by Jason Gurley
“You’re their hero,” I said, nodding toward the girls’ bedroom. “Mama’s. Mine.”
But it was the wrong thing to say.
“Nothing heroic about it.” His face flashed with anger—and something else I’d never seen before. “Not a damned thing. You think there’s ever a day I wake up and I don’t hate you? All of you? Every day, just a little bit? And hate myself for feeling it?”
Shame.
My brother was my hero. Did he think I’d never felt guilt? He’d gotten out. He’d made it. It was us who dragged him back. All of us. When Dad died, we all lost something. And then we’d taken something more from Derek.
“D,” I said. “You’re human, that’s all. You’re—”
“Like I could change a damn thing,” he swore, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Put food on the table. Keep you kids in school.” I wanted to protest at that, being lumped in with the twins. But he charged ahead. “I can’t fix anything. Can’t stop any of … this … from happening to you, too. Heroic? Fuck, Z, I’m just hanging on.”
I opened my mouth, but he wasn’t finished.
“And what did you do?” he demanded, dragging his hands down his face. He was on the verge of tears. “What did you do, Z?”
“It’s going to be fine,” I said. “I’m working full-time. We can save a lot of money. Start to get ahead.”
“Everything I do, and you’re still on the same fucking road,” he moaned. He turned away from me. “You just don’t get it.”
I saw it then. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it; Derek was so much like our father that I shouldn’t have been so blind. For Derek, it wasn’t about how I could help shoulder the load. He didn’t care about the load; he’d already accepted that it was his to carry.
My quitting school meant he was carrying it for nothing.
He felt like a failure.
“Derek,” I said, but then his whole posture changed, as if he’d had an epiphany. He walked away, without speaking, and disappeared into his bedroom at the end of the hall. When he returned, he had a piece of mail in his hands. Triumphantly, he dropped it on the table in front of me.
“I know I did one thing right, Z. Did one thing about as right as a man can do.”
The envelope lay facedown. It had already been opened.
“What is that,” I said, my voice flat.
“Open it.”
The envelope was good paper, not the usual utility-bill stuff. There was visible grain, and the opened flap bore a torn seal with a scripted F printed on it.
I looked up. I knew what that was. “What did you do?”
“I did the right thing,” he said. “But too late now, I see.”
I turned the envelope over. FLECK INSTITUTE OF ART & DESIGN, the return address announced. SAN DIEGO, CA. Printed in the center was my name, our address.
“D,” I said, weakly.
There was just one folded sheet of paper inside. I knew without reading what it would say.
“You got in,” Derek said, quietly. “Your ass got in.”
My vision blurred, and I wiped my eyes. “How?”
And he reminded me of the morning we’d both woken early. The bad dreams. The wadded-up napkin he’d shot toward the trash can. I remembered, then. He’d missed. I’d gone back to sleep, and he’d put the napkin in the can. And he’d found my application.
“That sweet girl brought it for you,” he said. “I don’t understand how your brain works, Z. You filled it out, then you just threw it away. But you’d done the hard part. So I did the rest.”
“We can’t afford it,” I protested.
“Financial aid,” he returned. “What else you got? Huh? Let’s hear. Vanessa? The girl brought it to you—she’s already in your corner. You call her up, she hops a bus to come visit. Done. What else?”
Don’t make me go, I didn’t say. Let me stay. This is where I belong. I’ll take care of everyone.
He was waiting for an answer, though, so I told him the truth.
“Mama. The girls. You.”
“No,” he said, unmoved. “We’re not your leash. Don’t you put that on them. Not on me.”
“I just—I can’t,” I wept. “Not when you need me.”
Not when I need you.
Derek came around the table. Close to my ear he said, “You think you have to stay. I know. You think you have to be a hero. But you don’t, Z. So here’s how it’s going to be. You listen to me. Want to take care of us? Do right by those girls? Go. Show them how. Want to do right by Mama? Make her feel that pride. Give her a reason to come back to us.”
I buried my face in his shoulder and cried.
