All the Major Constellations (16 page)

HE WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of Becky trotting around in the kitchen. He peeled himself off the couch to feed her.

It was four o'clock. What an annoying time to have woken up; now he'd be up half the night. His mom worked weekends and would probably be home soon. She worked odd hours at a big box store in Darington. She stocked shelves and kept inventory. As a result, her arms and back were often sore. Yet she rarely complained. His father, on the other hand, complained a lot about back pain. There was still no sight of Brian or his dad anywhere, for which he was grateful.

After Becky ate, he grabbed her leash and they headed out the door. As he walked along, he thought about his weird out-of-body experience on the mountaintop. The feeling of endless light. Endless sunlight and breathlessness and palpitations and
general semi-hysteria. He hadn't told Marcia about that stuff either. It was like that time with Laura at Shaman's Point when he'd thought that he'd had a panic attack.
I was dehydrated and exhausted
, Andrew reasoned,
and all I'd had for breakfast was a cup of coffee.
Even Matt had said something about his needing to eat. Besides, being close to Laura always seemed to throw him for a loop. Maybe he'd had anxiety brought on by hunger or something—this thought was much less disturbing than the other possibility, the possibility that there was a God that looked down on him and . . . and did what, exactly? Make him feel crazy and be weird to John and have sex with Karen? It didn't make any sense. Laura and her friends were elated by prayer and singing and the supposed presence of their God. Maybe he'd felt that way for a moment, but mostly, he'd just felt dark and horny.

At that moment a man walked toward him. “Andy?” he asked. The man's eyes were sharp.

“Andrew.”

The man just stood there, smiling. Andrew noticed a small notebook and pen in one of his hands.

“That's a great-looking dog,” the man said.

“She bites.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fuck off.”

“Well, aren't we off to a nice start,” the man said as he fell into stride with Andrew. Becky dodged the man's attempts to pet her.

“I write for—” the man started.

“I don't care who you write for. I told you to fuck off,” Andrew said.

“I can understand why you're upset. That shit they're saying about your brother. Him in particular. I mean, Jesus.”

Andrew wondered who was saying what about Brian in particular, but he knew better than to ask. “You shouldn't take the lord's name in vain,” he said.

This seemed to catch the man off guard. “Oh,” he said. Then: “This could really mess things up for him.”

Who cares?
Andrew thought. He quickened his pace.

“You're a smart kid. Better student than your brother from what I hear.” Andrew didn't respond, so the man went on, “I mean, he may have gotten the scholarships, but he was born with what he's got. Not that he didn't work hard. Because he did work hard, didn't he, Andy? Not just physically, but mentally. The way that boy plays, whew! He plays
vicious
. You got to practice that kind of mean. You got to work at it.” The man had a soft voice with a low thick pitch, as though his tongue were coated in cream. Andrew felt the speed of his walk slowing to the pace of the man's soothing, creepy voice.

“Your parents must be very proud,” the man said.

Andrew started to open his mouth but stopped himself.
This man is smarter than I am,
he realized, and the thought did not disturb him.
My best friend is smarter than I am. I'm used to this shit.

“Please leave me alone,” Andrew said. Becky growled softly. Startled, the man stopped as Andrew and Becky kept walking.

“I'll leave my card on the steps. Just in case you want to tell your side of the story.
Protect
your information, if you know what I mean,” the man called out behind him.

Andrew didn't know and didn't care what he meant. He felt aimless and irritated. He wanted to see Laura, but he didn't know what he'd say. He vaguely wanted to get in touch with Karen somehow too. Just to make sure everything was all right. They hadn't used a condom. What if Karen got pregnant? Andrew's stomach plummeted into his shoes. That would ruin his life. Utterly ruin it. Karen probably slept around, he thought. She went nuts every so often and jumped on some hapless jerk like him. At this thought, Andrew felt terrible for Karen, and terrible, too, for thinking so harshly about her. He also wanted to have sex with her again, and this made him feel like a fiend or a hypocrite or both.

Unable to help himself, he walked to Laura's house. He loafed around for a few minutes. He heard voices inside, but he couldn't make up his mind about what to do. He had to find out if Laura knew he'd had sex with Karen.

He was just making up his mind to knock when he heard a car pull into the driveway. Laura and a little girl got out of a beat-up family van.

