Dragon Moon

I can wait till then."

Not that the waiting has been easy. I long to fill the void that Elizabeth’s death has left in my life. But, as Arturo so obviously can’t understand, no ordinary woman will do. I want, I need, one of my own kind.

I know who I plan to pursue. I know where to find her. And as time passes, I think about her more and more.

At first, I felt twinges of guilt when I allowed such thoughts to intrude on my mourning - so soon after my bride’s death. Time has eased that burden. After all, Elizabeth would have understood my need for a new mate. She certainly would have approved of my quest for one. Whether she would have been pleased with my choice of her sister, Chloe, is another matter entirely.

Chloe was hardly past thirteen when I last saw her, in Jamaica, when I first met Elizabeth. I still carry an image of her in my mind - a young thin dark girl with sparkling emerald green eyes and a mischievous smile. I know she’ll look older now but she can’t be more than seventeen. That gives me plenty of time yet, I tell myself, to leave my island and to travel to hers. She won’t reach her maturity until after her eighteenth birthday.

True, if I could, I would have traveled to Jamaica long ago. But I’ve had to wait for Henri to be able to travel, for him to grow old enough to control his natural impulses.

For almost four years I’ve bided my time, taken care of my son and made my plans. For almost four years, I’ve thought of no women but Elizabeth and Chloe. The boy should be ready soon. As soon as I see he can behave, I plan to take him with me to Jamaica.

I’m sure there will be more waiting then. The moment must be right before I dare approach Chloe. If it is, I know she can’t refuse me. Still, late at night, when I picture the girl in my mind, I worry that maybe, just maybe, I may have waited too long.

Henri tires of the manatee - or the beast tires of him - and

my son rejoins me just as I begin to weed the garden Elizabeth so lovingly restored. He studies me as I kneel and search the ground between the green stalks of the exotic herbs Elizabeth had planted, follows me as I look under the yellow green flowers of the Dragon’s Tear plants and the deep purple petals of the Death’s Rose bush - seeking invading parasites, yanking them out, roots and all.

Finally, the boy pulls on a few green stalks of his own, slaughtering some innocent herbs and one deserving weed in the process. Henri holds them out for me to inspect.

"Good job," I say and take them from him.

Henri beams. But rather than return to weeding, he looks away, toward the island’s ocean side. "Papa?" he says. "Can I go to the beach?"

I yank another weed, mutter, "Damn!" when its stalk snaps, leaving its roots buried in the dirt.

"Papa!" Henri giggles. "You used a bad word."

"You’re right. I’m sorry," I say, digging in the dirt for the roots, wondering if letting him watch movies off our satellite dish has been a good idea. The few PG13 ones I’ve let him see have certainly led to endless discussions about which words are good or bad.