Shake Down the Stars (6 page)

“There it is,” I say, pointing to Hailey's tombstone.

I gaze down at her name and the words
BELOVED DAUGHTER
. I then find myself going down on my knees in the wet grass.

Selwyn soon joins me, resting an arm around my back. “Listen—”

I know exactly where he's headed—those strands of familiar platitudes—and interrupt him before he can start. “No, actually, I don't want to listen. I don't want to hear anything even remotely”—I make imaginary quotes in the air—“supportive or understanding.
I don't want to hear how things will get better, or how time heals all wounds, and I don't want to hear about how God has a plan and how everything happens for a reason.”

He holds me closer. “But I know you'll get through this.”

“Or that,” I say, pushing him away.

I pull at a swath of grass and look up at Venus. Beautiful star. Horrible planet. Almost the same size and weight as Earth but nine hundred degrees and full of noxious fumes.

Selwyn says, “But I do know you'll get through this. I understand your pain.”

I suck my teeth.

“I haven't experienced what you've experienced, no. I won't try to compare, but I do know loss.”

“Who?”

“My brother, Sylvester. We lost him years ago, but that doesn't matter much. Still feels like yesterday. He was only twenty-two. We were eleven months apart. More like twins when you get down to it. Everybody said so, too. You saw me around town, and you saw my brother. That's how tight we were. I mean, we did
everything
together—football team, baseball, all that. Sylvester and Selwyn.
S and S!
Everybody knew us.” His voice drops. “Yeah. Cancer. Broke my heart when he died. He may as well have taken a part of my soul with him.”

I reach over and take his hand.

“I just want you to know in some small way I understand. You'll get through this.”

“No, I won't actually.” I bury my head in my knees. I feel Selwyn gently run his hand up and down my back. He's smart enough to keep his mouth shut, and we stay like that, me with my head tucked and Selwyn stroking my back, for a good while. Several minutes pass before I feel him give me a good hard shake.

“What?”

“You hear that?”

I lift my head. “What?”

“Someone's coming.”

He points the flashlight toward a grove of trees. Finally I hear it, what sounds like an army of footsteps coming our way.

“Who do you think it is?” he whispers.

“I don't know, but try to calm down. Other people are allowed to come here, too.”

“Yeah, but not at this hour.” He starts to move as though ready to take on a drove of zombies.

I touch his arm. “Calm down.”

He sits but grabs my hand as if we'll have to flee in any minute.

All too soon, a pack of teens crests the hill. They wear long black trench coats, white powdered makeup, black boots and heavy eyeliner. As I suspected, we have nothing to fear. The group is made up of what I call the vampire kids, teens and twenty-somethings who come to the cemetery at night to celebrate vampires and all things goth.

Selwyn starts to stand as they approach, but I pull him back down. “It's okay. They're just a bunch of kids.”

There are codes of behavior in the cemetery he knows nothing about, and except for the few times I've heard their laughter in the distance, the vampire kids have always been respectful.

There are nine kids in all tonight. When they reach us, Selwyn aims the flashlight on each of their faces one at a time, as if they're under criminal suspicion. He holds the light on one kid in particular, who wears white makeup and black lipstick. Piercings punctuate his cheek, nose, and eyebrows; his face is a mask in the stark glow of the light. He winces and starts to say something, but the guy in front, lanky and long-haired, who, I've assumed, is the lead vampire, recognizes me and lightly slaps his friend's arm. “No worries,” he tells his friend, “she's cool.” He tosses his pierced chin my way. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I return.

He offers a gentleman's nod before waving his friends on. A girl of about fifteen stops in front of us and offers a childlike wave before bursting into a fit of giggles. The guy next to her shushes her and drags her along.

The entire group is gone before Selwyn has a chance to take out his stake and cross. He exhales loudly. “What in heaven's name was
that
? 'Bout scared me silly.”

“They're goths or whatever. They come out here to get away from their parents and act weird. No harm to it.”

“Well, they scared the holy bejeezes out of me.”

He aims the flashlight toward where they've walked off.

“They're gone, Selwyn. Everything's okay.” I rest my chin on my knees and close my eyes. As far as I'm concerned, it would have been perfectly fine to watch Hailey grow up to be an unruly, weird teenager.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “We should probably get going.”

