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In December of 1972, American astronaut Eugene Cernan climbed back aboard his lunar lander, leaving the last known footprint on the surface of the moon. A few hours later, he and another crew member flipped the switch that sent them careening onward and upward to rejoin the command module orbiting a few miles above them, beginning their return trip home to earth. For the past 38 years, no other nation or private enterprise has made the slightest attempt to return to the moon.

Why?

Explanations, of course, have been given. There is the matter of expense. Some say that it would cost several billion more dollars to duplicate the Apollo missions of the past with today’s money and technology, and that the endeavor is simply not worth it. Others go so far as to say that the world simply lost interest in the possibility of humans colonizing the moon…that we became too involved and distracted by the Cold War and then terrorism to even generate a moment’s notice in the people of today.
Do you honestly believe that?

How many times have you simply looked upward at the sleepy face of the man in the moon and wondered why? What is it, exactly, that stopped us from going back and living out those dreams of further explorations and colonization? Are we scared of something? Did we find something up there that no one said anything about?

A random sampling of a million innocent questions.
We look up to the moon, each and every night, and wonder these things while life carries on around us, distracting us in all its little ways…keeping us from realizing that these questions have an answer and further still, there are those among us who know the answer and do not tell.

Until now…
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Submitted:Nov 6, 2010    Reads: 33    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Prologue?
Joshua Mayson squinted, trying desperately to keep the sweat from rolling into his right eye. His older sister, Sarah, had already knocked over the most cans that morning, beating him by three. He concentrated, gazing at the bright red soda can perched atop the grayed old fence post about fifty feet away, the green waves of overgrown fields swaying in a secret dance with the wind in the background there.
Too much was at stake, and he knew he had to get it together, calm it down, and give the mission at hand his undivided attention, like Grampa would say. This last shot with the BB gun was key. If he missed, Sarah would not only seize his entire comic book collection upon their return home, but also his metallic blue BMX bike…the only thing in his life that really mattered. The only thing in his life that he could still look at and remember the happier days that seemed like a million and a half years ago, back when they were still a big, happy family living in the old house in the country. Not like it was now, with that stupid apartment in the city and Dad's stupid job and his stupid girlfriend.
Sarah didn't care. Stupid Christine liked her better than him, anyway. Not like Mom. Sarah was just a baby when the divorce happened, so she was lucky, he guessed, in that regard. She didn't have to miss it all like he did all the time. It wasn't like Mom ever hugged her tight when a big ole bumblebee stung her on the pinkie while helping Dad work on the tractor. Nope. All Sarah knows is how to go to Macy's and stuff and get all those dumb dresses and dolls and crap that Christine always buys her all the time.
He paused a moment, wiping again at the sweat that seemed bound and determined to dig into his aiming eye and screw the whole thing up. There was no way he was going to let her get her hands on that bike!He had to show her, right? He had to show her that he was the big brother still…the first born…the one who was there before and the one who--
"Atta boy, Josh." The ten year old didn't have to look behind him to know his grandfather was there. It was the raspy voice that gave it away. Raspy and rough, kind of like a gravel road trying to whisper in your ear. "Hold it steady until you're ready to execute your shot, son. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it…aiming as you inhale, then fire as you exhale." Josh could imagine him standing there, the red hat with the NRA logo on the front, and Grampa's limited wardrobe of pocket t-shirts and well-worn dungarees with the cuffs rolled up about a few inches overtop the beat up khaki steel toe boots he always had on. He could picture the old man standing behind him, looking on with those weird, grey-blue eyes of his, the permanent smirk on his face momentarily screwed up into the shape of a proud grandfather's smile, beaming ever onward.
He smiled too, feeling a little more confident. Grampa was the most like him out of everybody he knew. He remembered how it used to be, too, Josh figured…and was always secretly talking to Mom on the phone or inviting her over for lunches and dinners with Gramma and him even though Dad didn't want him to. Grampa was so cool and tough. Way tougher than Dad. Dad never killed anybody like Grampa did in those other good ole days that he always talked about when Sarah and Gramma weren't around.
Stupid Sarah.
"Is this how you took out Charlie, Grampa? Something like this?"
There was a light chuckle. "Not quite, son. And don't make Grampa sorry he told you about stuff like Charlie and the war, ok? Remember what I said, Joshie…when we talk about those things, it's Top Secret. Me and you only kind of stuff. You roger me on that one, soldier?"
"Roger Dodger, Grampa. Over and out."
"That's my boy," he said with a light chuckle. "Go on now, Private Mayson. Show Grampa you got some military mind-set in that noggin of yours."
