THE COMMUNICATION AGE

a story in three parts

I.

It was a cold day when they found the men on

the moon and Celine tugged on her father’s pant leg

until he lifted her up to the telescope. There they were

– stuck in traffic, walking dogs, sipping coffee – living

lives like the ones she’d seen in home videos and on

daytime TV, only smaller. They were like fish in a

tank, better though, living Legos or what she had

hoped sea monkeys might be. It took forever for her

father to get her to sleep that night.

“If the men have been on the moon, why

didn’t we see them before?” she asked, legs fidgeting

giddily beneath the sheets.

“Well, sweetheart,” her dad began, his voice

scarcely hiding his excitement any better than his

daughter’s, “these people aren’t on the moon that you

see in the sky, they’re actually on another moon, very

very far away and I guess we hadn’t seen them yet

because we just never looked there before. The

universe is very big, you see.”

“I want to talk to them!” Celine announced,

“Can they hear me? I want to be their friend.”

Her father beamed with a soft, five o’clock shadowed

grin,

“Not yet, sweetie, right now we can only see

them, but we’re working on it and I bet before you

know it, we’ll all be great friends. Now get to sleep.

You can look at them again in the morning.”

And that was that, there were men on the

moon and within the week, every house on the block

had a telescope installed; cutting edge or the best they

could afford or whatever was left on the shelves.

Everyone wanted to watch. They’d rush home from

work (if they went at all) and watch the moon men go

about their days – some people gave them names and

learned the lives of a house or a neighborhood or

town, other people kept scanning about, their

telescopes bobbing like insect appendages as they

tried to take it all in.

“I made a sign for the moon men,” Celine

announced to her father, whose beard had begun to

grow thick and scratchy.

“That’s great, sweetheart, but the people on

the moon (remember honey, we say ‘moon people’

now) can’t see us yet. It’s like we’re playing a game:

we’re the hider and they’re the seeker. We know just

where they are, but it might be a while until they find

us.”

In the living room, men in suits and tweed

bickered on the TV as they tried to decide what

manner of message to send the moon people. Should

it be signed from an author, a nation? Humanity at

large? What language should it be spoken in? What

languages? Should they even send a message at all? As

one physicist pointed out, in the time it took for their

light to reach us, the moon people were centuries

ahead of us anyway.

Noticing the grimace on his daughter’s

crestfallen face, her father moved to take the poster

board she’d so giddily brought before him.

“Now let’s have a look here,” he said as his

eyes scanned the ill-formed words in red marker:

HELLO MOON MEN. WOULD YOU LIKE TO

BE FRIENDS?

He chuckled,

“Well, it may still be a while to come, but

when they do find us, I hope this is what they see.”

Yes, those first few weeks were wonderful,

magical even, but as that month bled into the next

and the next one still, people refused to leave the

moon men, but began to grow tired of staring

through telescopes.

It wasn’t long before a solution was found.

Soon, electricians marched down block after block,

through apartment complexes and country

communes, installing new digital enhancements,

attaching telescopes directly to cables and cables

directly to televisions. Now whole families could

watch together; no more need to sit hunched over a

lens, no need for the solitude, there wasn’t even a

need for motion and soon people began to grow lazy

and large and by the summer, those few interactions

which remained among them had begun to diminish.

Nobody wanted to stop and chat weather or sports or

the damned economy anymore and no one ever sent a

message out there to reach the moon people – they’d

never agreed on what such a message would say, and

besides, why talk when you can watch for free?

“What if they don’t like me?” Celine

wondered from the living room sofa.

That evening, her parents wanted to watch the

moon people together – wanted to show each other

their favorites and share the stories of those distant

lives – and felt no need to be doing much of anything

else, so they let their daughter take her first shower

alone.

Under the water, Celine continued to fret: they

could be smarter than us, like Simon who sat across from

her in school and never raised his hand first, but

waited to correct her friends, laughing until they

pushed him against a locker. They could be bullies or worse

still, what if they liked another planet better? Shampoo

dripped down into the girl’s eyes, but she muffled the

cry – she was a grown-up now, after all.

