fine, Riles,” Julian said. “He’s just jealous because he’s barely started shaving.”
She came to Julian during the new moon, her loving face, her waving hands.
In astronomy, the new moon is the one brief moment during the month when the moon and the sun have the same ecliptical longitude. Devi was right: everything returned to the meridian, the invisible mythical line measuring time and distance. When the moon and the stars were aligned, Josephine walked toward him smiling, and sometimes Julian would catch himself smiling back. He knew she was waiting for him. He couldn’t pass the time fast enough until he saw her again.
To be on the meridian was life.
The rest was waiting.
A reluctant Julian was dragged back to California by Ashton to spend the holidays with his family in Simi Valley. In protest, he went as he was, heavily bearded and tightly ponytailed like an anointed priest.
Before he left London, Zakiyyah called to ask him about Josephine’s crystal necklace. Josephine’s mother, Ava, kept calling her about it, Z said. Could he bring it with him to L.A.? Julian lied and told her he lost it. For some reason she sounded super-skeptical when she said, are you sure you lost it? It’s not in some obvious place—like on your nightstand or something?
It was on his nightstand.
“Please, Julian. It belonged to her family.”
And now it belongs to me.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Julian said.
“Who was that—Z?” Ashton said, overhearing.
“Yes, still bugging me about the stupid crystal.”
“The one on your nightstand?”
“Yes, Ashton. The one on my nightstand.”
Over Christmas break in Simi Valley, his parents, brothers, their wives and girlfriends, his nieces and nephews, and Riley all wanted to know when the boys would be moving back home. Not wanting to hurt his mother’s feelings or get her hopes up, Julian deflected. That was him: always dampening expectations.
He cited ethics: they couldn’t break their lease. He cited family: Ashton’s father, after some health problems, had finally retired from the news service, turning over most of the daily operations to his son. He cited friendship: someone had to help Ashton be in charge. Ashton’s livelihood once again depended on Julian.
“Someone has to be Ashton’s wingman,” is what he told his mother.
“Are you sure you’re my wingman, Jules?” But Ashton backed Julian up. It was true, they weren’t ready to leave England yet. “I can’t navigate London without Jules,” Ashton said. “Your son is insane, Mrs. C. Riley will tell you. He’s like an autistic savant. His psychotic knowledge of London is both random and shockingly specific. He has no idea what the exhibits at the Tate look like, but he knows precisely when it opens and closes. He knows the hours and locations of nearly every establishment in central London. He knows where all the pubs are and all the churches, and what stores are next to each other. Though he’s never been on a double-decker, he can tell you the numbers of every bus route. He can tell you what West End theatre is playing what show. He knows which comedians are doing standup. He knows where the gentleman’s clubs are—though he swears, Mrs. C, that he has not been inside, and from the monastic growth on his face, I’m inclined to believe him. He can’t tell you what the best vanilla shake in London tastes like, but he sure can tell you where you need to stand in line to get one—Clapham apparently.”
“Explain yourself, Jules,” Tristan said.
“Because he’s still walking everywhere, isn’t he?” Julian’s mother said, shaking her head, as if suddenly understanding something she didn’t want to about her fourth-born son (or as Julian liked to call it “fourth-favorite”). “Jules, I thought you were better?”
“I am, Mom.”
“Then why are you still looking for that non-existent café? You’re not still dreaming that awful dream, are you?”
Julian was spared an answer by his father. “Son, Ashton told us you’re boxing again,” Brandon Cruz said. “Please tell us it’s not true.” After nearly forty years in the California educational system, the senior Cruz had retired and now kept busy by trying to save Ashton’s flagging store. “Your mother is very concerned. Why would you start that nonsense again after all these years?”
Once, to be in the ring was life. It’s not nonsense, Dad, Julian wanted to say. It’s not nonsense.
“Son, I hate to say it, but your father is right, you shouldn’t be boxing, you’re blind in one eye.”
“I’m not blind, Mom. I’m legally blind. Big difference.” He smiled a weary smile of a man being assailed.
“Still, though, why?”
“He’s trying to improve himself, Mrs. Cruz,” Riley chimed in with fond approval, patting Julian’s back. “He’s boosting his self-confidence, increasing his fitness levels—and muscle mass.” She squeezed his tricep. “He is de-stressing and revitalizing himself. Staying healthy, you know? He’s doing much better, honest.”
“Oh, Ashton!” exclaimed Julian’s mother, “it can’t be easy, but you really are doing a wonderful job with him. Except for the hair, Riley is right, he looks much better. Thank you for watching over him.” Julian’s entire family bathed Ashton with affection and praise. Joanne sat him at her right hand and gifted him a tray of homemade cardamom shortbread! Ashton took the cookies, looking altruistic and put-upon.
Wordlessly, Julian watched them for a few minutes. “Tristan, bro, earlier you asked me for a London life hack?” he finally said. “I got one for you.” He put down his beer and folded his hands. “If you want to display a head severed from the human body, you need to weatherproof it first. Otherwise after a few weeks, you’ll have nothing but a bare skull. You want to preserve the fleshy facial features at the moment of death, the bulging eyes, the open sockets. So, what you do is, before the head starts to decompose, you partially boil it in a waxy resin called pitch—are you familiar with pitch, Trist? No? Well, it’s basically rubber distilled from tar. Very effective. You waterproof the head by boiling it in tar, and then you can keep it outside on a spike to your heart’s content—in all kinds of weather, even London weather. How long will it last, you ask? A good hundred years.” Julian smirked. “Someone said of William Wallace’s preserved head at the Great Stone Gate on London Bridge that in his actual life, he had never looked so good.”
It was Ashton, his mouth full of shortbread, who broke the incredulous silence of the Cruz family at Christmas by throwing his arm around Julian, swallowing, and saying, “What Jules is trying to say is he’s not quite ready to return to the fun and frolic of L.A. just yet.”
“In London in the old days, they used to break the teeth of the bears in the baiting pits,” Julian said in reply, moving out from under Ashton’s arm. “They broke them to make it a more even fight when the dogs attacked the bear. They did it to prolong the fight, before the bear, even without the teeth, ripped the dogs apart.”
“Settle