"'Military mind-set?'", Another voice, younger and exponentially more sarcastic. Dad! Dad was there with them. "He's a little early for the recruitment drive, don't you think, General, sir?"
"Don't get uppity, boy", Josh heard Grampa fire back. "You can't blame an old soldier for hoping that at least one of the males in his bloodline might actually have a little bit of guts in 'em."
Crap. They were going to fight again. He heard his father laugh, though...so maybe not.
"Jesus, Dad. I'm sorry if my journalistic notions of travelling the world and dodging bullets or the occasional corpse doesn't constitute as gutsy enough for an old war-horse like yourself. But you should know that what I do for a living, sir, is not all tea kettles and cocktail parties. I may not wear the uniform like you did, but I find myself on a lot of front lines just the same."
Josh blinked a few times, focusing tighter onto his target, so much so that it felt like his eyeball was going to jump out the socket and knock it off the post before the BB ever got there. Dad and Grampa's voices began to trial off into the background. They were always going at it. Even that one time a few years ago at his birthday party in front of all his friends and half the third grade.
He took in a fresh breath of air, just like Grampa had shown him a million times before…wrapping his index finger around the black plastic of the trigger as a tiny burst of wind zipped on by, throwing his parted brown hair all out of whack again, but he didn't care. He was there now. In that zone-thing Grampa told him about in the barn. The young boy's heart quickened with excitement as he began to apply the softest of pressure on the trigger, letting his pent-up breath slowly escape from his lungs, ignoring the little yellow butterfly flickering across his line of sight.
This was it. That can was a goner. He was going to keep his comics, the bike and watch Sarah squirm every time she had to clean the cat poop out of the litter boxes. If only he'd thought of making her eat it, too.
He tried not to, but he couldn't help it. He closed his eye upon pulling the trigger the rest of the way, gritting his teeth as he did so, but both green eyes popped wide open with surprise, relief, and glee as he heard the pronounced ding of the aluminum can, catching sight just as it was flung end over end backwards from its defiant perch on the fence post, landing softly in the weeds below.
"Yes!" He shouted, throwing his arms and jumping up like a young lion cub trying to catch the sun in its claws. His feet found their way back to the ground, seeing the proud smile of his grandfather and the mixed disapproving/kind of proud as well look from his father. Sarah was shooting him daggers of hate from under the tree just behind them all there on the hill. "Grampa! Grampa! Didja see that?! Didja see that awesome shot I made?!" He ran over to the old man, trying not to knock his grandfather down as he locked his little body into a tight hug around his slightly protruding belly. "I totally killed that can", he said in a hushed voice, hoping only Grampa could hear. "Just like you and that Top Secret stuff!"
Grampa pulled him in a little tighter, smiling proudly. "Not bad, Joshie…not bad at all." The older man shot a glare over at his own son. "You keep on practicing and shooting like that, my boy, and you'll be first in your class when you go to sniper school like your ole Grampa did back in the day."
Josh's father matched the old man's glare with one of his own. "You just can't stop yourself, can you, General?"
The hug was over. Grampa patted Josh on the head. "Don't be sore that your boy's a damn sight better shot than you, David. He's got killer instinct like his grandfather."
That got Josh's attention. "Really?"
The old man grew an almost sinister sneer on his lips, putting his arm around his grandson while maintaining his glare toward the boy's father. "Let me tell you something, Joshie, your daddy couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if he were standing in it with a damned map to guide him. Lord knows, I've tried to train him." Josh caught Grampa winking over at Dad. "But your daddy just ain't the fighting kind. Ain't worth a hill o'beans, that boy…not with a gun, leastways. But you…well, there might be hope for the men in my gene pool yet."
It was too much. Josh erupted into laughter.
"Nice, sir. Reeeeal classy. It is such a shame that I couldn't be more like you, I guess, and grow up to pursue the art of war and quote unquote covert operations." They all began to walk towards the big oak tree Sarah was standing under, eager to get out of the late June sun beating down on them.
Grampa smiled a little wider, loving every minute of ribbing his son in front of his own kids. "You mean like both of your sisters?"
Now Sarah was laughing at him. Coming up the other side of the hill was the silhouette of an older woman carrying a pitcher and four glasses on a tray. The two kids ran wide open at Mach speeds to greet their grandmother and refresh themselves in the sweet, icy goodness of her incredible home-brewed lemonade, leaving the two men alone for a few minutes as the shade from the enormous oak tree reached down onto their faces, subtly kissing them with the promise of a slightly cooler temperature.
