Light from a Distant Star (11 page)

She looked at him. This wasn’t going according to plan. “When?”

“Soon as they find some place that’ll take me.”

“What about your parents?”

“That didn’t work out.” He sidearmed the rock off the side of the bandstand. “My mom’s a cokehead.”

“I thought she was a soap star.”

“That, too. She just likes her drugs better’n me, that’s all.”

“Did you ever ask her to stop?”

“Like a million times.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

“I tried it once.” He picked up another rock and threw it at the trash barrel. It pinged off the metal like a gunshot. “In her bathroom, that’s where she does it, the lines, on the counter. I rubbed some on my gums, but all it did was sting. I thought of doing it here.” He pressed his finger to a nostril and sniffed. “But … I didn’t.”

“What if you got addicted? I mean, think of it, your whole life’d be ruined. You’d probably end up in jail or—”

“Or what? Dead?”

“You could.”

“Would you feel bad?”

“No. Not if you were stupid enough to do drugs.”

“I’d feel bad if it was you.” He threw another rock. “I wish I could stay. I really don’t wanna go back there.”

“Ask your grandparents. Tell them you won’t get in any more trouble.”

“I did, but they said only if I tell who slashed the bike tires and put them behind the church. Then they’ll let me stay.” He leaned close, his leg jammed into hers. Her heart thumped as he moved closer. His mouth had to be almost touching her ear as he whispered, “But I don’t wanna get you in trouble. I really like you a lot, Nellie. And not just in a friend way.”

She jumped up. “I gotta go.”

“I really mean that,” he yelled after her.

Just in case he was following her, she took all the back alleys until she came to the hardware store. She didn’t like the way she felt, guilty and angry and sad that Bucky had such a miserable life, and yet her own life had taken a dangerous turn. One word from Bucky, and she and Henry would be dragged down to the police station. Interrogated, arrested;
oh my God
, she prayed as she ran the last block,
please, please help me
.

“Well, look who’s here!” her father declared, warning with false heartiness as she raced inside. “The great Nellie Peck!”

Stepping into the store from the sun’s glare had blinded her. She couldn’t see his face and couldn’t tell who else was there. Her arresting officer?

“Come here,” the stout woman said. “And give your auntie B a big hug.” She smelled fruity. Her huge breasts smushed against Nellie’s flat chest. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw her father’s concern. She’d obviously interrupted an important conversation. Well put together, her father had said once of Aunt Betsy, and today was no exception, in her bright pink pantsuit and chunky white necklace, matching earrings, even pink-and-white open-toed heels, as she peppered Nellie with the usual adult questions. Was she glad school was over? Yes. What was she doing with all her free time? Not a whole lot. Mostly reading, she added quickly, to please her aunt. Right after college Aunt Betsy had been a schoolteacher for a few years until she married Uncle Phil and didn’t have to work ever again, though she’d kept her hand in town affairs through the years. Aunt Betsy was one of those people who expect their importance to be acknowledged, and Nellie wasn’t doing a very good job of it, especially under the circumstances, her brain so riddled with the shame and guilt of being a thief. Her aunt was some kind of local official. Library trustee, that was it. Yes, because now she was telling Nellie that if there was ever a book the library didn’t have, she should tell her and she’d have them order it for her. Or any overdue fines—just bring the book to Auntie B and she’d take care of it.

“Thank you, that’s very nice of you. I’ll remember that, but the
library’s really good. They have just about everything.” She tried to think of something else that might please her and make her father at least smile. “Movies. And all kinds of books on tape. Well, CDs, really. Not that I’ve listened to any. Not yet, anyway. But I’d like to.”

They both stared at her.

“Nellie,” her father said, “can you wait out back for a minute? We’ll be—”

“No. No need for that, Ben. I understand. And I want to help, I do. It’s just, well …” She glanced in her niece’s direction. “Phil.”

“Of course,” her father agreed, shaking his head, almost wincing. “Of course. And I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to cause you any problems.”