That night, Celine laid her bed of hair, thick

with water, against her pillow and fell asleep as

though it were any other night because, for all she

knew, it was. The astute observer, however, would

have noticed something in those midnight hours. For

the first time, all of humanity was perfectly still.

Nowhere in the world were people bustling about in

cars. Nowhere were they out walking dogs. No one

even called out an elaborate order in a coffee house

and no one would have been there to hear them

anyway. Those people who weren’t asleep were sitting

silently and still as pillars in front of televisions,

watching a distant moon slowly spinning.

This is why they were so shocked when the

world went dark – a blackout spanning each coast,

silencing the Earth’s electric hum, the static of their

televisions and the soft whine of every last telescope.

It didn’t last long, but by the time power returned in

the morning, the men on the moon were gone. It

wasn’t that the moon people were no longer there

and it wasn’t that the moon itself had vanished.

Rather it was as though all the world’s telescopes, on

the roofs of apartments, in homes, in labs, and

observatories, had been shifted ever so slightly in the

dark. The people scrambled, scanning every section of

the sky at every hour, but try as they might, nobody

could find the moon men again. They began to send

out messages in every direction, in every language.

“Where are you?” they said.

“We miss you,” they said.

“We’re sorry,” they said.

“The universe is a very, very big place,”

thought Celine.

II.

The two of you were beautiful until the pixies

came – your apartment in the duplex, crisp, focused

like the cover of a modern living magazine. That’s

who you were then, the modern couple. No kids until

your careers were stable. No marriage until the

equality acts passed. If ever. You’d kiss Jessie’s

forehead before stepping out to work. She’d steep

two cups of tea before bed. Beautiful.

But then her parents had to sell that god-damned

house.

Remember when she came back to the dinner

table, the phone still pressed between the slope of her

hunched shoulder and ear?

“…don’t be silly……thanks for calling, I’ll talk to you

soon……love you too” And that was that, her old

home on Long Island was on the market. It was too

big now, too empty, her mom said. They’d find a new

place; something more manageable, maybe

somewhere warm.

“Are you ok with this?” you think you asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and in that moment, the

very first pixie crawled out from Jessie’s hair and sat

itself square on the plate of food between you, so that

neither of you could take another bite. No more than

a foot in length, the creature stretched its warty skin,

watching you through rot-yellow eyes. You waited to

see if Jessie would say anything and when she didn’t,

you didn’t either, but when you tried to kiss her that

night, you could hear the muted clicking of the tiny

creature from somewhere unseen.

You woke to the sounds of muffled shouting

from neighbors downstairs. They were always

shouting, but you could never make out a word they

said. You knew their arguments by volume, by

rhythm and pace. In the moment, their shouts were

measured, each only as loud as the one before; it was

a dry arguing, arguing from boredom. Jessie stirred,

rolling her head so that her still sealed eyes now faced

you. Her imperfect skin, dappled with freckles and

the small mole just above her exposed breast. The

familiar scent of her morning warmth and the slight

whistling of her exhaling breaths. Even her hair,

golden svelte in the curtain’s filtered light, looked just

right in that moment; you could almost forget what

was hidden there. For a moment, you could pretend

that everything was okay.

But of course it wasn’t. How could it be?

Jessie was still the same Jessie. The same girl you’d

fallen for in Professor Washburn’s speech pathology

lab the summer before graduation. Her smile hadn’t

gone anywhere. Her elegance, her linen sun dresses,

the occasional snort when she laughed too hard. It

was all still there, but so were the pixies. For weeks, it

was only the one – the tiny green mongrel which had

ruined your dinner – and that was fine. You could

handle one, one harmless meal-spoiling nuisance who

only crept out from her hair now and then after a

stressful day. But, of course, her father called a few

weeks later and asked her to come pick up the boxes

now holding her childhood possessions and, just like

that, there was another. Then Jessie’s sonuvabitch

boss cut her vacation time – another – then her

friends, Mickey and June were getting a divorce –

another – then the women at the water cooler laughed

at her yellow-white sun dress after Labor Day. Soon

they were everywhere.

