Light from a Distant Star

by Morris, Mary Mcgarry

  Nellie was hurt. She was a very kind girl and careful of everyone’s feelings, but if being a quick study of people meant she was judgmental, then there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. And she could see what was happening here. Yesterday Ruth and her mother had been sitting on the side steps with Dolly. The minute Nellie came around the corner, their chatter and laughter stopped. Her mother had been painting Ruth’s and Dolly’s toenails and they all sat there with cotton balls between their toes, looking back at Nellie as if they’d swallowed the wrong way. She had become the outsider. In her own home, which was only turning her into more of a Dolly stalker than she already was, listening for footsteps, latenight car doors, laughter and tears, with her ear at the bathroom wall trying to make out the murmurous voices.

  LATELY CHARLIE WAS spending less time in the junkyard. He’d taken up fishing. Max was teaching him how. In the middle of the afternoon they’d padlock the gate, and with the old, dented metal canoe lashed to the top of the truck, they’d drive down to the Hawnee River, which ran through the center of town. Max preferred lake fishing, he was telling Nellie, as he tossed a second bungee cord over the canoe. She followed him to the other side of the truck. With Henry gone, she was bored out of her mind being stuck in the house all day. She’d even started looking forward to Jessica’s return. She’d asked her mother if there was anything she could do at the beauty shop—sweep the floor, fold towels—she didn’t care. Her mother didn’t think so, but she’d ask Lizzie.

  “Another one! Two’s not enough,” Charlie called from the shade of the barn and Max waved in agreement.

  “You should go to Lake Branmore,” Nellie said on Max’s and Boone’s heels, back around the truck. “That’s where my brother is. Maybe they took him fishing. The family he’s with, the Krugers. I should tell Charlie.”

  “He doesn’t like the feeling, not being close to land,” Max said, attaching the third cord.

  “How come?” It was hard to hide her pleasure when Max talked to her. Whenever she delivered meals or medicine to Charlie, she went out of her way to be friendly to him. After all, he’d saved her brother’s life, which she made a point of mentioning every time she came, and her grandfather trusted him, which she suspected had more to do with cheap labor than anything else. But most important, Max was one more of those people she found strangely fascinating. Kind of like Bucky, who’d come to the house yesterday, banging on the door, but she hadn’t answered. Max had that same kind of edginess. The difference was that Max often seemed so skittish. She wasn’t sure if it was shyness or fear. Maybe both, but she could tell she was making inroads. Today when she’d come through the gate, he’d said hi first instead of pretending he hadn’t seen her.

  “Charlie can’t swim. Least, I don’t think so,” Max said from the back of the truck. Just when you thought he hadn’t heard, he’d answer your question.

  “You’re kidding,” she said, watching the gruff old man who’d always considered his grandson such a whiny pansy.

  “Okay!” Charlie called as he limped toward them.

  “You got a sore foot?” she asked.

  “My damn hip,” he said, patting his thigh. “Junk, like everything else here.”

  “Spare parts,” Max said, getting behind the wheel. “That’s all it takes. They can pretty much fix anything nowadays.”

  “Yeah. Well. One of these days.” With a heaving groan Charlie hauled himself up into the truck.

  “Hey!” she called before he could close the door. “Can I come? I love fishing, but nobody ever takes me.”

  “Hell, no!” Charlie barked.

  “I’ll be really quiet. I won’t even talk,” she said, and Charlie gestured for Max to go.

  Max looked over at her with an apologetic shrug. She knew right then and there that deep down inside he was a nice person. And sooner or later she’d be right where she wanted to be, sitting in the middle of that canoe on her way down the Hawnee, pole in hand.

  IT WAS THE hottest day so far. Almost 90 degrees. Henry was coming home tonight, two days early. It was mostly his stomach, Mrs. Kruger had said. Nothing she could pinpoint. Strange, because his appetite seemed okay, and yet he’d been complaining of cramps. And bad headaches again. He’d told Mrs. Kruger that lately he’d been having a lot of headaches at home. Not true, but her mother didn’t rat him out as the wimp he really was. Though, Nellie had to admit, the Bucky incident in the woods had made her a lot more sympathetic.

