The Accomplice: A Novel

September 2002

Owen Mann first noticed Luna Grey in an Intro to Ethics seminar. He would watch her, fascinated by the way she hunched over her notebook, scribbling, glancing up occasionally to see if anyone was watching her. Owen thought she was pretty, pretty in a way that might last or grow on you. She definitely wasn’t one of those beauties who made you do crazy things. By all objective standards, Luna appeared normal, reliable, and even a bit square. Owen, however, saw past Luna’s ordinary armor. He recognized a feral quality in her. He saw a girl roiling with secrets. And he would have paid good money to know a few of them.

Luna always knew when someone was watching her. Sometimes she’d wait it out. Other times she’d stare back and force the prying eyes to withdraw. When Luna glanced back at Owen, he smiled brightly, even though they’d never met. What the hell was he smiling about, she thought. Luna had seen Owen before. It occurred to her that he might know who she was. But the smile was wrong for someone who had her number. The girl sitting next to Owen was trying to get his attention. When the girl saw where Owen’s eyes had landed, she fixed her gaze on Luna, shifting it from curious to withering within seconds. Luna quickly turned away. She’d seen that expression too many times to count.

In her head, Luna repeated, They don’t know, they don’t know.

—

A few days later, Owen ditched the glaring girl and sat in Luna’s row, a few seats away. Luna felt her whole body tense up, until Owen fell fast asleep and didn’t stir, even after the lecture was over. Luna tapped him on the shoulder to wake him as she climbed over his legs, clearing out of class. Owen rubbed his eyes, shook himself awake, and chased after her.

Hello… Owen said, as he caught up with Luna and began to walk in stride. I don’t know your name.

"I don’t know your name," Luna said.

Owen had a stupid grin on his face. If she didn’t have a secret, he thought, it would be deeply disappointing. Luna couldn’t decide if the smile was taunting or goofy. Owen stepped in front of Luna and extended his hand.

Owen Mann. A pleasure to meet you, he said.

Luna kept her hand by her side, debating whether to respond in kind.

What can I do for you, Owen Mann? Luna said.

Has anyone ever told you that you have the social graces of a mobster?

Luna fought hard not to laugh. That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, she said.

Luna offered her name; Owen explained why he’d followed her. He’d slept through the Kant lecture and wanted to borrow her notes.

Why my notes? Luna asked.

Owen shrugged. Don’t know. But they have to be your notes.

Luna weighed the request. Then she leafed through the notebook to confirm there was no personal information in there and handed it to this Owen guy. They agreed to meet an hour later at the library.

Markham University was a small liberal-arts college in the Hudson Valley. It sat on twenty acres of dense woods and prided itself on self-directed independent study. It was also a safe haven for lazy stoners who wanted a break from life. Think summer camp with cushier accommodations. Markham U was Luna’s first choice and Owen’s third-backup school.

Owen chose a seat on the third floor of Bancroft Library, at a desk nestled by a wall of windows. He opened Luna’s notebook and poised his pen over a blank pad. Once he examined her text, he dropped the pen and visibly slumped in his chair. He couldn’t decipher a single sentence of her handwriting.

As he stared at the mysterious script, it occurred to him that she was writing in code. Either way, it was aesthetically pleasing. He took out his sketch pad and rendered an abstract interpretation of Luna’s notes. Then he removed his headphones from his backpack, blasted Mogwai on his MP3 player, and looked out the library window, watching the human traffic on the quad.

Luna arrived at the library five minutes before the one-hour mark.

Done? she said.

Can anyone read your writing? Owen asked.

No. Never, Luna said, relieved.

Then why did you give your notes to me?

I thought you might be the first.

Owen liked her voice. It was deep, deadpan. Her pitch rarely wavered, even when she asked a question. Most people were cautious and slow to warm around Luna. Owen just barreled forward, unafraid.

I’m going to need you to translate, Owen said.

He pulled out a chair and slid the notebook across the desk. He waited for Luna to sit, not even considering that she wouldn’t. Luna accepted the chair and reviewed her notes. Sometimes, even she had trouble reading them. Above her head, a fluorescent light was flickering its way to death. Luna clocked it with annoyance.

