Catch a Falling Star (10 page)

His bulk obscured the
chair as he sat down and planted his beefy hands on the table
top. “Where's Lyrianne? She said she'd be bringin' my dinner. I
thought she was gonna eat with me.”

His scowl underwent a
nearly undetectable change as he seemed to concentrate for a
moment before leaning forward, looking relieved. He appeared to
be unaffected by the silent but deadly emanations he'd just
released.

Miguel's dark eyes
narrowed and he dropped the tray several inches above the little
table, letting its contents clatter and scatter. “Lyrianne is
busy,” the pilot near growled. “If there is nothing else?”

“Hey!” Farley righted
everything, none of which was yet opened so it was still safe.
That was good, he thought, but he didn't much appreciate the
little man's attitude. “Ain't you got no manners?”

He glared at Miguel
again as he ripped the stew pack open and dumped the contents
into the big bowl. Picking up the spoon, he waved it at Miguel.
“Yeah, matter of fact there is somethin' else. You stay away
from my girl, you hear?” He jammed a spoonful of the gravy and
meat mixture into his mouth then began chewing noisily.

A sound half like a
bark and half a guffaw, the Fed pilot put a hand on his stomach
as if he meant to contain the laughter; or maybe just stop
himself from throwing up over the slobbering and snuffling going
on. The man really was a pig at his trough.

“You are disgusting,”
Miguel said, curling his lip in distaste. “Because I feel so bad
for your morbidity, I will not tell you how absurd your threat.
Sweet mother, can you not smell yourself?”

“Smell what? And, it
ain't a threat, it's a promise. I seen you pawin' her under that
tree. From what I could tell, you was probably plowin' her
field, too.” He waved his spoon at Miguel, scowling darkly. “You
ain't gonna do that again. She's mine. I don't give a frog's
fart for any contract you got. Hear me?” He stuffed two slices
of the bread, dipped in the stew's juices, into his mouth and
grinned, spilling the half chewed mess out and down the front of
his coveralls.

The fat man's crass
assumption made the pilot's stomach tense and he sneered in
disgust. “Fat man, you best watch what filth you spew because if
you do not, I will pull out your tongue and make you eat it. Now
let us part on less violent terms, eh? I would not like to upset
my,” here he grinned villainously, “wife.”

“We'll see.” Fat
Farley took a noisy swig from the large bottle then set it down
hard. “She ain't yer wife 'til that paper's signed and she said
it weren't.” He smiled, vicious and crafty, then leaned forward,
making the table groan under the weight of his arms. “But, yer
right. I don't like to upset my Lyrie neither so I'll fergive
you since you softened her up fer me. Don't much care fer
breakin' in virgins, anyway. Just don't you touch her again.
Understand, pretty boy?”

Miguel's hand shot
out and caught the farmer's collar, twisting sharply to cut off
the fat man's air. He jerked once, hard, letting the linen cut
unforgivingly into the back of Farley's sweaty neck. The pilot's
bicep strained beneath the borrowed shirt he was holding the
farmer so tightly, and he brought his face in close to the
abominable colonial.

“If you ever touch
her, fat man, there will be no second chance for you, yeah?” He
twisted sharply and watched the beady piggy eyes bulge. “If you
think you can take me, try it now, or sit down and shut your
face and do not trouble me again.”

When Miguel let go,
so did Farley's bladder but he stayed seated, dragging in raspy
breaths through his abused throat. He'd underestimated the other
man and his strength, which was reinforced when he got a vague
image of a strong arm flattening him once before. Nobody before
had ever challenged him when he threatened them; not that he had
to do it often. He sure as hell wasn't prepared for someone who
called his bluff.

“Get out of here.” He
wheezed the words out then coughed some more before picking up
his spoon again, ignoring the dampness in his trousers. “I want
Lyrianne,” his eyes narrowed though he refused to meet the other
man's unrelenting stare, “your wife, to bring me my next meal.
Not you. Or I leave and go to the authorities myself to report
you fer assaultin' me and destroyin' my salvage claim.” He
shoveled another large spoonful of stew into his mouth.

