Dark Star

by Paul Alexander

  At a little after three o’clock in the morning, she experienced an acute attack of anxiety, and sat desperately gasping for air for more than a minute. The inexplicable, succinct, yet indistinct, outside force that overpowered her, further convinced her that something devastating had happened. She feared for her son’s safety. This occurrence marked the third time that day during which she felt a profound change in the tangible connection she shared with James David.

  “Nothing can be done until after church,” the Revered insisted. “If anyone should ask, we’ll simply say James David is under the weather.” He reinforced his point with a partial quote from the Bible. “As Paul wrote in his first letter to Timothy: ‘… for if a man does not know how to manage his own household, how can he care for God’s church?’”

  *****

  The windowpane shattered easily with one short swing of the tire tool, which Tim borrowed from Tina’s trunk. He wielded it like a professional. Shards of glittering crystal sprinkled JD’s bedspread; thousands more slid across the worn hardwood floor, and wedged in every crevice. Tim snapped the latch, lifted the broken casement, and crawled through the opening. He let JD in through the back door.

  Tina circled the block.

  Tim wanted to ransack the Joneses’ bedroom and loot for anything of value. Total violation of his parent’s privacy was more guilt than JD could manage. He refused, and insisted they stay together. “Tim, you’re the expert, I need you to open my father’s desk.”

  The study door was easy; JD found the spare key in its usual spot. The desk was an entirely different matter. Only one key existed, and the Reverend kept it in his pocket at all times. JD, assured that Tim was an expert, expected him to produce a paper clip or some special tool, press his ear against the drawer, and the lock would click open.

  Instead, to JD’s chagrin, Tim deftly wedged the tire tool under the lip of the drawer and jerked; the wood splintered in agony as the drawer snapped open. The damage done; fear echoed through JD, but it was too late. All he wanted now was to find some money and escape.

  The drawer brimmed full with papers. On top, yellowed and faded, two roughly torn halves of a black and white photograph lay; in it, the Reverend was standing behind a massive grin and in front of a motorcycle. He wore a white tee shirt, and it looked as though there was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve.

  Beneath the picture, he found a faded-yellow 9” x 12” envelope. JD flexed the sheath of papers. Something about the size of a travel alarm, and very heavy, slid back and forth inside. Printed on the sealed flap, in the Reverend’s irregular hand, was only one line: PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, OPEN ONLY IN THE CASE OF MY DEATH. JD had never before seen inside the drawer. Standing there with the envelope in his hand, he felt like an interloper in his own home. He released a heavily burdened sigh of relief; on top of the remaining contents, two neatly folded twenty-dollar bills peeked out of a letter-size envelope.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he urged, already halfway across the room.

  “What about the other stuff,” Tim asked as he followed, “the campin’ gear?”

  “Forget it; I wanna get outta here before we get caught!”

  Late in the afternoon, Tina picked Mike up from work. JD and Tim hid in the back seat. They gave Mike a report of the day’s events, and everyone agreed that it would be best to wait until Monday morning to head for the woods. Tim made another trip to his father’s house, and JD spent a second night with Mike and Tina.

  The wild thing, as Tina called it, was enticing and delicious, and JD was reluctant to leave.

  *****

  Three nights in the woods were something less than the adventure Tim had described. Their food was always raw or burned. The hard, cold ground was unforgiving. A persistent rock under JD’s side of the tent left his back sore and bent every morning as he hobbled around the camp.

  Tina’s prearranged, clandestine visits were the only good thing in JD’s long, lonely days in the woods. Her forbidden society was unforgettable, and he spent every minute, after she drove out of sight, waiting for her to reappear. Intoxicated by her lingering smell, he was recalcitrant to wash away the magic.

