Shake Down the Stars (8 page)

“And what was your excuse before the wedding?”

“Look, I didn't come here to be judged. Can you watch them or not? We wouldn't have to ask if not for the African sorceress; now she says she won't be back from LA until tomorrow. So if it's not you, it's Danielle.”

Danielle: possibly more selfish than Margot. The girls often complain how she stays on the phone the entire time they're with her.

“Of course I'll watch them.”

“Great. Mom will pick them up around ten.”

She checks her watch, then checks on the football player who's now posing with a group of gangbangers, all flashing their signs. The crowd has easily tripled in size, but Curtis shows no sign of fatigue. He's a star for a reason, I'll admit, all stellar looks and style. Too bad he has the brainpower of a gnat.

We make our way through the crowd. Curtis catches sight of us and says something to Tru, who starts telling the throngs to back away. Everyone is clearly disappointed but does as instructed; some take last-second pictures with their phones.

Curtis walks over and hooks his arm around my neck while rubbing a fist against my chin. “Sister-in-law!”

“Not quite.” I grimace.

He lets me out of his vise grip and takes Margot's arm. “So, did you get the check?”

“Yes, thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, Sis, my pleasure. I always want to give a little somethin' back. Next, I want to buy you a car. No offense, but that piece of shit you're driving now is a piece of shit.” He sticks a toothpick in his mouth and works his back teeth. “My bad about the other night, by the way. I was trying to make you feel better, but I understand how my gift was taken the wrong way. It's a sensitive subject.”

Margot beams as she takes his hand. “We all make mistakes.” He turns and runs his finger along her jaw, then begins kissing her. I try not to look as their cheeks bulge like those of two squirrels carrying nuts. I clear my throat, and Curtis gives Margot's ass a pat. “Why don't you get the girls, baby?”

“Sure thing.” Margot walks to the car. Having absolutely nothing to say to the football player, I tell him I'm going to help. Margot gives the back window a few taps, and it rolls down.

“Hey,” I say, taking a peek inside. The girls hardly pay attention; they're too fixated on whatever they're texting. “Hello, Aunt P.”

Tru gets their bags while the football player gets into the front seat of the Mercedes and takes out his cell. Sophia and Margot climb out of the Mercedes, wearing their private school uniforms and impassive faces. “We're hungry,” Sophia says.

“We'll order a pizza,” I say.

“Chez Panisse doesn't have pizza,” Little Margot says.

“The café but not the restaurant,” Sophia explains.

“They're expecting Chez Panisse for dinner,” says Margot.

Chez Panisse is easily one of the more expensive restaurants in the East Bay. The only time I can afford to eat there is when I'm with Margot or babysitting. I wait while she gets her bag and takes out a few bills—four one-hundred-dollar bills to be exact.

“Great,” I say, taking the money. “Chez Panisse it is.”

The girls climb into my Honda. Tru gets behind the wheel of the Mercedes while Curtis continues to talk on the phone.

Margot gives me one last hug. “I
am
sorry about that picture.”

“I know.”

“Girl,” Curtis says, interrupting us, “you need to hurry it up. Traffic is gonna be a bitch as it is.”

“Coming, baby!”

She gives one last air kiss to the girls and rushes over to the Mercedes.

I actually don't blame Margot for her alarming amounts of narcissism and airheadedness; I blame Mom, and to a certain extent the Reverend. The entire time Margot was growing up, they rarely disciplined her; they never taught her to be grateful for all she was given—which was everything she wanted. And then there was Mom going on about her looks and how she was going to be a big star. It never mattered to her how many times I made the honor roll or did well in a difficult class; any accomplishment was forgotten within minutes. So it's no wonder Margot's a spinning supernova in her own vast universe. I just worry about the girls, whom she is ignoring more and more, just like Mom ignored me when she was single. She had no trouble dropping me off with various sitters in pursuit of her own selfish needs. I was only lucky in that my main sitter—father figure, really—was Mr. Hoffman.

I climb inside my car and start the engine.

Little Margot looks out from the back window. “That's where you teach, Aunt P?”

“Yep. That's it.”

Margot looks at Sophia. “See, told you.”

“Looks like a prison,” Sophia says. “Where's the lawn?”

“There is no lawn.”

“So, like, where's the driveway where the nannies and assistants drop off the kids?”

“In a land far, far away, my darlings,” I say, backing out of the parking lot. “A place where tax dollars are spread evenly, and separate but equal is truly a thing of the past.”

•   •   •

A
fter eating a prix fixe meal at Chez Panisse, the twins and I head back to the apartment, where I remind them what a broom looks like and demonstrate how it's used. “See, isn't it incredible? Next time you're here, I'll show you the vacuum!”

