The Bodyguard ("Moons" story #98)

MOONS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is making himself think only about dirt. Or is trying to very hard. It’s what he sometimes does in emergency situations. And usually it works. If he can fixate on dirt, he can usually keep away from the disturbance of things like that wafer-thin web of skin between the jack-o-lantern’s fingers—which right now he can’t seem to take his eyes off of. And because he’s trying so hard to think only about dirt, he’s also keeping himself safe from the beauty of her eyes. The particular dirt he’s holding in his mind is the dirt in his mother’s backyard where the radishes grow wild beneath her diseased elms. He knows the jack-o-lantern is whispering something to him about his mother. Unfortunately his dirt-work isn’t working well enough to blot out all the jack-o-lantern’s words. Through his haze of worms and roots scuttles in the uncanny notion that his mother has (because of some bizarre series of mounting problems) moved her wedding up to the day after tomorrow, yet right now might be either in jail or desperately off in hiding somewhere. It’s terribly confusing to the bodyguard. He can’t let himself out of the dirt. If he does, he knows what could happen. Yet, at the same time, there’s enough genuine concern in the words of this torn girl to make him feel maybe he should try and rise to hear her. But no, as a professional, he can’t leave himself open to the salty trap between her fingers. He must keep himself earthbound and dirt-driven. Dirt is the word. Dirt is the world. But still, he is a man of safety, a man of honor and integrity. A visionary. Which means, as a member of the elite, he could view a detached listening as a noble service provided to a commoner. Plus, there is the obvious and irrefutable fact of his golden certificate of safety—which means it shouldn’t matter that the jack-o-lantern has the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. Or that he has any wants or wishes at all. But, just the same, he doesn’t fully trust the scenario.

Not sure what else to do, he touches his wire. Then re-aligns his fractured glasses on his head and peers out at the shining chatter from the coffee faces. Through his damaged lenses, the room does seem rather katty-wampus, but he cannot let this deter his quest as he busies himself trying to monitor, assess, and rank the threat potential of the establishment’s various clientele. Without allowing even the slightest flex of his shoulders, he pivots his head, scanning. He sees everything. Almost. He cannot let his gaze wander near vicinity of the jack-o-lantern’s hands. Doing so could inhibit his proprietary status and further breech a perimeter of official decorum. Besides which, such tainted data would certainly mar his current inquiry. Even considering such a possibility makes him so fearful he resorts to emergency procedure. For the greater good, he visualizes dirt wedged between his teeth and stuffed down his throat. The tactic proves fruitful. All trace memory of pleasantry on his lips is immediately purged.

He also tries to fortify himself against any further encroachment by the jack-o-lantern’s words. Toward this limit, he looks at nothing on the table but its salt shaker. However, after a bit, his surveillance strays to the tabletop’s cobalt blue surface, which glimmers like an arctic pool. At first it gives comfort as it seems like a place one could drown. But then it troubles him, because from within its depths he begins to see movement. Something molten. Stars. Or moons. Twin flickerings there beneath the salt shaker. His brow ripples as he watches these smooth, trapped moons. There’s a dubious clarity to them he can’t fathom. What’re they doing down there? They don’t seem to offer safety, but instead seem harbingers of something else. Whatever they portend, the bodyguard already knows there’s going to be trouble. This is confirmed when he notices how quiet the jack-o-lantern has become. She isn’t talking anymore. He doesn’t know when she stopped, but her silence is getting him jittery again—in the extreme. He doesn’t like change. Especially this kind. It’s confusing. But he won’t look up. He can’t. He keeps his mind in the dirt and his gaze focused on the flickerings. He’s looking at them when it occurs to him they could be the reflections of her eyes. In effect, she could be watching him through the table—staring up from its watery depths. But these other eyes of hers, these tabled moons seem disasterously more potent. He can already feel himself being penetrated and revealed by them. They’re permeating the boundary of his broken lenses, bypassing all his roots, rules, regulations, radishes, and dirt—slipping into the very core of his silence. There’s no time to protect his directives or normalcy, the invasion is happening much too fast. Which is why, without even so much as a tremor, he feels his heart come to an abrupt stop.