  Five days seemed like forever, five days of guilt, five days of remorse, and five days of Tim, pushed JD to his limit. “I’ve had it.” JD began as he threw another broken branch on the sputtering campfire. “I’m gonna turn myself in and just deal. We’re never gonna have the money we need to make it to Canada. Even if we did get there, then what do we do?” He did not pause for an answer. “Their winters are really rough. We’d probably just starve to death, or freeze, or both. Tim, I gotta go home; you can do whatever the hell you want.”

  Tim nodded in approval.

  *****

  Monday morning a concerned parent called Grace. She had overheard her daughter say that James David had run away from home, and was camping with another boy.

  With potential camping locations as his focus, the Reverend followed one ambiguous lead after another, and searched the back roads all day Tuesday. Finally, on Wednesday morning, he topped a remote hill, and caught sight of the two boys walking.

  *****

  Tim’s submission was a signal; it was time for JD to take control of the situation. “It’s a long walk back to town,” he said abruptly. “We’re gonna have ta leave some a this shit.”

  Tim scooped up his personal backpack, and started toward the road.

  They left the woods and walked, side by side, down the middle of the deserted gravel road; the going was easy. They had made less than a mile when they saw dust boiling up, like a rooster tail, behind the old car speeding their way. JD gulped hard; a cold chill flashed down his spine. His heart pounded and his vision blurred. “It’s my father,” he whispered.

  “Oh shit,” were Tim’s only words.

  The Reverend stood stoically next to the open car door. JD dared not look at his father. He knew, all too well, the old man’s resolute face. As he drove, the Reverend spoke only to Tim. “Where do you live, young man?”

  *****

  The Reverend sat uncomfortably behind his old desk. The big file drawer hung crookedly from the frame; splintered wood fanned out from its face like a porcupine. He ran his palm affectionately around the jagged edge. A splinter lodged in his finger; he jerked his hand away. With his palm close to the stark light, he studied the tiny black lance embedded just below the skin. A drop of blood oozed from the pinpoint entrance to the wound. With his other hand, he gripped the spot and squeezed with all his might. Pain shot up his arm. He looked again at the damaged drawer, and then turned his attention back to the desk itself. This was my father’s desk, he thought with regret.

  Using all of his strength, he pulled the drawer free. With a few minor adjustments to the slides, the drawer slid in and out with only a few rough places. He took out the large, faded-yellow envelope, and touched the muted-blue words. It was sixteen years since he had written them, and on the same day, he had sealed the vessel. He anxiously checked the seal; the envelope was unopened. Forty dollars were missing from the drawer. A bent and grieving widow had given him the two twenties for his kind words over an open grave. The money does not matter, he told himself. The envelope is intact.

  He held the two torn halves of the photograph under the lamp, and touched the smiling face of his brother. With self-reproach, he taped the photo together, unsealed the envelope, and without looking at the contents, slid it inside. The envelope lay on his desk for two days before he resealed it and locked it away.

  *****

  Grace had never seen her husband in such an obscure mood.

  In a severe tone, he barked the order. “Bring me scissors and a razor; then tell your son I want to see him.” He stood between his old desk and the open door on a piece of clear polyethylene, which covered the floor.

  The unsteady tenor of his cold voice and the rustling plastic beneath his feet sent a chill down Grace’s spine.

  *****

  With each pa
ssing hour, JD became more nervous. This is just like the son-of-a-bitch, he thought, he knows it’s always worse when he makes me wait.

  JD waited in his room, alone. The summons finally arrived on Friday afternoon with a reluctant, familiar knock at his door.

  Mrs. Jones’s swollen eyes and red nose appeared in the three-inch opening between the door and its frame. “Your father would like to see you, James David.” She said in her whispery voice.

  This is my fault, JD thought as he looked into his mother’s mournful, blue eyes.

  The anomalous film rattled under JD’s cautious steps when he entered the room. He knew not to speak; warily, he closed the door and stood at attention just inside. He held every muscle in his body stiff; nervous tension made it difficult to breath. He locked his arms straight down, directed his eyes to the floor, and waited.