We make popcorn once they've finished their homework and watch the movie they've chosen that involves a teenage star from one of their favorite TV shows. After they go to bed, I take out
The Lady in the Lake
. I put on water for tea and Mozart's Symphony no. 38. Another way Mr. Hoffman ruined me for all things hip or cool was to introduce me to classical music. Once, while listening to Beethoven's Concerto no. 1 in C, he said, “I don't believe in God, Piper, but I do believe in Mozart and Beethoven, Caravaggio and Van Gogh, the genealogy of Mars and the expansion of the universe. That's my religion.”

Mom shows up long after the girls have fallen asleep. She's been counseling the women's group she leads and looks as tired as when she'd come home from her second job at the coffee shop. After asking about the girls, she sighs and starts unpinning her hair, rolled in a tight French twist. Mr. Hoffman also once said he was a believer in Mom's hair. He'd had a little too much red wine and said, “I am a believer in your mother's hair, Piper. Its texture and its smell.”

She removes the last bobby pin and her hair collapses past her shoulders. “I understand Curtis gave a donation to your school.”

“He did.”

“You could sound a little more grateful, Piper. That was a lot of money.”

“Not for him.”

She glowers.

“I'm grateful! I'm grateful.” Admittedly, I'm also hurt that she hasn't asked how I'm doing. The last time she saw me, I was rushing out of Margot's party, after all. I offer to get her some tea, then head to the kitchen, separated from the living room by a small bar. When I asked for the divorce, I told Spencer he could have everything, and I meant it. He bought me out of my share of the house, and I moved to a neighborhood that most people would consider borderline dangerous, but my apartment is also within walking distance of the school, and I wanted it on the spot when the manager said I could have access to the roof.

Mom removes her shoes and begins massaging her feet. I doubt the congregation realizes how much she helps the Reverend with the church. She not only takes care of hiring staff, but she's always spearheading at least two committees, plus she's involved with the scholastic boosters and women's council.

“I thought you'd be more excited, Piper. Curtis didn't have to give you a cent, you know.”

“I know.”

“Especially after the way you behaved. You do realize you pushed him.”

“I know; I know. I was upset. I think he'll live.”

“Well, we were all very sorry about that photo. But this is exactly what I've been talking about—you can't keep acting out. Somehow or other you have to get it together. You could be doing so much more by now.”

I think back to Elaine this morning and her harping on how Spencer and I could be doing more with our lives. And now Mom is on the same rant. She has a rather deep voice but sounds like she's squealing right about now, and my brain and body rattle with every word. I never ever drink more than a glass of wine when I'm watching the girls, but now that she's here to pick them up, I go to the shelf where I keep the scotch, just out of her view, and pour two shots into my mug and toss them back. After taking a breath, I pour another shot, then add my tea bag and hot water. Much. Better.

I take our tea to the living room. Mom is quiet as she sips. I think of telling her about seeing Elaine earlier. One of the few places where we do come together is over our hatred for Spencer's mother. If Mom thinks Curtis's mom is “ghetto,” she considers Elaine uppity. At the dress rehearsal for our wedding, Mom leaned over and whispered, “I wish whatever crawled up that woman's butt would find its way out.”

“It's becoming clear to all of us that you're not doing as well as you think you are, Piper, and we're all worried sick.” She pauses. “Charles would like to perform a laying of hands on you.”

I arch a brow. “Excuse me?”

“He wants to pray with you.”

“I'm not going to church, Mom. And he's certainly not laying his hands on me.”

“But he wants to help. You wouldn't have to go to church if you didn't want to—although goodness knows it wouldn't hurt. He could come here.”

Sometimes I want to shake this brainwashed Christian in front of me and plead for my old mom to come back, but then, what good was the old mom? Having Hailey in my life gave me a sense of purpose and fulfilled me in so many ways that I didn't have to deal with any issues I had with Mom, but now everything seems to be in my face, sans filter. I study her briefly.

“Do you ever think about Mr. Hoffman?”

Now it's her turn to be frustrated. “What? Who? Good gracious. Why on earth are you bringing him up?”

“I don't know. I've been thinking about him lately.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Do you?”

“Hardly.”

“Don't you ever think about how things would've been if you hadn't dumped him?”

“I don't need to. I can tell you right now how they would've been. Boring. Dull. I don't know what kind of spell he put on you, Piper, but you need to forget about him. I most certainly have.”

“He was the only man you stayed with long enough for me to get to know.”

She brings her hand to her forehead as though taken over by a migraine. “Not this again.”

