Orbiting Jupiter

by Gary D. Schmidt

  “So when are you going to tell me?” he said.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “And that’s why Dahlia keeps stamping her foot, because you’re not worried?”

  “She’s not stamping her foot.”

  And of course, right then, Dahlia stamped her foot. Twice.

  “She’s just in a bad mood,” I said.

  Joseph didn’t say anything.

  “Joseph, you know Nick Porter?”

  “I know who he is.”

  “Brian Boss?”

  He nodded.

  “Jay Perkins?”

  Nodded again.

  “Stay away from them.”

  “Why? You sweet on Nick Porter?”

  “Shut up. Just stay away from them.”

  “No reason not to.”

  Dahlia stamped her foot again. Twice, again.

  “Listen, Jackie, don’t worry. I’ve met all these guys before.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Where?”

  “Stone Mountain.”

  I looked over at him.

  “They’ve never been in Stone Mountain.”

  “Neither have you. Listen, with guys like this, you take the first punch and break the closest guy’s nose. Then the other guys get all nervous because there’s blood and this is a lot more than they thought they were getting into, so they back off.”

  “And if they don’t back off?”

  “Then they’d better be wearing a cup. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  I nodded.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he said.

  He waited for me. Kind of a long time.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I finally said.

  Joseph stopped milking. A minute later he started again—and the splash of milk was the only thing we heard in the barn.

  THE SNOW STOPPED, but the temperature really dropped the next few days, so that getting up to zero seemed kind of hopeless. During the day, the air glistened with hovering ice. At night, the stars were razor sharp. At dawn, the sunlight went straight up in a hazy column. And sunset closed the day with a quick wink. No kidding. One minute it was bright daylight, and then you turned your back and it was full dark, like it was trying to catch you.

  It was so cold that even Joseph—who said he wasn’t going to wear anything like that when he first saw the long underwear my mother had gotten him—put it on as soon as we got home.

  Out in the Big Barn, the cows moved closer together in the tie-up to stay warm, and in the Small Barn, Joseph and I spread a heavy wool blanket over Quintus Sertorius, who shivered his withers at first, then tossed his head and nickered and stamped his front foot. It wasn’t like Dahlia stamping her foot. When Quintus Sertorius stamped his foot, the barn shook and it meant he was happy.

  When Joseph saw that, he smiled. Sort of. Number four.

  On the Friday after it got so cold, my father and I finished the milking while Joseph was at counseling, and then my father said, “Jack, go get a couple of snow shovels,” and we went down to the pond and began to clear the ice. The snow was powder, it was so cold, and if there had been any kind of wind, it would have blown off like dust. It wasn’t a big pond and it didn’t take us long to clear it all, and after we shoveled, the ice beneath was smooth and slippery and light green and white. Around the edges of the pond, before it whitened up, you could lie down on the clear ice and see pebbles and drowned sticks and sand. The ice was probably eight, nine inches thick, my father said. “If it were olden times, we might think about cutting it up for iceboxes soon.”

  Then he shoveled away some of the snow near the pond’s shore while I went up to the Big Barn and brought down three loads of wood. We got the fire started and then went to find enough skates.

  We came out of the house with them just as my mother was driving up with Joseph.

  “What fool thing are you up to?” said my mother.

  “Come and see,” my father said. “You too, Joseph.” He handed him a pair of skates.

  The day was already hinting it would be turning off the lights soon, and the fire was reflecting across the smooth ice. My mother fussed a little about getting things started for supper. Then about how the boys needed to get going on homework. Then about . . . But my father stopped her and she laughed and we took turns sitting on the woodpile and lacing up the skates.

  Already we could see the moon.

  It was the first time this winter, but it comes back right away. That first push and the feel of the skates roughing and sliding over the ice, the way your knees know what to do, the way you lean for the curves—it really wasn’t a big pond—and the way you can flick around and suddenly your heels are leading and they vibrate with the ice, the heat on your toes, the cold on your eyes and the cold in your mouth, the shine of the moonlight and the firelight on the ice, and my mother and father holding hands and skating together side by side, and the first hoot of the annoyed owl, and a train whistle from far away. It was all the same.

  Joseph was kind of stiff-legged at first, and he held his hands out in front of him for balance, but you could tell he’d done it before. He leaned into the curves like he loved the raspy sound the blades made. Once he tried to turn backwards and he fell on his butt. Second time, too. And the third time. So after that he skated around and around, even after my parents were off the ice and sitting on the woodpile, feeding the fire. Around and around, even after I was off the ice, warming my hands. And now his hands were at his sides, and around and around, and now his eyes were closed, and around and around, and we watched Joseph lean and skate, lean and skate.

  Around and around, and I wondered if he was skating in the silver moonlight with Maddie. Around and around, and I didn’t want him to stop, no matter how cold it got, or late. Around and around, and the sharp stars watched. And the low moon. And Jupiter over the mountains.