Miguel turned to
leave the fat man to his gruel and his stink, waiting until he
got to the top of the stairs before rubbing his hand off on his
pants in disgust.

********

Lyrianne, unaware of
the problems in the basement, had gone upstairs with the tray
for her father. He was awake and she set the tray down then
helped him to a sitting position. She'd remembered to rebutton
her coveralls though he wouldn't have been able to see it if
she'd left it open. He looked at her through cloudy eyes,
blinking as slowly as his thoughts were moving. His mind was,
for the moment, as clear as his eyes were not. “Lyrianne? Has
Mister Ayers come, yet? I thought I heard you talking to
someone.”

Pulling the chair
over, Lyrianne busied herself with checking the temperature of
the soup, which was still too hot. The same with the herbal tea
she'd prepared for him. Taking the napkin, she tucked it into
his nightshirt then leaned forward and kissed his gaunt cheek.
She didn't want to lie to him anymore. But she was having a
terrible time trying to make herself tell him the truth.

She picked up his
hand, so thin and weak in hers, and placed it against her cheek.
It was cold and she bit her lip. She closed her eyes then opened
them again. “Papa. I need to tell you something.”
God,
she thought,
please. I can't do it. I can't.

Her father frowned at
her. “What is it, baby? Is he not like his picture? He is not
rude or... he has not hurt you, has he? I will send him packing
with my rifle at his back if he did. Just tell your papa,
sweetheart.” She looked up in surprise when his old humor made
an appearance as his tone changed. “Problem is, I'm not seeing
too well lately. But, just you point me at him. I'll take care
of it.”

She smiled and then
laughed softly, despite herself. “No, Papa. It's not that...“
She didn't know what to do. She was weak. She couldn't do it. “I
think he will be just fine.”

“Well, then, my girl,
get him up here to meet me proper like. I can get to know him
while I eat. I think my appetite's much better now.” There was a
little more strength in his voice, but not much, and she could
see he was laboring for breath. It was so unfair.

She shook her head.
“He's... he's not...“ She was an awful person. “He's gone out to
tend to the cows in the far pasture, I'm afraid, Papa. I'll...
I'll bring him in to meet you for breakfast. Okay?”

“No need, I am back
early.” Miguel didn’t know what came over him. He’d not found
Lyrianne in the kitchen so he’d searched the first floor quickly
before starting up the stairs to the second. Her voice carried
through an open door where the unmistakable smell of sickness
hung. It would have been polite to leave upon seeing her, her
back facing the door as she ministered to a very sickly man,
little more than a skeleton really, in the midst of a bed that
now swallowed him up. Whatever possessed him, he’d dug the hole
and now he’d have to step in it.

“I am… most
apologetic to have not met with you first. Sir.” Miguel stepped
into the room. “Lyrianne said you were resting and I did not
wish to disturb you…” He looked to the woman for help. How sad
she appeared. He was surprised that her mood could so greatly
affect him. “I do not mean to disturb you.”

“Miguel?” Lyrianne
was stunned and she twisted around to look at the pilot, unsure
what to think.

“Miguel?” Her father
tugged on her hand which was still holding his. “Who is Miguel?”
He turned his head in the direction of the male voice he'd
heard, trying to clear a path through his foggy vision. “I
thought your name was Remmie.”

Giving Miguel a
smile, gratitude shining in her eyes, Lyrianne patted her
father's hand. “It is, Papa, but he prefers to be called Miguel.
It's a... it's a nickname that only his family is allowed to
call him and he said we, you and I, are family to him, now too.”

“Is that so? Well,
good. I like that. Yes, I do.” Her father lay his head back
against the pillow propping him up and held out his thin, shaky
hand. “Come, Miguel, offer your new father your hand. Let me
welcome you to the family.” His voice was noticeably weaker but
his will was still dominating.

Lyrianne was watching
Miguel and she mouthed a “thank you” to him as she nodded toward
the second chair which sat under the window. She then scooted
her chair closer to the side table to make room for him at the
bedside.

Doing as the ailing
man wished, Miguel dragged the chair over in the space provided
and sat on its edge, hesitating only briefly before taking the
patriarch’s hand. It was dry, the skin papery thin and
insubstantial. It tugged at something inside the pilot and he
covered the frail hand with his other. “Is there anything I can
do, sir?” Why he felt an obligation to either of them, he could
not fathom but he did and it was enough.