  Nellie was at the beauty shop when Mrs. Kruger called. It was her second day on the job, not that she was getting paid a cent, though. Her mother had told Frederic it was just to keep her busy. Ruth and her friends were going swimming practically every day, either at different pools or driving to the lake. Her mother didn’t like her being alone in the house all day.

  After sweeping up all the hair from the floor, folding three loads of towels, cutting squares of tinfoil, polishing mirrors, and straightening magazines for the tenth time, Frederic called Nellie into the rear salon where he coiffed only his best customers, those ladies and a few men who wanted their work done not just privately but in utmost secrecy. He sent Nellie to the luncheonette with ten dollars for his lunch, ice tea and a Greek salad with extra feta. When she returned, he told her to keep the change. Her mother took her into the back room and said she had to give it back. Two dollars and twenty-five cents.

  “It’s not pay, it’s a tip,” Nellie protested.

  “He’s doing me a favor,” her mother hissed, staring at her. “I should be paying him.”

  Insulted that she considered this babysitting, Nellie stalked out front and sat in the small waiting area and read the latest People magazine. If no one appreciated all her hard work, then what was the point?

  Her mother’s two o’clock had just arrived. Lisa Glickstein. Her daughter was Ruth’s age and her son had just graduated from high school. Billy Glickstein, a real jock—she’d seen him around.

  Nellie was seeing a side of her mother she wasn’t sure she liked: friendly and as upbeat as ever but way too agreeable with everyone in a breathy voice she only used here.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said for the third time as she painted gloppy brown paste onto a strand of Mrs. Glickstein’s hair, then rolled it into a tinfoil square. “I would’ve called them, too.”

  “I just felt so bad,” Mrs. Glickstein said. “I mean, the Brickmans, they’re both so sweet. They were so upset.”

  “But I’ll bet it was an expensive bike,” her mother said.

  “Oh, God, yes. Almost a thousand dollars. Billy’s aunt, for his graduation. Just something to get around campus with, I told her, but that’s the way she is.”

  “At least he’s got it back,” her mother said.

  “But he’s going to pay for the new tires with his own money,” Mrs. Glickstein said. “It’s his own fault for leaving it on the front walk like that.”

  “Kids, they think—” her mother started to say.

  “You got some here.” Mrs. Glickstein pointed to the dark stain on her forehead.

  “Sorry.” Her mother dipped a cotton pad into a jar, frowning as she dabbed at the spot.

  “Last time it didn’t come out for two days.”

  “I’m sorry.” She leaned closer, rubbing. “So what’re the police going to do?”

  Nellie’s eyes burned as a jackhammer drilled between her temples.

  “Nothing they can do, I guess. Not as long as the grandson keeps denying everything. I’ll tell you, though, he’s a bad seed, that one.”

  MR. KRUGER BROUGHT Henry home at six. Never had she been so glad to see her brother. Maybe it was the news of Bucky’s grilling by the police or maybe Henry had just saved his vomiting for the privacy and comfort of his own toilet, but when Nellie went to bed he was in the bathroom again, gagging.

  SHE’D SPENT THE next afternoon searching for Bucky. She’d even left a note in his grandparents’ mailbox. His face, now inches from hers, gleamed with sweaty flecks of grime. They were
on a bench in the park.

  “What the fuck did ya cut the damn tires for?”

  “I didn’t cut any tires,” she snapped back.

  “Yeah, right. So now I got the stupid cops on my ass all the time.”

  “You shouldn’t’ve stolen the bikes in the first place.”

  “Oh okay, Miss Law and Order, like you didn’t know, right?”

  “Right! I thought you were getting them from people to fix up.”

  “Oh, Jesus! C’mon! And the moon, you probably think that’s just some guy up there.” He was jiggling a rock in his hand.

  “You know what your problem is? You don’t have any respect for anybody.” On message, she was moving in for the kill, which seemed to amuse him.

  “I respect you.” He grinned.

  “Like what you did to my brother, that was so disgusting.”

  “What? What’d I do to your brother?”

  “You know what you did.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No!”

  “They’re sending me back to New York.”

  She looked at him. This wasn’t going according to plan. “When?”

  “Soon as they find some place that’ll take me.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “That didn’t work out.” He sidearmed the rock off the side of the bandstand. “My mom’s a cokehead.”