They should fix that, Luna said.

The flickering light unsettled her more than a light should, Owen thought. Luna spent thirty minutes summarizing the lecture for Owen, who took notes in his own hand, which was so clean and concise that it almost looked like a font designed to resemble human script. Luna felt the heat of the flickering light. Her head gave her that familiar warning signal, the one she often ignored. It was like the police standing outside her head, knocking on her temple.

There are two duties that are part of the categorical imperative, she said. Um, there are negative duties, like don’t kill or be an asshole. And positive duties to help others. But then, okay, say you’re helping another person—you’re just supposed to promote their happiness. Kant didn’t believe in paternalism, which is pushing your morals and ethics on someone else. He was super into autonomy. And, um—

Luna made a choking sound. Her eyes rolled back, her body went stiff, and she began to vibrate and tilt to the side. She fell off her chair onto the hard linoleum floor. Owen winced as he watched her head hit the ground and bounce up again.

Owen called for help, but the entire floor was empty. He crouched next to Luna, balled up his jacket, and put it under the base of her neck. She made a gurgling sound, which Owen misinterpreted as choking. He stuck his fingers in her mouth, trying to press down on her tongue, remembering something he’d read or heard or seen on TV about people swallowing their tongue in the midst of a seizure.

He called for help again, but Luna’s convulsions had begun to fade. He removed his fingers from her mouth and wiped them on his sweatshirt. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911. He told the operator what had happened. The operator asked if Luna was breathing. Owen turned his head and let his ear hover above her mouth. He could hear her soft, wispy breath.

He told the operator that she was breathing but unconscious and provided their location. Then he sat on the floor next to Luna for several minutes, watching her inhale and exhale. It seemed to Owen as if she were in a deep, luxurious slumber.

Luna opened her eyes. She first saw that flickering light again, and then she saw the boy staring down at her. He looked familiar, but that concerned gaze was even more familiar. A trail of drool slid down her cheek.

Owen covered his hand with his sleeve and wiped it off.

What are you doing? Luna asked.

Wiping drool off your face, Owen said.

Do I know you? Luna said.

Not well.

What happened?

I think you had a seizure, Owen said.

I know that, Luna snapped.

I called 911.

Where am I? Luna said. Then she noticed books. From the angle on the floor, it looked like she was trapped in a library maze. Oh yeah, right.

When she sat up, her brain felt like an eight ball in a glass of water. She reached up and touched a small lump on the side of her head.

The ambulance should be here any second.

Luna stumbled to her feet. I need to get out of here before they come.

You should see a doctor, said Owen.

Why? I’m fine.

Has this happened before?

I’m epileptic. Of course it’s happened before. Luna picked up her notebook and shoved it in her bag. She turned to Owen. Thanks for…whatever you did.

I just put my jacket under your head.

That’s it? Luna said, with a note of skepticism.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and checked her close perimeter for any lost or forgotten items.

I made sure you didn’t swallow your tongue, Owen said, as casually as one can say that.

Luna froze and then slowly looked up at Owen. Her eyes narrowed. Tell me you didn’t stick your fingers in my mouth, she said.

She could tell from his expression that he had. Her profound disappointment was hard to miss.

I— Owen started.

It’s a myth, said Luna. "You can’t swallow your own tongue. Think about it, dude."

Owen curled his tongue back and thought how obvious that seemed right then. But he figured all tongues were different.

I’ll remember that for next time, Owen said.

If you want to help, you turn someone on their side.

Good to know.

The ambulance pulled up in front of the library, sirens blaring and lights reminding Luna of the one that had set off her fit.

I’ll see you around, Luna said as she took the back stairs, like a robber making a getaway.

Owen promptly gathered his belongings and followed her.

Wait up, he said.

Luna didn’t. She knew he could catch her if he wanted to.

Outside, Luna was revived by the fresh air and a rush of adrenaline as she breezed past the incoming paramedics.