“You want to do right by me?” he asked, his voice tight. “Give me this. Show me I didn’t come home for nothing.” He wrapped his arms around me. I could smell the sweat of his day, that harsh blend of grease and salt. “You understand, Z? You give me this.”
* * *
The man who answered Vanessa’s door had a kind, easy face. Waves of brown hair gone gray at the temples. Ruddy cheeks, eyes warm beneath a knit of slightly unruly eyebrows. He wore an open-collared shirt that revealed a fading tan line. Jeans, socked feet.
“Help you?” he asked.
Vanessa was the only person I needed to tell. About what Derek had done, about where I was going. I hadn’t seen her since that day in the loft. Was she pissed at me? Maybe. Had she given up on me? If I were her, I would’ve. But I had a lot to say, if she would let me.
“I, uh…” I’d expected Vanessa.
The man clapped his hands, pointed at me. “Hey, you’re the football-game boy,” he said. Then he laughed. “Sorry. You have a name, of course.”
“I’m, um—I’m Zachary,” I answered.
“Pleasure, Zachary.” He turned and shouted Vanessa’s name into the depths of the house. Through the open door I saw expensive furniture, an enormous flat-screen television mounted on a wall, a fireplace. “It’s really nice to finally meet you,” he said, offering me his hand. As I took it, he said, “I’m Nessa’s stepfather. Aaron. Aaron Bartlett.”
The world shattered. I recoiled from his hand and stumbled down the steps. My mind reeled. Aaron Bartlett. I knew that name. Knew it far too well.
“Hey,” Mr. Bartlett said, his voice tinged with concern. “You’re—Zachary, son, are you all right?”
From somewhere in the recesses of the house, I heard Vanessa call back, asking who was at the door. The sound of her voice, the dissonance of this moment, turned my knees to water. My heart was a piston in my chest.
All those letters with the Bernaco Oil emblem. All the legal documents, the filings and depositions, all the rejections and disavowals, they’d all arrived with a single name attached.
AARON BARTLETT
Lead Counsel
Bernaco Oil
Sincerely, Aaron Bartlett. Warmly, Aaron Bartlett. And later, as our lawyers pressed back, the letters had lost their feint toward kindness. Regards, Aaron Bartlett. Awaiting your reply, Aaron Bartlett. And ultimately, just: Aaron Bartlett.
The most recent letter ran through my head, text and subtext blurring into a hateful, shouted speech.
Bernaco has offered—
Your father was just a statistic—
A joke—
Don’t bother us with this—
Here, a few dollars for your pain—
Jesus Christ. We were the Montagues and Capulets. Two warring houses, a goddamned literary cliché. We’d never been just Zach and Vanessa. We were Romeo and Juliet.
I staggered down the sidewalk, backing away from Vanessa’s stepfather, from his mask of concern. My hands clenched and released, forming fists so tightly my knuckles throbbed.
What are you going to do, Zach?
What will you do, hit me?
Go ahead. Hit me. DO IT.
Here I am—
You’ve been waiting for this—
Put your fist through my teeth—
Do it for your family—
“
Zachary,” Mr. Bartlett repeated, and the world rushed back in. I tripped and fell from the final step, sprawling hard on the pebbled sidewalk. I’d cut my hand—I saw blood—but the pain hadn’t registered yet.
“Zachary, son, are you okay?”
“Zach? Zach—” Vanessa’s voice cut through the static, repeating my name, but I couldn’t see her. It was as if there were a storm raging behind my eyes, crowding out every other input. Things made sense now, and nothing made any sense at all.
Everything swam. I shoved myself to my feet. All I wanted to do was run.
32
Vanessa
Zach loped down the sidewalk, seemingly in a haze.
Immediately, I realized what had just happened. I couldn’t let him leave. I could fix this. But Aaron half blocked the door as I approached.
“Vanessa, what is going on—”
“That’s Zach Mays, Aaron; his name is Mays.” Aaron’s face paled at that, and he moved aside. I took the steps two at a time, pursuing Zach down the sidewalk. “Zach!”