  JD loved his thick brown hair; he kept it neatly cut, washed it every day, and combed it often. The women in the church frequently cooed when he came around. “Grace,” they would gush to his mother as they ran their fingers through his hair, “do you know what a handsome son you have?”

  At sixteen years old, JD was already nearly six feet tall; he was embarrassed, and a little flattered, when his mother’s friends surrounded him and stood on their toes fondling his hair.

  The Reverend sat behind his desk. He appeared to be deep in thought. Eventually, he began to speak. “James David, you are a disappointment to me. I have made great sacrifices for you, and you thank me with rebellion, humiliation, and deceit.” His words were paced and deliberate. “I have asked myself a thousand times where I went wrong.” He became more animated; at length, he stood. “What should I have done differently?” He supported himself with his arms, his palms flat on the desktop. “No matter how often I ask these questions, I have no answers. We have given you every opportunity: a good home, a family, the church, and creature comforts that are unknown to many in the world. In spite of everything, you persist in hurting us. What you have done is reprehensible, unforgettable, and almost unforgivable.

  “As if all that you have done is not malicious enough, you have stolen from me. You took money that was not yours—forty-dollars, forty hard-earned dollars, paid to me by a widow for ministering to her in her time of loss. You will repay the money, and you will never steal from anyone again, ever.

  “I have studied scripture and prayed for divine guidance. It should not be necessary for me to learn to cope with you. You are the child; you should live in my shadow. The Bible is very clear on discipline. It is the perfect and only life guide. In its pages, I found the answer. You will accept that answer, your punishment, in silence and with remorse.” The Reverend’s face glowed red; he pounded desk with his fist. “You will learn from this, and you will follow the path of the righteous from this day forth.”

  JD trembled.

  “In the book of Jeremiah, Chapter 7, verses 28 and 29, it is written: And you shall say to them, ‘This is the nation that did not obey the voice of the Lord, their God, and did not accept discipline; truth has perished; it is cut off from their lips. Cut off your hair and cast it away; raise a lamentation on the bare heights, for the Lord has rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath.’

  “James David, accept this punishment in the spirit of love. Repent your sins, and do not repeat them,” he pounded his fist again. “No good can come to you if you do not change. You, my son, are on a path that can only end in a fiery hell.”

  From a drawer, the Reverend produced the scissors and razor. As he came around the desk, James David flinched; every muscle in his body tensed. He understood what was to be next. He had heard the scripture, and now he saw the tools. Only fear kept him still.

  For JD, the sound of hair falling on plastic was deafening. Each snip from the scissors felt like a knife slicing his heart. The fragrance of coconuts and spring sadly became less distinct as the locks slid down his neck. The Reverend finished with the scissors, and took up the razor. With purpose, he pulled the blade in a distinct and repeated pattern across JD’s scalp. Twice he nipped an ear. The pain was minor, yet it unnerved JD. He mustered all of his remaining strength, and continued standing.

  *****

  JD saw many things change that week.

  On Sunday morning, he asked his mother for permission to skip Sunday school. Her answer was monotone; she looked at the floor as she spoke. “I guess it will be all right this time.”

  JD, confused by the quizzical look on her face, thought. Does she feel sorry for me or guilty for her part in this? He ran one hand across his bare head, and felt the stubble of new growth. Either way, she’ll have to deal with him for lettin’ me out of Sunday school.

  She called back as she left the house. “Do not miss church.”

  JD arrived as the final peal of the huge brass bells resonated against red brick and stained glass. He slipped through a side door and up the back stairs into the deserted choir loft. The choir no longer used the loft; instead, they occupied folding chairs behind the pulpit and in front of a large, arched-top, stained glass window. The morning sun drenched the sanctuary in deep and varied shades of light.

  I am here, he thought as he glared at the Reverend, already behind the pulpit. Look at me. I want you to know I’m here.