The old man slapped his son gently on the back.
"It's damn good to see you again, David. It's been too long a time since the last visit."
David smiled, watching his kids swarm around his mother like a couple of hummingbirds eager to get their fix on the sultry promise of an icy sugar rush.
"You, too, sir. And thanks, for busting my balls in front of the kids like that. These get-togethers are always so much more fun when our underlying father/son issues just kind of explode onto everyone like that."
His dad gently grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. "Not a problem, boy. Maybe if you weren't away all the time, your old man wouldn't have so much piss and vinegar backed up in his system for you."
"And to think I had you pegged as a hard ass all these years."
"Most candy-asses do."
They both stopped for a few minutes, just out of earshot of the kids and their grandmother, busy pouring them both gigantic sized glasses of lemonade. David motioned toward her with his chin, his smile beginning to fade.
"So…how is she holding up?"
He looked over at his father. It always impressed him how such a hardened, tough old bastard like him could melt into the most docile of creatures at the very mention of his mother. They had been husband and wife for the last forty-two years of their lives, only having just met a few months before during some incredibly secret "mission" that he could never get either one of them to elaborate on. He was always a different man around her. His gravelly voice wasn't quite as gravelly, and his eyes always had blinders on to the rest of the world, no matter what was going on around them at the time. She was his life and he was hers. It was the kind of love novelists and Hollywood screenplays always tried to guess at, but could never come close.
It was one of the reasons he left Nicole, his own attempt at a wife, having been a witness to what true love really is. It took him six years…admittedly six years too damn long, but he knew (he guessed he always knew) that what they had wasn't what he always wanted…needed. He wanted what these two had. Everyone did, but so few were ever really lucky enough to get a shot at it.
He wanted that purity of something that defied description and explanation. He wanted to love a woman so much that it killed him, even for a second, to not be with her, and her likewise. After a few years, it was all he could do to keep himself in the same zip code as Nicole. Josh and Sarah quickly became the only reason he kept coming back from assignments…the only reason he found himself looking for any kind of excuse not to put himself on that front line in the thick of it all to cover the story…to win that prize….that damned elusive Pulitzer. She was, more often than not…an afterthought in the grander scheme of things…and for the life of him, despite all the thought and reflection he'd given the subject in all the times he'd find himself willing…he could never quite pin point why.
Until now, seeing the way the old general was gazing at his life-long bride.
"She's a tough old bird", he heard his father say in a strangely hushed tone. "But I got a bad feeling about this one, son." He coughed a little, turning away, trying to hide the fact that there was a tear sliding down his war-blasted tough guy cheeks, leaking from the very same eyes that had seen death and dismemberment and a plethora of gruesome things in war-torn lands and been privy to secrets to things that logistically, made the matter of one simple female human life pale in direct comparison. The exception, of course, being that wasn't just some female of the human persuasion.
No, there was really only one term that held true to the general's heart when it came to identifying that particular woman, known to David Mayson as Mom, the kids as Gramma, and to the world at large, Mary Ellen Coley Mayson.
His wife.
His love.
"I worry that this ain't one she's gonna walk away from like the others." The general looked away now, trying to lose his gaze into the fields that had been in his family for over a century there in Lunenburg County, just a stone's throw from the North Carolina border in the Old Dominion of Virginia. "The doctor said it's metastasized. The damn thing is all over the place inside her. Stomach, liver, pancreas…a blasted mess."
David put his hand on his father's shoulder in an effort to give him a bit of calm in this new storm. It was weird for him to be doing so, because usually it was the other way around.
"You okay, Dad?"
There was a minor pause in conversation. The old Air Force general returned his gaze to his wife and smiled past his pain. She was looking right back at him…smiling just the same.
"We'd better get ourselves some of your mother's lemonade before those two little hellions of yours guzzle it all down," he said with a chuckle, beginning to walk back toward the gathering ahead of them.
David grabbed his father's arm a bit more aggressively.
"Dad."
His father stopped, half-glancing over his shoulder at his son. "Let go of my arm, boy." It was somewhat in a threatening tone, but David didn't care. The old man needed to slow it down a notch. Process. But there was his old military instinct again, getting in the way of things, throwing up those shields and defense mechanisms before any weakness could dare be exploited and used to bring the old general down to the mercies of being just a man.
"Now."