Owen caught up with Luna and walked in stride with her through the quad. You hit your head pretty hard. You might have a concussion.

I don’t.

How do you know?

I’ve hit my head before.

Maybe I’ll just stay with you to make sure you don’t develop any symptoms.

Luna wanted him to stay. She’d wanted him to follow her out of the library. But she was good at not saying what she wanted.

It’s a free country, she said.

As they walked in stride, Owen was greeted by a gauntlet of students, cheerily acknowledging his presence. Owen would raise his hand in a half wave or nod as a response.

You running for class president? Luna asked.

Never. Why?

You have a lot of friends, she said.

Acquaintances, he clarified. People like me. Don’t know why.

Luna thought he probably did know and didn’t want to say. He was handsome but not manly or rugged. Attractive without being threatening. And, judging by his egalitarian greetings, he was friendly. Luna didn’t mention any of that. She did, however, ask a question no one had ever asked him before.

"Do you like people?"

Not as much as they like me, Owen said. Hmm, I think that came out wrong.

I get it, in a way, Luna said.

Her experience was the exact opposite, which allowed for a certain inverse understanding.

Luna seemed wise beyond her years, Owen thought. She was subtly enigmatic. It would take some time to figure her out, but he was willing to put in the effort.

Tell me something about yourself, Owen said.

Like what? Luna said.

Vague questions never seemed vague to Luna.

I don’t know, Owen said. What do you do when you’re not convulsing?

It was a dangerous joke. When a moment of silence passed, Owen thought he’d gone too far. Then Luna laughed, a big, deep laugh, the kind of laugh you can’t fake. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was like the first time you take a drug.

I think we’re going to be friends, Owen said.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Luna replied, even though she secretly hoped that would be the case.

That was the day it all began. Luna and Owen. Owen and Luna. Their names would be inextricably linked for years to come. The one steady thing in their unsteady lives. Before long, neither would be able to imagine a life without the other. It would be hard not to admire the strength of their bond. However, if you were in their orbit, you might come to realize that it was a dangerous place to be. Not everyone there made it out alive.

October 7, 2019

Luna was watching coffee brew. It was seven-thirty a.m., caffeine withdrawal ramping up, brain still fogged and incapable of any heavy lifting. Still, Luna thought, this is not a good use of my time. Not that she could think of a better thing to be doing at the moment. Her husband, Sam, had a thing about waiting for the coffee to finish brewing before you poured a cup. He once suggested it was like the grown-up marshmallow test. Luna didn’t think that was the best analogy, but the mere suggestion that she’d fail that test had changed her entire morning habit.

Luna heard two quiet knocks on the back door. Only one person used that door. You had to unlatch a side gate and circle around the house. It was just easier to use the front door. Irene Boucher, however, didn’t care about easy. The doorbell took a picture of you, which was stored on some random company’s hard drive. They were not going to take her picture.

Luna opened the door, got a look at Irene, and laughed. That morning, Irene was wearing a red Fila shell suit. It wasn’t one of her better ones, Luna thought. She also had on a thick gold-plated chain that Luna had given her for her last birthday. A joke of sorts. It was the kind of thing that a movie mobster might wear. Irene really liked the chain, in an unironic sort of way.

Is Tony Soprano your fashion icon? Luna had once quipped.

Irene’s earnest response: Paulie and Christopher wore the best tracksuits.

Irene had a closet full of them. Some velour, some polyester, in a strange rainbow of colors. She was most loyal to Fila and Adidas. She wore them for comfort and because she could exercise at a moment’s notice when she had them on. Irene was compulsive about physical activity. She ran, hiked, lifted weights. She was the sort of person who would suddenly drop to the ground and do a set of push-ups or lunge her way across the room.

Irene exercised so she could maintain the diet of a teenage boy under no supervision. She was the only middle-aged woman Luna had ever met who ate doughnuts and pizza on a regular basis.

While on occasion Luna might join Irene for a run, most of the times Irene dropped by, she’d end up in Luna’s kitchen drinking coffee for an hour. She’d hit the pavement after that.

Am I interrupting something? Irene asked.

