Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  He looked up to smile at Irwin when from the corner of his eye he caught a commotion at the viewing window. Robert was sprinting into the chamber while others pressed at the hatch. He darted his glance to the chamber where he saw the technician in a white apron, thick gloves, and a face mask with his hands raised askew in the air. He was stepping out of the way in awkward, woozy steps.

  Instinct caused Jack to spring to his feet. “Damn, the liquid nitrogen must have spilled. Irwin, call the paramedics! And get those fans blowing!” he called out as he ran into the chamber.

  Robert had run in ahead to help but was already confused and tangled in the heavy black cable. Jack ran to his side, grabbed his arm, and dragged him out of the chamber. A small coterie of assistants gathered at the hatch door, wide-eyed with fear. Jack shoved Robert into their extended arms.

  “You there. Close this door after me. Then make sure you open it quick when I come back. Got it? Nobody else goes in there, understand? No matter what.”

  “Jack, you can’t go in there!” cried Irwin, holding back his arm. “There’s no oxygen in there. You’ll be asphyxiated.”

  “So will that guy,” he shouted back. “Now get out of my way. We’re wasting time. Just get those damn fans blowing!”

  “Oh, bugger the fans! They’re not responding!” cried Irwin, red-faced and flustered.

  Jack took a quick look at the room strewn with scientific equipment, but there wasn’t a piece of rope in sight. So he grabbed a handful of computer cables, ripped them off the machines with a fierce yank, then, taking a deep breath, signaled for the hatch to be opened and leaped in after the technician, who’d already collapsed to the floor. Jack wrapped the computer cable around the man’s feet, grateful for years of Boy Scouts and knots, then ran back out, bursting through the hatch just as his breath gave way. The assistant closed the hatch behind him.

  “Okay, you, you, and you,” he panted out, pointing to the men, “get over here and pull on the cue. Ready? One, two, three—open the door. Pull!”

  Four men pulled the cable hard, and, in several heaves, they dragged the technician across the floor to the chamber hatch, where Jack lifted him out over the rim into the arms of assistants. The fans clicked on at last as the hatch was sealed again.

  The technician wasn’t breathing, but he had a shallow pulse. “Get the medics here!” Jack called out, ripping off his tie. Then, positioning himself over the technician, he began CPR. Nobody’s gonna die on my shift, he thought to himself as he counted out the thirty/two ratio of breaths. Come on, whatever your name is, he thought, wishing he’d taken the time to learn it. Come on...

  Moments later the paramedics arrived and, with practiced efficiency, administered the much-needed oxygen. Jack stood limply aside and only breathed normally again once the medic gave the thumbs-up sign. People milled about in silence, watching, as the team carted the technician off to the hospital.

  Jack lowered his head and blew out a deep breath with a prayer that the young technician’s brain cells were all intact. Then he slipped his tweed jacket off his slumped shoulders and threw it over the nearest chair. He only wore the darn jacket on days he had to lecture.

  “How are you?” Irwin asked, worry shining in his eyes.

  He felt wiped out, but waved away the solicitous inquiries. Sweat soaked his white oxford shirt, and he tried unbuttoning the top button, but his damn fingers were shaking too much to get the job done.

  “Here, let me help,” said Rebecca Fowler, a tall, leggy graduate research assistant. Her long, nimble fingers completed the job with calm, expert precision.

  “Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat and taking a step back. “Thanks, everyone,” he said in a louder voice, addressing the nervous clusters of technicians and assistants in the room. “It’ll be okay once those fans get some air blowing in there. But you all did a real good job of working together. I’m proud of you.”

  His words had a soothing effect and, in a short while, the lab was humming along normally as the scientists got caught up in their work.

  “That was real Buckeroo Bonzai stuff you did there, Jack. You’d better get that bio written while you’re still alive,” Irwin quipped in a friendly manner, offering him a cup of cold water. “No one will ever know your history.”