They were alright, really, if you just took them

one at a time. You’d dare say some were even

endearing, or interesting at least, despite their trouble.

There were the spotted yellow lazy pixies, which

squeezed their way between the two of you when you

tried to watch TV. There were the pale purple

hovering pixies which woke her in the night with

whispers of death and loss and hidden memories.

There were snail eyed and bird beaked and lizard

clawed creatures unfurling every day from behind her

ears, somewhere deep beneath her tresses. You were

good though, you didn’t say a word, you tried not to

stare. You started doing more of the cooking and

cleaning and you made sure the bills were paid on

time. It didn’t matter though, or maybe it did and

things just got worse anyway. Both of you were

frustrated, tired; there was yelling and nights spent

facing outwards in bed. You didn’t understand. You

tried you best to be the model partner, but when her

parents finally got onto that plane to California, a

single pudgy, fat furry pixie – like a bloated gerbil

with locust wings – scuttled out from Jessie’s ever-

lengthening locks and fluttered just before her face,

such that you couldn’t look her in the eyes.

That was it – you couldn’t take it anymore.

When she told you she was going to bed that night,

you didn’t look up; just heard the click-slap of the

pixie’s wings and said you’d be there in a few.

You had no plans of going to sleep.

You moved to the clunky, grey desktop in the living

room. The computer had been top of the line once,

long ago, but was already serving as storage in those

days: a harbor for all of the movies and music and

half-written letters that you knew you would never

again need, but were never ready to part with and so

they sat here, safely forgotten. As you moved to push

the power button on the tower (which had begun to

look dated, even then), the apartment fell suddenly

dark. You fiddled briefly with the light and then

looked outside to be certain – every window you

could see offered only a black frame and shadows. A

blackout wouldn’t stop you though, you’d had

enough. You lit your way to the kitchen table by the

hazy glow of a cellphone and opened your laptop

before signing onto AIM. Praying that he’d still be

online, you scanned your all but empty buddy list –

just three names: smarterchild, mrmovie, and

drosenburg829. A sigh of relief.

‘hey Dad, still awake?’

Of course he was, he was always up at this hour

having his last cigarette of the evening. He asked if

you’d heard anything about the power and, when he

learned that you hadn’t, he asked how you were. You

told him everything; all the tails and scales and

whiskered snouts. All the terrible silences and the

bickering worse still. All the fear, all the doubt.

‘Relax. take a breath. this

happens to all of us’

‘pixies? really?’

‘did you and mom

have them?’

‘mhm, they started after the

miscarriage’

‘you were just a kid then’

‘wow. I had no idea’

‘I’m not surprised, they’re

sneaky little things. but you

know that by now’

‘miscarriages?

‘…pixies’

‘yea -- you have to tell

me, how did you get

through it?’

‘no secret, it sounds like

you’ve been doing it right all

along. You just have to bear

with it. might be bad for a

while, but I promise, it gets a

little better every day’

‘that’s it?’

‘that’s it. patience (and a little

wine doesn’t hurt sometimes)’

‘patience?’

‘patience’

‘thanks’

‘by the way, you really

need to get on Facebook.

You know no one uses

AIM anymore, right?’

‘now that’s just not true. I use

it and from where I’m sitting,

it looks like you do too’

‘thanks again dad’

‘Goodnight’

‘goodnight. remember, things

will get better.’

So sure enough, you followed your father’s

advice (for once) and while the pixies never went

away entirely – they’d still leave empty milk cartons in

the fridge or sink their claws into Jessie’s neck when

she’d had a few too many – they didn’t seem so awful

anymore, and after all, it was a little easier every day.

III.

Cinnamon, maple, and butter. I can smell it

before opening my eyes, the same as every Sunday.

You always take care of me, don’t you? Just like you

promised. I don’t remember falling asleep under the

blanket; you must have covered me up after I drifted

off. You’re such a gentleman.

