All the Major Constellations (21 page)

SUMMER WAS OVER. JANET HAD taken Sara's ashes and buried them in her garden. It had been a simple ceremony. Andrew had recited the Lord's Prayer, which Janet had seemed to appreciate. When they'd left the house, he'd run back inside and given her his Bible. She'd been touched, perhaps even a little amused. She'd given him her old smile, her wry Janet smile.

He and Matt occasionally hung out. They never discussed Laura or Karen, or even Jesus for that matter. John had not returned Andrew's many phone calls, although Andrew had managed to get out of Matt that John had packed up and left town to do some hiking in Colorado. “He's on his own journey now,” Matt said. Andrew hoped that that was a good thing.

He and Matt went bowling with Marcia, went out for pizza, saw a movie every now and then. They went on a disastrous
fishing trip in which Matt ended up in the ER with a hook in his pinky. It had been more funny than scary. “You know what?” Matt had said to him after a tetanus shot, pain medication, and minor surgery. “You're my first secular friend.” Andrew had laughed.

He told the story to Marcia a few days later.

“So you're an atheist again? Welcome back to the fold.”

“I don't know what I am,” Andrew said. “Maybe agnostic.”

“Is that why you prayed at Janet's house? For Sara?”

“For Janet,” he said. “I think—I think religion is for the living.”

“Whatever,” she said.

His car crept up the mountain to Avella. It was midnight, but Neal's security guard friend waved them through. Becky woofed hello. She'd become the unofficial mascot of the maintenance and security branches at Avella. Neal and Ben were going to take her in during Andrew's first year at college, when he was required to live in the dorms and couldn't have a dog.

“You sure you want to do this?” Marcia said.

“Why not?” he said.

They parked the car by Neal's office and walked across the perfectly mown lawn.

“It's beautiful,” Marcia said.

“I know.”

“Like the stately gardens of some nineteenth-century baron. Maybe we shouldn't be here.”

“It's fine, Mar,” he said.

They reached the pond. It was more like a miniature lake. They had put the finishing touches on it only the week before. It wasn't deep, but you could definitely submerge yourself. Andrew tied Becky to a bike rack. He and Marcia slipped off their clothes. Both had bathing suits on. Marcia's one-piece was the same one she'd been wearing for three summers. It was threadbare, and the straps dug into her back. She shivered. They stepped in.

“Holy mother of God, it's cold,” Marcia said. They pumped their arms and legs in an attempt to warm up.

“I envy Brian right now: he's always hot,” Andrew said, his teeth chattering. Brian had left for preseason training shortly after the charges were dropped. The not-really-speaking routine had resumed between them, but something small had changed. The aggression between them had dulled, and Brian seemed more subdued in general. Andrew didn't like to think about Brian too much; he was still a strong dark shadow, a furnace, a force of nature that could go in many directions. Andrew was still frightened of him, and for him.

“Then he must never be comfortable,” Marcia said.

“Maybe not,” Andrew said.

They swam around each other. The water rippled and softly lapped his body. The water started to feel warmer, or at least less uncomfortable.

“Do you have it?” Andrew said.

Marcia opened her palm. She held a tiny golden box, a relic
of her time in Korea. Inside the box was a bit of Sara's ashes. He covered her hand with his and closed his eyes. From memory he recited Psalm 23.

“That's nice,” Marcia said when he finished. “Something you learned from your born-again girlfriend?”

“It's from the Psalms. And they're not born-again.”

“Was she ever your girlfriend?”

“Out of my league. She's a different species. She's on a different plane of existence.”

“I can relate.”

“I know you can.”

“Well, I think—”

“Marcia,” he interrupted. He knew she was nervous, babbling, stalling for time. He reached out with his free hand. Marcia reached back. They were silent. Quiet tears rolled down Marcia's face. His, too, he realized, as he felt the hot wetness gather in his collarbones.

They lowered their hands together and released the little golden box.

“Bye, Sara,” Marcia said. Her voice was a whisper, a ripple on the water.

The only light came from the stars and moon. It grew dim and bright, dim and bright, as the clouds shifted in the night sky. They were still and silent, lost in their separate thoughts. Marcia shivered. Then she giggled; she actually giggled. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh since Sara had died.

“What?” he said, smiling at her.

“Nothing, it's stupid,” she said.

“Tell me.”

She looked at him slyly, a little like Sara.

“I was just thinking about you and those Christian kids. I mean, at least you got some action this summer.”

“Care to round out my triumph?”

“Oh, go to hell, Drew,” she said, and they laughed
together.

Acknowledgments

I would like to gratefully acknowledge the following people:

My agent, Esmond Harmsworth. Thank you for your graceful advice and guidance.

All the wonderful people at Viking Children's. Kenneth Wright (I can never thank you enough. But here goes, thank you for giving me a chance, understanding my book, and setting me off in the right direction). My brilliant editors: the incisive Regina Hayes and the indispensable Alexander Ulyett. Thanks also to cover designer Maggie Olson, interior designer Jim Hoover, copy editor Kaitlin Severini, production editors Janet Pascal and Abigail Powers, and my publicist Bridget Hartzler.

All my teachers, especially Diane Les Becquets (for so many things, the least of which is aligning the stars), Richard Adams Carey, Merle Drown, Craig Childs, Ellen Schmidt, William Vesterman, Kerrin McCadden, John Bate, and Judith Chalmer.

Walead Esmail, for your lovely poem.

Jomo Omari Edwards, Lisa Chan, Sam J. Miller, Robert Greene, and Rebecca Mahoney. Thank you for reading my book (or listening to me read my book) in its many, many iterations, and for offering great criticism and insight.

Laura Vogel, Amanda Dunham, and Jamie Ann Brassill, for your excellent babysitting skills. Without you ladies this novel would have never been finished!

Jenevieve Johnson of the Jenny Wren Café. Thank you for your sandwiches, hospitality, and fascism-destroying brownies.

Sierra and Brandy, for Springfield. Love you ladies.

Peggy and Steve, thanks for being such wonderful people.

Extra special thanks to Lisa Chan, for more things than I can list.

Kevin, you're the best big brother in the world. As of this writing I owe you the Buddha card.

My parents, Roger and Chandrakala, my first and finest teachers.

Steve and Autumn, loves of my
life.

was born and raised in Vermont. She now lives in New Hampshire with her husband, daughter, and their two magnificent cats. When she's not writing, Pratima enjoys jogging very slowly (some might call it shuffling) and spending time with her
family.

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