“Remember how he'd make those incredible meals for us? How we'd go to the movies together? Why did you break up with him?”

She looks up from under her hand as if I've gone mad. “He was
Jewish
!”

“And
so
? Jesus Christ was Jewish, and you don't have a problem fawning all over him.”

She waves my comment away with a smirk.

“Why were you so awful to him?”

“I will not let you point a finger at me, Piper. As soon as I met George—”

“Gerald—”

“George, Gerald, whoever. As soon as I met him, I told David he wasn't the only person I was seeing. It was up to him to stay or leave. I swear, I wish you'd drop this odd fascination you have with that man.”

She finishes her tea. “If you want change, Piper, God can help. You see what he's done in my life, what he does in your sister's life. He can do the same for you. I serve a living God. Just as the trees die in winter, praise God, they rise in spring. Let your stepfather lay hands on you. It can't hurt.”

“What is this? The Middle Ages? No, thank you.”

“But—”

“No. Thank you.”

“Fine.” She stands and reaches for her purse. “Why don't you help me wake up the girls so I can get out of here.”

Ironically, the fact that I lost Hailey has only worsened my relationship with Mom. What I've come to realize is that death highlights problems that have existed all along.

“Fine.”

I pour another double after Mom and the girls leave. I think about taking a walk around the altars but instead go to the hallway closest, unlock all four bolted locks, and take out my Meade 1x. I pay extra for access to the roof, but it's worth it.

After putting on a sweater and jacket, I climb all six flights and set up my telescope. The sky is dark enough that I aim toward the Pleiades, an open cluster of stars, with the hope of seeing nebular gas. I'm in luck, and I gaze as the gases swirl in blues and greens. The Pleiades lie four hundred light-years away; the stars are just babes, really, only fifty million years old, newborns when you compare them to the sun, and so young their gas clouds still linger.

I stare at the Pleiades until I feel the day falling away, until I feel my entire being disappearing into stars and gas, wispy and ethereal. If only.

T
wo weeks later, I'm listening to the wind pounding against my bedroom window. It's early October, and the weather is already getting cooler. Even though it's two a.m., I can't sleep and climb out of bed. I know I'm making a mistake even as I go to the closet and take down the box where I keep Hailey's things, but I walk to the closet just the same. I keep the box on the top shelf, pushed deep into the corner and hidden behind several shoe boxes. After taking it down, I sit on the floor and carefully open the flaps. I take out one item at a time. A coloring book. A necklace made of plastic hearts. Her favorite doll. A pair of baby shoes. I'm not sure why I saved these items over any of the others, but they're what I chose to keep.

I find her favorite T-shirt near the bottom. I bought the shirt on one of our many mommy-and-daughter visits to the Chabot Space and Science Center. The shirt is blue with a gold comet shooting off into space, the words
CELEBRATE HALLEY'S COMET!
written in gold glitter.

I close my eyes as I think of combing her hair; wrapping her in a towel after her bath. Bedtime stories. Her voice from the hall—
“Come here, Mommy! I wanna show you something.”
My body rocks back and forth as tears come. I bring her shirt to my nose and mine for her smell. But it's pointless, and I'm soon crying so much that my throat and head begin to throb. I'm a supermassive black hole, feeding off my own grief and longing.

The room tilts as I make my way outside. I have it in my head that I'll feel better if I get some fresh air, maybe do some stargazing. It's still dark, after all, and even though the sidewalk shifts every time I take a step, I'm undeterred. I take a swallow from the bottle of scotch I've wrapped in a paper bag. I try to stare at the stars, but each time I look up, I lose my balance and tip off to one side. Since stargazing isn't going to happen, I decide to visit a few altars and continue up Fifty-sixth Street. I walk for what feels like hours, but Money's altar is nowhere in sight, and I'm beginning to wonder if I've made a wrong turn.
Hmph
—lost in my own neighborhood.

A cop pulls up alongside me just as the sidewalk turns into an escalator. I feel myself being lowered down to the first floor but manage to stay steady.

The cop rolls down his window—he's mustached, unibrowed. “I don't need to ask what's in that paper bag you're holding. Where're you headed?”

I point west, then change my mind and point east.

He waves me over to his car. I'm transfixed by the unibrow floating above his eyes, thick and turdlike. I imagine that it was passed down hundreds of generations, starting with some long-ago matriarch who sprouted downy hairs on her chin, the Original Brow flat-lined over her guppy-shaped brown eyes.

“You workin' tonight?”

“Work?”

“You're a ways from the avenue.” He glances back toward San Pablo Avenue, a main drag typically dotted with prostitutes.