I don't move, though. Instead, I draw Selwyn's jacket around my shoulders and continue staring at Hailey's tombstone. It's those dates edged above her name that do me in. When I feel Selwyn's hand on the back of my neck, I take in as much air as possible and slowly exhale. “It was a car accident, in case you're wondering. We were on our way to school.”

What I don't say, though, what I've never told anyone, is that the accident was entirely my fault. I was like any other parent in a rush to get her child to school, but I was driving too fast and ran into a truck. There's no other way around it. She'd be here today if not for me.

I stand abruptly. “Anyway.”

Selwyn begins to say something, but thinking better of it, remains silent. He stands and takes my hand. We hold hands briefly until I pull away. “Let's go.”

•   •   •

W
e pull up to a quiet residential street in Berkeley. Elm trees and cedars line the sidewalk; every house is dark and quiet. I gesture toward a 1930s craftsman in need of a paint job. “This is it.”

Selwyn cuts the engine and looks out at the row of houses and trees. I've confounded him yet again. “I thought you wanted a drink.”

“I do. My husband lives here. Full bar.”

“Husband?”

“Ex,” I say, slapping my hand against my forehead for effect. “Ex. I keep forgetting to add the ex part.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Not long enough that I can remember the ex part.”

He eyes the house guardedly. “So this ex of yours would be . . .”

“Spence. Spencer.”

“You're just going to stop by—at this hour? It's one in the morning.”

“We didn't have that kind of divorce.”

He thinks this over while continuing to stare at the house. The porch light is on; then again, it's always on. Spence figures that by not turning it off, he won't have to remember to turn it back on. It's the same logic he used when he decided to replace our garden, once filled with flowers and succulents, with a blanket of flat green grass: No more flowers meant no need to worry about gardening.

“So you're saying he won't mind if I show up with you?”

Now I'm confused. “Selwyn, you're not showing up with me.”

“I'm not?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? I'd like to meet him.” He pulls his shoulders back and takes another look toward the empty porch as though Spence might step outside at any minute, strapped with two guns and ready for a duel. “I'd like to meet this ex of yours. We'll have a quick drink, and we'll say our good-byes.”

“
We?
Selwyn, I don't think you understand. It's late. I think we should call it a night.”

“What do you mean? Come on, Kilowatt. The night's young. We're just getting started.”

“No, Selwyn. I've kept you long enough. I really appreciate everything you've done for me tonight. I do. You were a real hero, but we should probably say good-bye.”

“All right,” he says. “So when am I going to see you again?”

I force a halfhearted smile. “You're not, Selwyn. This is it.”

“Kil,” he says, looking genuinely surprised, “come on; you don't mean that.”

“I thought you understood. I thought we were just hanging out for the night.”

“Okay. Granted, the way we met was kind of strange, but this has turned into more. Think about it, Kil. All we've been through? We at least have to see each other again.”

“I don't think so. Look at me. I'm not a together person. I had you take me to a cemetery, for goodness' sake. I'm fucked-up.”

“So am I. Who isn't?”

I sigh. “Selwyn.”

“Okay. That's fine. I get it. You're right. We don't have to see each other again right away, but this can't be good-bye. We get along. Might be nice to be friends at least. Keep in touch?”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not interested. In friendship or anything else.” I reach for the door. By now, every nerve and cell in my body is screaming for a shot of scotch or three or four and a nice soft bed. “There's no point in dragging anything out, Selwyn. I really appreciate everything you've done for me tonight. I'll never forget it.”

“Not even friendship, Kil? I needed tonight just as much as you did. Life doesn't give nights like this all too often.”

I don't want to get sucked into his sad story, frankly, and don't bother asking what he means about needing tonight as much as I did. As nice as he's been, I've learned it's best—easier all around—to keep my distance from people. I'm damaged goods, as they used to say. I touch his hand. “I'm sorry, Selwyn. I'm just not looking to make new friends.”

He eases back in his seat and stares at the roof of the car. I imagine he's thinking of what his mother would tell him to do right about now, something along the lines of
Never pressure a woman, baby. Pressure is like steam under the lid of an iron pot; sooner or later one of you will explode.

