Valley of the Moon

“He won’t be.”

“But what if he is? What do I call him?”

“Then you call him Grandpa,” I said. “Or Grandfather. Or Mr. Lysander. Or George. Christ, Benno, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him what he wants to be called, but I don’t think it’ll be an issue. You won’t see him.”

My father had never missed his precious two weeks at the lake. He would not be missing them now.

I hated airports. They were liminal space. You floated around in them untethered between arrivals and departures. A certain slackness always descended upon me as soon as I walked through the airport doors.

“Are you scared?” I asked Benno.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, kid,” said Rhonda. “You’re going on an adventure.”

“I’m not scared,” he said.

“Look, babe. The days will be easy. It’s the nighttime that might be hard. That’s when you’ll probably feel homesick. But just make sure you—”

“Can we go up the escalator?” he interrupted me.

I stopped and crouched down. “Benno, do you need a hug?”

He blew a tiny spit bubble. “No, thank you.”

“Don’t do that, that’s gross.”

He sucked it in.

“Well, may I please have a hug?” I asked.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re busy? Busy doing what?”

“Leaving, Mama,” he sighed.

Abortion wouldn’t be legal in California for another three years, but even if it were, I never would have terminated the pregnancy. Perhaps given different circumstances I’d have chosen differently, but for this baby my choice was life. Of course I didn’t know he’d turn into Benno. My Benno. I just knew he needed to come into the world.

Everybody thought I was crazy. Not only was there no father in the picture, but the father was black. How much harder could I make it for myself—a single white mother with a mixed-race child?

He brought me such joy. I never knew I was capable of loving somebody the way I loved him. Purely, ragged-heartedly. I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it.

But my life with him in it was also ridiculously hard. I was a parent twenty-four hours a day. Every tantrum, every cry of hunger, every question was mine to soothe, to feed, and to answer. I had no spouse to hand him off to. No partner to help pay the bills. I could never just walk away. I was the sole person in charge of resolving every issue in my child’s life, from how to deal with bullies, to Is that rash serious? to He’s three years old and still not using a spoon properly—what’s wrong with him?

I wasn’t stupid. I’d known that raising a child on my own would be challenging. It was the isolation that blindsided me. The intractable, relentless truth was that I was alone. I could meet other mothers on the playground. We could talk bottle-feeding and solid foods, how to get rid of cradle cap, the best remedy for diaper rash. We could laugh, commiserate, watch each other’s babies while somebody ran to the bathroom. But at the end of the day, they went home to their husbands and I went home to an apartment that was dark until I turned on the lights.

When we got to the gate, I was panicked but doing my best to hide it. I’d never been separated from Benno for more than a night.

“You must be Benno,” said the stewardess when we checked in. “We’ve been waiting for you!” She picked up the phone, punched three numbers, and spoke softly into it. “Jill, Benno Lysander is here.” She hung up. “You are going to adore Jill. She’s a retired stewardess. She’s got all sorts of activities planned for you, young man. Crossword puzzles. Hangman. Coloring books. A trip to the cockpit to meet the captain, and if you’re very good, maybe you’ll get a pair of captain’s wings.”

Benno’s eyes gleamed. I was on the verge of tears.

“Stop it,” Rhonda whispered. “He’s happy. Don’t screw this up.” She pulled her camera out of her pocketbook. “Let’s get a Polaroid of the two of you before you go.”

Five minutes later Benno was gone.

We walked out of the airport silently. Rhonda waved the Polaroid back and forth, drying it. When we got to the car, she handed me the photo.

I’d forgotten to wash Benno’s face. His mouth was still rimmed with orange.

Later, back at our apartment, Rhonda poured me a shot of Jack. Then she looked at my face and poured me a double. “It’s only two weeks,” she said.

I pounded the whiskey in one swallow. “What was I thinking? He’s a baby.”

“He’s an old soul. He’s a forty-year-old in a five-year-old body. He’ll be fine. Give me that glass.”

I slid it across the table and she poured herself a splash.

“I forbid you to go in his room and sniff his clothes,” she said.

“I would never do that,” I said.

“Hmm.” She took a dainty sip of the whiskey.