  “I thought she was a soap star.”

  “That, too. She just likes her drugs better’n me, that’s all.”

  “Did you ever ask her to stop?”

  “Like a million times.”

  “Wow. That sucks.”

  “I tried it once.” He picked up another rock and threw it at the trash barrel. It pinged off the metal like a gunshot. “In her bathroom, that’s where she does it, the lines, on the counter. I rubbed some on my gums, but all it did was sting. I thought of doing it here.” He pressed his finger to a nostril and sniffed. “But … I didn’t.”

  “What if you got addicted? I mean, think of it, your whole life’d be ruined. You’d probably end up in jail or—”

  “Or what? Dead?”

  “You could.”

  “Would you feel bad?”

  “No. Not if you were stupid enough to do drugs.”

  “I’d feel bad if it was you.” He threw another rock. “I wish I could stay. I really don’t wanna go back there.”

  “Ask your grandparents. Tell them you won’t get in any more trouble.”

  “I did, but they said only if I tell who slashed the bike tires and put them behind the church. Then they’ll let me stay.” He leaned close, his leg jammed into hers. Her heart thumped as he moved closer. His mouth had to be almost touching her ear as he whispered, “But I don’t wanna get you in trouble. I really like you a lot, Nellie. And not just in a friend way.”

  She jumped up. “I gotta go.”

  “I really mean that,” he yelled after her.

  Just in case he was following her, she took all the back alleys until she came to the hardware store. She didn’t like the way she felt, guilty and angry and sad that Bucky had such a miserable life, and yet her own life had taken a dangerous turn. One word from Bucky, and she and Henry would be dragged down to the police station. Interrogated, arrested; oh my God, she prayed as she ran the last block, please, please help me.

  “Well, look who’s here!” her father declared, warning with false heartiness as she raced inside. “The great Nellie Peck!”

  Stepping into the store from the sun’s glare had blinded her. She couldn’t see his face and couldn’t tell who else was there. Her arresting officer?

  “Come here,” the stout woman said. “And give your auntie B a big hug.” She smelled fruity. Her huge breasts smushed against Nellie’s flat chest. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw her father’s concern. She’d obviously interrupted an important conversation. Well put together, her father had said once of Aunt Betsy, and today was no exception, in her bright pink pantsuit and chunky white necklace, matching earrings, even pink-and-white open-toed heels, as she peppered Nellie with the usual adult questions. Was she glad school was over? Yes. What was she doing with all her free time? Not a whole lot. Mostly reading, she added quickly, to please her aunt. Right after college Aunt Betsy had been a schoolteacher for a few years until she married Uncle Phil and didn’t have to work ever again, though she’d kept her hand in town affairs through the years. Aunt Betsy was one of those people who expect their importance to be acknowledged, and Nellie wasn’t doing a very good job of it, especially under the circumstances, her brain so riddled with the shame and guilt of being a thief. Her aunt was some kind of local official. Library trustee, that was it. Yes, because now she was telling Nellie that if there was ever a book the library didn’t have, she should tell her and she’d have them order it for her. Or any overdue fines—just bring the book to Auntie B and she’d take care of it.

  “Thank you, that’s very nice of you. I’ll remember that, but the library’s really good. They have just about everything.” She tried to think of something else that might please her and make her father at least smile. “Movies. And all kinds of books on tape. Well, CDs, really. Not that I’ve listened to any. Not yet, anyway. But I’d like to.”

  They both stared at her.

  “Nellie,” her father said, “can you wait out back for a minute? We’ll be—”

  “No. No need for that, Ben. I understand. And I want to help, I do. It’s just, well …” She glanced in her niece’s direction. “Phil.”

  “Of course,” her father agreed, shaking his head, almost wincing. “Of course. And I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to cause you any problems.”

  Her great poufed head drew back. “Generosity is not a problem, Ben. Have I ever once questioned your inheriting the house? And the business, have I ever put an ounce of pressure on you? But you still owe us from the last loan.”

  “I know, and it tears me apart, but this one wouldn’t be for long. I’m almost finished with the book. Just a couple more decades, and those’re the easiest, the more modern ones. So many people to talk to. Last week I ran into Salvie. Remember Salvie? He gold-leafed the weathervane on town hall, and you know what he told me?”