Walking down the warped wooden stairs,

carefully avoiding the third step – the one you

promised to fix any day now – I can almost make out

your footfall, the clink and clank of a spatula and pan,

but the kitchen is empty when I walk in. I know you

try your best, dear, but you should know better by

now, it’s been nearly a year. Slipping an arm through

your old coat, I realize I’ve nearly forgotten my tea,

which I pour slowly, deliberately, into a thermos,

careful not to lose a single drop, and then we’re on

our way.

Outside, the winds have only just begun to

turn so that you can feel the coming frosts, like a

premonition of the inevitable, the not-so-distant

future revealing itself in the shadows of my breath.

I’m happy we can still have our walks together. When

it happened, I couldn’t bear the thought of walking

alone, but now I feel you beside me; the slight tingling

in my hand, your warmth and the scent of cologne,

freshly applied.

On our way to the park, we stop into

D’Angelo’s for a sandwich which I unwrap on our

favorite bench as we watch the children play.

Tumbling about the green, they look like little turtles,

lost in the enormity of those silly coats. That’s what

you always say. It’s a shame that more parents don’t

bring their kids out these days. A child needs air,

regardless of the season. Birds begin to congregate

about us, picking aimlessly at the dirt – at least they

haven’t forgotten you. And you were right, you know,

you have to feed them all summer if you want to see

them when the cold comes. We sit a few hours

enjoying their company, the fluster of feathers and

their gentle coos, but the day is getting on and we

need to get to our shopping soon. I save two bites of

bread to leave behind; one from me and one from

you.

“George says he’ll visit this week,” I say as we

stroll towards the market, “He’s worried about me,

you know, thinks you can’t take care of me anymore.”

I hear you shifting in the branches above our

heads, playing in the wind chimes. “I know,” I

respond, “he’s a good boy.”

You’ve always been such a wonderful father,

it’s a shame I can’t get George to talk to you anymore.

Whenever I mention it, all he’ll say is “Oh, ma” or

“Please don’t”. On bad days, he’ll mention the

elevator shaft. I hate it when he does that. How can

he not hear you?

At the market, you roll an apple down from

the top of a stack. You have the grocer restock the

milk before I can even ask. You make the lobster tap

softly on the side of its tank. You always did make the

best lobster, but let’s keep it simple tonight, dear, no

need to put on airs. I place the vegetables in a basket

with the lamb and move to pay. The Dobry boy is

working the register today and he recites his lines with

genuine interest,

“ ‘afternoon Mrs. Patterson, did you find

everything you need today?”

You really are right, dear; it’s worth the little

extra to support a family business.

A flash of pride alights on the boy’s face, as if

recalling the answer to a question not yet asked,

“How’s Marty been? I can hardly remember the last

time I’d seen him.”

Mrs. Dobry can hear us and rushes over from

behind the service counter. She whispers something

in her son’s ear and the boy looks suddenly pale. Such

strange people. Good people though.

“Martin is doing quite well,” I inform the pair,

“Thank you for asking.” I take my bags and head for

home.

Back in our house, I put the meat out to thaw

and begin chopping carrots and onion. Our house. It

always sounds so silly – you’re the one who built it,

most of it anyway. From the living room, I can hear

you listening to those old radio dramas again. I don’t

mind cooking alone; I know how you look forward to

your plays. The radio goes silent as I ignite a single,

tall white candle on the table between us. I know the

lights work just fine, but there’s something pleasant

about dining by candlelight. Besides, we’ll never

appreciate modern convenience if we never go

without it, don’t you agree?

By the flame’s glow, I swear I can see your

shadow on the chair across from me. It’s so nice to

get you sitting for once; you’ve always worked so

hard. You deserve a rest.

“I was thinking we could watch that new

dancing show tonight. Do you remember how much

fun we used to have dancing?” I ask, smiling as the

memories trickle back into my mind; sand rushing

through an hourglass too quickly. How we could

move in those days! How I would spin and spin and

you’d be there, waiting to catch me. How I could feel

the strength of your arms.

You blow the candle out. I suppose that

means it’s time for bed – you never did much care for

television.

The phone wakes me in the morning.

“That was George,” I whisper. “He says there

was some sort of power loss last night. He wants to

come by and make sure we’re alright.”

He’s always doing things too late – waiting

until something’s gone wrong before he makes sure it

won’t. Does he think we can’t get by without power?