After a moment he says, “Fine. If you're not interested, you're not interested. You know how to find me if you ever change your mind, though, right?”

“Yes,” I tease. “Livermore. You work for the mayor.”

“That's right. If you ever change your mind, I'd love to see you again. Hell, I'd be willing to have my heart broken ten times over by a woman like you.”

I feel my entire body softening. “Like me?”

“You are who you are, Kilowatt. No pretenses. No games. I like that; that's hard to find in a person. I'd trust you over a million nuns.”

I laugh. “I guess that's a compliment.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

I gather he means in a bigger sense. “Probably not.”

“There it is,” he says, shaking his head. “Damn. That smile, that smile.” I hadn't realized I was smiling, but I am. “You know, Kil, we probably never would've worked out anyway. That smile would've done me in every time.”

I start to reach for his hand, but he's managed to find a modicum of determination by now and turns the key in the ignition. “I'll wait here until you're inside.” His eyes remain fixed on the road as if he's already driving away.

I get out of the car and walk to the front door. I use my key to open it and step inside. When I look back, he shifts the car into gear, leaving me with nothing to do but watch him drive away.

I
follow the sound of the TV down the long hallway, past the bathroom and kitchen. I find Spence sitting on the couch, shrouded in darkness except for a beam of light shooting from his new TV. He wears a pair of cords and his favorite Harlem Skydivers T-shirt. The light illuminates his face and dome-shaped Afro so that he appears like a space creature in a Kubrick movie or a Byzantine saint.

He's watching one of his documentaries. He wasn't much of a television watcher before our divorce, but now he watches hours at a time, almost all documentaries:
The Civil War,
World War I
and
II, Baseball, The Roosevelt Years.
Subject matter is of no importance; the only criterion seems to be that the film is at least four hours long.

The room itself is fairly neat except for the piles of empty boxes in two corners. Along with the TV, he's recently purchased a KitchenAid mixer he'll never use, a new laptop, and bundles of video games that he keeps in his office.

I help myself to his drink sitting on the coffee table—whisky with too much water, but whisky nonetheless. He looks me up and down as I sip—okay, gulp, his gaze landing on the tear at the side of my dress. “What the hell happened?”

“Oh, you know, the usual—a party, a troll, a fence. I'm fine.”

He raises a brow. “Your dress tells a more sordid story.”

I take several more gulps of whisky.

“Help yourself,” he says sarcastically.

“Thanks.” Feeling better, I join him on the couch. On TV a flock of flamingoes grazes while a camera pans from above. Spence takes a sip from his drink and hands me the glass; I sip and pass it back.

“Your mom called.”

I keep my eyes on the flamingoes. I dread having to see Mom ever again.

“First two calls, she wanted to know if you were okay and if I knew where you were. Third call, she wanted to know why you hadn't called and said she feels bad about what happened, but that you ruined Margot's party. Margot called, too. She wants you to know that she'll have someone pack everything you left behind and bring it to your apartment. Oh, and she also says she's pissed that you ruined Curtis's song but forgives you.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. I dread ever having to see either of them ever again.

“And Charles called.”

“The Reverend, too?” I ask.

“Yeah, he said something about owing you an apology? He wants you to call.”

I let out a long sigh.

“Sounds like the party was a success.”

“Or something like that.”

The camera appears to fall underwater, and we watch a family of hippos swim as gracefully as a school of fish. Spence takes my hand and digs himself deeper into the couch.

I'm not sure what he thinks I've been up to tonight, but, thankfully, he's not one to ask, which saves me from having to explain my behavior. He has no clue about the men I've been with, and I don't intend for him to ever find out. He's an assistant professor at UC Berkeley. Philosophy. I sometimes think his devotion to his field is why nothing riles him. When the goal is the question, you're never concerned with answers.

After another minute of watching hippos, I say, “I'm going to need a ride home tomorrow.”

“And your car is . . . ?”

“Back at the mansion. I used a cab to get here.” I stand with a yawn while stretching my arms, then start toward the bathroom. From behind I hear him say, “The plot thickens.”

I walk past the guest bedroom, past our—Spence's—bedroom. Once in the bathroom, I open the cabinet and pop one of his Ambien. Next, I head into the bedroom and take out a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I've staked out the bottom drawer of his bureau for nights like this, which, since I'm here almost every night, are innumerable.