Her great poufed head drew back. “Generosity is not a problem, Ben. Have I ever once questioned your inheriting the house? And the business, have I ever put an ounce of pressure on you? But you still owe us from the last loan.”

“I know, and it tears me apart, but this one wouldn’t be for long. I’m almost finished with the book. Just a couple more decades, and those’re the easiest, the more modern ones. So many people to talk to. Last week I ran into Salvie. Remember Salvie? He gold-leafed the weathervane on town hall, and you know what he told me?”

Her father began telling the same story that last week at dinner had held them spellbound. It was about the significance of the streaming-haired woman on the hundred-fifty-year-old weathervane made by the itinerant artist who had fallen in love with the daughter of one of the wealthiest families around, only to be run out of town by the young woman’s brothers, who had locked her in her room. That night she opened her window and dropped a bundle of clothes onto the brick courtyard below. And then she leaned out the window and grabbed hold of a tree branch, but it broke and when she fell—

“She broke her back and was an invalid for the rest of her days, though she outlived everyone in her family. I know from my Civics Committee report for the bicentennial. Really, Ben, I don’t know why you think this history of yours is going to be any kind of salvation. A few copies, that’s all you’re going to sell. I mean, who outside of Springvale gives a good fig about this town’s history?”

Something Nellie’d wondered herself, but her father seemed genuinely surprised.

“An awful lot of people.” He spoke with that conviction that always sent something soaring inside her, eagles and rockets’ red glare, her
Get Tough!
book, even though the major was British. “Because our story’s universal. It’s every town’s story. Good plain people, struggle and hard work, exactly what’s made this country great.”

“Do you know how hard it is to get a book published? Just last month in the
Library Journal
, it said how only one out of ten thousand manuscripts ever even get read.”

“Well then, count me among the lucky few.” He grinned. “Luminosity Press, they’ve got a few chapters, and they’re very interested. And as soon as they get my … my … check, I’ll know more.” In spite of his stammer, her father’s voice held strong. It was his head that seemed to have the slightest tremor, as if with his words air or conviction were leaking out of it.

“That’s what you need money for?” Aunt Betsy asked, but her brother didn’t seem to comprehend her question. “Ben. Oh, Ben.” She gave a long sigh. “Don’t tell me you’re
paying
to have it published. Not when you’ve got a family to support. What you need right now is a job. A steady income with benefits. Look around you,” she said, the sweep of her arm like a spotlight’s glare over the tired dusty merchandise. “This beat-up, old place—it’s run its course. Like Phil says, the small businessman, he’s either a martyr or a fool. Corporate America, that’s the reality.”

Like a gently falling veil, a look of serenity was settling over her father. Transcendence,
his
reality, so she could talk all she wanted. Why argue or hurt her feelings when he knew things she didn’t. He had a plan, a secret, a rare trove, and if his sister had little faith or understanding, well, that was all right, because as long as a man stays focused and true to his life’s work, no harm can come to him. And as always, his confidence was sanctuary enough for Nellie. Even Bucky seemed very far away.

I
T WAS
S
UNDAY MORNING, AND HER MOTHER WAS ADDRESSING
invitations to the jewelry party she was having for Ellen, her girlfriend. It really bothered Nellie whenever her mother said that—“my
girlfriend.
” By the time a mother got to be a mother she only needed friends.
Girlfriends
sounded silly and flighty and undignified. If her mother had girlfriends, then
she
was a girlfriend, which of course she wasn’t, being a grown woman as well as Nellie’s mother, whose life was supposed to be about her kids, not girlfriends and their secrets. But of course she could never say that because then she’d be accused of sounding like Aunt Betsy again. Anyway, Ellen, Mrs. Heisler, had just bought a Royal Palais Gems franchise, and Nellie’s mother had agreed to host her friend’s first party.

