Light from a Distant Star

by Morris, Mary Mcgarry

  “I knew I shouldn’t’ve waited so long to get ready. Now, I’m gonna be late for work again. Oh, Jesus, that’s not the right time, is it?” She pointed to the wall clock.

  “Ten minutes fast,” Nellie lied so she wouldn’t swear again and offend Mr. Cooper, who not only attended church every Sunday but had recently had his picture in the newspaper getting some award from the bishop. From downstairs came tapping on pipes and her parents’ voices calling to each other like underground miners searching for a way out. After the canary died.

  “Where do you work?” Mr. Cooper asked.

  “The Paradise.” Dolly cocked her head with a perky smile.

  “Oh. Well. Maybe you should call and tell them you’re running a little late then,” Mr. Cooper said.

  “Yeah, lotta good that’ll do. My boss, he’s a real …” She glanced at Nellie, raising thin eyebrows that were blond instead of yesterday’s thick brown.

  “Dolly’s a singer. She’s got a really nice voice,” Nellie said quickly. She knew from listening at the bathroom wall that she swore a lot. Mostly on the phone, though. So far she’d only had a few visitors. That guy she’d turned away had come back again late one night, stayed a while, then after another argument had stormed out, slamming the door behind him, which her mother considered one of the rudest things one person could do to another—in this house, anyway. Two women who seemed to be Dolly’s age had stopped in last week. They had the same mussed look, like dolls that had been handled too roughly. They didn’t stay very long. Even their walk was similar, teetering down the steps on high wedge-heeled sandals, carrying out armloads of clothes on hangers.

  Dolly winked at her. “Nellie’s one of my biggest fans.”

  “Of whose numbers I’m sure are legion,” Mr. Cooper said.

  “Yeah,” she said uncertainly, as if it might be an insult.

  Nellie’s mother and father emerged from the cellar with cobwebs in their hair. Her mother’s cheek was smudged. She apologized again to Dolly. The pilot light had gone out and they’d had a hard time getting it lit. It was probably going to take a while for the water to heat up, so if Dolly wanted, she could use their shower.

  “Oh, gee, that’d be great,” Dolly said, jumping up to follow Sandy.

  “Excuse me!” Mr. Cooper said, quickly pushing back his chair to stand. He held out his hand. “Here we’ve been talking and I never introduced myself. Andy Cooper.”

  “Dolly Bedelia. A pleasure to meet you,” she said in that breathy, sing-song voice with a tilt of her head, and when she leaned to shake his hand, Nellie couldn’t believe her eyes. The front of her robe slipped open, exposing a dark rim of left nipple. In Mr. Cooper’s sly smile Nellie glimpsed their future, and it was bleak. She didn’t breathe again until Dolly was upstairs. The clunk in the pipes as the shower went on wrenched in her chest. Her father and Mr. Cooper resumed their discussion. Her mother had obviously told him to stay on message. First, the building would need to be inspected, Mr. Cooper said. Oh, of course, her father agreed. And that price he’d mentioned, Mr. Cooper said, well, that was just a ball park estimate. Naturally, her father agreed. Mr. Cooper said he’d feel more comfortable having a commercial appraisal done. That makes sense, her father said. Especially now with real estate values down so much, Mr. Cooper said, adding how he’d probably end up taking a beating, but he did want to help out however he could. Her father didn’t say anything. She wondered if he was already sorting through history, his grandfather and great uncle building Peck Hardware ninety-five years ago, tools as firmly in hand as their confidence in future generations.

  “That Miss Bedelia, she seems like a pleasant young lady,” Mr. Cooper said, interrupting their resumed business discussion as Nellie listened around the corner. But she’d lost interest in their talk of inspectors, purchase and sale agreements, lawyers, closing dates.

  It was six o’clock. Dolly was gone, Henry was still not home. Something awful had surely happened. She never should have stood there watching him go. Afraid of Bucky’s foul mouth and Raymond’s dirty mind, she’d thrown her brother to the wolves. Maybe even literally. Coyotes had recently been spotted on the outskirts of town. Her little brother had been entrusted to her care and she had become exactly the kind of person she couldn’t stand. A phony. A coward. She was setting the table for dinner when Henry’s bicycle brakes squealed down the driveway. Relieved, but still the coward, she ran out to warn him not to say anything. Their mother thought he’d been in the tree house all this time.