“You are doing it, my
son, by being here to take care of my girl. She is a handful,
but she is a good girl and will be a good wife to you.”

The bony fingers
pressed against the strong hand that enveloped it for a moment
and then it relaxed. “I'm sorry. I think I must rest a bit.”

“But, Papa,” Lyrianne
leaned forward, putting her hands over her father's skeletal arm
above the wrist, “you have to eat first.”

His head rolled
weakly back and forth and he smiled. “I'm not hungry, baby.” He
rolled his head to the side again and stopped when his eyes
seemed to fasten on a spot beyond where Lyrianne and Miguel were
sitting.

A smile, one that
Lyrianne remembered from before he'd fallen so ill, wreathed his
face in its own light as he continued to stare. “He came, Genia,
just as you said he would. I can go with you now, my love.” His
words were hard to hear, but Lyrianne did hear them and she held
her breath, releasing it on a sob when she heard his breath
leave his body for the last time in a rattling sigh, his eyes
closing at the same time.

“Papa?” Lyrianne put
a hand on the stilled chest, her eyes dry as she stared at him.
“Papa.”

Miguel’s mouth opened
and he breathed in, the hand in his deathly still and lifeless.
He did not at once release it. Not until the woman beside him
tried to rouse her father. Leaning forward, he rested the
withered hand upon the ceased chest and rose to his feet. His
hand he lay then upon Lyrianne’s shoulder. She pressed her cheek
against it for a moment while she continued to watch her father,
looking for him to take a breath she knew would never come
again.

“Thank you, Miguel.
You don't know how much it means to me that you did that.”

She placed her hand
over his briefly then straightened and stood. Leaning over the
bed, she settled her father into a comfortable position, his
hands folded over his chest, with as much care and love as she'd
been giving him for months now.

She turned to the Fed
pilot and brushed her hair back from her face, looking weary and
sad though her eyes remained dry. “Are you hungry?” She sounded
as worn as she looked, drained of all emotion. “I'll fix us
something to eat. If you want to get cleaned up while I'm doing
that, there's a bath up here or a shower on the main floor,
whichever you prefer. I'll bring you some fresh clothes and
there are clean towels in the bathroom.”

He would have
objected. The words were right there in his mouth, but he knew
that sometimes one had to be busy in times of grief. It was that
way back home with family. The women always seemed to putter
about, finding this thing that needed fixing and that person
feeding. He stepped back, gave her hand a squeeze and left the
room and the woman to say her goodbyes in private.

Lyrianne didn't stay
in the room for long. She'd been saying her goodbyes for days
now. She felt as numb everywhere as the Freeze-It had made her
ankle when she softly closed the door to her parents' room.
Passing by Miguel without looking up, she continued down the
hall to her brothers' room, coming back out with another shirt
and another pair of pants. She stopped at the linen closet to
take out two of their best towels, bigger and fluffier than the
ones in the bathroom cupboard.

When she handed him
the stack she held, she managed a smile. “Does a roast with
steamed vegetables sound alright? There's a berry pie for
dessert, too. It should be ready by the time you finish.”

Miguel only nodded
and said “That would be great,” before thanking her for the
toiletries and excusing himself to the washroom. Once he was
safely inside with his back to the closed door, he listened
until he could no longer hear her retreating footsteps. Then he
let out his breath in a heavy sigh and pushed away to set the
stack of linens on the sink, where above it hung an old, gilded
mirror.

“What the hell am I
doing?” he muttered to his reflection, digging fingers into his
sticky, spiked everywhere hair. He had no business telling lies
to a dying old man, making promises some other man was supposed
to keep. His people would come for him and he would have to
leave and Lyrianne would be no better off, just a single woman
trying to run a farm by herself.

Shaking his head, he
stepped back and leaned over to unstrap his boots. She’d called
him her hero. He snorted at that, not amused but bitter. He was
no such thing. He was just a selfish space jockey who’d crash
landed in her backyard the night her father died. That didn’t
make him a savior, it made him an asshole.