“Here, go put this in Dolly’s mailbox. If you can get it in,” her mother said, licking an envelope. “One less stamp,” she muttered. Nellie’d heard her fretting at breakfast about all the money this was costing. Had she known she’d be paying for all the food and invitations herself, she never would have agreed to host the party. But then when it came her turn, her father reminded her mother, someone else would be doing the same for her. Her mother was also interested in buying a franchise. With all her contacts at the beauty shop, it was a no-brainer, she’d said last night as she and Benjamin pored over company brochures and the bonus points catalog. In addition to a percentage of each sale, reps earned incentive points toward gifts, which ranged from a set of multicolor juggling balls to a blender, right on up to a new Ford Matrix. When her mother got her own franchise, the car would be her goal. Their ten-year-old Odyssey had more than a
hundred twenty thousand miles on it. “On second thought,” she called after Nellie, “slip it under her door.”

Dolly’s mailbox was jammed full of mail, mostly bills. Her mother had warned Dolly that if she didn’t start bringing it in, the mailman would stop delivering to her. He’d already complained about it. “Sounds like a plan,” had been Dolly’s breezy response.

Just as Nellie was slipping the invitation under her door, it swung open.

“Leave me alone! Just leave me the fuck alone!” Dolly screamed. Her face was sunburned and her bloodshot eyes were puffy. A cold sore festered on her lower lip.

Stunned, Nellie held up the envelope and tried to explain, lapsing into the same nervous stammer her father had. Dolly listened a moment, tilting her head this way and that as if struggling to comprehend, and then burst into tears. She felt so sick, she wept. She had just the worst, most friggin’ awful, sunburn, and the guy she’d been on the boat with wouldn’t even call back to see how she was doing. She was chilled and sick to her stomach, and she hadn’t slept in two nights, and she was sorry, so, so sorry. She shouldn’t have yelled like that. In a million years, she never would’ve, except she thought Nellie was someone else, that’s all, that’s what happened, she sobbed into her hair, holding her so tight, her shoulders ached.

“That’s okay,” Nellie said, but she either didn’t hear or was too distraught. She’d never seen anyone bawl like this before; Ruth, maybe, but never an adult. And certainly not one in a black thong bikini bottom and cutoff sleeveless T-shirt. Begging Nellie’s forgiveness, she pulled her into the apartment. She was such a good kid, she gasped, and she didn’t want her and her nice family thinking any less of her.

“That’s okay,” Nellie repeated, looking around, shocked. Nothing like Lazlo’s perfectly neat living room. The shades were down. The dim little place was a mess, clothes and takeout food bags everywhere along with bloated, half-filled soda cups, straws still in them. If her mother saw this, it would be the end of Dolly. She could smell stale beer and warm, fruity garbage. The kitchen trash basket was overflowing. Teetering piles of dirty dishes filled the sink. The bedroom door was open.
Her bare mattress was crooked on the frame. There was a red-and-black sheet on the floor.

“It’s just things’re so screwed up right now,” she tried to explain. “Oh, God, what am I saying?” she sighed, falling onto the tattered wicker love seat. “Things are always screwed up. I’m such a loser. That’s all I am, just a stupid-ass loser,” she bawled into her cupped hands.

“No, you’re not,” Nellie said, perched primly on the edge of the wooden folding chair. She thought of the old Naugahyde recliner out in the barn. Dolly could certainly use it. “You’ve got such a nice voice and I’ll bet you’re a really good dancer.”

“Oh, God,” Dolly moaned, crying even harder. She looked up, shaking her head. “I don’t know how I got myself in this mess. Every time, it’s the same thing. It’s like you know exactly how it’s gonna go, but you just think, oh, okay, what the hell, maybe this time’ll be different. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

She looked at Nellie for a moment, then, for at least the tenth time, asked how old she was. The answer brought more tears. Oh, God, if only she could be thirteen again, she wept. If only.

“It’s really not that great of an age,” Nellie said, wanting to make her feel better. “There’s all kinds of things I can’t do, and then people’re always saying, ‘You’re thirteen years old, Nellie, act your age.’ ”