The Night of the Comet

by George Bishop

  He went off to find my mother, leaving me to wander on my own through the rooms. There was more to the house than I had imagined; my telescope had never taken me this far inside. Opposite the library was a living room with plush furniture, flowers in vases, picture books on a table, and a cart with a silver tea set. A large, elaborately decorated Christmas tree stood at the window. Farther on was a dining room, the table gone and the chairs pushed back against the walls. I peeked into a billiard room, a music room, a breakfast room, a sun room, and other rooms and passageways whose functions I could only guess at. It was like walking through a museum, and as in a museum, I felt wary of touching or standing too close to anything.

  At the rear of the house I found the patio room with its familiar armchair, sofa, and television. The sliding glass door stood open to the pool and yard, where lights were shining, music was playing, and people were moving.

  “Gorgeous. Gorgeous home,” my mother had said. Seeing it myself, I understood why she liked visiting here so much, and why she always seemed so disappointed when she returned home to ours. It was obvious, wasn’t it? Who wouldn’t have wanted to trade their lives for this dream?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “JUNIOR. Over here.”

  Mark Mingis, my blond-haired, blue-eyed rival, was standing at the edge of the patio, a glass of cola in his hand.

  “Cool party,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t come to the party?”

  “I didn’t think anyone else from school would be here.”

  “I’m not supposed to say. It’s kind of a secret.” He took a sip of his Coke and looked away mysteriously.

  I had no interest in talking to Mark, but we were the only two boys at the party, and so I stepped up beside him. We watched the yard fill with guests while we sipped our Cokes. He stood half a head taller than me and wore a crisp blue blazer over a white turtleneck sweater.

  “You live somewhere around here, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Over there across the water.”

  He glanced across the bayou. “Over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh.” He nodded, as if the matter was settled.

  The band had begun playing in the gazebo in the corner of the yard. People stood in small groups, talking and drinking. Others carried plates of food from the buffet under the tent and sat down at tables lit with candles and warmed by gas heaters placed around the lawn. At a bar near us, a slim black man in a white jacket snatched up bottles and poured out drinks, murmuring, “Yes sir, yes sir! What’ll you have? Yes, sir!”

  I recognized a few locals from town, but the rest, men in suits, women in furs, were people I’d never seen before. They belonged to that privileged class of people who lived and moved in the golden sphere, playing golf at the country club in Thibodaux and spending their weekends at second homes on Grand Isle. Mark, I was surprised to see, knew many of them. He gestured with his glass as he pointed them out in a dull, bored manner.

  “There’s the mayor. That’s the manager of the bank. That’s a friend of my dad’s—he’s in oil, Ted Freely. There’s another one, Mr. Burns. He’s in oil, too, from Lake Charles, I think. Him, too. It’s a good turnout. All the oil folks.

  “Gabby’s dad, over there,” Mark said, nodding. “He’s cool. He’s buying new jerseys for our team.”

  Frank Martello stood with a group of men all about his age, all sharing his same rugged handsomeness. He squeezed the shoulder of one, relit the cigarette of another. He turned to shake the hand of someone who’d been waiting to introduce himself. You could see the party gathering and circling around Frank; people recognized his importance and instinctively gravitated toward him.

  Barbara stood in another corner of the yard talking to a clutch of wives. She wore a dark navy-blue outfit trimmed with black fur. She might’ve stepped from the pages of a magazine, so rich and elegant she looked—the perfectly turned-out woman of the house.

  And there—over there was my mother. I caught sight of her flitting around the edges of the party in a new lime-green dress with a kind of short yellow cape. She looked like a parakeet escaped from its cage, fluttering excitedly around the yard and bouncing off people’s shoulders. She spotted her old friend Dale Landry and swooped in to say hello. She put her hand on his arm, leaned in to exchange some words, and then threw her head back and laughed. I could hear her laughter all the way across the yard, bright and startling.

  She fluttered over to Frank’s circle and landed beside him. Frank slid an arm around her waist, pulled her in close, and introduced her to the men gathered around. They raised their eyebrows as my mother talked and gestured animatedly. Frank bent over and whispered something in her ear. She slapped his arm, and the men all chuckled and shook their shoulders.

  Beside me, Mark had begun talking about football. He looked straight ahead, not at me, as if he were addressing an invisible roomful of people. He said what a fine team they had this year, and how Coach DuPleiss really knew his business. The man was tough but fair, and the players respected him for that. Mark was just a freshman, but the coach had seen his potential and given him a shot at outside linebacker in their last game. He had the weight, he had the strength; now he just had to work on his speed, he said.

  “Who do you like?” he asked, turning abruptly to me.

  “What?”

  “Who’re your teams?”

  I didn’t know anything about football, so I said LSU.

  “LSU!”

  Mark cursed the team and said he used to like them, too, until they got their asses kicked by Alabama. Then it was like they just rolled over and played dead. There was no excuse for a team like that, he said, a team that had everything going for it, a team that could win all season and then toss in everything at the end. He couldn’t believe they’d lost their last game to Tulane.

  “Can you believe that? Tulane.”

  He shook his head disgustedly and let out another string of curses against LSU.

  If there had ever been any doubt about my feelings for Mark, there wasn’t anymore: I couldn’t stand the guy. There was something mean and stupid in his nature. It showed in his thick nose and blunt forehead, and in the way his eyebrows lowered when he swore. He was only talking about a football team, but he could as easily have been cursing the blacks, or the Communists, or anybody else he took it into his mind to hate. He was strong and unforgiving, a bully, and I saw that he would be that way for the rest of his life; and for this same reason I suspected that he would always be successful in whatever he did, and I despised and feared him for that.

  I was glad when my mother swooped up from the lawn and interrupted us.

  “Boys! Boys!” she said breathlessly. “Are you having fun? Did you get something to eat? Isn’t this fabulous?” She had a drink in one hand; her eyes were bright, her face flushed. She grabbed Mark’s arm. “I need you now. I need you right now. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mark finished his Coke in a swallow and looked around for a place to put his glass. My mother took his glass and handed it to me.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “You’ll see. In a minute,” she answered, and spirited Mark away into the house.

  The band finished a song and started another one. Guests mingled on the dance floor in front of the gazebo; they crossed the lawn, passed in and out of the house, and stood at the edges of the swimming pool, looking around as though waiting for something to happen. I saw my father lead the mayor out through the gates of the patio and down the yard toward the Martellos’ dock. They stopped on the grass, and my father took the mayor’s arm and pointed up at the sky. The mayor, a short man with a white crew cut, nodded and pointed along with my father.

  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 win
ked 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:

  Tonight (dah dah dah) lonely

  Tonight (dah dah dah) only

  Tonight (dah dah dah) show me

  Tonight!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  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.