There were dark circles under Laura's eyes, and her skin, usually golden, was pale. Her arms were crossed in front of her
chest. She seemed to slump forward. He liked the darkness under her eyes. It made her look weary in a sexy sort of way. As Andrew drew closer to her, he noticed that her lips were dry. He had a desperate urge to lick his thumb and draw it across her mouth.

Lie through your teeth,
he thought.
You have nothing to lose.

“Laura,” he said.

She turned toward him, her expression calm and cool. Andrew found himself unable to speak.

“Get in the house. Help Mom with dinner,” Laura instructed the girl, who was not the same girl who had answered the door for Andrew the other night, so long ago. Laura started up the steps. Andrew gently took her arm above the elbow.

“Laura,” he said.

“Yes?” She did not look at him.

“I don't know . . . how I'm feeling . . . about everything. I know today was crazy.” He blushed. “I just know that I want to keep spending time with the group. With you.”

As usual, he had trouble reading her expression. Placid, calm, indifferent. Indifference, that was what it was. It was devastating. This morning he'd had her, hadn't he? He'd kissed her ear; she'd held his hand. And Laura was jealous when he took Karen into his car. Andrew knew enough about girls to know that he might've been able to play off that jealousy, spin it into something else. But things with Karen had gotten so out of hand.

“John was talking about a fishing trip,” Laura said. “You guys
should go.” She started up the steps again, and his hand slid from her arm.

“Laura, don't—”

Someone shouted from inside the house. “Come and sing to us!”

“Good-bye,” Laura said.

Andrew watched a sliver of her silhouette through the narrow window above the front door. Then she was a shadow disappearing up the stairs. Then a flicker of a shadow. He watched until he knew that any remnant of her shadow was just his mind playing tricks on him.

As Andrew walked away, he heard an eruption of clapping behind him, in the house, where Laura was entertaining the people she loved.

“THINGS ARE LOOKING UP,” Brian said to him when he got home. He was tossing a tub of fake butter in the air and catching it like a baseball.

“That shit's going to splatter everywhere, and I'm going to end up cleaning it up,” Andrew said. He unleashed Becky and put some treats in her bowl.

“Ass,” Brian muttered.

“Mom home?”

“How should I know?” Brian put the tub on the counter and tried to pet Becky. Becky shied away. “What the fuck?” he said.

“Don't pet her while she's eating,” Andrew said. “That's threatening to her.”

“Fuck you,” Brian said.

“Andrew!” their dad shouted from the living room.

They both froze.

“What is it?” Brian said.

“Was I talking to you?” their father said. His voice was slurred.

Brian looked at Andrew and shrugged. Andrew walked into the living room. His dad was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“You talk to any reporters?” he said. He did not look at Andrew when he spoke.

“No,” Andrew said. He leaned against the bookshelf, exhausted. His head and heart were consumed with Laura. The last thing he wanted was to deal with this bullshit.

“Good. Brian tell you about the girl's lawyer?”

“No,” Andrew said. He was about to add
and I don't care
, but then he remembered his mantra:
eighteen and out
. He didn't say anything, but he was unable to keep himself from walking out of the living room. His dad didn't call him back. He nearly toppled over Brian in the dining room.

“Were you listening in or something?” Andrew said.

“Blow me,” Brian said.

Andrew put the tub of fake butter away and walked up the stairs. He wanted to get away from his family. He wanted to get back to Laura somehow. He picked up his Bible and leafed through it. He lacked the patience and discipline to even read his favorite Psalms. He paced the room. He thought about Karen.
He thought about jerking off. He felt beyond horny, beyond restless; he felt lost. He tiptoed down the stairs. Brian and his dad were watching sports. He picked up the phone and called John, who was surprised to hear from him.

“I don't want to go on a fishing trip. Let's just hang out,” Andrew spoke quickly and without thought.

“Okay, cool,” John said. He sounded hesitant.

“I could get some pot or something.” Andrew felt like getting fucked-up. Would John go for that? Or would he cower and faint at the suggestion?

“Um . . . sure. You could see my place. It's kind of a dump, but there's beer and stuff,” John said.

“Don't call Matt.”

John paused. “All right,” he said.

• • •

Later that evening Andrew was walking to John's place. It wasn't too far, and Andrew knew he'd probably have a few drinks. He left Becky at home because he remembered John saying that pets weren't allowed at his apartment.

