Post-coitus, the action jumped ahead.
Sarah confronted Cricket at school. She told him she was pregnant and demanded five hundred dollars for an abortion, implying that if he refused she would accuse him of rape.
He rode to Abuelo’s house. He intended to borrow the money, but Abuelo didn’t answer the door. Cricket went around and let himself in with the key under the flowerpot. The old man was asleep on the living room sofa, his snores boring through the drone of the TV. Cricket took the coffee can from under the kitchen sink. He peeled the lid off.
The novel ended with him staring into the can at a mess of small bills, listening to the old man’s exhausted wheezes.
On another day, I might have enjoyed it. But this wasn’t pleasure reading; I was searching for any link to Nicholas Moore, however specious.
Fresno. Skateboarding. A white girl.
Sarah rhymed with Tara.
The year of publication coincided with Nick Moore’s birth.
Still, not much.
But that was beside the point. It didn’t matter how a rational person would respond, only how Nick would. Everything I’d learned about him — intense mood swings, grandiose thoughts — suggested an undiagnosed mental illness beyond his childhood ADHD.
What Lake of the Moon left out was more important than what it contained.
We never learned if Cricket went through with his theft. If Sarah had the abortion. If, for that matter, the pregnancy was real or a shakedown.
Blanks for an overactive mind to fill in.
I looked up the seminar Maddie Zwick had taken.
Lit 193C, Chicano/a Voices, was taught by a UC Santa Cruz associate professor named Eli Ruíz. His CV positioned him as a leading authority on Prado — the sole authority, having planted his flag with a single journal article titled “Autonomía o autotomía?: Violence, Liberation, and De(con)structed Selves in Lake of the Moon.”
I emailed him and was surprised to get a callback within the hour.
He spoke at a breakneck clip, excited by my interest. As a teenager growing up in Whittier, discovering Prado had been a formative experience: the first time Ruíz recognized himself on the page. The slang was his slang, the characters intimately familiar.
I asked what Prado was doing now.
“No one knows. He left Fresno and withdrew from the public eye. I’ve reached out to his family, his literary agent. They haven’t heard from him in years. I’ve come to the conclusion that he doesn’t want to be found.”
“Why?”
“The novel caused an uproar in his community. Prado’s family is very traditional, very Catholic. More than that: His mother is fanatically religious. I gather he was made to feel excruciatingly unwelcome at home. He may have been threatened, or felt that way.”
“It’s fiction.”
“A fine line, Mr. Edison. And Prado didn’t do himself any favors, there. He’s also the youngest of seven, also three brothers and three sisters. His mother’s name is Celia; in the book it’s Celene. He mentions her church by name. He really did rebuild a Rolls-Royce with his grandfather. And so on. And, by the way, his grandfather died of a heart attack shortly after publication. Celia is quite firm in blaming Octavio.”
“What about the Sarah character? Who’s she?”
“That’s trickier. Prado attended Roosevelt High from 1999 to 2003. The student body is predominantly Latino and Latina. It shouldn’t be hard to narrow her down, but everyone I’ve spoken to denies it. The name Sarah can sometimes signify a generic white female. I’m inclined to think she’s a composite.”
“Was the pregnancy factual?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“That would be a good reason to want to leave town.”
“Yes, although I doubt he needed another.”
“Any idea where he went?”
“If only. His agent told me she was forever trying to get ahold of him, but he moved often, without warning. My impression is that he was homeless by choice.”
“I’d like to speak to her. Would you mind putting me in touch?”
“Let me ask her permission.”
“Thank you.”
“One thing you might find of interest: Prado finished a second book but it was never published.”
“How come?”
“It’s somewhat... unruly.”
“You’ve read it.”
“The agent donated it to UC Merced. I had a scan made. I can send you the PDF.”
“That’d be great. What’s it called?”
“Cathedral.”
My scalp prickled.
A grove of redwoods, whirling like dancers, writhing like flames.
The Cathedral.
I asked what the book was about.
“Easier to say what it’s not about,” Ruíz said. “You can’t characterize it as a novel, as such. More like a mosaic. There’s no traditional narrative. One senses Prado striving for a new mode of communication. He doesn’t succeed, in my opinion. But some of the writing is highly memorable. Sublime, even.”
“What does the title mean?”
“As far as I’m aware, the word doesn’t appear in the body of the text. Full disclosure: I’ve only read chunks, never the whole thing straight through. I love Prado, but that would be a lot to ask of anyone.”
“Professor, have you ever met a young man named Nick Moore?”
“He’s a student?”
“No. I’ll text you a photo.”
Seconds later: “Oh. That kid.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” Ruíz said. “I met him once. He showed up to my office hours.” A beat. “He wanted to talk about Prado, too. Lots of questions. Not dissimilar from yours, in fact. What else did Prado write, where is he now.”
“You told him about Cathedral.”
“Probably.”
“Did you send him the PDF?”
“I can check. What am I looking for?”
I gave him Nick Moore’s email address.
“No, I don’t see it,” Ruíz said. “Who is he, if not a student?”
“A young man. Also missing.”
“Oh no. Really?”
“For about fifteen months.”
“That’s terrible. Uch. His poor family.”
“Do you remember when you talked to him?”
“I had recently finished teaching the seminar, so it must have been around then. Or a little after...? I’m sorry. I don’t want to tell you the wrong thing.”
“No worries. Thinking back on the conversation, does anything jump out about him or his behavior? Was he upset, excited?”
“I couldn’t say. As I recall I was on my way to class, running out the door, and we only spoke for a few minutes. What’s his connection to Prado?”
“He’s from Fresno. He was born the same year Lake of the Moon was published, and he seems to have come to the conclusion that Prado was his biological father.”
Ruíz spluttered a laugh. “What?”
“Could that be possible?”
“No. No. Out of the question.” Then, doubtfully: “You don’t think it’s possible?”
“He and Prado have a few superficial things in common.”
“Such as.”
I described the similarities. When I got to Sarah and Tara, he scoffed. “Come on.”
“I agree with you. But I try to keep an open mind. I’d rather ask the question and sound stupid than be smug and miss something.”
“You should steer clear of academia, then.”
“Noted. I will say, Professor, you’re a pretty good PI.”
“I’m up for tenure soon. Depending on how it goes, you might be hearing from me re: a career change.”