  “Yeah, well...” Jack gulped down the water. “I don’t have much history to know. Just my work. That says it all.” He crumpled the paper cup and tossed it in the trash. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Say, old boy,” Irwin said with a laugh and a slap on the back, “don’t get shy all of a sudden. We all have a history, no matter how dull.”

  Jack laughed, then turned his head away as his smile slipped. No, not everyone, he thought with an unconscious wince of pain.

  “Anything the matter, Dr. Graham? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  Jack looked up to see Rebecca Fowler moving in closer. He was tall, but she could look him in the eye and did so as she raised her hand gently, flirtatiously, to smooth back one of the dark, wayward curls from his brow.

  Rebecca was gifted in every area imaginable: brains, beauty, and money. Looking at her statuesque body, her gleaming raven hair, and brilliant blue eyes staring seductively into his own, Jack thought that she was even over-blessed. Every red-blooded man in the lab had wondered aloud what it would be like to be stranded on a space station alone with her.

  “No, thanks, I’m fine,” he replied, breaking eye contact and, no doubt, the best chance he’d ever get with her.

  Right now, he just wanted to be alone. To think. Irwin’s comments rooted up thoughts about his past he thought he’d buried deep. He took a step back.

  “That was quite a scare,” Rebecca persisted, patting his arm as though he were a little boy. He found it more annoying than alluring. “Why not come home to my place and let me make you a drink? Maybe some dinner. You can... relax.”

  He doubted that. Relaxing didn’t seem to be part of the menu, and he’d had all the excitement he could handle for one day. “Rebecca, that’s a great offer, but I can’t,” he replied. “I’ve got things I’ve got to take care of.”

  He ignored her pout of disappointment and Irwin’s look of astonishment and ducked out of the lab early, feeling drained.

  That thing he had to take care of was a nagging question. A question that dogged him for most of his thirty-six years: Who was he? What was his history? Other than a few flashbacks, Jack had no memory of his early years. Life began for him as a six-year-old, shivering and abandoned on the doorstep of a London orphanage with a note looped around his neck. He’d been no better than some unwanted, discarded mutt.

  He took a long walk in the park, his head tucked into the collar of his raincoat and his hands deep in his pockets. Why couldn’t he remember? What might have happened that left six years in a murky blackness? No matter how hard he tried concentrating, pressing all of his 156 IQ points to the limit, he couldn’t pull up images of his early- childhood years. Presumably he’d been born in England. When he’d returned to London from America about a year ago, he’d considered hiring a private detective to dig up his past. In fact, it was one of the lures of the offer to come to England to do a year of guest teaching and research. But once here, excuses why he couldn’t begin the search cropped up; either he couldn’t get a decent referral for a detective, or he was too busy to make the call, or he decided the search was pointless after all.

  Tonight, however, the uncertainty nagged at him again, with more bite than usual. He realized that if he’d died in that lab accident today, he had no next of kin to be notified. No one who cared, really cared, if he lived or died. Walking in the park in this foggy twilight, passing solitary streetlamp after streetlamp, hearing his footsteps sound on the damp pavement, Jack Graham realized how utterly alone he was.

  He went to bed early after stuffing down a handful of chips washed down with a scotch for dinner. For hours, he wrestled with his sheets, pounded his pillows, and cursed the mind that wouldn’t st
op churning. When at last he quieted and drifted toward sleep, one familiar image flashed in his mind. It was his single childhood memory, one that haunted him before he fell asleep most nights, in that strange limbo between wakefulness and sleep. In it someone—a man—was hitting him, hard. He’d see the fist coming for his face before he shook the vision away.

  Jack opened his eyes and swore softly under his breath. Enough was enough. He rose from his bed, having made the decision. Walking to his desk in the next room, he flicked on the light, pulled out a stack of Post-it notes and scrap papers from the IN box and sifted through them till he found the one he was looking for. Ian Farnesworthy, Private Detective. Well, one was as good as another at this point, he figured, and, without further qualm, neatly punched in the number.

  As expected, he got the answering machine, but he left a brief message and his phone number, then hung up. Jack stared at the phone for a moment, blew out a long stream of air, then, after flicking off the light and climbing back into bed, fell into a welcomed deep sleep.

