I have shared over a dozen original short stories on this blog and all can be found in a listing to the right of the posts. I'll continue to share more. Thank you for reading my work and I hope you enjoy this story. As usual, copyright (©Veronica Randolph Batterson) applies.
Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd
By Veronica Randolph
Batterson
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
They say she talks
to angels. She says they answer
her. Most say she’s just crazy,
but he thinks she “hung the moon” and he told her once.
He was proud when
he did it and euphoric. It made
him feel good and he wondered if people who got high on drugs had the same
experience. Not the drugs he had
to take but the ones people used to change their moods. He possessed no sense anyway, but
telling her how he felt made him dopey and silly. He couldn’t focus on anything and he knew he wore a
ridiculous smile on his face for the rest of the day. Others thought him simple but it was what she thought about
him that mattered. And she told
him.
“I think you make
the sun rise, Harold Brown,” she said.
It was to the
point and direct, but she smiled when she said it. And Molly Byrd never said anything she didn’t mean. He couldn’t remember his immediate
reaction but it must have been good.
He knew it because she asked if she could push his wheelchair. He had said yes and he never let anyone
do that for him.
They became
inseparable then. Wherever Molly
Byrd went, Harold Brown was nearby, observing from his chair and admiring with
all his being.
On clear nights,
when the stars and moon hung brightly, Molly Byrd wandered the streets, face
affixed toward the heavens, oblivious to her surroundings. Harold Brown watched
out for her. It was during this time that Molly Byrd would have her celestial
discussions, with the angels relaying their messages to her. So she said and he believed her.
One particular
night, a shooting star sent Molly running. It took everything Harold could muster to keep up with
her. He found her standing on a
rock by a lake, her face upturned and her body still. Her silhouette reminded him of a statue, proud and
strong. The sight made his heart
catch in his chest. He wondered
what messages were being exchanged as he watched.
When Molly Byrd
finally slumped from exhaustion, the stellar conversation over, he thought she
might fall right off the rock. He
got as close as his chair would allow, which wasn’t near enough to grab her as
she slid. She collapsed on the
dew-covered grass; her face hung limp upon her shoulders.
When she finally
gazed up at him, her eyes were drooping and confusion marked her face. She looked right through him.
“Harold Brown,
what are you doing here?” she asked.
The question hurt
him. Didn’t she remember they went
everywhere together? He looked up
at the sky as if he’d find the answer there. She lit up his life just as those stars illuminated the
darkness. Molly Byrd was his
guiding light.
Things changed
after that night. Molly became
more distracted than usual, often venturing off without Harold and forgetting
him altogether. He tried not to be
disappointed but despondency began to stifle him. He no longer wished to face the day each morning. Eating took effort and he lost weight
and forgot to take his medications.
Harold Brown hadn’t the energy or will for life. Others noticed.
They gave him
words of encouragement, helped him dress and took him on outings. His new friends fed him and read to
him, nursing him to better health.
The will to live grew stronger; he began to care again.
When he was able,
Harold ventured out alone, as he had before sadness took control of him. It had been weeks since he’d seen
Molly. He remembered it clearly,
as if only hours before. He forced
thoughts of her from his mind as he watched children playing tag in the park,
the parents mindful of their whereabouts.
“Where’ve you
been, Harold Brown?” came the question from behind him.
He felt a grin
begin to form and it spread so wide that he thought it might split his face in
half. Everything appeared
brighter, as if a light bulb had suddenly been turned on in a darkened room. He wheeled himself around to face her.
“Where I’ve always
been, Molly Byrd,” he replied.
She stood before
him, looking the same as always. A
red balloon reached for the sky beside her, its freedom hindered by the string
she held in her hand. He suddenly
felt like the balloon, bridled and controlled by Molly Byrd. It confused him. She tied the string to the arm of his
chair.
“I thought you
might like this,” she said.
Harold watched the
balloon dance in the wind, fighting against constraint. His voice cracked as he asked the
questions he needed to ask.
“Why did you leave
me, Molly Byrd?”
“The angels said
to,” she responded.
“Will you leave
again?” he asked.
“I don’t know,”
she shrugged.
It wasn’t what he
wanted to hear but Harold Brown was glad he asked. And Molly was just being honest. She never said anything she didn’t mean. When the night sky was clear and it looked
like the flickering stars were ropes of light hanging the moon in the darkness,
he knew where she would be. She
described those words to him and he saw it. And he believed her.
Harold untied the
string and let the balloon soar above him. They watched the red orb grow smaller as it floated higher,
finally out of sight.
“Goodbye, Molly
Byrd,” he said.
Then Harold Brown
turned his chair and wheeled himself away. He felt himself floating higher, just like the red balloon,
but in control. Away from Molly
Byrd.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
