Light from a Distant Star

by Morris, Mary Mcgarry

  Charlie was sitting on his front steps, bare chested and reading the newspaper. She gave him the meat loaf, then sat next to him, but he raised the paper higher and kept reading to the end of the article. He said he thought he’d heard the doorbell, but he’d been napping and didn’t want to come all the way downstairs. Hillman County Jail, he said when she asked for Max’s address—that’s all the letter would need. What about a cell number or something so he’d be sure and get it, she asked, and he chuckled. Don’t worry, they’ll find him; he’ll get it, he said, but she’d better ask first. He didn’t think the star witness should be writing to the accused, especially with the trial so near at hand. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t even answered Max’s last letter.

  “How come?”

  “I got enough problems without being some killer’s pen pal,” he chortled, liking the way that sounded.

  “You mean you think he did it, killed her, Dolly Bedelia?” She was stunned.

  “Well, lemme put it this way. I don’t think he just went and, you know, killed her. I think it was something that happened. I mean, the man had one helluva temper.” Charlie snapped his fingers. “Quick as that and he’d turn. Like that time with the dog. Made my blood run cold. Smashing that dog’s head like that.”

  “But he was tryna save Henry. The dog was biting him, chewing his arm. It wouldn’t let go.” Her voice quavered, and she took a deep breath. She knew better than to say whose dog it had been.

  Right then Charlie did something strange, looped his arm over her shoulder. “Hate to be the one to tell you, kid, but some people’re just born bad to the bone, and that’s all there is to it. Nothin’ you can do.”

  And some’re just born ignorant, she wanted to say, but didn’t, couldn’t; instead, she hunched over her knees with an intensity of anger and aversion until he lifted his arm.

  Chapter 17

  NELLIE SAT ON THE FOOT OF HER MOTHER’S BED, GROWING more bothered as she watched her in the mirror. What was the point of the makeup? She looked perfectly fine without it. She dipped her pinkie into a tiny glass jar, then rubbed a smear of blue onto her eyelids. Now she was putting on lipstick that was way too bright, too red for a mother to be wearing. Why? Why is she trying to look different from who she really is? The last time Nellie’d had these feelings was the first morning she’d gone off to work with a feathery new hairdo and a black smock over her arm. Capping the lipstick, she turned her head this way and that, smiling into the mirror. My God, who is this person? She pinched lipstick from the corners of her flaming mouth, and Nellie had to look away.

  “When’s Ruth coming home?” Nellie knew but felt the need to make some point, though wasn’t sure what.

  “Nine or ten, depends how long the takeout window’s open.” She leaned closer to the mirror and ran her tongue over her teeth.

  “What if Dad’s late?”

  “He won’t be. He knows when they’re picking me up.” It was the birthday of one of her girlfriends, so they were taking her out to a dinner theater in Georgetown.

  “How come you have to go?”

  “I don’t have to go.” She was teasing the hair at the crown of her head. Nellie’d never seen her do that before. “It’s just a nice break, that’s all.”

  “Break from what?” The way she’d said it made Nellie feel bad. Break from her family, that’s what she meant. From Nellie.

  “The routine. You know, work, and then coming home and doing more work.” She made her life sound so miserable.

  “Dad does all the dishes. And the laundry, he even does that now. And I keep things picked up, plus I have to mind Henry all the time. He’s the one, he never does a thing, and Ruth, she just leaves her dirty dishes in the sink and food all over the place. And nobody ever says a word to her. The minute you leave for work she turns on her air conditioner and all she does is talk on the phone the whole time.”

  Her mother had turned from the mirror. “Nellie?”

  “What?” she stared back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She didn’t dare blink for fear she’d cry.

  “Are you … your period, is it—”

  “No!”

  “Well, something’s wrong. Is it because I’m going out? It is, isn’t it? Oh, hon, c’mere.” She held out her arms, but Nellie wouldn’t budge, so she sat down next to her. “I know, I’m gone all day, so when I come home you just want your mom here, right?” She hugged Nellie. “That’s okay. I understand, especially with everything that’s happened.” She smelled of lilies.