No. Come in, Luna said. Coffee is almost done.

Irene followed Luna into the kitchen. Luna’s phone rang. She showed Irene the caller ID. Leo Whitman.

Ignore him, said Irene.

He’ll just keep calling, Luna said. One minute.

Luna answered the call. Hi, Leo. I told you ten. Yes, it’s still ten. Okay. I’ll see you then.

Luna silenced her phone and placed it screen down on the counter.

You’re still helping him? Irene asked.

I’m vetting résumés and arranging interviews. He swore he’d hire someone this week.

Remember, said Irene, he’s really good at asking for things and he doesn’t know when to stop. You have to have boundaries with Leo.

I know, Luna said.

Thank you, Irene said.

Irene knew the only reason Luna was helping him out was so that she didn’t have to.

What’s new? Luna said as she removed two mugs from the cupboard.

I’ve been listening to this podcast about Bigfoot, Irene said as she opened the refrigerator, checked the inventory, and closed it.

You’ve mentioned it, Luna said. You want toast?

Nah. If you want to survive a Bigfoot attack, offer it food and don’t cry.

What happens if I cry? Luna asked.

It’ll punch you in the face, Irene said, smiling. I think that’s my favorite Bigfoot fact.

Sure you want to call that a fact, when the existence of Bigfoot is already in question? Luna said.

The punching thing may be bullshit. But there is a Bigfoot or Sasquatch, whatever you want to call it.

Okay, Luna said. You’re the expert.

The coffee maker beeped. Luna removed the full carafe and aimed at Irene’s mug.

Owen’s got a side piece, Irene blurted out.

Luna poured half a cup of coffee onto the counter before sharpening her aim and filling the mug.

What? Luna said.

Irene grabbed a sponge and cleaned up the spill. Luna wiped down the mug and slid it over to Irene.

I shouldn’t have said it that way. I sound like a misogynist. Owen has a paramour. I think. No. I know. He has one.

‘Paramour,’ Luna repeated, thinking what a polite word for a wife to use. Why do you think that?

Because now he tells me where he’s going and when he’s returning.

While this was indeed out of character for Owen, Luna felt confident that her best friend wasn’t hiding a mistress from her. Maybe from Irene. Not from Luna.

I promise you, he isn’t, Luna said.

How do you know? Would he tell you?

I think so, Luna said.

For almost two decades, Owen had been the one person to whom she’d confessed all her sins. It never occurred to her that he didn’t do the same. So she stalled—sipping her coffee and wiping a smudge of jam on the counter with her sleeve—and bluffed her way through the rest of the conversation.

I don’t know what to say here, Irene. Are you okay?

Yeah. Yeah.

The first yeah had no conviction; the second one was solid. In fact, Irene seemed a little too okay to Luna. Okay in the way someone who is making big changes is okay. They’re okay because they have a plan.

What are you going to do about it? Luna asked.

Luna tried to picture life without Irene. What would it look like?

I’m not ready to say, Irene said.

Both women understood why Irene wasn’t answering the question. Luna and Irene were good friends, maybe great friends, but Luna’s primary allegiance was to Owen.

I understand, Luna said.

I better go, Irene said as she left her mug in the sink. Is there any chance you can keep this conversation between us?

Of course, Luna said.

They both knew she was lying.

—

Later that afternoon, Owen texted Luna.

Owen: Halfway at 5?

He was suggesting a drink at their local bar. After her morning conversation with Irene, Luna wondered whether that was a good idea.

Luna: Maybe you should go home.

Owen: Why?

Luna wasn’t ready to answer that question.

Luna: One drink.

Owen: Be there in 20.

Luna arrived at the Halfway House first. She ordered a bourbon and checked her phone to get Owen’s ETA. She’d convinced him to install the app years ago after he’d left her waiting over an hour at the train station. At least she’d know if he was stuck in traffic, almost there, or truly off-grid. She could see the Owen dot moving on Route 9. He was less than ten minutes out. She then texted her husband to tell him she wouldn’t be home for dinner. Book club, she lied.

After five minutes, her husband replied: K.