I laugh gently to myself – we didn’t even notice.

When I move to stand though, my legs seem

somehow less sturdy than usual, like standing on

rickety stilts, but then I feel your pressure on the

small of my back and know that it’s fine. Making my

way down the stairs (avoiding that third step) I begin

whisking a simple batter in the kitchen. There’s

scarcely any breakfast food in the house, but I make

do, preparing a spread of fruit and juice and coffee

and eggs. The pancakes are frying on the stove when

his familiar knock sounds from the door.

“Would you mind flipping those, dear?” I ask,

walking to the foyer. It will be so nice to have the

entire family under one roof again.

When George walks in, there are the usual

hugs and greetings. “Look how big he’s grown!” I

say, “A man now, a chip off the old block!”

He smiles; he really does look so much like

you when he smiles.

“How are you, ma? You look good. You’ve

been taking care of yourself? You have any trouble

last night?” In his hand, he carries a bag of canned

goods, candles, and a flashlight.

“You know I get along just fine,” I chide him.

“Now let’s get some food in you, hmm?”

Before walking to the kitchen, he sets the bad

of supplies down by the coat closet. “Just in case,” he

tells me. It’s so wonderful to have him in the house

again, but something’s not right, he looks slightly

perturbed. “Something burning?” he asks, his voice

far deeper than I’ll ever remember it being.

The pancakes – dammit, Marty.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Sit. Eat.” I tell

him, rushing to the stove. George is faster than me

though, and takes the pan of charred batter in his

hand, “Let me get that for you.”

“No, no, it’s fine. We can handle it, really. Eat

something.”

George freezes, looking at me quizzically,

“We?” He places the pan in the sink. “Don’t go

starting this again, ma.”

Such a stubborn boy you raised, but I don’t

want to fight this morning, I just want a nice brunch.

A quiet brunch.

“Here, have some coffee. It’ll put you in a

better mood,” I tell him, pushing the mug into his

hands.

He sits at the table, but doesn’t touch the

food. He looks at me like a stranger, like something

broken. “Would you sit down for a second?” His tone

is sober, its meter measured, gentler. I stay on my

feet, scrubbing out the pan to make a new batch. “I

just want to talk to you for a second.”

“Be my guest! Talk! I’m right here,” I tell him,

measuring out the flour.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is

the quiet sifting of ingredients , but we can all hear

what’s about to happen. Why won’t you talk some

sense into that boy of yours?

George finally breaks the silence. I wish he

wouldn’t. “Mom…you know he’s gone, right?”

“Don’t be silly, George. Your father’s as with

us as he’s always been. Eat your food.”

“No, ma. Dad’s gone. He’s been gone for a

year now. I need you to know that.”

I turn around to face him, “Don’t say things

like that. Your father’s here right now.” I try to talk

some sense into him, but he won’t listen.

George speaks the without any emotion:

“Mom, he’s dead. Dad died last year…he fell down an

elevator shaft.”

How dare he say such a thing in front of you?

73 year old men don’t simply fall down elevator shafts

and disappear. Can’t he feel you? Why won’t you say

something? How dare he? How dare he!

“How dare you speak to us that way?” I

shout, “This is your father’s house and you won’t say

such horrid things here.”

“You can’t bring him back!” He yells. So loud,

so angry. Bring you back? How can I bring back

what’s already here? “You need help,” he tells me.

“I need help? You won’t even speak to your

own father!” I don’t know what’s happening

anymore. Do something, Marty, please.

George moves to push his chair, but pushes

the table with a sudden jerk instead. A plate of sliced

cantaloupe crashes to the floor and he moves to grab

his coat. “You’re sick, ma. You need help.”

And he opens the door.

And he’s gone.

I don’t go after him. I wait for the click of

the lock. “I’m sorry,” I tell you, and begin picking

ceramic off the tiles.

When I’m certain he’s gone, I walk outside

and sit on the front step, feeling the first drops of rain

gently disturbing the mat of my hair. I look up to

watch it fall.

“I know, Marty. It’s been a long year.”