Feeling the scared and obedient child inside him, David saw the anger in his father's eyes and did just that, promptly letting loose his grip on the general's arm, watching the old soldier shrug it off, using his other hand to smooth out the wrinkles to his sleeve and stomping on off, back towards the rest of them. He kicked himself in the mental hindquarters. He knew better than that. The old man was tough, unyielding even in his weakest moments. He sure as hell wasn't going to let a little thing like his wife dying put a nick in his well-worn battle armor. Stupid move, Dave, he chided himself. Been better off uncorking a live grenade and asking it how it felt. Dumb ass.
He shook his head, catching his mother's eyes and her somewhat worried smile as he followed in his father's footsteps (the irony wasn't lost on him, by the way) walking up the hill towards her and his own gigantic sized glass her sweet, sweet lemonade. The general was gathering the little troops up as he approached, filling their ears with the urgency of a new mission in the coming evening hours handing each one an old Mason jar with a hole-riddled lid. The same thing he did with his own children thousands of days ago when they were all younger and little bit more naïve about things like divorce and metastatic cancer waiting for them just around the corner.
"David."
She said it with a smile, as he happily walked over to her and wrapped his arms around his mother. Immediately, he noticed it. She was thinner, although she was doing her best to be clever and hide it under a slightly bulky blouse and slacks. He wanted to hug her tighter, but was just a little scared that he might break her if he tried, and that was not something he wanted to try to explain to the general. At all.
He took a deep breath with his nose, sucking in the fruitful aroma from her almost all white hair. No matter how long he'd been gone, it was always his favorite thing to do upon seeing her. Instantly, he found himself happy to see her and hungry all at the same time.
"Your hair still smells like strawberries." He let go, stepping back a bit to take her all in with his eyes. "You look good, Mom", he lied. Now that he was closer, he could see the pallor of her usually radiant skin, the tired and dark half-circles under her hazel eyes…how much she was struggling to hold up that plastic tray with the near empty pitcher on it, the ice inside gently knocking into each other and the glass, reminding him a bit of wind chimes on a front porch, but less joyful.
There was the faintest sound of thunder behind him, a sudden gust of wind rustling around and letting the leaves of the mighty oak wrestle each other in a reckless choreography.
"You shouldn't lie to your mother, son", she said rather matter-of-factly, handing him the tray. "No matter how good it makes her feel." He watched her close as she slowly moved toward the tree. "It's been too long since your last visit, you know. I seem to remember a promise you made to me about these things."
He leaned down quickly to drop off the tray onto the ground, rushing over to her as she tried to get herself onto the grassy base of the big oak and have a seat.
"I know, and I'm really sorry, Mom. My editor thought it would be better for the story if I stayed another few days, maybe find some info on the under-aged child labor going on down there in Argentina. Believe me, it completely was not my idea."
She smiled, completely taking him off the offensive.
"Did you?"
He sat down next to her, forgetting how good it felt just to allow himself to be comfortable for a while.
"Yeah, I think so. The story hits next month. I can get you an advance copy if you want, you know."
"Not exactly my cup of tea, dear," she said, squeezing his arm, "but thank you just the same, anyway. What I really want to know is when am I going to see my son's name on the Best-Seller List? That book you started to write in college…where you trying to come up with this theory behind the moon landings and why no one's been back…whatever happened to that one?"
David shook his head.
"Jesus, Mom…the memory on you! That thing was a beginner's poor attempt at novelization at best…slowly but surely getting overwritten somewhere on my hard drive, I hope."
"Pity", she muttered. "I always liked that one."
The rumblings of thunder were getting a little closer, and the air was beginning to cool in the approaching storm. They'd have to be getting back to the house soon, he surmised, if they were going to remain even the slightest bit dry. Virginia thunderstorms had a way of appearing out of nowhere and dropping about a billion gallons of water in the span of ten minutes in between God's third overture of Hell and the Apocalypse with some of the most incredibly violent weather he's yet to match anywhere else on the planet.
"Yeah, well…you were the only one. If it wasn't for the windfall of rejection letters I'd gotten from publishers by trying to submit that thing, your son wouldn't be the accomplished field journalist he is today for one of the world's most prominent online news magazines."
"Oh," she mildly exclaimed as she started to get up, letting him help her on the way. "Speaking of online, that reminds me, I finally figured out how to put that site of yours into my favorites on the computer. That nice boy that cuts our grass did it for me the other day."
David laughed, kissing her on the forehead and hugging her.
"You always were one to dodge the issue at hand, weren't you, mother-dear? C'mon. We'd better beat it to the house before we get drenched."
He felt her grab his arm a little tighter, but it wasn't for support. David Mayson stopped his forward motion, looking curiously at his mother.