Elegant was the word that best described Rhonda Washington. Long-necked, long-legged. An Oakland native, Rhonda had five siblings. All of them had R names: Rhonda, Rita, Raelee, Richie, Russell, and Rodney. Rhonda’s mother said it was easier that way. All she had to do was stick her head out the window and yell “Ruh” and all the kids would come running.

“Now, what’s your plan? You aren’t just going to sit around the house moping,” she said.

“I’ve got this week off, then I’m working double shifts all next week.” I waitressed at Seven Hills, an Irish pub in North Beach.

“So what are you going to do this week?”

“I’m going camping.”

“Camping?” said Rhonda. “Like, car camping? With a bathroom and showers?”

“No, middle-of-nowhere camping, with a flashlight and beef jerky.”

I’d given a lot of thought as to how I was going to spend my first week of freedom in five years. I let myself fantasize. What if I could do whatever I wanted, no matter the cost? Where would I go? How about Paris? No, too snooty. Australia, then; Aussies were supposed to be friendly. Oh, but I’d always dreamed of seeing the Great Wall. And what about the Greek islands? Stonehenge? The Taj Mahal? Pompeii? I pored through old National Geographics—I rarely let myself dream anymore. My list quickly grew to over fifty places.

In the end I decided on camping right near home. Yes, it was all I could afford, but I wasn’t settling; before I’d had Benno it had been my escape of choice. I’d been to Yosemite, Big Sur, and Carmel. Closer to home, I’d camped on Mount Tam, at Point Reyes, and in the Marin Headlands. If I was depressed, angry, or worried, I headed for the hills. If I didn’t get a regular dose of nature (a walk in Golden Gate Park didn’t count), I wasn’t right. I needed to get away from the city. Sit by myself under a tree for hours. Fall asleep to the sounds of an owl hooting rather than the heavy footfalls of my upstairs neighbors. I was competent in the wilderness. Nothing frightened me. I wanted to feel that part of myself again.

Rhonda tossed her head. “Okay, nature girl.”

“What? I am a nature girl.”

“Using Herbal Essence does not make you a nature girl, Lux. When’s the last time you went camping?”

“A few months before Benno was born.”

“Do you still remember how?”

“You don’t forget how to sleep in a tent, Rhonda.”

“This just seems impulsive. Is it safe to go alone?”

“Yes, Rhonda, it is. I can take care of myself. I know how to do this.” My father was an Eagle Scout. He taught me everything he knew.

“Fine. Why don’t we make a list of what you’ll need.”

“I already have a list.”

I knew what Rhonda was thinking. Here goes Lux again, just throwing things together and hoping for the best. That was how I lived my daily life, from hour to hour, paycheck to paycheck. This was the only Lux she knew. I wanted to show her another side of me.

“I’ve been planning this for months, you know,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well—good,” she said. “Good for you.”

I walked around the table and threw my arms around her. “Admit it. You love me.”

“No.”

“Yes. You love me. Silly, flighty me.”

Rhonda tried to squirm out of my grasp, but she grinned. “Don’t ask me to come rescue you if you get lost.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t take my peanut butter. Buy your own.”

“Okay.”

I’d already packed her peanut butter.

I did go into Benno’s room at midnight. I did lie down on his bed and bury my face in his pillow and inhale his sweet boy scent. I fell asleep in five minutes.

Rose Bennedeti and Doro Balakian were my landlords, the owners of 428 Elizabeth Street, a shabby (“in need of some attention but a grand old lady,” said the ad I’d answered in the classifieds) four-unit Victorian in Noe Valley. A lesbian couple in their seventies, they occupied the top-floor flat. We lived on the second floor, the Patel family (Raj, Sunite, and their daughter, Anjuli) lived on the first, and Tommy Catsos, a middle-aged bookstore clerk, lived in the basement.

I loved Rose and Doro. Every Saturday morning, I’d go to the Golden Gate Bakery to get a treat for them. When I rang their bell, the telltale white box in my hands, Rose would open the door and feign surprise.

“Oh, Lux,” she’d say, hand over her heart. “A mooncake?”