  His face was sunburned and dirty and his eyes were bloodshot and red, though he denied crying. Bucky and Raymond hadn’t been fishing too long when they’d gotten sick of it. They told Henry about this amazing place they’d discovered. A sacred Indian initiation site. Sworn to secrecy, he’d been led deep into the woods, to a clearing littered with smashed bottles and burned beer cans. In the middle were charred pieces of wood and ashes from old campfires. First they’d made him take off his shirt, then they’d cut a length of fishing line, and according to ancient rite, tied him to a tree with his hands behind his back. With Henry begging him not to, Bucky yanked down his shorts and underpants. They threw his clothes high over his head into the tree branches.

  “This is what you get for tryna get out of the club,” Bucky hissed in his ear. “Next time’s your sister’s turn.”

  They’d run off with Henry screaming and begging them not to leave him alone. He said he stood like that, for a long time, his bare back and rear end rubbing almost raw against the rough tree bark.

  “Look,” he said, raising the stitched arm. The scar was fiery red and bleeding at two of the stitch points. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, three or four hours anyway, he thought. His rescuers had been an older couple holding hands as their dog trotted ahead. The dog, a greyhound, had found him first. It came running at him, then stood inches away, barking. Listening, Nellie could feel her brother’s terror, helpless, tied to a tree, certain the frantic dog was attacking him. The man used his pocketknife to slice the line on Henry’s wrists while the woman shook the tree to get his clothes down, all but his underpants. They stayed caught on a branch.

  “They wanted to call the police, but I said, ‘No, please don’t. They were just fooling around.’ ‘What kinda fooling around?’ the guy said. ‘They do something to you?’ he kept asking.” Henry looked sick.

  “What’d he mean?” Nellie asked, and for a moment they couldn’t look at each other.

  Henry shrugged, and suddenly she pressed him against the wall, demanding he tell her, because if he didn’t, she was going to have to tell Mom, which, of course, she had no intention of doing.

  “He said he was going to—”

  “What?”

  “Pee on me,” he whispered.

  Enraged, she charged out the back door.

  “But he didn’t! He didn’t!” Henry called after her.

  The Brickmans lived only a few blocks away, in the small cottage behind the Universalist church and the parsonage. The church’s wide circular driveway was where they’d first met Bucky. His grandmother smiled when she saw Nellie at the door. Oh, come in. Come in, she said. Bucky was just finishing dinner.

  “Thanks,” Nellie said. “I’ll just wait out here till he’s done.”

  But no, she wouldn’t hear of it. As Nellie was led into the turquoise-and-pink kitchen she felt her vengeful mission losing steam. Please, Mrs. Brickman said, insisting Nellie sit down. Like his wife, Reverend Brickman had pure white hair and looked to be as old as Charlie. His cup trembled as he raised it to his powdery lips. He was unshaven and there were food stains on his T-shirt. Delighted to meet a friend of Bucky’s, they offered her applesauce cake, lime Jell-O, a soda. So far, Bucky hadn’t said a word.

  “Peck. Peck,” Mrs. Brickman mused. “Are you the hardware store family?”

  “Yes,” she said, adding that her father was Benjamin.

  Reverend Brickman said he’d known her grandfather Peck. They’d been in Rota
ry together.

  “Really,” Nellie said, staring at Bucky. Caught in his grandmother’s fond gaze, he faked a smile.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Brickman said. “The reverend always made a point of keeping parish business in town.”

  “Think globally, act locally,” the retired parson said with a lift of his cup.

  Right. But Nellie was too well raised to say what she was thinking. Bucky’s chair scraped away from the table, and she made a move to get up. He had to go to the bathroom, he said. He’d be right back.

  After he left, Mrs. Brickman asked if she was enjoying the summer so far. Oh, yes, Nellie told her, straining to hear a toilet flush or a door open. Bucky’s made so many nice friends, his grandmother was saying. A blessing, considering all the poor boy’s gone through.

