The Night of the Comet (24 page)

Right there, you say?
the mayor might have been asking.
And we’ll see it when? You bet. That is exciting. Sure, we might organize something like that. A town comet viewing. I like that
.

Overhead, the stars winked in reply:
An auspicious night, an auspicious night
.

I bounced my knee in time to the music and kept an eye on the back
doors of the house, waiting for Gabriella to appear. I could see the evening unfolding as beautifully and simply as a story. We would dance together in front of the gazebo, turning arm in arm beneath the lights as the band played. Between songs I would fetch her something to drink from the bar and then escort her to that white-draped table over there in the corner of the yard. Maybe we’d take a stroll along the edge of the water. Later, toward the end of the evening as guests were leaving, we’d talk quietly in a dark corner of the porch. I would hold her hand, and before the night was over, if all went as planned, we would kiss.

Up on the gazebo, the band was playing a song I didn’t recognize, but in the snatches of lyrics floating over the heads of the guests, I caught an echo of my own hopes for the evening:

FOUR
songs later, there was a drumroll and an electric fanfare from the band.

People turned toward the corner of the yard as Frank, Barbara, and my mother stepped up onto the floor of the gazebo. My father hustled up to join them, and they arranged themselves in a crowded line in front of the microphones.

My sister slid up beside me to watch. “Hey, little bro. Are you ready for the big show?”

“What show?”

“Oh, boy,” she said.

Frank spoke first. He bent over and lightly touched the side of the microphone with the fingertips of one hand, his other hand resting in his trouser pocket. He was poised, relaxed—a man used to addressing large groups.

“Is this on? Good evening. I want to thank everyone for coming. It’s really great to see so many people I know here tonight. Barbara and I
are delighted that we finally had this opportunity to open up our home to all our new friends, and we look forward to hosting many more events like this in the future.”

He gave a special thanks to the mayor and led a round of applause for him. Then, “I think Lydia has a few words to say to you now.”

Frank adjusted the stand as my mother stepped to the microphone. She jerked her head back, startled at hearing her voice so loud when she first spoke. Then she went on quickly, holding her hands away from the microphone as if she were afraid it might shock her. Talking more loudly than necessary, she thanked the Martellos for hosting the party and said how without them, none of this would have been possible. They were only newcomers to Terrebonne, but already Barbara and Frank had shown themselves to be wonderful, caring, involved citizens of the community—the kind of neighbors anyone would be happy to have. And wasn’t everything just so … so … so gorgeous tonight? Like a dream come true.

“Now about the party,” she said. “Why we’re all here.”

She turned the microphone over to my father, who came forward unfolding a piece of paper.

“Oh, god,” said Megan beside me. “Here he comes.”

Our father reminded everyone that the party was named after Comet Kohoutek and spoke about what a momentous occasion this was in the history of science, and how that soon, very soon, we’d be able to see the comet for ourselves, growing bigger and brighter every night until Christmastime, when it would outshine all the stars in heaven.…

My mother stood erect, hands clasped below her waist, a smile fixed on her lips, as he went on to explain how the proceeds of this party would go toward refurbishing the science laboratories at Terrebonne High School. Consulting his notes, he listed some of the equipment they’d be buying. Then he spoke about the importance of science education in schools. He said how public schools provided the workforce for the industries and businesses that helped our cities grow. Without science in the schools, there would be no engineers, no technicians, no workers to man the oil rigs or run the refineries.…

As he spoke on and on, my mother’s smile began to waver. She
touched her hair, readjusted her posture, until, overcome by a spasm of impatience, she bobbed forward and yanked the sleeve of his jacket. He snapped around, spoke sharply to her, and then turned back to the microphone. He finished by thanking everyone for their generosity, and said how by supporting public education, they were ensuring a better future not only for themselves, but also for their children, their children’s children, and for all the future generations of people living on the planet.

“Thank you,” he said, and folded away his notes.

Frank Martello leaned into the microphone. “End of lecture. Class dismissed.”