“And a Chinese egg tart,” I’d answer.

“Just what I was in the mood for! How did you know?”

This Saturday was no different, except for the fact that the two women wore glaringly white Adidas sneakers and were dressed in primary colors, like kindergartners. They were in their protesting clothes.

“We’re going to City Hall. Harvey’s”—Doro meant the activist Harvey Milk; they were on a first-name basis with him—“holding a rally, and then there’s to be some sort of a parade down Van Ness. Come with us, Lux.”

“We shall be out all day, I would think,” said Rose.

Rose and Doro were highly political, tolerant, extremely smart (Doro had been a chemist, Rose an engineer), and believers in everything: abortion rights, interracial marriage, and the ERA. Why not? was their creed.

“You’ll join us, of course,” said Doro.

I frequently gave up my weekends to march, picket, or protest, dragging Benno along with me. I believed in everything, too.

I put the bakery box on the counter. “I can’t. I’m going on a camping trip.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” said Doro. “Good for you, Lux. A Waldenesque sojourn into nature.”

“Would you like to bring a little …?” asked Rose. She put her thumb and index finger to her mouth and mimed inhaling.

“You smoke?”

“No, dear, we don’t partake, but we like to have it for our guests. Shall I get some for you?”

I wasn’t a big pot smoker.

“Just one joint,” said Doro. “You never know.”

Only in San Francisco would an old woman be pushing pot instead of a cookie and a nice cup of tea on you.

“All right,” I agreed.

“Marvelous!” they both chimed, as if I’d told them they’d just won the lottery.

I’d purchased five Snoopy cards from the Hallmark store to send to Benno in Newport. I didn’t want to overwhelm him or make him homesick. I just wanted him to know I was there. Filling them out was a surprisingly difficult task. I was going for breezy, with an undertone of Mommy loves you so much but she did not sleep in your bed last night. Here’s what I came up with:

Benno, I hope you had a great day!

Benno, Hope you’re having a great day!

Benno, I’m sure you’re having a great day!

Benno, Great day here, I hope it was a great day there, too.

Benno, Great day? Mine was!

I asked Rhonda to mail a card each great day I was gone.

I wanted to camp somewhere I hadn’t been before. I chose Sonoma, about forty miles from San Francisco. Wine country. Also referred to as the Valley of the Moon. When I read about it in my guidebook, I knew this was where I would go. Who could resist a place called Valley of the Moon? It was an incantation. A clarion call. Just saying it gave me goosebumps.

It was the Miwok and Pomo tribes who came up with the name Sonoma. There was some dispute as to whether it meant “valley of the moon” or “many moons” (some people claimed the moon seemed to rise there several times in one night), but that wasn’t important. What was important was that the Valley of the Moon was supposed to be enchanting: rushing creeks and madrones, old orchards and wildflowers. The perfect place to lose myself. Or find myself. If I was lucky, a little of both.

By the time I’d finished packing, it was just after noon and 428 Elizabeth Street was empty. Rose and Doro were still at the rally, Tommy was working, Rhonda had taken the bus across the bay to visit with her family, and the Patels had gone off for a picnic in the park. I threw my pack in the trunk of my car and hit the road.

An hour and a half later, I pulled into the parking lot of Jack London State Park.

I relied on instinct out in the woods; I depended on my gut. I could have made camp in a few places, but none of them was just right. Finally I found the perfect spot.

The scent of laurel and bay leaves led me to a creek. I trekked up the bank to a small redwood grove. Sweat dripped between my shoulder blades. I was in my element; I could have gone another ten miles if needed. I dropped my pack. Yes, this was it. The air smelled of pine needles and cedar. The clearing felt holy, like a cathedral. I punched my arms in the air and hooted.

I experienced the absence of Benno (not having to hold him as a fact in my mind every minute) as a continual dissonance. I had to remind myself: He’s not here. He’s okay. He’s with Mom. I hoped the shock would lessen as the days went on and that I’d not only acclimate to the solitude, but relish it. Nobody needed me. Nobody was judging me. I could do or act or feel however I wanted.