  With more to come, Nellie thought, looking past her, hands clenching the chair seat. She’d already made up her mind to hit him if she had to. They were the same size and that was one thing she wasn’t afraid of—a fight. Not that she’d ever been in one, but she’d memorized most of the holds illustrated in Get Tough! The book had belonged to her great-uncle Seth, who was killed in World War II. She had practiced the “handcuff hold” so many times on Henry that she knew it by heart, but he was sick of always being on the losing end, so he wouldn’t be her enemy victim anymore. The Bent Arm Hold was trickier. According to the major, the movements had to be done in “one rapid and continuous motion.” The blows were in the beginning of the book. She particularly liked the Chin Jab; so far, though, she’d never tried it on anyone. If she had to, Bucky would be her first victim.

  Wondering what was taking so long, Mrs. Brickman went off looking for her grandson. “Bucky. Bucky? Bucky!” Nellie heard her voice pitch higher as she tapped on a door. “Answer me! Answer me right now, young man!”

  “We don’t,” Nellie, meanwhile, answered the reverend, who had asked what congregation the Pecks belonged to. He seemed puzzled. Mrs. Brickman had scurried back into the kitchen. She removed a metal skewer from a drawer. Water was running in the bathroom, but Bucky wasn’t answering and the door was locked.

  “He must be sick,” the reverend said, shuffling after his wife, Nellie next down the hallway.

  “I thought he looked awful peaked,” Mrs. Brickman said. Her hands shook as she kept trying to poke the skewer into the tiny hole in the knob. “I’m coming, dear,” she called as the lock finally popped open.

  The embroidered hand towel fluttered on the rack. Water was running into the sink and the window over the toilet was wide open.

  “My Lord!” she exclaimed, staring for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. She looked back at them. “Why did he do that?”

  “He’s a troubled child, Florence. Who knows why he does anything?” the reverend scoffed with surprising bitterness.

  Mrs. Brickman snatched her straw purse from the closet shelf. She would drive around until she found him.

  “Let him go,” Reverend Brickman said with a weary sigh.

  “No!” she declared on her way outside. “We gave our word.”

  Her slammed door sent a shudder through the old clergyman. Seemingly unaware of Nellie’s presence, he shuffled along the dim hallway, back toward the kitchen, feeling along the wall. If this was a test of his spiritual mettle, he wasn’t looking up to the task. He sat down with a groan.

  “I guess I better go, sir,” Nellie said, standing over him.

  “Randolph. That’s his name. Your grandfather,” he said, spoon clinking as he scraped the last green Jell-O bits from the footed bowl. “He liked the horses.”

  “I never met him.”

  “Here, have some.” He pushed a bowl of it across the table.

  With little choice, she sat down. If Mrs. Brickman didn’t find Bucky, she would. Eventually. The Jell-O was very good, she told him. “My mother used to make it but not anymore. She works, so now for dessert we mostly have cookies.”

  “What?” he demanded irritably. “What?” He peered past her.

  She glanced over her shoulder, but no one else was there. “Cookies!” she repeated, louder. “Store-bought,” she added because he looked so confused.

  “We don’t have any,” he called back. “Just applesauce cake.” He pointed toward the domed cake stand on the counter. “Cut me a piece, too. Good size.” With two fingers he indicated how thick.

  So she did, and they ate in strained silence. She could barely swallow with Reverend Brickman scowling at her as he chewed. Crumbs flecked his chin whiskers. That was very good, she said when she was done.

  “Say what you want, but your grandma’s a pretty fine cook, gotta give her that,” he said.

  “You knew my grandmother?”

  “Don’t get fresh with me, boy. I’ve just about had it with your mouth.”

  “Sorry, sir, I thought you meant my father’s mother.”

  His head snapped up. “Doing it again, aren’t you? Trying to mess me up, aren’t you?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, I better go. My mother, she doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Doesn’t know where you are! Let’s get something straight here, she doesn’t care. That’s how you ended up here. We’re the ones calling the shots now. We’re the ones you better be concerned about, not her!”

  Nellie waited a respectful moment. The old man of God was either crazy or senile, and it wasn’t her place to try to set him straight. This time she wouldn’t say anything, just leave. He concentrated on eating his cake again. She slipped from the chair and eased toward the door.