We haven't defined what we're doing. Even though we see each other almost every night and have sex as frequently, we're not officially back together. We're not officially anything, except in mourning.

•   •   •

B
efore Hailey died, Spence and I were experiencing one of those lulls married couples face from time to time. It was a longer lull than most, though, and I became increasingly jealous and insecure. Spencer comes from a long line of MDs and PhDs; a great-great-grandfather, his mother loves to brag, was president of a private liberal arts college. I come from a long line of what? Men who leave women? Women who sleep around? My insecurities might explain why I became jealous of the philosophy department's new hire, Melinda Green, a Harvard-educated hotshot lured from Michigan State.

Not long after she came on board, Dr. Green approached Spence about writing a paper together on some obscure subject only a handful of academics would read. As they worked on the paper, the e-mail trails and coffee dates started piling up. The morning of the accident, Spence came into the bedroom, dressed and ready for work. It was his turn to take Hailey to school, but she was still in her pajamas watching TV. When I asked where he was going, he explained he had a meeting with Melinda. “Don't you remember? I told you about this last week. You said it would be fine.” But I hadn't remembered saying any such thing, and I told him so.

Back and forth we went: “We were sitting right there on the bed and you told me it was fine that I meet her today.”

“Why would I say it was fine when Thursdays are your day to take Hailey to school? Besides, you knew today was your day, but you chose instead to schedule a meeting with Melinda.”

“I told you, this was the only time she could meet!”

“So what?!”

I shot out of bed, telling him it was his turn to take Hailey to school, like it or not. That was when he said Melinda was already at the café waiting for him. He then said something about how I always got my way, and this time he wasn't going to give in. I snapped back that if I always got my way, he wouldn't be e-mailing “Dr. Green” so often and going on so many “coffee dates”—the implication, along with the quotation marks that stayed suspended in the air, irreparably pitting us one side against the other.

That was when he carefully closed the bedroom door, signaling that whatever he was about to tell me should not be overheard. I crossed my arms and waited.

“What the hell are you trying to say, Piper?”

“I'm not trying to say anything.”

“Yes, you are. Are you implying something here? 'Cause if you are, I think you should spit it out.”

“I'm not implying anything, Spencer.”

“The hell you're not. I can't believe that you would cheapen us like this. Listen to yourself. Is this what you want us to turn into? We're talking about you and me here, Piper. Is this the kind of marriage you want? Huh? Is it?”

“Maybe you're innocent, but I bet she's not.”

“She's
married.
”

“I know she is, Spencer. That's why they call it
cheating
.”

I'd never seen him look at me with such disdain. He locked his eyes with mine, his breath labored with anger. “Maybe you don't remember that I already told you because you had too much wine that night.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“I had one glass. How many did you have?”

“What are you now, the wine police?”

He cut his gaze and walked to the door. “Stop thinking about yourself for once and take our daughter to school. I'm not your fucking servant.”

And I did.

I took our daughter to school.

And it seemed for the duration of the morning, I could not snap, yell, or pick on Hailey enough. She was doing some kind of dance in the backseat as we drove to school, and I yelled and told her to stop playing around and keep her butt still. I said this right before we hit the truck.

After she died, I couldn't push Spence away far enough or fast enough. I accused him of cheating on me daily; I told him if he hadn't been messing around with Melinda, writing some paper no one would ever read, our daughter's death could have been avoided.

Eventually, my rages became more acute, and I began demanding a divorce. Spence, entombed in despondency and depression, finally agreed.

•   •   •

I
walk into the kitchen, pour a double scotch, and toss it back. After my body relaxes with a resounding “Thank-you,” I make another double for myself and a shot of whisky and water for Spence, then join him on the couch. Since the divorce, almost two years ago now, we've become exactly like the Cosbys, except we have no children, drink too much, and lack a general optimistic outlook on life.

On TV a pack of hyenas watches a herd of grazing zebras. “Uh-oh,” I say.

Sure enough, we watch as they chase down the zebras. A slower zebra is caught at the leg and down he goes. The shot cuts to three vultures overhead. They greedily eye the spectacle below with napkins tucked under their chins and knives and forks poised.