I peeled off my sweaty tank top. I stood there for a moment, bare-chested. It was warm now, but once it got dark the temperature would drop. I draped the tank top over a bush to dry and put on a clean T-shirt.

I pitched my tent. Beside my sleeping bag went The Hobbit, a pocket-size transistor radio, Doro’s joint, a book of matches, and a flashlight.

For dinner I ate two Slim Jims and some peanut butter. By this time the woods were purpling with dusk. I crawled into my sleeping bag. In the pages of The Hobbit I’d tucked the Polaroid of Benno and me. I kissed my fingers and pressed them on his image. Good night, sweet boy.

I thought about reading. I thought about taking a puff of the joint. I did neither. I put my head down on the folded-up sweater that served as my pillow and instantly fell asleep.

I awoke in the middle of the night. It was freezing; I could see my breath. I slid on my jeans. I had to pee badly.

I unzipped the tent and stepped outside. Fog had enveloped the campsite, a fog so thick I couldn’t see three feet in front of me. I gingerly walked a few yards from the tent, pulled down my jeans, squatted, and peed. The fog cleared for a moment and a glorious full moon bobbed above me in a star-studded sky. Seconds later the fog descended and my stomach clenched. I felt trapped.

I saw a light off in the near distance. It blinked once and disappeared. I stared steadily at it. It blinked again. Somebody must have a cabin out here.

Suddenly I was desperate not to be alone.

It seemed like only minutes, but it must have taken me hours to find that light, because when I broke through the fog, it was day and the sun shone brightly.

I stood at the edge of a meadow. This was no cabin; it was a large, barnlike structure, wood-shingled with red trim. Through the open doors, I could see dozens of people sitting at long tables. Silverware clinked. The smell of bacon wafted through the air.

A pang of loneliness struck me, seeing them all there, dining together. I frequently felt this way when I came upon groups, at the beach, at Seven Hills—the worst was the Christmas Eve service at Grace Cathedral. As if everybody but me had people. I guess I had people: Benno and, sometimes, Rhonda (on the rare nights she was home—she had quite a social life), but what I really wanted was a tribe.

I don’t know how long I stood there, spying on them, wishing somebody would see me and invite me over. Finally I screwed up my courage and began walking across the meadow. I had nothing to lose. They’d either welcome me or send me on my way.

JOSEPH

Valley of the Moon 1906

A young woman stood at the threshold of the dining hall. A stranger. One moment we were eating breakfast, the next moment she was standing there. There was an air of impermanence about her. Was she an apparition?

“Um, hello,” she said, blinking.

“Finally!” cried Fancy, jumping up from the bench. “You’re here! I never doubted you’d come. I never gave up hope!”

Before I could stop my sister, she ran to the woman and embraced her. “Are there others? Is it just you? Why did it take you so long?”

Four months had passed since the fog had encircled us. In public I was always careful to use the word encircled rather than trapped. It left the door cracked open a bit. And through this open door had come—

“I think you’ve mistaken me for somebody else,” the woman said, her cheeks flushed. “I mean, I’d like to be the one you expected. But I don’t think I am.”

No, she was not the one I expected; I never could have dreamed her up. Why was she dressed so strangely? Was she going to some sort of a costume party? Unlike the Greengage women, who wore their hair neatly pinned back, hers was loose, with a fringe so long it nearly covered her eyes. Instead of a skirt, she had on dungarees that clung to her pelvis and thighs. She wore a shirt that said KING’S ALE—SMILE IF YOU HAD IT LAST NIGHT.

“Look, Joseph,” said Fancy, beaming, as if she herself were responsible for the woman’s appearance. “Look!”

I walked over to them, fighting a vertiginous sensation. I felt exactly as I had just after the earthquake, when Martha and I discovered everything and everybody in Greengage was intact. Utter disorientation. As if my cells were being forcibly rearranged.

“I’m Joseph Bell,” I said, introducing myself.

“Lux Lysander,” she said, shaking my hand firmly.

Her eyes darted around the room, taking us all in. She had the same bewildered look on her face that I’m sure I had on mine.

“Are you shooting a film?”

Shooting a film? “How did you find us?” I asked.