“Wait, wait! It’s not over yet.”

My mother edged back to the microphone. She spoke again in her too-loud voice, holding her hands out and batting the air.

“Okay, okay. Everybody! You all know this is called the Comet Ball. And of course, no ball would be complete without a king and queen. And so now—”

She nodded at Frank, and he leaned in to the microphone with her: “We present to you—the Comet King and Queen!”

They both gestured with their right arms to the patio. The band struck up a march. There was a spark of light and a stir of movement at the rear of the house.

Then Mark and Gabriella stepped out, costumed in silver robes. Gabriella wore a crown that had golden rays shooting up from the back of it, and Mark wore a silver turban with a cut-out golden comet arching across the front. Over their heads he held a Fourth of July sparkler that hissed and sputtered as it threw off silver and gold shards of light.

People moved back, laughing and clapping as the two began a slow procession around the yard. Gabriella smiled and nodded, looking embarrassed, but Mark walked tall with a proud, dumb grin on his face.

“What is this? You knew about this?” I asked Megan.

“I know, I know. It’s retarded,” she said. “Mom wanted a pageant. She had to have one. This is what they do at balls, apparently. They actually rehearsed this, believe it or not.”

“No, I mean Mark and Gabriella. What are they doing together? Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

“I guess Mom didn’t want to discourage you.”

“But then why didn’t you tell me? You could’ve warned me at least.”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a stupid show. It doesn’t mean anything.

They needed a boy and girl. It could’ve been anybody.”

“Great. Thanks. That helps a lot.”

As Mark and Gabriella promenaded and the band played, my father came forward and repeated a more dramatic version of his lecture on comets, sounding like Mr. Elvert at the planetarium—“What strange light hails yonder?” and so on. He ended with Comet Kohoutek, the Christmas Comet, the Comet of the Century, “mightiest and most beautiful comet to ever grace the skies of our humble planet.”

At this, Mark and Gabriella mounted the steps of the gazebo. Barbara bent in to adjust Gabriella’s gown. The Fourth of July sparkler had gone out, but Mark still held the burnt-out stick above his head. The band stopped playing.

Frank greeted them with mock formality. “Welcome, Your Majesties. Thank you for coming.”

“Welcome,” said Mark.

Frank bantered for a minute with his friends in the crowd while Mark and Gabriella shifted and whispered to each other on the platform. Then Frank turned to my mother, wondering about the rest of the ceremony.

“Aren’t they supposed to say something now?”

“No, we cut that.”

“That’s all they do?”

“That’s all.”

“Well—all right, then.” He turned back to the crowd. “Won’t you please join me in welcoming our very special guests for the evening, the Comet King and Queen.”

The band played a fanfare. Gabriella curtsied, Mark bowed, and people cheered.

My mother took the microphone again. “And now everyone, it’s time to have fun! Dance! Enjoy yourself!”

“The night is still young,” Frank prompted.

“The night is still young!” she shouted, and the band launched into a song.

Mark led Gabriella down onto the floor, and people cleared a space for them as they began dancing. Mark danced the same way he spoke, holding his head high and staring straight ahead, like a dog sniffing the air. But Gabriella danced beautifully; she steadied her cardboard crown with one hand and swished the hem of her silver robe with the other. Someone lit sparklers and passed them around. My mother urged others to dance, too, and then she grabbed Frank and began dancing with him. She moved dramatically, holding both of Frank’s hands in hers and staring intently at his face, as though she was trying to hypnotize him.

Not to be outdone, my father shouldered his way onto the floor. He gave a shout and began doing a ridiculous Russian-style dance, folding his arms in front of him and kicking his legs out one after the other. He kicked, spun around, lost his balance, and fell over backward into some people. They helped him up by the shoulders and he bounced back onto the dance floor, his face red and determined as he leaped and shouted. People clapped and laughed.

“Oh my god. I think I have to go kill myself now,” said Megan, and slipped away.