  “Sit down!” he bellowed, pointing his buttercream frosting–smeared fork at her. She froze. “And don’t move until I say so!” he warned, unbuckling his belt. He snapped it on the edge of the table, and that’s when she took off. Running. Straight home. Good thing for Bucky it was getting dark.

  A FEW DAYS later Max showed up at the house. He’d come for Charlie’s mending, frayed shirts that needed collars turned and buttons replaced, stained work pants with balky zippers and torn seams. Most everything belonged in the rag bag, Nellie’s mother had said the other night, but if she didn’t mend them, he’d just keep wearing them in their sorry state. In the past she’d been able to buy him new clothes whenever he needed them, but now she could only at Christmas. Nellie was telling Max all this when Dolly knocked on the door.

  “Hey!” she called through the screen with her perky-jerky little wave that Ruth was now imitating. Dolly asked to borrow some bread for toast. Sure, Nellie said, as she let herself in. Max’s eyes moved so hungrily up and down her body that it was embarrassing, for Nellie, at least. Dolly wore skimpy black shorts and matching sequined halter top and, as usual, was barefoot. Raving about what great toast their oatmeal bread made, she opened the wooden bread box on the counter and took two slices from the bag. She’d done the same thing the other day, which had really annoyed Nellie’s mother.

  “I’m getting ready and all of a sudden I have an attack of the munchies,” she said, twirling the plastic bread bag before fastening the twist tie. When neither adult acknowledged the other, Nellie figured they were waiting for her to make the proper introduction.

  “Dolly, I’d like you to meet Max. And Max, this is Miss Dolly Bedelia. Ms., I mean,” she added, hoping Dolly wasn’t offended. She realized she didn’t know Max’s last name and he didn’t offer it.

  “Hi,” was all Dolly said, which even Nellie knew was inadequate.

  He gave a stiff nod back.

  “I gotta go eat fast,” she said on her wiggly way to the door. “Or I’ll be late for work. Nice meeting ya!” She waved back with a breezy flap of the bread that sprayed crumbs onto the floor.

  “An’ you,” Max grunted as the door banged shut.

  Nellie continued what she’d been saying before, that her mother said to tell Charlie his pajamas weren’t in the bag.

  “Where’s she work?” he interrupted.

  “Frederic’s. But she doesn’t have them there. They’re not worth mending, she said. She
’s just gonna get him some new ones.”

  “I mean …” He nodded at the door.

  “Oh. Up on Route nine. The Paradise. Yeah, Dolly. She’s a dancer. And a singer, too. A really good one.” Nellie was enjoying her moment of authority. “She used to be in New York. You know, like, Broadway or something.”

  “Hey, mister!”

  With the burst of Dolly’s voice through the screen, they both glanced back.

  “Your friggin’ dog—he’s on my porch and I can’t get in.”

  “He was in the truck,” Max said.

  “Yeah, till he jumped out the window.”

  Muttering, Max hurried outside and pulled Boone by the collar into the truck. A moment later he returned for the mending. First time Boone’d ever done that, he said, seeming oddly flustered as he lingered in the doorway. He most always left the window open and Boone just knew to stay put. Every time. Maybe it was the bread, Nellie suggested, not wanting him to be too disappointed. Or angry. She still remembered his attack on that other dog. Probably smelled it and just wanted some. Here, she said, starting to open the bread bag, but Max shook his head; that’s no kind of lesson, he said, rewarding him for doing the wrong thing. Maybe he just saw a squirrel or something, she said, and he just forgot for a second, that’s all. With animals, it’s all about instinct. One going after the other. She was on a roll, and best of all was having an adult listen to what she had to say. Like that time in the junkyard, she continued without pause for breath, the pit bull, remember? And the way Boone charged right at him. That was different, Max said. He’d acted on command. He said he’d had a lot of dogs and Boone was the smartest one yet.

  “Like, some things he just knows, like some kind of …”—he tapped his chest—“… thing inside. He just knows.”

  “Yeah!” she said, warming to this, one of her favorite topics. “And some people’re like that, too.” Like me, she’d been about to say.

  “Like Charlie,” he was saying. “He’s that way. I’ll be tryna think of something, next thing I know he’s saying it. He’s good at that.”