  She laid her head against Nellie’s, which made her feel worse—selfish and mean. “Torrie Blaine, she’s pregnant,” she sputtered, and wasn’t sure why, except maybe for needing some anchor to keep her mother in place as belonging to them instead of being her girlfriends’ girlfriend. “And she wants Ruth to help her get rid of it, and Ruth doesn’t know what to do because it’s like what happened to you. The same thing.”

  She sighed, and Nellie was relieved to see the light gone from her eyes under their pale blue lids. Nellie had snatched her midflight from her carefree verve. She was Nellie’s again, but now she was ashamed.

  “Oh God,” she sighed, getting up from the bed, and Nellie felt terrible. It had nothing to do with Torrie or Ruth or even her mother’s going out. It was this growing knot of dread like the twins’ robotic voice in her head. Warning, warning. Something bad was near, darkness gathering, and nothing could stop it.

  A FEW DAYS later she was loading the dishwasher after dinner when the doorbell rang. Her father was scrubbing the spaghetti sauce pan, so he told her to see who it was.

  “Your mom or dad home?” Detective Des La Forges asked through the front door screen. Instead of a shirt and tie, he wore a black T-shirt and baseball cap.

  “They both are,” she said, reaching for the latch.

  “Whoa!” he said. “You shouldn’t be opening the door like that.”

  “Why? Don’t you want to come in?”

  “What if I was a stranger or something?”

  “But you’re not.”

  “Well … technically, no.” He had that overly stern look adults get when they suspect you’re on to them. “But what you should do is go tell one of your parents I’m here.”

  “Okay.” She paused, to see if he really meant it. Or if he was kidding.

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait,” he said through the screen, then lifted his eyes, scanning the overhead clapboards, as if for danger.

  “You didn’t let him in? He’s still out there?” her father said, shutting off the water.

  “He wanted to,” she tried to explain as he hurried out of the kitchen, drying his soapy hands on a dish towel. Her mother was already in the front hall, apologizing for his wait. No problem, that was fine, he told her as Nellie watched from the alcove into the study.

  The trial was scheduled for the first week in October. He’d wanted them to hear it from him first even though official notification would be coming from Finn Cowie, the assistant DA in charge of the case. Cowie would fill them in on all the details. No one spoke. It seemed that until that moment her parents had been living an existence parallel to the reality of all that lay ahead. So what did this mean? Was there something they should be doing? These were her father’s nebulous questions. Her mother’s were more precise. Who in the family would have to testify? Would they all have to attend every day of the trial? How much time would she have to take off from work? She’d need to know because some of her clients booked monthly. When would the jury come to look at the apartment? Their old tenant wanted to move back in and if he had to wait because of that, he might change his mind. Just last night Lazlo had called to say he wanted the apartment.

  “Lazlo’s easy,” her father said with a dismissive wave. “Don’t worry about him. We’ll work it out, one way or another.”

  “Really? And how do we do that?” Her mother’s voice bristled.

  “He can … stay with us! Up in one of the spare rooms,”
her father said, adding for the detective’s benefit, “we’ve got enough of them. In fact, maybe that’s what we should do, rent them all out, Pecks’ boardinghouse. Little notoriety might help.” He laughed. Her mother kept looking at him. “That’s what happens,” he continued on his faltering course. “Like the Biladoux house? In 1897, the niece, first she poisons the two cats and the dog, then she slips the same brew into her aunt and uncle’s favorite stew—”

  “Ben!” her mother gasped.

  “But they never did prove it,” Des La Forges said. “A gas leak, that’s what they think happened.”

  “Gas leak! There was an empty arsenic bottle under her buggy seat,” her father said, persisting in his details, his thin face flushed with the pleasure of these old tales he knew so well. “Millie Boden. Yes, that was her name, the niece. Six feet tall, and strong as a man. She’d walk down to—”

  “Well, anyway,” her mother interrupted, putting her hand on his arm. “We’ve taken up enough of your time,” she said to the detective, her most gracious smile frozen in place. “We’ll let you get on your way.”