  Until he slid into the bank by the three of us and the firelight lit him and his face was so tight and my mother said what mothers are supposed to say: “You’re a beautiful skater, Joseph.” My father stood and kicked the flaming sticks together, and threw another couple of splits on, and Joseph looked at me and then at my parents and he said, “I have to see Jupiter. Will you help me?” My parents looked at him, and my mother stood and she said, “Joseph, you—” and he said, “I have to see her,” and my father said, “You know we —” and then under the sharp stars and the silver moon and glowing Jupiter, Joseph told us everything.

  Everything.

  four

  THIS is what he told us.

  Madeleine Joyce was thirteen years old when she met Joseph Brook. She lived in a house that had pillars in the front and a wing on each side and statues on the lawn. Her father and her mother were both lawyers, so she spent a lot of time by herself in that big house when she wasn’t away at her prep school. Sometimes she had a nanny who lived in the north guesthouse, sometimes not.

  The nanny was there the hot summer morning the plumber came to change the showerheads and faucets in the upstairs bathrooms. All five of the upstairs bathrooms.

  He brought his son to carry the tools.

  His son’s name was Joseph. He was thirteen years old too.

  Two days later, Joseph knocked on Madeleine’s door. He had walked seven miles to get there. They spent the day together. They watched a few movies. She showed him how to play tennis on a clay court. They walked through paths cut into the back acreage. And just before he left, he jumped into the pool with all his clothes on. It would keep him cool on the way back home, he said. She laughed.

  That summer, Joseph came every day—except the weekends, when Madeleine’s parents were home. They watched movies, they played tennis on clay courts, they walked long walks through the back acreage, and they swam in the pool. She laughed and sometimes he laughed too. She never asked him why his face looked so beat up. He didn�
�t tell her what his father was doing to him because he wasn’t around anymore to carry the tools.

  That fall, she went away to school in Andover.

  It nearly killed Joseph.

  He went to the library computers every afternoon to write to her. Writing stunk, but it was better than nothing.

  A little better than nothing.

  She came back home for Thanksgiving and Joseph walked seven miles to see her on the stormy, icy Friday afterward.

  The nanny answered the door.

  “Aren’t you the plumber’s boy?” she said.

  Joseph said he was. Was Madeleine home?

  The nanny looked at him. “Go away before you get yourself into a lot of trouble you don’t want.” She closed the door.

  Joseph walked home, seven miles.

  On Sunday, Madeleine went back to her school in Andover.

  She came home again for Christmas break. On the first Monday, Joseph walked seven miles. It was cold and snowy and Joseph’s coat was too small. But he walked seven miles and knocked at her door.

  This time, Madeleine answered, and she held out her hands.

  She brought him inside. She had hot chocolate and he had coffee in the kitchen. They sat by the fire and talked and talked and talked. They went outside—Joseph used the gardener’s old coat—and they walked through the quiet snowy acreage, holding hands. Madeleine threw snowballs at him and hit him sometimes. He threw snowballs too, but he never hit her. Not once. He couldn’t even imagine hitting Madeleine with a snowball.

  Because he loved her.

  He loved her.

  He had never known love before.

  He had never known how much it could fill him.

  He had never known anything, he thought.

  Behind the acreage, they walked along a frozen river and Madeleine pretended she was skating. She was beautiful beyond beautiful, even skating in her boots. The sun went down and she skated in her boots, and skated, and skated, and Joseph watched her until the sky was dark and Jupiter was up and Joseph pointed to it—“It’s my favorite planet,” he said. And she held his arm and looked at Jupiter and she said, “Mine too—now.”

  When they got back from the snowy woods, the nanny’s car was in the driveway.

  Madeleine told him to keep the coat and Joseph walked home, seven miles.

  Madeleine’s Christmas break lasted for three weeks. Joseph came every day, except for the weekends.

  On the weekends, he stayed home and thought about Madeleine until everything in him would almost burst.

  He had never known.

  How could he have known?

  On the day before Madeleine had to go back to Andover, Joseph walked seven miles to her house in a rain that was mostly sleet, and the gardener’s jacket did just about nothing to keep him warm. He was soaked and shivering when Madeleine opened the door. She brought him over to the fire and found him a red woolen blanket and what was he thinking he could die in weather like this, and he got out of his wet things and wrapped himself in the red woolen blanket and sat close to the fire while she made hot chocolate and coffee. She brought the mugs in and they sat together and Madeleine asked Joseph what he remembered about his mother and he said he remembered going outside with her after a storm and pouring boiling maple syrup onto new snow and then eating it.

  That afternoon, while Joseph’s things were drying, they boiled maple syrup and Joseph put on the gardener’s boots and they took the pan outside. They found new snow and they ladled the syrup onto the powder, and when it froze—sort of—Joseph picked it up and fed it to Madeleine, and Madeleine picked it up and fed it to Joseph, and she smeared some on his mouth and she laughed and she leaned forward and she kissed him for the first time.

  The first time.

  Then they went back inside, under the red woolen blanket.

  The nanny found them later, and the trouble she had predicted began.

  She said she wasn’t going to be held responsible and she wasn’t going to lose her job over this. No, sir, she wasn’t.

  But she did.

  Madeleine’s parents took out an injunction against Joseph. A policeman delivered it. Joseph was to have no contact at all with Madeleine. Any violation meant he would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. The very fullest extent.