He wobbled like a man struck by lightning. I shouted his name twice more, but I wasn’t sure he really heard me. I caught up with him easily, four houses down the block, and took his hand. The palm was slick with blood.
“Zach,” I pleaded. “Zach, just stop. You’re bleeding. Stop.”
He did and stood unsteadily. I wondered if he was in shock; maybe he was. His eyes were unfocused, swimming with tears. I put my hands on his face and tilted his gaze toward me.
“Zach,” I said. “Look at me. Come on.”
After a moment, his gaze sharpened. He looked into my eyes, and all I saw was pain. I said his name again, and he laughed. He laughed, and it was bitter, and broken, and awful.
“You see?” he asked. “You see, I knew it. They were right. I’m cursed.”
“Zach—”
“All that shit about bad luck,” he went on. “I let them say it. It wasn’t real. It was just a joke. What did it matter?” He blinked at me, and his eyes spilled over. “But it’s true, Vanessa. All this time it’s been true.”
“Zach, he just works there. He doesn’t make the decisions—he does what he’s told. None of it was Aaron’s doing, nothing is—”
“You were the only friend I had,” he said, and his face crumpled in my hands. Before I could tell him how wrong he was, that he mattered, that I loved him, he tugged free of my grasp. He backed away, not looking at me, and in that moment, all his fears were confirmed.
It began to rain.
Zach tipped his face heavenward. Rain slicked his hair, trickled down his face in ribbons. When he looked at me, his eyes were filled with sad amusement. “See?”
I stood dry, just a few feet away, the boundary of the sudden storm between us. It was everything he’d said. It was a curse. He was in the thick of it, and I was on the outside.
“I’m glad,” he said. “That you don’t know what this is like.” He laughed again, but there was no humor in it; it hardly sounded like a laugh at all. It was a guttural sound, one of acceptance. He was exactly what he feared: the butt of some grand, cosmic joke. One that everyone else was in on, including me.
“Zach,” I said, stepping toward him.
“No,” he said, backing away more. “Wouldn’t want you to get wet.”
He left me standing there, on the sidewalk, dry as a bone.
* * *
Outside, the storm unfurled, the rain finally enveloping the house. Too exhausted to cry, I lay on my bed, listening to it. The sound took me into sleep, and when I opened my eyes, the rain was gone, and the walls were Creamsicle orange. The sun was coming up. I’d slept for twelve hours.
My phone vibrated. A voice mail from Aaron. He wanted to talk, when I was ready. He was confused, worried. He loved me. Mom loved me. He hoped I wasn’t angry. He understood if I was. I put the phone down, and it vibrated again.
“Damn it, Aaron,” I muttered.
But it wasn’t my stepfather. It was a Facebook notification. A friend request. I tapped the red badge—and dropped my phone.
It was from Jonathan Drake.
My father.
Irrationally, I worried my mother might burst into the room, as if psychically alerted to my father’s presence. Her worst fears, confirmed: I was in secret communication with my father; all this time it was him I wished I were with, not her.
But my bedroom door remained shut.
I picked up my phone, carefully, as if it were scorching hot.
My father’s profile photo wasn’t his face, but a Volkswagen emblem. The large, wide photo behind it showed bare feet in sharp close-up, framed against spongy tundra. But that was all I could see. A message on the page read Become Jonathan’s friend to see what he shares with people on Facebook.
A private profile.
Not knowing what lay behind that barrier was agony. What had brought him out of the woodwork? Why now? I didn’t want to be his friend. I felt my heart detach and sink into my gut, thudding and echoing in a sea of nausea. What did he want?
There was only one way to find out.
I bit my tongue—and accepted the request.
The page reloaded.
My god. There is so much here.
My father was a blogger now. Much of his Facebook wall was links to the many, many posts he’d published on a site he called Farewell, Andromeda. The most recent entry was titled “The stars look very different today.”
Oh, brother.
The title of every entry, even the name of the blog, were tributes to old songs and albums he’d loved. Traces of who he’d been when I knew him. If in all this time he hadn’t changed, would that be a good thing? Or the worst thing?