Soon, I feel the nice tug-of-war between the Ambien and the scotch, and I rest my head in Spencer's lap. We're divorced and we're fucked-up, but we're slowly making our way back to each other. Once, after we read Chekov's
The Lady with the Pet Dog
in class, one of my students said, “Anna and Dmitri are tight like that; you know what I'm sayin', Miss Nelson? Things are complicated, but they get each other. You know what I'm sayin'? Ain't nobody coming between those two. Anna is Dmitri's boo.”
That's how it is with Spence and me. No matter what has gone on between us. We get each other. He's my boo.

•   •   •

I
feel a warm circular object pressing against my cheek. It's not hot enough to make me jump or scream, but it does get me to open my eyes. I wait for my brain to tell me what's going on. My clues: a framed poster of Hitchcock's
Vertigo
and a hideous red leather recliner, both purchased while Spence was on one of his buying splurges.

My hand dangles off the side of the bed, but as soon as the smell of coffee reaches my nose, I use what energy I have to reach up and blindly touch Spence's arm, then wrist, then fingers, and finally the mug of coffee.

“Here.” He takes the mug from my cheek and places it in my hand.

“Hangover,” I moan.

“Yeah,” he says, giving me two aspirin.

He waits while I swallow the aspirin, then walks to the doorway and pauses. He wears a sweater over loose-fitting jeans. From what I can tell, he's already shaved. “Oatmeal is on the stove. You should get going after you eat.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not us.
You.
You have school today.”

“
School? Today's Sunday.” From the look on his face, I gather that I might be mistaken.
“Isn't it?”

“P, it's Monday.”

“Monday? What happened to Sunday?”

He doesn't bother responding and leaves.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I call after him. I wait for a response but only hear him knocking around in the kitchen. “Spence?! Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he calls out. “It's Monday.”

I force myself to sit up.
Monday.
How can it be Monday when—
What the hell happened to Sunday?
I sip my coffee and begin retracing my steps. Engagement party. Selwyn. Spence . . .
Sunday.
I try again. Engagement party. Selwyn. Spence . . . A blip of a memory flashes: jazz documentary and a tall bottle of Grey Goose. Followed by a second blip: William Churchill taking a picture with Roosevelt and Stalin. More Grey Goose.

Right.
Sunday.

I call out: “I think I remember now. We watched documentaries on Louis Armstrong and Churchill
yesterday. Vodka was involved?”

“You got it. You passed out before the Blitz.”

I moan and make my way out of bed. It's six twenty. At least I have plenty of time to get ready. I start looking for the T-shirt I've been wearing for the last two days.

Spence says from the kitchen, “I forgot to mention that my mom called. She's on her way.”

“Please tell me you're kidding and this is all a bad dream.”

“I'm kidding and this is all a bad dream!”

I mutter more than a few curse words under my breath. Forgetting all else, I start looking for my purse and car keys so that I can get the hell out of the house before my former mother-in-law shows up. I start tossing clothes this way and that. Spence appears in the doorway, holding a wooden spoon, his hand devoured by an oven mitt made to look like a cow's head.

“What are you looking for?”

“Car keys.”

“Stay and have some oatmeal. It'll make you strong.”

“I don't want to be strong. I just wanna get the hell out of here.” I start tossing clothes again. “Where are my keys?”

“I think you've forgotten—you have no car.”

“Shit!” I slap my hand against my forehead and sit on the edge of the bed, defeated. “My car is back at the mansion.”

“That's the story I was told.”

“Would you give me a ride home?”

“Not now.”

“Please?”

“Nope. Mom is on the way. I'll give you a ride after we eat.”

“Pretty please?”

“P.” He glances down at my bra and the pair of boxers I'm wearing—his. “Get dressed.”

“But—”

Just then there's the distinct sound of the front door clicking open, followed by a bright and cheery “Hello! Anybody home?”

Spence's eyebrows shoot up. “What do you know, she's already here.”

“I thought you said she just called!” I whisper through gritted teeth.

“She did. She was probably calling from around the corner.”

“It's six fucking thirty in the morning. Why is she here so early?”

“You know Mom—rise and shine and all that. She wanted to surprise me with a good breakfast.”