  Then the State of Maine * Department of Health and Human Services delivered their news: Joseph and his father would begin receiving monthly visits and evaluations.

  And Madeleine was withdrawn from her school in Andover and sent to a school in western Pennsylvania. Joseph did not know which one.

  Three months later, the Department of Health and Human Services visited Joseph’s father while Joseph was at school. Mrs. Stroud told him that Madeleine Joyce was pregnant. She was still only thirteen years old. Based upon this new information and Mrs. Stroud’s observations, the DHHS had decided to remove Joseph from his home and to place him in a juvenile facility for boys. Mr. Brook should know that his son might face criminal charges.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Joseph’s father to Mrs. Stroud. “And probably not the last.”

  Mrs. Stroud was waiting for Joseph when he came home from school.

  His father said, “Hey, stud, you got some girl—”

  “Joseph,” Mrs. Stroud said, “I want to talk with you about Madeleine.”

  Afterward he packed. He was sort of numb. He was going to be a father. A father! He was thirteen! A father.

  He was going to be a father!

  And he knew he had to be with Madeleine, and they were going to have a baby, and he had to keep the baby away from his father, and that meant they would have to leave Maine.

  Maybe Madeleine’s parents would help them.

  And that’s what he asked Mrs. Stroud as they drove away. Could he see Madeleine now? Would her parents help them?

  For a long time, Mrs. Stroud didn’t say a thing.

  Finally, she told him the truth.

  Madeleine’s parents were not going to help them. And he could not see Madeleine. She was in school in western Pennsylvania for two more months, and then she would return to New England. It was not Joseph’s business where she would stay. He should forget her. He was only thirteen.

  He was going to be a father, he said.

  He was only thirteen, she said again.

  She took him to a group home for boys.

  He stayed one day and one night, and left.

  Mrs. Joyce called the police when he showed up at their house.

  The police did not care when Joseph told them he only wanted to talk to Madeleine’s parents. He only wanted them to know who he was, who he really was, so they would let him see Madeleine. He wanted them to know, he wanted them to know he loved her. After that, if they didn’t want to help them with the baby, then okay, he wanted them to know they’d make it on their own. He would work. He would do whatever it took.

  He loved her.

  “How old are you, kid?” asked the policeman.

  Joseph told them.

  “You’re just a baby yourself,” said the policeman.

  The policeman took him back to the group home.

  Joseph stayed one day and one night, and then he left.

  The police found him on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, thumbing west.

  They took him to Lake Adams Juvenile. With a fence around it. A very high fence. The exits were always locked. During the night, the door to his room was locked. From the outside.

  In October, Mrs. Stroud came with papers.

  “What are they for?” said Joseph.

  “You’re a minor,” said Mrs. Stroud, “and your father is still your legal guardian. But we think it’s important that you, as the father, sign these papers. They involve parental rights, Joseph, which you are signing over to the state so that we can find the best possible future for your baby. And frankly, since your father is not cooperating, we need you to help us.”

  That was how Joseph heard for the first time he was now
a father.

  He looked at the forms. The baby was a girl. Her name was Jupiter Joyce.

  Joseph wept.

  Mrs. Stroud handed him a photograph. “I’m really not supposed to give you this, but . . .”

  The baby was beautiful. Beautiful beyond beautiful. She was holding her perfect hands and her perfect fingers and her perfect fingernails up over her head, and her tiny mouth was wide with a yawn, and her eyes were open and she was looking at him—right at him—and she was warm in a light green blanket and a light green cap and she glowed with light like the brightest planet in the darkest sky.

  “Joseph,” said Mrs. Stroud, “you need to sign these papers.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Joseph, Jupiter has to be put up for adoption. I promise you she’ll go to a good family who will love her and take care of her.”

  “I love her. I’ll take care of her.” He put the picture in his pocket.

  “Joseph, you’re barely fourteen. You can’t take care of her. If you want what’s best for Jupiter, you’ll—”

  “We’re what’s best for Jupiter,” said Joseph. “Maddie and me.”

  Mrs. Stroud put her hand against Joseph’s face. He did not move. “Joseph, I didn’t want to tell you this. I thought it would be too much. Maybe it will be too much. But you have to sign these papers. If you don’t, Madeleine’s parents will prosecute you.”

  Joseph looked at her.

  “There were complications. Joseph, Madeleine—”

  “Don’t say anything,” Joseph said quickly. “Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t—”

  “Joseph, please.”

  That was how Joseph heard for the first time that he would never see Madeleine again, never touch her again, never talk to her again, never walk through the woods with her again.

  That was how Joseph heard for the first time that Madeleine, whom he loved, was gone.

  “Madeleine would want this,” said Mrs. Stroud.

  Quickly he signed the papers and ran back toward his room.

  He stopped in the boys’ bathroom. He didn’t know what was coming over him, but it was huge and terrible and strong. It was inside him and outside him, and it was already starting to scream, and it was getting louder and his head was getting louder and his brain was getting louder and he threw water in his face but he couldn’t stop it he couldn’t stop it he couldn’t stop it he couldn’t stop it.