The Halfway House was a dive so divey that Owen and Luna could safely assume they’d never run into anyone they knew. Finding a place in a small town where you could remain entirely anonymous made up for a sticky bar-top and filthy restrooms. After a few drinks you didn’t notice the grime or the sour stench anyway.

When Owen arrived, he ordered a dirty martini with three olives. He would switch to an entirely different drink after that, never able to stick with just one. He was obsessed with variety, which Luna had only recently correlated with his inability to stay faithful.

What’s Irene up to? Luna asked.

I don’t know, Owen said. She left this morning and I haven’t heard from her all day.

Owen and Irene weren’t the kind of couple who routinely checked in. In fact, it was fair to say they were the opposite. Early in the relationship, Owen established a pattern of going AWOL, which Irene soon learned to mimic so she could feel a sense of parity. That said, if Owen repeatedly texted his wife, she’d usually respond.

I saw her this morning, Luna said.

What did you talk about? Owen asked.

Bigfoot, Luna said, after a pause. Apparently the secret to surviving—

I’ve heard it already. She’s been listening to that podcast nonstop. It’s getting weird, Owen said. Do me a favor and send her a text. See if she gets back to you?

Luna typed: Run tmrw? 8:30? and immediately felt virtuous, as if she’d already taken the run.

Maybe she’s ignoring you, Luna said.

Why would she do that?

Maybe you did something bad, Luna said.

The bartender served Owen his martini. Owen lifted the toothpick of three olives from his glass and offered them to Luna, who bit the first one off. Owen took the second one and dropped the third back in the martini glass. He was debating how to answer. His silence gave Luna the impetus to keep pushing.

What did you do? she asked.

Nothing, Owen said without any conviction.

Who is she? Luna said.

No one.

Why didn’t you tell me you had a no one?

Because I can’t stand that judgy way you look at me.

Owen finished his martini and slid the empty glass with the lone olive in front of Luna. She ate the olive and finished her bourbon. They ordered another round—bourbon for Luna, a gimlet for Owen.

She’s a student, I assume, Luna said.

Why do you assume that?

Where else are you going to meet women?

Women are everywhere, if you haven’t noticed, Owen said.

So, a student?

Owen nodded.

You’re so boring, Luna said, disappointed by his lack of originality.

That’s it, Owen said, pointing at Luna’s face. That look. That’s why I didn’t tell you.

Owen picked up Luna’s phone as if it were his own and looked for a response from Irene. Now I’m worried, he said.

Don’t be. She links me with you. When she’s angry at you, she’s also a little angry at me.

So, she knows? Owen asked, trying to read Luna’s expression.

I don’t know, Luna said.

Spill it. What did she say?

She said you had a side piece, Luna said.

Owen took a sip of his sour drink. He liked the idea of gimlets more than gimlets themselves. "She actually said side piece?"

"Yes, but then she switched to paramour."

Huh, Owen said. It’s enough that she dresses like a mobster.

You have any other response to what I just said?

How’d she find out? Owen asked.

He felt mildly queasy and took another sip of his drink, which didn’t help.

Don’t know, Luna said. Tell me about her, your…paramour.

She’s just a sculptor with spectacular tits.

You need to listen to yourself sometimes, Luna said, rolling her eyes. Does she have a name?

Amy. It didn’t mean anything, Owen said.

"Did it mean something to Amy?"

No, Owen said. Although he couldn’t say for sure.

Was she the first? Luna asked.

Owen tried to ignore the question.

How many? Luna asked.

Owen knew that she was asking not as a concerned friend but as an advocate for Irene.

Not many, Owen said.

Oh god. Jesus, Owen. Luna made a face like she’d swallowed a bug.

Only two. I really tried for Irene, Owen said.

Luna finished her drink and threw a few bills on the bar.

Don’t tell her I told you, okay? Luna said. Whether you stay together or not, she’s my friend too. I’m not taking sides.

Bullshit, Luna. You can’t be Switzerland.

Watch me.

