised, the single time she visited him on the West Coast, to find her friend’s room plastered with flyers advertising Faery gatherings and newspaper photos of Martin and Jason at various ACT-UP events. In the fall Jason would be staying in Maine, while she returned to high school. Ultimately it was the thought that she might not see him again that made Moony decide to spend this last summer at Mars Hill.
“That’s what you’re wearing to First Night?”
Moony started at her mother’s voice, turned to see Ariel in the middle of the summer cottage’s tiny living room. Wine rocked back and forth in her mother’s glass, gold shot with tiny sunbursts from the crystals hung from every window. “What about your new dress?”
Moony shrugged. She couldn’t tell her mother about Jason’s dream, about the black dress he’d seen her wearing. Ariel set great store by dreams, especially these last few months. What she’d make of one in which Moony appeared in a black dress and Ariel didn’t appear at all, Moony didn’t want to know.
“Too hot,” Moony said. She paused in front of the window and adjusted one of three silver crosses dangling from her right ear. “Plus I don’t want to upstage you.”
Ariel smiled. “Smart kid,” she said, and took another sip of her wine.
Ariel wore what she wore to every First Night: an ankle-length patchwork skirt so worn and frayed it could only be taken out once a year, on this ceremonial occasion. Squares of velvet and threadbare satin were emblazoned with suns and moons and astrological symbols, each one with a date neatly embroidered in crimson thread.
Sedona, Aug 15 1972.
Mystery Hill, NH, 5/80.
The Winter Garden 1969.
Jajouka, Tangiers, Marrakech 1968.
Along the bottom, where many of the original squares had disintegrated into fine webs of denim and chambray she had begun piecing a new section: squares that each held a pair of dates, a name, an embroidered flower. These were for friends who had died. Some of them were people lost two decades earlier, to the War, or drugs or misadventure; names that Moony knew only from stories told year after year at Mars Hill or in the kitchen at home.
But most of the names were those of people Moony herself had known. Friends of Ariel’s who had gathered during the divorce, and again, later, when Moony’s father died, and during the myriad affairs and breakups that followed. Men and women who had started out as Ariel’s customers and ended as family. Uncle Bob and Uncle Raymond and Uncle Nigel. Laurie Salas. Tommy McElroy and Sean Jacobson. Chas Bowen and Martina Glass. And, on the very bottom edge of the skirt, a square still peacock-bright with its blood-colored rose, crimson letters spelling out John’s name and a date the previous spring.
As a child Moony had loved that skirt. She loved to watch her mother sashay into the tiny gazebo at Mars Hill on First Night and see all the others laugh and run to her, their fingers plucking at the patchwork folds as though to read something there, tomorrow’s weather perhaps, or the names of suitors yet unmet.
But now Moony hated the skirt. It was morbid, even Jason agreed with that.
“They’ve already got a fucking quilt,” he said, bitterly. “We don’t need your mom wearing a goddamn
Moony nodded, miserable, and tried not to think of what they were most afraid of: Martin’s name there beside John’s, and a little rosebud done in flower-knots. Martin’s name, or Ariel’s.
There was a key to the skirt, Moony thought as she watched her mother sip her wine; a way to decode all the arcane symbols Ariel had stitched there over the last few months. It lay in a heavy manila envelope somewhere in Ariel’s room, an envelope that Ariel had started carrying with her in February and which grew heavier and heavier as the weeks passed. Moony knew there was something horrible in that envelope, something to do with the countless appointments Ariel had had since February, with the whispered phone calls and macrobiotic diets and the resurgence of her mother’s belief in
and earth spirits and plain old-fashioned ghosts.
But Moony said nothing of this, only smiled and fidgeted with her earrings. “Go ahead,” she told Ariel, who had settled at the edge of a wicker hassock and peered up at her daughter through her wineglass. “I just got to get some stuff.”
Ariel waited in silence, then drained her glass and set it on the floor. “Okay. Jason and Martin are here. I saw them on the hill—”
“Yeah. I know, I talked to them, they went to Camden for lunch, they can’t wait to see you.” Moony paced to the door to her room, trying not to look impatient. Already her heart was pounding.
“Okay,” Ariel said again. She sounded breathless and a little drunk. She had ringed her aquamarine eyes with kohl, to hide how tired she was. Over the last few months she’d grown so thin that her cheekbones had emerged again, after years of hiding in her round peasant’s face. Her voice was hoarse as she asked, “So you’ll be there soon?”