John lived on “the other side of town,” a euphemism for a neighborhood with less money. Some of the asshole kids at his school used to call people from the other side of town
scumbags
. The word had lost its trendiness, but Andrew could recall his brother using it frequently and with great relish. Not that their own family was that much better off. Their dad may have worn a
shirt and tie to work, but money was always tight. A local sports store had started sponsoring Brian when he wasn't even out of middle school. The store was graced with pictures of Brian smiling for the camera and holding up the equipment he got for free.
That must have been a little weird for him,
Andrew thought for the first time.

The other side of town featured several rundown apartment buildings, one of which was the one John lived in. A bunch of people sat out on their porches smoking and talking or just hanging out.

Pink chips of paint that looked like dried Pepto-Bismol were ringed around the exterior of John's apartment building like some kind of decrepit magic barrier. John lived on the second floor. The stairs creaked and groaned and smelled like piss. The hallway, however, was relatively quiet and clean. Dim flickering bulbs gave an awful, feeble light. Despite himself, Andrew felt a little uneasy. A raucous drunken laugh erupted from one of the apartments.

When he reached the door, he hesitated and glanced down the hallway. Then his body seemed to move in two directions at once; he took a step back and his fist came up and knocked on the door.

“It's open!” John shouted.

Andrew walked in. John's living room consisted of a futon couch, an old coffee table, and a television. Off to the right was a half-closed door, which must have led to John's bedroom. Down
to the left was a dark, short hallway that led to a small kitchen. John had his back to Andrew and was rummaging around in the refrigerator.

“Make yourself at home. Want a beer?” John said.

“Yes,” Andrew said. He took off his sweatshirt and sat on the couch, which barely rose off the ground. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and underneath the coffee table. The walls, furniture, and carpeting in John's apartment were all shades of beige. The walls had once been white but were faded and sun stained. The carpet was brown, as was the covering on the futon.

John came down the hallway carrying two beers and an unopened bag of chips in his mouth. With a deft gesture he tossed the chips on the table and handed Andrew a beer.

“It's the cheap stuff,” John said.

“Whatever,” Andrew said. He drank. “So you and Laura seem pretty close,” he said abruptly.

“I used to live with them. With her family.”

“How's that?”

“They took me in, helped me get set up with the GED program and an apartment. They even helped me get a job. That's why I feel bad sometimes. I don't know.” John shook his head.

Andrew decided to drop the subject. “I meant to ask you. How did you hear about Brian? Is it on the news?”

“Just around. Not from the news. Guys at work who used to know him or went to his games and stuff,” John said.

“Where do you work?”

“Giuseppe's, the granite place.”

“Yeah, I know it,” Andrew said.

“It's nice to be physical all day.”

“I'm at Avella.”

“Up the mountain?”

“Up the mountain.”

John tilted his head and drank deeply from the bottle. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Andrew stared at his beer, thinking about his dad and Brian.

“I'm sorry,” John said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For—” John made a helpless gesture with his hands, then said, “For the pain. Whatever pain he causes you.”

Andrew finished his beer and belched. He didn't really like beer and had drunk his fast to keep up with John. John seemed to sense this, Andrew realized, and it made Andrew feel self-conscious and annoyed. John's empathy was like a wobbly bridge forever stretching out but never quite reaching Andrew.

“So what did you and Karen talk about?” John said. It seemed to Andrew that John was trying to sound casual.

“This and that. Nothing really.”

“You guys just seemed pissed at each other,” John said.

“Uh—no, it's all good. We were just talking about David.”

“I mean, you just seemed kind of freaked out.”

Andrew put his lips to his bottle and blew softly. It made a dull, barely audible whistling noise.

“It's nice that you've taken an interest in David,” John said.

Andrew gently peeled off the label of his beer. He glanced around the room. He had been looking for the remote, but his eyes rested on John's guitar, which was leaning up against the wall.

“You play?” John asked.

“Nah.”

“I can show you a few chords.”

Andrew shrugged. This was more awkward than he'd anticipated. “Where are you from?”

“Colorado.”

“Cool. You climb or ski?”

“Some climbing, sort of. It was a long time ago.”

“My friend used to be all hot for guys with climbing gear strapped on their backs,” Andrew said, then felt stupid for saying it.

“Your friend in the coma?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I don't know. Something Laura said.”

“What did Laura say about Sara?”

“That she was kind of boy crazy,” John said.

“What?” Andrew said. Laura didn't know Sara at all. While Andrew fumed, John took another long pull from his beer. Then he looked at Andrew from the corners of his eyes.