That night, Owen returned to an empty home. He left a few more messages on Irene’s cell and wondered how she had learned of the sculptor. Another man might have called the police. Owen went to bed.

—

Irene was still gone the next morning when Owen woke up. He texted Luna to see if she’d heard back. Luna said she had not.

She remembered her invitation for an eight-thirty run and thought she might find Irene doing laps around Dover Cemetery, where they often met. Luna threw on her sweats and sneakers and headed out.

She walked through the greenbelt behind her yard. Her elderly neighbor, Mr. Kane, had bushwhacked a clearing years ago. He maintained the passage year-round, in winter driving his snowblower through the woods. It gave him a shortcut from his house to his wife’s grave. Other neighbors began using the same shortcut, and soon it was a well-worn path that led not just to Dover Church and Cemetery but to town.

Luna began running under the tunnel of foliage, the dirt soft and tacky underfoot. Her body felt stiff and creaky. Within just a few minutes, her breath became hard as an asthmatic’s. She hoped Irene wouldn’t show up and race around her like a gazelle. Luna slowed down, caught her breath, and walked along the edge of the graveyard, noting the names and dates of the dead as she had so many times before.

Then she heard the squawk of carrion birds looping overhead. She spotted a swath of red fabric against the stone and greenery. She stumbled up the hill, past the graves of those who’d died last century and before. There hadn’t been a new burial in more than sixty years.

Luna’s knees buckled; her body understood before her brain. Irene was lying on her side in a fetal position. For the briefest moment, Luna thought Irene might be asleep.

Wake up, Irene, Luna said.

Irene didn’t move. Luna stepped closer and saw the blood and the blue hue of Irene’s face. She turned away and then looked back, thinking maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her brain. Irene’s entire chest was the same color as her red windbreaker.

October 2003

PARTY, Saturday, @ 2100 hrs

Hosted by Luna and Owen

Owen and Luna. Luna and Owen. Their names said so often as one, like twins or a romantic couple. Outsiders could never figure out what it was. Friends would often ask what their deal was. The truth was they were just friends. That’s not to say there was never any attraction. They’d each thought about it. But neither of them wanted to mess with what they had. Whatever it was had become essential to their lives. The pair had been inseparable since the day Owen stuck his fingers in Luna’s mouth.

One year and one month later, Luna and Owen were hanging out in his dorm room in Watson Hall. Luna was chomping on potato chips and watching Owen iron his shirt. She provided a running commentary, as if she were observing a sporting event.

You’re really taking your time between the buttons, aren’t you? Luna said.

Don’t get chips on my bed, Owen said, eyes focused on his chosen task.

The iron fired steam like a dragon, Luna thought.

Any knucklehead can de-wrinkle the shirttails, but your sleeve work is mighty impressive. I give you an eight out of ten, Luna said.

Owen regarded Luna, who was lounging on his bed, wearing threadbare jeans and a ratty old T-shirt that read Camp Sunshine. She had this way of making herself at home in his space, which somehow made him feel more at home.

Is that what you’re wearing? Owen said.

Luna checked her outfit, then turned to Owen, with an expression of wild confusion.

What the hell kind of question is that? Luna asked. You can see what I’m wearing, right?

I can.

I’ll confirm that what you’re seeing is probably at the very least a close approximation of what I’m wearing, taking into account any weird visual anomaly and perceptual errors.

Owen shut off the iron. Luna pulled the cord from the socket.

Shall we? Owen said as he checked his watch. Luna threw on her satin smoking jacket as she and Owen stepped into the hallway.

Mason! Luna shouted when she saw her friend leaving a room just a few doors down.

Mason spun around, startled. Oh, hey, Luna.

Mason and Owen nodded at each other. Once, Owen had tried to talk to the guy. He asked Mason what he did when he wasn’t smoking pot. Dude, that’s like a really personal question was Mason’s response.

Mason was exclusively Luna’s friend at the time. Owen was convinced that it was because Mason had weed. He always had weed. He even smelled like it. In a good way, Luna thought; in a bad way, Owen thought. Most people called Ralph Mason just Mason, since it was generally agreed that Ralph