  * * *

  The following morning, in a flat upstairs from where Jack Graham lay sleeping, Maddie and Tom O’Neill slumped over the banister and whined.

  “Mom, what can we do now?”

  Faye drew her hands from the bucket of hot, soapy water to listen to the umpteenth question from her children in the past hour. Maddie’s hair hung in a tangled mess around her shoulders, and Tom was dressed in a mismatched collection of prints and plaids that he’d stubbornly selected himself that morning.

  “Did you unpack all of your toys?”

  Maddie rolled her eyes, and drawled, “Yes.”

  “Well, how about helping me wash the kitchen? Each of you can grab a sponge.”

  This was met with loud groans that caused Faye to tighten her grip on the sponge.

  She was exhausted from days of unpacking, assembling necessary supplies, and scrubbing the flat to meet her rigid sanitary requirements. And if that wasn’t enough, she would begin work at her new job in a few more days, and she still hadn’t found a baby- sitter. Faye felt as squeezed dry as the sponge in her hands. The last thing she needed right now was to entertain her children.

  “We’re bored,” Maddie whined in that needling voice that made mothers everywhere cringe.

  It was on Faye’s tongue to say something along the lines of how she’d give them something to do, but she held back. It was, after all, a tough time for the children. They didn’t know where to go or what to do in this strange new place filled with funny noises and odd smells. Nothing was familiar, they were adrift, and a long summer loomed ahead before school began in the fall. What they needed were friends. Right now, however, Faye was busy being the mother and the father. She just didn’t have the time to be their friend.

  “I have an idea,” Faye improvised. “It’s a beautiful spring day. Why don’t you go outside and play?”

  Their faces scrunched up in disappointment. “We don’t have anything to do out there.”

  “Sure you do. How can any child not find something to do on a day like today? Didn’t you say you wanted to start a garden? Well, go on! First you have to prepare the soil. You know, dig out all those weeds. I saw some shovels and trowels out in the back shed. I don’t think anyone would mind your borrowing them to spruce things up.” She saw the idea take root in their imaginations by the light in their eyes and the stillness of their faces.

  “Will you come with us?” Maddie asked, straightening and brushing her bangs out of her eyes with a hasty swipe.

  “You two go ahead. I’ll join you when I finish the kitchen.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, yes, I promise. Now go on with you.”

  Maddie’s face lit up, and she pushed back from the railing. “Come on, Tom!” she ordered, and took off. Tom followed close at her heels.

  Faye watched them tear out of the flat with relief. During the past week she’d discovered the hidden defects that she’d overlooked during the initial flush of pleasure at the charm of the house. Some of the lovely plaster walls had been damaged by moisture, presumably from a leaky roof, leaving a musty smell. Paint chipped and flaked in corners, lights flickered when the children ran or jumped upstairs, and the plumbing rattled and spit out miserly bits of water through a thick crust of lime and corrosion. It was a shame that such a lovely building was so neglected.

  Still, she thought, her hands resting on the bucket as her gaze swept the rooms, she loved the house. Loved dusting the old mahogany furniture, washing the thick-mullioned windows and scrubbing the creaky wood floors. It had only been a few days but already No. 14 seemed like home. The walls seemed to embrace her and spoke to her of a security and lifestyle she’d coveted. Indeed, sometimes the old house felt like her first friend in London.

  She craned her neck to look out the rear window to check on her children. Maddie was scooping mounds of weeds and dirt from the garden, making a terrible mess, and Tom was whacking at a bush with a stick. Faye shook her head, chuckling yet pained for them. They didn’t have a clue how to create a garden. What they needed was a teacher. A mother with time to spare.

  For one fanciful moment, Faye felt an overwhelming urge to tug off the yellow rubber gloves and exchange them for cotton gardening ones. To feel the warmth of the sun and her children’s smiles.

