The Hawk Moth Story

Abstract

The Hawk Moth Story Sharon Oard Warner (bio) I called ahead. "Caleb? I'm in the neighborhood. If you haven't had lunch, I can drop off a calzone from Fastino's." The offer of food was an excuse to check on him, something my son well knew, but he tolerated the ruse. After a brief silence, he said, "Sure, Ma. Thanks." He was hungry, a good sign. When I asked what he wanted, Caleb said to get whatever was spiciest. Since being fired from a downtown bar, Caleb had been making do with odd jobs. I had no idea where he slept at night or even if he slept—when he binged, he often stayed up for days. Between binges, he could often be found at José's house. José is a friend from high school, a good guy who pays Caleb to do odd jobs—paint, clean gutters, rake leaves. Because Palo Dura Street is only a few blocks north, I arrived at José's door within fifteen minutes of the call. The houses in this neighborhood were built in the fifties and sixties, dirt-colored boxes with gravel yards, most surrounded with a short chain-link fence, the utility of which I've never understood. The fence might keep a Chihuahua in, but it won't keep a thing in the world out. I am sixty and could climb over it without any trouble. At my knock, Caleb called out, "Come in!" He was slouched on an old leather couch in the living room, taking a break, he said, from the task of painting the back porch. He wore his current thrift store uniform: tight black jeans and a threadbare t-shirt. Once upon a time, the T-shirt must have been a bright orange but now had faded to a soft shade of peach. The word STURGIS stood out on his narrow chest. Caleb peered up at me from beneath the tipped brim of a dirty green ball cap and offered his usual update: "Ma, my throat is killing me." For weeks, he'd been complaining of a sore throat, but he wasn't interested in a trip to Urgent Care, the only solution I had to offer. The words just slipped out: "Snorting cocaine irritates the mucous membranes of the throat." "So, you're a doctor now, Ma?" he snapped back. I shook my head and dropped the Fastino's bag on the coffee table between us. "Just making a delivery, Son." "Not a doctor?" he continued irritably. "I didn't think so. Do me a favor: Don't lecture this kid about blow." "That wasn't a lecture, and you're not a kid," I replied. Then, sounding stupid even to myself, I added, "Actions have consequences." The bag was open, and he was unpacking the contents but stopped to peer up at me. "You're so naïve, Ma. Do you know that about yourself?" My naiveté is a family joke, something well established. So, I tried to change the subject: "Remember the hawk moths, Son?" [End Page 83] "Of course," he replied. "What of them?" "Did you know they live in New Mexico, too?" He and I had spotted our first hawk moth over twenty years earlier when Caleb was ten years old and his preferred outfit was khaki shorts and a striped t-shirt. "Some night we should go out and see them," I suggested. Caleb rolled his eyes. "You know better than that. I'm busy at night." ________ Awake in the wee hours, I worried over his childhood for maybe the hundredth time. When he was a kid, our family lived in a ranch-style house on the edge of Ames, Iowa. Summer evenings, Caleb and I crouched in the grass and watched these mysterious creatures dart from one petunia to the next. In the dusky light, we strained to make out their muted orange wings beating the air, the proboscis curling and uncurling like a wire. The size, the humming of the wings, the lengthy proboscis: all of these spelled hummingbird, but the cigar-shaped body, the shape and texture of those wings: these all said moth. In...