He looks me up and down. I'm confused at first but then follow his gaze, starting with my shoes—I'm only in my house slippers—on up to my cardigan and spaghetti-strapped top underneath. I'm drunk, but not so drunk that I don't know how I must look.

I move closer to the car. “I'm not working, Officer. My only crime is insomnia.” The ground refuses to stop moving and my feet slip back in a kind of Sammy Davis Jr., Mr. Bojangles two-step. I study his brow after finding my balance. I hear myself say, “Tweezers,” before bursting into a fit of giggles.

He narrows his eyes while I take a long pull from my brown paper bag. My jacket has fallen open and he makes no pretense about what he's staring at. “It's unsafe, you know, to walk this area at night.”

I take another pull. “Why don't you give me a ride in your big fat car, then? Keep me safe.”

I've indulged in my own fantasies involving illicit sex with handsome men, but when you're slurring things like “Why don't you give me a ride in your big fat car,” and hearing a response like “My car isn't the only thing that's big,” the moment is no longer fantasy come to life; it's just plain stupid.

But this is what happens, and all too soon, we're parked beneath a highway overpass. After cutting the engine, the cop pulls my chin toward his face. I keep my eyes open as he shoves his tongue in my mouth and gropes at my breasts. After a minute or two of this, he places his hand on the back of my head and begins pushing my face toward his lap. That's when I grimace and say, “Not very subtle, are you?”

•   •   •

T
he next morning I'm sitting on my bathroom floor with my head suspended above the toilet. Ironically, the song “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” plays from the TV in the living room. I'm waiting to puke, but my stomach is empty by now and nothing comes but dry heaves. I splash cold water on my face and return to the living room. A clip from
West Side Story
has replaced
Oklahoma!
I gather from the narration that the show on TV is about the American musical.

When my stomach growls, I vaguely remember a piece of toast for lunch and go to the fridge. Limp celery. A half container of yogurt. Days-old Chinese takeout. I find a spoon and eat peanut butter from the jar, then mumble, “Fuck it,” and toss the spoon into the sink. Why eat peanut butter when Elaine always makes sure her darling son's fridge is stocked? I find my purse and keys. It's when I'm at the door that I hear the distinct sound of an unclasping buckle and see my fingers laced around a gold zipper. My stomach tightens, and I'm forced to go back to the couch and sit down. I press my hands to my temples and close my eyes. I see my fingers pulling the zipper, followed by the reveal of stark white briefs. I feel the cop's hand pushing the back of my head. I hear his voice:
“Yeah, that's it.”

My stomach surges, and I cover my mouth as I rush toward the bathroom. This time I manage to throw up more than just air.

•   •   •

I
'm surprised when I open the door to the Berkeley house and find Spence in the hallway, putting on his jacket.

“Where have you been? I've been calling all day,” he says.

I think of how only a few minutes ago I was sitting beside my toilet. “I had a little too much last night. I guess I've been sleeping most of the day.”

“You
guess
?” He smirks as he grabs his knit scarf and hat.

“Where are you going?”

“You didn't bother listening to any of my messages?”

I stand there, trying to remember the last time I used my cell phone, let alone where it might be. I snap my fingers and start patting down my jacket. After I find it, I hold the phone in the air and give it a little shake. “Should I listen now?”

Spence says, “I've been going to these meetings. I've gone twice now. Roland told me about them.”

“Roland?”

“Our old neighbor. The widower.”

Five houses over. Nice man. Always alone except for his dog.

“He's been trying for a while now to get me to visit this group he belongs to.”

He's just evasive enough that I understand he would have preferred to tell me about this mysterious group over the phone. I can't imagine what kind of meeting Spence would be too embarrassed to tell me about except—“You didn't join AA, did you?”

“Of course not. The meetings”—he drops his gaze as he wraps his scarf around his neck—“are for people who've lost loved ones.”

His answer catches me completely off guard, and I find myself quietly repeating what he's said.

“Roland has been going for a few months, and every time he saw me, he asked me to come along. I finally joined him.”

“Who's Roland mourning? His wife died twenty years ago.”

“Sadie.”

I draw a blank.

“His Lab.”

“He joined a group of people who lost loved ones because of a dog?”

“Piper.”

I feel a pang of guilt. Roland and Sadie were inseparable, and Roland was one of those pet owners who treated his dog with the kind of care that bordered on pathology.

“Sadie died, huh?”

“Yeah. A few months ago, but the old guy is still having a hard time with it. He said the meetings help. I finally joined him, and I like it.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I wasn't sure you'd be into it, but then I changed my mind and left you a message.”