  Her father began telling the same story that last week at dinner had held them spellbound. It was about the significance of the streaming-haired woman on the hundred-fifty-year-old weathervane made by the itinerant artist who had fallen in love with the daughter of one of the wealthiest families around, only to be run out of town by the young woman’s brothers, who had locked her in her room. That night she opened her window and dropped a bundle of clothes onto the brick courtyard below. And then she leaned out the window and grabbed hold of a tree branch, but it broke and when she fell—

  “She broke her back and was an invalid for the rest of her days, though she outlived everyone in her family. I know from my Civics Committee report for the bicentennial. Really, Ben, I don’t know why you think this history of yours is going to be any kind of salvation. A few copies, that’s all you’re going to sell. I mean, who outside of Springvale gives a good fig about this town’s history?”

  Something Nellie’d wondered herself, but her father seemed genuinely surprised.

  “An awful lot of people.” He spoke with that conviction that always sent something soaring inside her, eagles and rockets’ red glare, her Get Tough! book, even though the major was British. “Because our story’s universal. It’s every town’s story. Good plain people, struggle and hard work, exactly what’s made this country great.”

  “Do you know how hard it is to get a book published? Just last month in the Library Journal, it said how only one out of ten thousand manuscripts ever even get read.”

  “Well then, count me among the lucky few.” He grinned. “Luminosity Press, they’ve got a few chapters, and they’re very interested. And as soon as they get my … my … check, I’ll know more.” In spite of his stammer, her father’s voice held strong. It was his head
that seemed to have the slightest tremor, as if with his words air or conviction were leaking out of it.

  “That’s what you need money for?” Aunt Betsy asked, but her brother didn’t seem to comprehend her question. “Ben. Oh, Ben.” She gave a long sigh. “Don’t tell me you’re paying to have it published. Not when you’ve got a family to support. What you need right now is a job. A steady income with benefits. Look around you,” she said, the sweep of her arm like a spotlight’s glare over the tired dusty merchandise. “This beat-up, old place—it’s run its course. Like Phil says, the small businessman, he’s either a martyr or a fool. Corporate America, that’s the reality.”

  Like a gently falling veil, a look of serenity was settling over her father. Transcendence, his reality, so she could talk all she wanted. Why argue or hurt her feelings when he knew things she didn’t. He had a plan, a secret, a rare trove, and if his sister had little faith or understanding, well, that was all right, because as long as a man stays focused and true to his life’s work, no harm can come to him. And as always, his confidence was sanctuary enough for Nellie. Even Bucky seemed very far away.

  Chapter 6

  IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING, AND HER MOTHER WAS ADDRESSING invitations to the jewelry party she was having for Ellen, her girlfriend. It really bothered Nellie whenever her mother said that—“my girlfriend.” By the time a mother got to be a mother she only needed friends. Girlfriends sounded silly and flighty and undignified. If her mother had girlfriends, then she was a girlfriend, which of course she wasn’t, being a grown woman as well as Nellie’s mother, whose life was supposed to be about her kids, not girlfriends and their secrets. But of course she could never say that because then she’d be accused of sounding like Aunt Betsy again. Anyway, Ellen, Mrs. Heisler, had just bought a Royal Palais Gems franchise, and Nellie’s mother had agreed to host her friend’s first party.

  “Here, go put this in Dolly’s mailbox. If you can get it in,” her mother said, licking an envelope. “One less stamp,” she muttered. Nellie’d heard her fretting at breakfast about all the money this was costing. Had she known she’d be paying for all the food and invitations herself, she never would have agreed to host the party. But then when it came her turn, her father reminded her mother, someone else would be doing the same for her. Her mother was also interested in buying a franchise. With all her contacts at the beauty shop, it was a no-brainer, she’d said last night as she and Benjamin pored over company brochures and the bonus points catalog. In addition to a percentage of each sale, reps earned incentive points toward gifts, which ranged from a set of multicolor juggling balls to a blender, right on up to a new Ford Matrix. When her mother got her own franchise, the car would be her goal. Their ten-year-old Odyssey had more than a hundred twenty thousand miles on it. “On second thought,” she called after Nellie, “slip it under her door.”