Hang the Moon

by Jeannette Walls

Old Ida all the time says I think the Duke hung the moon and scattered the stars. Maybe I do. Right then, I sure did.

“Good to have you back, girl. How long you been gone? Eight years?” “Nine,” I say. Nine years, eight months, and five days. I was eight when I was sent away. Eight years old. I’ll turn eighteen next month. “Nine.” He shakes his head. “Time. Money comes and goes, but time only goes.”

Eddie turns away from me, toward his mama. I look at Jane, too. She is so light, so still in this dark, noisy room, her face is powdered white, the wispy, corn-silk hair is perfectly arranged. Even in death, she manages to look superior.

There are people like Eddie, with plenty of book smarts but no people smarts. Then there are ones like the Duke, plenty of people smarts but a little thin on the book smarts. Then there are those rare few with both, like Tom, and they have enough people smarts to know better than to show off their book smarts.

I told the Duke that I’d take care of Eddie, swore I’d protect him, and he surely looks in need of protection, but how do you protect someone from grief?

A handout. You think you’re being all generous, but what you’re also saying is you got what the other person doesn’t—so much of it you’re giving it away.

The barrel of Little Jimmy’s shotgun is close enough to touch. I’ve had a loaded gun pointed at me a few times and I know that it’s not the gun you have to concern yourself with, but the person holding it.

Some of the times, the things you’re asked to do are foolish. Leaves you rolling your eyes, but it can be done. It’s when the boss asks you to do something you know to be wrong and you do it anyways. That sort of work whittles away at the soul.

A flight of geese passes overhead, wings beating in time, necks outstretched, honking loudly in the still air. They’re so close I can see their black feet tucked under their tails. The lead goose falls back, another takes its place, and the rippling lines close ranks, no fight, no debate, everyone working together, each doing its job to keep the whole flock alive and moving. They make it all seem so easy.

People who’ve never gone without find it easy to pass judgment on those who’ve struggled. But there’s nothing to be gained by arguing about who has fallen and why.

There are two kinds of brave people in this world, it hits me, those who fight and those who protect the ones who can’t fight.

Outlaw. Rumrunner. Bootlegger. Blockader. I don’t for one second forget that what we are doing is illegal, but legal and illegal and right and wrong don’t always line up. Ask a former slave. Plenty of them still around. Sometimes the so-called law is nothing but the haves telling the have-nots to stay in their place.

The books on the shelves, all histories, no novels, the Duke had no interest in stories that weren’t true. Is this story true?