He had a drink of the lemonade. Ah, he said. That’s good. I was really thirsty. It’s a scorcher today.

He could hear the shed door rattled and slammed, but muffled since it was far away on the other side.

Galen! his mother screamed.

That’s abuse, he said. Try to rein in that anger. Come and just sit and have a glass of lemonade and we’ll talk. We’re both reasonable here.

I’m going to tell them you tried to kill me. I’m going to tell them you locked me in here.

You locked yourself in.

Your fingerprints will be on that lock.

Yeah, he said, and tilted the glass. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the lemonade, cold and sweet and bitter, also. He didn’t know how they had arrived at this moment, him sitting under the fig tree alone, his mother locked in the shed, sending him to prison. None of it was possible. I don’t understand how we got here, he said.

You raped your cousin. That’s pretty simple.

If you keep saying that, how can I let you out?

You let me out right now.

You know what I imagine when I imagine prison?

Walk around the shed right now and unlock this door.

What I imagine is standing on the moon in a T-shirt and shorts. That’s what I just imagined, when I was out there in the orchard.

If you don’t unlock this, you’ll get more than prison. You’ll get the death sentence.

It’s the moon, but the air is fine, and the temperature is fine. It’s really quiet, and there’s no wind. There’s only rock and dark sand stretching as far as I can see, and I know that this is it. This is all I get. I’ll never see another person. I’ll never see another color except the color of this rock and sand.

Prison is not the moon.

I know. What I’m saying is that I can’t imagine prison. I can’t even imagine it. I can’t go there.

You’re going there.

But that’s the thing. I’m not going there.

Yes you are.

Fine, he said. He stood up and grabbed the glass pitcher. He stepped to the wall and poured the lemonade against a wide plank. There’s your lemonade, he said. Enjoy.

I’m telling them all of this. They’re going to hear every detail. How you tortured me.

Torture, he said. Now I’m a torturer. Is there anything you’re not willing to call me?

I’m not willing to call you my son.

Galen laughed. That’s great. That’s great. Thanks, Mom. You’re a hell of a mom. Thanks for really being there for me.

Galen. You need to understand this. Every minute that you keep me in here makes it worse for you.

Mom. You need to understand this. You’re locked in a fucking shed.

Chapter 20

Galen lay on his bed staring into the dark caverns of his ceiling. Like craters, his own moonscape right here all along. Sunspots floating around his eyes still, solar flares. His mother another planet, far away, twisting and twisting. The two of them locked into some kind of orbit together.

The air cool in here, even without air-conditioning. Old house, thick walls, thick roof, heavy insulation and heavy drapes. A kind of fortress against the valley.

Galen closed his eyes, and the sunspots did not link up into any pattern. Rounded blurs floating and vanishing, moving suddenly to new regions, like UFOs. Able to appear and disappear in a wink.

He liked the idea of standing on the moon. The light would be always at a slant, like evening on earth, right before sunset, except the sun would never go all the way down. Long shadows trailing from every rock, shadows even in the large grains of sand. A presence to everything, luminous, and no other human. No tracks. He would always know that he was standing on the surface of an orb. He’d be able to feel that, the curvature wrapping away on every side. And when he walked, his feet would touch what had never been touched before. He’d go barefoot and feel the slight coolness of the surface, uniform and unchanging, every rock and grain of sand equalized for billions of years in the unchanging sun. Each step of his would be older than any dinosaur’s, disrupting sand arranged in an earlier era, broken and sifted in the time when planets were made, when the moon was ripped from the earth.

Going back. That would be the greatest gift. If he could go back even a few days, his mother would not be in the shed.

He tried to think of a way out of this situation. What she had said was true. Every minute was making things worse for him. He was more trapped than she was.

The inside of Galen’s mind was just empty. There was no direction he could go. So he sat up, walked downstairs and onto the lawn. She was yelling. He hadn’t heard anything from inside the house.

Help! she was yelling. Help me! Someone help me! All of it muffled. She was inside a box. She was banging at the walls.

Galen walked closer, tried to figure out where she was banging and what she was using. She wasn’t at the back wall by the fig tree, and not on the side wall either. He walked into the orchard and could see the sliding door flexing and shaking a little as she pounded.

What are you doing? he asked.

You’re going to swing for this, she said, and then she continued yelling. Help me! I’m in the shed!

No one can hear you.

Someone will hear me. And they’re going to drag you like a dog and put chains on you.

Well that’s a nice thought. Thanks, Mom. But where are these people coming from? I couldn’t hear you even from inside the house. Think about how far away the nearest neighbor is. And they all have their air conditioners running, for another two months at least.

You can’t get away with this.

I’m not getting away with anything. You’re the one who made all this happen. This is your show.

You won’t get away with it.

I didn’t do anything.

Trying to kill your own mother. You know how a jury is going to look at that. Trying to kill your own mother.

You! he screamed. You put yourself in the shed! You put yourself in the fucking shed! He slammed the door with his hand, slammed it over and over. Goddamn you!

If I had known who you’d become, I would have killed you. Just a hand over your nose and mouth when you were a baby. It would have been so easy.

What you’re not understanding is that you have to help me figure out how to let you out of the shed. That’s what you’re not understanding. And when you talk about putting me in chains or killing me, that doesn’t give me a great reason to let you out.

I’m not making a deal with you.

Yes you are.

You’re going to prison. Nothing is going to change that.

Goddamn it. I’m not going to stand here talking with you like this. It’s too fucking hot. How about you sit in there for a day and then we’ll talk again.

You let me out right now.

Yeah, I’ll get right on that. He walked around to the shade of the fig tree and could hear her banging at the walls. It sounded like she was throwing the walnut racks.

He sat down at the table and felt thirsty. The afternoon promising to stretch on forever, and the air was not going to cool. It would only become more dense, piling up over time, the heat melting and compacting it. What had been thirty feet of air was becoming five feet of air, unbreathable.

He needed some lemonade, so he went into the house, made another batch, didn’t have any ice this time but the water was cool enough. The air in here so much more breathable. He went for a handful of chocolate chips in the pantry, a treat, and saw saltine crackers and grabbed a packet of them. An inspiration.

I made lemonade again, he said. And I brought you some food.

She was whacking at the side wall.

He had the chocolate chips in his hand still, melting, turning his palm brown, and he dropped them, leaned down and wiped his hand on the overgrown grass. Too sweet.

I said I have lemonade, he said a little louder. And I brought some food.