And how did I feel, seeing all this? Miserable. Horrified. I might have been witnessing a scene from my worst nightmare: Gabriella the queen and Mark the king, the most beautiful couple in the world, turning coolly at the center of the dance floor while my parents bumbled and crashed pathetically around them like two furious, crippled birds.

THE
stars stretched and wavered in the black water. I stood at the edge of the Martellos’ dock with my back to the party. The band was taking a break. People were wandering around the yard, ice tinkling in glasses, voices murmuring. From time to time I heard my mother’s shrill laughter flutter up above the hubbub and then settle back down again. Gabriella and Mark, the king and queen, had disappeared somewhere.

I looked up across the bayou to our house. It squatted there like a fishing shack behind the trees. The lights were off, the windows dark. I saw my own window, a tiny black square jutting off the roof. I turned to look over my shoulder at Gabriella’s room up in her house. Her balconies were decorated with Christmas lights, her bedroom lit behind the yellow curtains. I looked back and forth between our two rooms, and they seemed farther apart than ever tonight.

What was I thinking, imagining there could’ve been something between us? Some cruel god or fate had set me down on one side of the
water, her on the other side, and no wish, no prayer could ever alter that unfair fact of life.

That was the problem with expectations: they were good only as long as they lasted. Better not to expect anything at all. Better to join the cold-blooded, big-eyed creatures slithering in the mud at the bottom of the canal, animals that didn’t have to worry about love and hope and expectation. Because as soon as you grew two legs and learned to walk upright, you were pretty much doomed to a lifetime of disappointments.

I looked down at the water, black and slick as oil. The stars blinked invitingly at my feet. How easy that would be, to throw myself in and slip away from all this. I imagined myself tipping over the edge of the dock, tipping, until I fell, plunging head first into the stars. The night sky splashed around me, cold and dark as the sea, and then the black, airless space rushed in to fill my mouth and lungs—

“Don’t jump!”

I looked up from the water, startled out of my reverie. Giggles came from a clump of skinny pine trees at the corner of the yard.

“No, no, no.”

“Shh. Leave him alone.”

I stepped down off the dock and walked along the edge of the water toward the voices. A group of shadows huddled in the grove, their bodies barely distinguishable from the tree trunks.

“Who is that? Who’s there?”

“Oh, man. Why’d you have to—”

As I came into the trees, the shadows revealed themselves to be my sister and the members of the band. A faint red dot floated between them, and a sharp, sweet odor hung in the air.

“Is he cool?” one of the boys asked.

“Never,” Megan said.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Oh, man,” one of the boys said.

“It’s okay. We’re just enjoying a little smoke,” another said. I recognized him as the leader of the band. “You want some?” He held out what looked like a twisted-up cigarette.

“Is that— No. No way. I don’t think so.” I took a step back.

They laughed. “He thinks we’re demons.”

“If you tell anyone, I swear I’ll kill you,” Megan said.

“Aw, he’s cool. You’re not going to tell anyone, are you, man?”

I’d only ever seen marijuana in movies and in documentary films at school, so to come across it here, in real life, with my sister and this shadowy band of college-aged musicians, was frightening and strange. They passed the joint, sucking on it in long, deep breaths and clamping their lips shut. I glanced over my shoulder at the Martellos’ house.

“Relax, man. It’s safe,” said the leader.

“You remember Greg, don’t you?” my sister said. “My old guitar teacher?”

“Oh, right.”

Greg had wavy, shoulder-length hair parted down the middle. He held out his hand for a soul shake. “Hey. Little Alan, right? Junior. How’ve you been? What’s up, man?”

I was introduced to the other members of the band, the bass player, the keyboard player, the drummer. In the dim light, they were little more than long hair and pale faces bobbing above skinny bodies hunched in jackets.

“You enjoying the party?” Greg spoke gently, his voice fluid.

“It’s okay,” I said, but then added, more truthfully, “Not really.”

“You’re like the only kid here.”

“I’m not a kid, exactly.”

“Your age, I mean.”