  Then common sense returned and she swept away her idle thoughts like motes of dust and focused once more on her bucket and sponge and that greasy spot in the small box-like oven. Time waited for no man—or woman, she told herself. She had to grab the moment to get these chores done while her children amused themselves. Or lose the moment forever.

  * * *

  Downstairs in the garden flat, Jack pried open an eye to scowl at the shaft of bright morning sun that peeked through a narrow opening between the curtains to shine directly in his eyes. Scratching his head, Jack yawned groggily, hearing in the distance horns beeping in the street, and a few chatters and chirps from noisy spring birds. He’d passed a merciless night of tossing and turning, wrestling with his thoughts. Even sleeping in until eleven this morning didn’t shake the drowsiness away.

  Working on automatic pilot, he stuck his long legs into sweatpants, pulled a ratty Stanford sweatshirt over his head and padded down the hall to the enormous kitchen. His stomach growled more loudly than any other noise so Jack grabbed a cup, sniffing it first to make sure it was clean, poured yesterday’s coffee into it, then stuck the cup into the microwave. Waiting for the beep, he prowled for breakfast, deciding leftover pizza met the four basic food groups. After stuffing it down and gulping a few bitter swallows of coffee, he splashed cold water on his face, ran his hands through his hair, and, considering himself decent, followed the surprising sound of children’s voices.

  Outside the sky was cerulean. The apple tree had shed its heavy, fragrant spring blossoms and littered the crooked flagstones. In the distance, a light green shadow of buds covered the ancient wisteria vines that clung like snakes along the old brick walls. He stopped abruptly at the door, surprised to find two small children as busy as spring bees cleaning out the old fountain.

  The girl was older, by about two years, and she obviously was the one in charge. She was perched high atop a rickety wooden ladder polishing the bronze boy’s face while giving orders to the boy, who appeared to be her brother. Despite her thinness and sweet, pale features, she was as efficient a drill sergeant as he’d ever come across.

  The boy, in contrast, appeared meek, quietly doing as he was told. A slight, pale child, he had eyes too big for his face and hair that stuck out in all the wrong places, making his face seem even smaller. Looking around the garden, Jack saw with amusement that they’d been working darn hard. Sprays of dirt littered the flagstones, remnants of a great war between tenacious weeds and stubborn, stubby fingers. They’d made enormous progress. But man oh man, he thought, looking over the thick, overgrown ivy, crumbling bricks, and legions of weeds. There is a war to be won to bring this ruined garden
back into shape.

  Smiling, he realized that these must be the two American children that Mrs. Lloyd was so worried would scuff the good furniture. He liked kids himself. Usually preferred talking to them than to adults. There weren’t many little ones in this neighborhood, and he missed the excited shouts and laughter they always brought to the streets, not to mention a few pickup games of ball. These two were more quiet than most, however. He had to listen hard to catch their conversation.

  “He seems nice,” the young girl was saying as she polished the statue’s face. “I wonder who he is?”

  Jack stepped forward into the sunlight. “That’s Peter Pan,” he replied.

  The girl sucked in her breath and swiftly turned her head his way, on guard. Immediately, she checked on the whereabouts of her brother. He stood beside the fountain as frozen as the boy of bronze, his eyes round with fear.

  “Who are you?” the girl rasped.

  Jack moved slowly, not wishing to frighten them any further. “I’m your neighbor,” he replied with an easy tone. “My name’s Jack. Jack Graham.” He was met with silence. “What’s yours?”

  The girl cocked her head, studying him with suspicion. He smiled, hoping to break the ice.

  She wasn’t convinced. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger,” he argued back. “I live downstairs. This is my garden, too, you know.”

  Now her eyes narrowed. “My mom said we could clean the fountain.” Her tone dared him to argue the point.

  “And a very nice job you’re doing, too.” He began walking leisurely toward the fountain, whistling softly as he looked around. “You know,” he said, pointing to the small pile of wet, rotting leaves laying on the stones, “there are probably dozens of nice fat worms in there. Unless you plan to go fishing, I’d toss them back into the dirt. Worms are good for the garden.”