"I don't have a lot of time, David," she said matter-of-factly. "This…," she coughed for a few seconds. "I really hate this."
"What can I do?"
She slowly brought her weathered hazel eyes up to look at him. "You can listen. I didn't ask you to come all the way out here for dinner with your father and me," she said, giving out a slight chuckle. "I can't even cook anymore, anyway. Your poor father's got us living off of take out from Sheldon's and heating up microwavable meals."
A flash lit up the sky in the corner of their eyes, accompanied a few beats later by a low and rumbling growl that permeated into their bones. They both turned toward the sound and noticed the thickened lumps of purple, grey and black that was eating away at the once cheerful summertime blue of the sky. A long and sudden arc of light spit from in between the boiling thunderheads. Time to go.
"We can talk about this in the house, Ma."
She didn't move.
"We need to go, Mother," he urged. "In case you missed it, that storm is headed this way, as in, our general direction and locale, further as in, where we --"
"I know the answer, David." There was a slight pause as she coughed again. "I know why no one ever went back to the moon."
He stopped, feeling his forehead crumble into the wrinkles of wonderment and confusion. What the hell was she talking about? What answer? And why in the hell was she doing this now?
The tall grass around them in the field was rippling in the wake of the strengthening wind. Lightning was stabbing around the sky and the thunder was cracking now, insisting he get himself and his mother the hell on out of there. But he couldn't. At least he couldn't now. Not after that. She had him and she knew it. He knew his mother. He knew she was once a government agent way back in the day, and he knew this because that was always how she led into the story about how she met his father. When he was a kid growing up, space always fascinated him…the moon landings in particular. It was the dominating call his whole life. The history of it. The way a series of events like the Apollo missions managed to drive an entire country…a world…toward the brink of transcendence and achieving more than was thought to be humanly possible. Entire fields of sciences and engineering rose from nothing just to safely send three men to the moon and back, and it always bothered him that after a fashion, the love affair was just over, gone…abandoned without even so much as a poorly attempted farewell party and recording just slightly above being a footnote in the annals of history.
"This is no time to be talking about that stupid book, Mom. We're about to get pummeled out here!" The damn wind was making it hard to talk without almost shouting. He had to get them to the house, and fast.
His mother smiled at him.
"You know I'm not talking about your book, David."
And then, as if on cue, the wind just suddenly stopped.
"I always wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. I was afraid to share it with you. Afraid to share it with anyone, really…except your father, of course. But he's known for years, anyway. Hell, he was there."
He jumped as an ice cold single rain drop smashed into his neck, slightly red and hot from the earlier sun. "Known…what exactly?"
She reached out and took his hand, smiling in that motherly way, feeling good that there was still something left to pull out of her bag of mommy tricks to spark her boy's imagination.
It felt good, feeling the coolness of the gentle rain on her face and skin, glad that she could be out in it maybe one more time before the curtain call, and happy that the good lord saw fit to reign it in there at the last minute…maybe letting life give her a sweet little kiss goodbye before death came riding in on his horse in the coming hours. She knew it was close to time, and for the first time she could remember, she was actually eager for it, but not quite yet. There was still one little loose end to finally tie up.
"For over forty years, David, Your father and I have known the answer to your innocent little question from childhood…why no one has ever gone back to the moon since '72. Not Russia, not China, not us…not anyone. Why we left it and never tried to go back."
Gently, she began to walk towards the same house they'd lived in for as long as he could remember…a quaint two story, light blue vinyl siding, flower beds, a tiny side garden that occasionally granted a tomato or two and the two proud porches, front and back, that father and son had labored together to build one summer that felt like a million well-worn years ago. This was home. There were lifetimes of memories here, recollections of younger days gone by, fights with sisters, bad grades on report cards, ice cream cakes for birthdays,Star Wars Christmas toys, football on Sundays and fried chicken and potato salad on those nasty hot August nights in the summer. There was life here…love. A blind man could see it if he were inclined to pay enough attention.
Setting all that aside, Mary Ellen Coley Mayson began to gather the pieces of her story together in her mind's eye, preparing to finally unshackle herself from decades of lies and secrecy and threats and government propaganda and self-conditioning and all the other things that had kept her, her husband and a small collection of others so silent for so long.
She kissed her son on the cheek and breathed in, best she could, shuddering a bit from the anticipation of what she was about to unveil to him…and still soaking in the sweet freshness of the rainy air, letting the wetness of it wash over her old body with a youthful abandon, and perhaps, because of or in spite it all…feeling alive again.
They walked hand in hand toward the house together.
"And now, son… I'm going to tell you."




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