“That's the way Laura talks. She says things like ‘boy crazy' and ‘jeepers,'” John said. Then they both chuckled. A shared laugh over Laura, and the ice was broken—sort of. John cleared his throat.

“Our service was amazing this morning,” John said. “I wish you could have been there. It was about—”

“Do you have any pot?” Andrew asked.

John raised his eyebrows and rubbed the back of his neck with one of his large hands. Andrew merely looked at him, expressionless.

“Um, well, I could get some,” John said.

“Don't bother.”

“No, man, I can literally step out into the hallway and get some.”

Andrew pulled out his wallet, but John waved him away. “You're my guest,” he said.

Andrew took inventory of the room while he waited for John. There were no books or magazines lying about—not even the Bible. Andrew supposed that John kept that book at his bedside. He must have gotten another one after giving his to Andrew.

He peered past the partially closed door toward John's bedroom. He saw a bench press in one corner and a mattress in the other. On top of the mattress was what looked like a thin patchwork quilt. He wondered if the quilt had been handmade by Laura or her family. They seemed like quilty people. Andrew felt like getting up and running his hands across the blanket,
but he thought better of it and stayed where he was.

“I'm not very good at this,” John said. He toed the door closed behind him and sat next to Andrew on the futon. He pulled out a small bag of ashy-looking pot and some rolling papers. “It's been a while,” he said, fumbling with the paper as he attempted to roll a joint.

“I'm not much better,” Andrew said. But he gently took the misshapen joint from John's hands and packed it tighter. John lit a match, cupping it from a breeze that wasn't there, as Andrew got the joint started.

It was the harshest pot that Andrew had ever smoked. He coughed and gagged and handed it over to John just as John handed him another beer. Andrew took an enormous gulp and sat back on the couch. He looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

“This is rank,” John said, after he'd recovered from his own fit of coughing.

“It'll do the job.”

For the next hour, by some mutual unspoken agreement, they drank and smoked a lot and spoke very little. Sometimes John got up to get more beer, sometimes Andrew. John did not attempt any more God talk. At some point a bottle of whiskey appeared, and they took shots from the same dingy glass. When he was drunker and higher and gigglier than he'd been in his entire life, Andrew started to pepper John with more questions about Laura and her family.

“So, was Laura adopted or what?”

John looked at him questioningly.

“Come on,” Andrew said. “Laura's out-of-this-world gorgeous. Her family . . .”

John snorted. “Her mom used to be pretty. I saw some old family photos.” John frowned, then said, “They're really nice people.”

“Relax! It's just me,” Andrew said, clapping John on the back.

“And Him,” John said solemnly.

“Stop it,” Andrew said, shaking John roughly by the shoulder. “He forgives you. He told me so.”

John smiled at him weakly.

“How long did you live with them?”

“A few months.”

“Where did you stay?”

“In Luke's old room. That's her oldest brother. He's out of the country.”

“Saving the savages?” Andrew said.

John looked at him sharply.

“I'm sorry, man, but that aspect of your faith is just weird.”

John sighed. “It's not what you think. Mostly we just dig wells and carry shit. Stuff like that.”

“Oh.”

“Although I've never actually been abroad myself. Just heard stories.”

Andrew was going to ask another question but then stopped.
John seemed uncomfortable, and Andrew wasn't able to recall why he was asking him so many questions in the first place. What did it matter anyway? What had he been trying to figure out?

“To what end—” Andrew began, but then his voice trailed off into a yawn.

“Want some coffee?”

“Fuck no.”

They rolled another joint, made short work of the bag of chips, and then rummaged around in the kitchen for more junk food. John made some popcorn, and they sat munching as they watched music videos. All the videos were the same. Hordes of women were grinding up against a singer, who looked arrogant and annoyed with the fawning surge of orgiastic beauty he supposedly inspired.

“So, so exploitative,” John said.

“I told you to cut that out,” Andrew said, then yawned again.

“I'm speaking from my heart,” John said. Then he let out a long, loud belch. Someone in the apartment next door banged on the wall.

“Sorry,” John said in the direction of the wall. He picked up the remote, turned down the volume, and muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” Andrew asked.

“They're always . . . fucking. Like, so loud, all night. And as soon as anything above a whisper goes on in here, they bang on the walls.”

“So let's go give 'em the what for!” Andrew said. All of a sudden he felt terrifically energetic and angry. He rose unsteadily to his feet. John grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him back down to the couch.