I searched for anything more revealing than his blog. I refused to read the entries. I didn’t want his words in my head. On the ABOUT page, everything was blank. Birth date. Family members. Relationship status. All blank.
With trepidation, I tapped PHOTOS. What unspooled before me was a repository to rival the Library of Congress. Dozens of albums, precisely named and dated, stuffed with hundreds of photos each. Yukon, October 4–7, 2012. Big Sky Country, February 11–21, 2011.
DIY Star Bus.
I tapped that one.
The first photograph depicted a rusted old Volkswagen bus parked on a gravel driveway before a small cabin. The vehicle was utter junk: sidewalls split and fraying and flat, windows grimed over, cracked, or missing. The body was pitted and scarred.
The caption read:
Three hundred bucks at auction, and I had to tow her home. She doesn’t know it yet—but she’s going to be my Niña, my Pinta, my Santa Maria. We’ll sail the starry meadows together.
Gag.
I studied the cabin behind the bus. So that was where my father lived now. Red shutters, a red door, huddled beneath an enormous evergreen. Where was this?
The photo had more than two hundred comments, including one from someone named Georgina Paraholt, who wrote: You’ve adopted lots of strays over the years, Jonny, but this one’s a real beaut.
Jonny? Strays?
The next few photos were close-ups of the battered van. Shattered headlights, a chewed-up tailpipe, rotted carpeting. But I happened across one that gave me pause: a selfie, taken on a sunny day. In this one, my father laughed, holding an electric drill with his free hand. Behind him, the van rested on blocks, a patient awaiting surgery. But I couldn’t take my eyes off my father. The man I knew had valued order, and it had shown in his often tight expression, his restrained wardrobe. This man, however …
His hair was longer than I recalled and lightened by the sun. His hairline had hardly moved. He wore a scruffy beard over a deep tan. The crinkles around his eyes had deepened, but the combination of all these things only made him look more youthful. A man unencumbered.
This was my father? This blissed-out cabin dweller in hemp necklaces and beads? Who wrote swooning love letters to the universe on a website and restored junkyard vans?
Beneath the
photo:
Day one of Operation Stargazer! Lots and lots of work ahead for this beautiful baby.
The first comment belonged, again, to Georgina: My sexy mountain goat!
Ugh.
Over the course of seventy photos, the Volkswagen transformed. Whitewall tires appeared. The interior was gutted and power washed. The old transmission was lifted out, a rebuilt one plugged in. I’d never known my father to be handy, but now he documented a construction project in the van’s belly: He fashioned the wooden bones of a living space, with a bed frame, cabinets, hidden compartments, a bookshelf, a sink. The windows were replaced, the body sanded and painted. Curtains were hung, cabinets were stocked. The grand accomplishment was the skylight he installed in the roof, complete with a removable panel.
The final photo: the finished Volkswagen, parked on a rocky plain. A shadowy range of mountains crawled across the horizon, purple in the day’s fading light. A campfire, a column of smoke twisting skyward. The faint pricks of stars just visible above. And there, protruding through the skylight panel, the barrel body of a remarkable telescope, aimed skyward.
I was wrong. She’s not my Santa Maria. She’s my wandering Star Bus, my magical Hubble-on-wheels.
I’ll keep the cabin warm and waiting, Georgina wrote, while you and your lady wander the earth. Oh, how I hated her. I tapped her name and saw in her profile picture a laughing woman with her eyes tightly shut, lazy blond hair looped up with a string. She was beautiful and probably a decade older than Mom. She wasn’t alone, either: Part of my father’s bearded face, teeth bared in silent laughter, pressed against her cheek. The next photo was hauntingly intimate, taken from the inside of a tent. The flap was open, pines stretching away into the distance. In the foreground, tangled together, were two pairs of bare legs. Beads around her ankles, tattoos of the sun and moon upon the top of each foot. The other legs, I was certain, belonged to my father.
That’s enough. I wanted no part of this world. For the first time, I felt grateful that my astronomy career wouldn’t make it off the launchpad. My father still clearly pined for the stars. I wanted no part of a world in which I had to share the skies with him.