  “Good seeing you,” Des La Forges said, adding that he was on his way to a softball game. He was the pitcher and they were in the finals, which reminded Nellie’s father of a team the hardware store used to sponsor. Won the league championship. Must have been ’68 or ’69. He’d been a kid, but he remembered how delighted his father had been. There was a picture of it somewhere, his father and the team with Johnny Hale holding the trophy.

  She felt sorry for her father. Couldn’t he tell Des La Forges wasn’t interested? That he was just trying to be polite?

  “Remember Johnny?” her father persisted, grinning. “The old barber?”

  “Oh yeah, sure,” Des La Forges said, quickly opening the door.

  “As a matter of fact,” her father said, “now that I think of it, Johnny’s father, old Charlie Hale—you’re too young, you wouldn’t know him—but he did all the Biladoux yard work, and I remember my father talking about it, too, the arsenic, and how it was—”

  “Ben,” her mother implored. “Bob has to go, he just told us.”

  “Oh sure, sorry. All this talk about trials …” His voice trailed off.

  “Puts us a little on edge, I guess,” her mother said with a nervous laugh.

  “Ah, who knows,” Des La Forges said through the screen. “Maybe there won’t even be a trial. Last I heard there was talk of a plea bargain. Pretty tight case they got.”

  After he left, her mother started to go upstairs, where she’d been mending sheets on her sewing machine.

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m afraid the detective’s facts are a little, shall we say, shaky? I know for a fact it was poison,” Benjamin called after her, and she turned, looking down with an iciness that sent a long shiver through Nellie. “I’ll send it to him tomorrow, a copy of the article. The old Ledger—they followed the trial every single day.” His brow furrowed over a pensive smile. “I’ll track it down. I know it’s in there.” He meant his files, musty records of all the obscure events of which he was the most devoted chronicler. “Take me a while, but I’ll find it.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I’m serious,” he said with a cocky nod.

  “Tell me something,” she said, chewing her lip. “With everything that’s happening, how on earth could this possibly matter?”

  “It’s a fact, and facts matter. The truth. That’s all.”

  Maybe he was distracted. Maybe he was mentally riffling through files, but to Nellie his voice sounded distant, unconvincing, and she felt it again, that thing, like dampness underfoot, wanting to rise.

  LAZLO HAD PUT up with all the snide remarks about his “hokey paintings and dead-end job,” but it was James’s deceit, the constant lies about his whereabouts and phone calls and strange e-mails that he couldn’t take anymore. If James couldn’t be in a monogamous relationship, then he wanted his old life back—peace of mind and self-respect. (Monogamous—it was obviously about being gay, and as Nellie ran around the side of house to her mother’s herb garden, she made a mental note to look it up.)

  It was early Saturday afternoon and Lazlo didn’t have to be at the restaurant until 3:30. He and her mother were sitting in the rickety green rockers on the front porch sipping the peach ice tea he’d brought in a cooler. Hoping she hadn’t missed anything, Nellie raced back up the steps with the warm sprigs of pineapple mint she’d been sent to get. She looked on smiling as her mother pinched off the stems and dropped the crinkly green-and-white striped leaves into each goblet of the cloudy brew. There was a glow about Lazlo, a motionless blur of dazzling energy that made her feel lighter and life seem easier in this perfect moment with her mother’s gleaming Waterford, the fragrance of mint in the steamy air, and Lazlo in his bright, patch-plaid Bermuda shorts and polo shirt a shade of eggplant, and his wavy hair trimmed close. Even his narrow bracelet of woven leather was exactly right. No gaudy gold or jewels. It was just like the old days, having Lazlo here.

  Benjamin was still at the store, her mother was telling Lazlo. This was the second day of the Springvale Merchants’ Summer’s End Bazaar. She hoped sales were good because they’d been trying to reduce inventory. She leaned forward, and he did, too, in their easy way of sharing confidences. Things were looking up: someone was very interested in buying the store, but please don’t say anything, she added, already regretting telling him. No, no, of course he wouldn’t, he assured her, and if only he’d known it was Bazaar Days, he would’ve gone down and bought some things for the apartment. Nellie couldn’t imagine what. The sale items displayed on folding tables in front of the hardware store had looked pretty bleak, even to her. She’d worked there yesterday and this morning, and all she’d seen sold were a gray plastic funnel, two car mats, a dusty roll of bubble wrap, and a wooden window screen.