  JD sat numbly through the service. He listened, but did not hear. It was as though the Reverend’s voice had lost its authority. His presence seemed diminished. JD felt it more than he heard it. The preacher’s words no longer rang out; they lacked passion and conviction. Most profoundly of all was the way he read the scriptures. For the first time in his life, James David Jones was not afraid.

  Am I free of him, of his control, he wondered, or am I just no longer able to feel?

  The hair came back; the feelings never did.

  FOUR

  The boy they called James David Jones, was summoned to the Reverend’s study at least once per week. His physical being always went, always took its punishment, and never complained.

  Mrs. Jones rarely spoke to her son. When she did, she seemed nervous. After a time, JD began to notice she was no longer perfectly dressed. Loosely wrapped braids of graying hair lay in inconsistent rows and formed a lopsided bun. Long, rebellious wisps protruded at various angles and hung haphazardly from the back of her head.

  I wonder if she feels like I do, he thought. From time to time, he tried to catch her glance. Her once bright blue eyes never looked directly upon him. This is my fault.

  *****

  A long time in coming, his senior year of high school arrived. Passed by the grace of God, he thought, or by the mercy of the teachers, he concluded.

  Secretly, he was pleased with the transformation he managed under the Reverend’s nose. He grew hair long enough to partially hide his ears and parted it down the center. At 6’ tall, he towered above most of the students. A thug, he thought as he admired himself in the mirror.

  To everyone, except his parents and the teachers, he was JD. He spent all of his free time with Mike and Tina, mostly with Tina. Their little boy called him Unca JD; he liked that.

  The second day of April of the following spring, he celebrated his eighteenth birthday. From a shelf in the supermarket, he selected a small chocolate cake and a box of birthday candles. In the alley behind the store, hidden from the street by a smelly dumpster, he hurled the pastry against a concrete block wall. The icing slid down the dirty white building. From the crawling goo, thin wisps of smoke curled up from two extinguished candles. JD smiled, turned, and strode away in silence.

  Three weeks later, one month before graduation, JD left school for good. Instantly, the rumors began to circulate and evolve. Maybe he dropped out because someone provoked him. I heard he did it because it makes him seem cool. The complicated exaggerations all came back to him. The truth was simple; The Reverend wanted me to graduate.

  *****

  Her eighteenth birthday marked four years since she had been born again, not as a Christian, born again as Star. K
ept in the shadows, the innocent Estrella had no practical purpose, no reason to be out. I need a change, Star told herself, my life is boring; I need a fucking change.

  “Make me blonde, a natural blonde,” she told the young hairdresser as she relaxed in the chair, “like Marilyn Monroe. It’s my birthday and I’ve earned it.” She said in perfect English without the slightest trace of an accent.

  Her Spanish, and her Spanish accent, were equally good. When Lupe was away or passed out, she practiced for hours in front of a dirty mirror, watching her lips and her tongue as she enunciated the words in English, then Spanish. She emulated the accents she heard on television from well-spoken commentators in New York and Mexico City. She read every book she could find, in both languages, and filled a stack of notebooks with vocabulary words.

  The pale redhead skillfully blew Star’s hair dry, and combed every strand until she was perfectly coiffed. The tall, newly blonde, self-proclaimed debutante slowly lifted herself from the chair, leaned over the counter, and admired the change. The new Star looked out from the mirrored wall. “Perfect,” she said conceitedly to the image, “I am perfect.”

  Outside on the busy sidewalk, she turned her face to the warm, spring, west-coast sun, closed her eyes, and smiled thinking of the two other major changes, which were soon to come.

  *****

  The first few days, after JD left school, were exciting. Kids came up to him in the street and asked to shake his hand. He was a legend. When he was alone and afraid, he turned to Tina. She comforted him. She was his island of refuge until one day Mike came home unexpectedly, and the tide of reality washed away the island. Mike and Tina divorced; Tina told JD it was over.