“I saw your light through the fog.”

“You came through the fog?”

She rubbed her upper arms and shivered. “It was so thick.”

“So you weren’t looking for us?” asked Fancy. “You just stumbled through the fog? And stumbled upon us here?”

Lux raised her shoulders somewhat apologetically.

“Did the fog make you feel ill?” I asked.

“Ill how?”

“Shortness of breath? Heart palpitations?”

“I felt a little claustrophobic, so my heart was probably racing, but no, I didn’t feel ill.” She looked around the room as 278 pairs of puzzled eyes stared back at her.

“I think I should leave,” she said. “Obviously I’m interrupting something.”

She backed out of the room, turned quickly, and started walking across the meadow.

“No, wait!” I shouted. I caught up with her, grabbed her elbow, and spun her around. “Please indulge me. Allow me to ask you a few more questions about the fog.”

She looked alarmed. “Why? What’s the big deal about the fog?”

“As you said, it’s an unusually thick fog. And it’s been here for a long time.”

A group had gathered around us, desperate for information. I’d hoped to be able to question the stranger privately, but I could see that would not be an option.

“Please. May I ask you a few more questions?”

“Okay. I guess so,” said Lux slowly.

“Thank you. Can you estimate how large an area is fogged in?”

“I’m bad at estimating distances.”

“All right. How long did it take you to come through the fog?”

“Well, that was strange. It felt like just minutes, but it must have taken me much longer, because it was midnight when I left my campsite, but then when I got here it was morning.”

Again that stomach-dropping feeling.

“You walked through the fog for a few miles?”

“Um—probably.”

“You were camping? Where?”

“In the Valley of the Moon. Jack London State Park.”

Jack London had his own state park? I knew he was doing well (he’d just spent thousands procuring a neighboring parcel of land), but I didn’t know he was doing that well. A park named after himself? He’d always been a bit of a narcissist.

“Was the fog there when you arrived?”

“No, it was a beautiful clear night. I didn’t get fogged in until after midnight, as I already told you.” She was getting irritated at my line of questioning.

I was about to ask her about the earthquake—How had Glen Ellen and Santa Rosa fared? And what about San Francisco?—when Magnusson came up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Test the fog.”

Yes. Whatever the woman said would be moot if we could now travel through the fog freely as she just had.

“Nardo!” I yelled.

A young man with a head of thick black hair made his way up to me. Our resident pig-keeper.

“We need a piglet,” I said.

“Berkshire or Gloucestershire?”

“Gloucestershire. Get a runt.”

I smiled at Lux, trying to put her at ease, and she shifted her weight from her left to her right foot nervously. “Are we done here?”

“Almost,” I said.

Nardo disappeared and a few minutes later returned with a piglet, pink with black spots, tucked under his arm.

Lux lit up at the sight of the pig. “Oh, he’s adorable.”

“Give the pig to her,” I said.

Nardo handed him over. “He’s scared. Hold him close. Let him feel your heart beating.”

“Will you do me one last favor?” I asked Lux. “Before you go.”

But she was preoccupied with the piglet. “You need a name. I’m going to name you Wilbur,” she said, stroking its silky ear. “You know, from Charlotte’s Web.”

I nodded impatiently. “Will you step into the fog for a moment? With the pig?”

“Why do you want me to do that?”

“I need to test a hypothesis.”

“What hypothesis?”

I’d have to tell her the truth—a partial truth anyway. “The fog makes us sick. But it didn’t make you sick.”

“Why does the fog make you sick?”

I couldn’t think of a lie quickly enough. “I have no idea,” I said.

Her face softened. “Oh. Okay. So you’re wondering if something’s changed. That’s why you’re all looking at me this way. Because I came through and I’m fine and now you’re wondering if you’ll be fine, too?”

“Exactly.”

“You want me to test it out for you. With the pig?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Everybody had left the dining hall now and was standing just a few feet behind us, listening carefully to our conversation.

“Please,” said Fancy.

“All right. But then I really have to go,” she said.

I pulled out my pocket watch. “Sixty seconds. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come out.”

“You’re not worried I’ll run away with your prized pig?” she joked.