  “I know Ben’s just painted everything,” Lazlo was saying. “But you know me, I like color. A little more zing maybe than moonbeam cream.” He drew back his head and laughed. “Oh, oh, I know that look. I know what you’re thinking. Lazlo’s going to go way over the top here.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking that,” her mother said.

  “Actually, I’m thinking of yellow, kind of mangoey and warm but not orangey. Like that,” he said, pointing to Nellie’s shirt. “Nellie, we’ll go to the paint store, and you’ll wear that shirt. And after, we’ll go down by the depot and get a lime fizz.”

  “Okay!” She jumped up from the step. Lazlo always had time for the things most adults didn’t. Like charades and crazy eights and bicycling through the Harness Falls woods with lunch in their backpacks.

  “Next week.” He checked his cell phone. “I’m off Monday.”

  “Okay! Great!” she said. Finally, something to look forward to.

  “The thing is, Lazlo,” her mother began slowly. “I can’t have you changing your mind again. I mean, if you and James patch things up, then where does that leave me?”

  “That’s not going to happen. Believe me!” Lazlo said, but with a long sigh that even Nellie recognized as wistful.

  “You left us in kind of a lurch, you know that, don’t you?” she said.

  Don’t! Nellie wanted to shout. Don’t spoil this! Please!

  “It was impulsive. Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson,” he said.

  “I never would’ve rented to … to Dolly, you know, to someone like that, but things were getting really tight and, oh God, what a mess that’s turned into.”

  “Sandy!” Lazlo set his glass onto the round wicker table. “You’re not blaming me for that, are you? Because I moved out?” His jaw clenched.

  “No! I’m just saying, it’s … it’s just been really hard, that’s all.” She picked up her napkin and daubed her eyes, sniffling as Lazlo took her free hand and held it in both of his.

  “I know. But you’ve gotta turn the page, Sandy.”

  “I know. I know, but, you see, then
I had this other tenant. I was even going to let her move in with a cat, of all things, but then you said you were going to move back, so I told her no, and then you changed your mind, and by then it was too late. She’d found another place.”

  Miss Schiff. Nellie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her mother was either crazy or a liar. Or maybe a crazy liar. A desperate crazy liar, apparently a good one, because now Lazlo was trying to convince her how absolutely sincere he was in his decision. In fact, he’d even sign a lease if she wanted him to, he said, hesitantly, as if expecting her to insist that wouldn’t be necessary. It never had been before.

  “Well, now that you mention it, that’s probably a good idea. That way you’re protected, too.” She took a quick sip. “This is just the best tea. Isn’t it, Nellie?” She gave a little cough behind her hand, trying to hide her discomfort.

  “It’s good,” Nellie said. A weak response, but she had ruined the moment as surely as if she’d taken a knife to their hearts. She was embarrassed. From then on, she would regard her mother with distrust. And with an uneasy respect. Part of her understood. Somebody in the family had to get tough.

  Chapter 18

  EVERY DAY SHE CHECKED THE MAILBOX FOR A LETTER FROM Max. A week had passed since she’d written. She didn’t think she’d said anything to offend him, but she wrote another letter. Mostly it was about Boone and how happy he was. She wrote about things she hadn’t done but wished she had, like taking him for long runs through the woods and crashing through underbrush after him, even following him along an upended swamp maple that had fallen at an angle, lodged between two pines. She wrote about how he kept making her throw back slobbery tennis balls for him to retrieve, and about his diving into the mucky brook for sticks, then emerging in a triumphant muddy mess. She didn’t mention his being tied to the abandoned truck for weeks or that the twins had taken him home. Or that he wasn’t the least bit interested in her because Boone had long ago learned how to get by in this hard world: the truth, but what would have been the point?