He's right. I'm not into it. We both hated when people suggested we join certain groups, usually with names like Morning Mourners or Spirits and Humans Reuniting. Even the more straightforward groups didn't appeal. We didn't like the idea of broadcasting our problems or exposing our grief. Just thinking about it now makes me want to convince Spencer that he shouldn't go, that we should keep things as they are—safe and just the two of us.
No other mourners allowed.

“They're a nice group, P. It's good for me right now. I need to start getting out more.”

I think of Elaine's rant a couple of weeks ago and the countless lectures she's probably given him since. “Are you doing this for yourself or your
mommy
?”

“I'm just giving it a try, Piper. It doesn't have to be a big deal.” He zips his jacket. “You can stay here if you want. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“I'm starving,” I whine. “What do you say you go to the meeting next time, and we order a pizza and watch a movie or that documentary on FDR you've been wanting to watch.”

“I already saw it. Last night. While you were ignoring my calls.”

“But I didn't realize my phone was off.”

He starts toward the door. “I should get going. There's plenty of food. Have at it.”

“Wait.” I'm not sure it's possible to feel jealous of a meeting, but I'm ready to tell him anything to keep our little routine going. “In the spirit of going out more, what if we chuck the pizza idea and go to an actual movie theater and get actual popcorn and the whole bit.”

He feigns thinking it over. “Nah. I'm in charge of bringing the cookies, and I don't want to let the group down.” He snaps his fingers. “Almost forgot the cookies!”

I start to follow him to the kitchen but stop short when I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. I look jaundiced, and my eyes are bloodshot. I take off my hat and use the compact from my purse to do what I can. I plop a couple of eye drops in each eye and comb my hair into a ponytail. If Spence is determined to get out more, I certainly don't want him doing so without me. I'm just adding lip gloss when he returns with the cookies. I can tell from the gold label on the box that the cookies are from Lulu's, our favorite bakery. “So I'll see you in a couple of hours?” he asks.

“Can I join you?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I'm in mourning, too, you know.”

A smile starts at the corner of his mouth. “I know. I just know how you feel about these things.”

“Don't be silly. I'd love to go.” I take the box of cookies so he can open the door. “I was just thinking that I need to get out more myself.”

He reaches up and gives my nose a pinch. “Liar.”

•   •   •

F
riends of Friends in Mourning is held in Elmwood. Our hosts' house sits at the end of a street so dense with elm trees, a canopy of branches hangs above us. The house itself, a large two-story craftsman with a wraparound porch, takes up an entire corner.

Diane and Mitch Montgomery, our hosts, greet us with hugs. Diane is dressed in a kind of Moroccan-styled tunic that falls past her knees, loose slacks, and Indian slippers that turn up at the tip. She wears her graying brown hair in a long ponytail held together by a brass clip. Mitch, also long-haired and ponytailed, wears a silk patterned shirt, beaded necklace, and bracelets on either wrist. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

After Spence makes introductions, Diane tells him to put the cookies in the kitchen and make himself at home. Mitch joins Spencer, his arm gingerly on his back as he leads him to the kitchen.

The house is filled with fifteen or so guests, who chat by the fireplace or in the kitchen or as part of the group gathered around the spread of food set on the dining room table. Extra chairs have been put in the living room for the meeting. Diane links her arm through mine as she begins to pull me toward the fireplace. She explains that she and Mitch started the group six years ago, after losing their college-aged son when he was walking through campus and was struck by another student speeding by on his moped. She points to a picture on the mantel. Her son stands on a rocky hill, holding a wooden mask next to his face. “That was taken while we were offering service to a small indigenous tribe off the Caymans. He was fifteen at the time, and before we left, the leader of the tribe gave him the mask he's holding. Mitch and I have been traveling since we were kids. We saw no reason to stop after Chandler was born. When he died, we immediately signed up for the Peace Corps and spent two years in Ghana and later, two more in Antigua.” She holds my arm tighter, her gray eyes shiny. “It never gets easier, but you learn ways to cope. How about a tour of the house?”

I'm pulled along as she points out various pieces of artwork from her and Mitch's jaunts around the world. The tour ends with what she refers to as her “pièce de résistance.” We walk down a long hallway that leads to the opposite end of the house, then come to an abrupt stop. I stare at a seven-foot-tall wooden statue of a man with requisite hoop rings in his ears and nose and what has to be a two-foot-long penis. “I know,” Diane says in reference to my staring and utter silence. “He's gorgeous, isn't he? He's direct from Papua New Guinea. Mitch and I bought him for a steal while we were there. Pretty impressive, huh?”

I keep my gaze trained on his massive-sized shlong. “I'll say.”