Light from a Distant Star

by Morris, Mary Mcgarry

  “He made that up! He lied! Why don’t you believe me?” she said so insistently that the young man opening the door looked back at them.

  “Listen to me, Nellie,” he said in a low voice. “Everything that happened that day was ugly and horrible. And you haven’t been able to forget any of it, not a single moment, because you’ve had to go back and try to keep it all straight in your head, every detail, from the beginning of the day, to the end. And I’m sure I can’t begin to understand your pain and anxiety, but just because Andy Cooper happened to come to the house that same day doesn’t make him guilty of anything. Don’t look away. Listen to me! What about me? I was there! That morning, I was down cellar. I even knocked on her door. I was going to remind her about the new hot-water tank. But she never answered, so I figured she was still asleep. Then I left for work. But I was there. Not even out in the yard, like Andy Cooper, but right there, on her cellar stairs, right outside her door. So I don’t know, maybe that makes me a suspect. The police don’t think so, but maybe you do. Well, do you?” he asked as she stared down at her big, miserably pinched feet in the stupid blue flats.

  They took the elevator to the second floor. The receptionist who led them into the district attorney’s office was wearing pants—so much for respect for the law. She apologized and said they’d have to wait a few minutes. District Attorney Cowie was running late. For such a large room there was little in it: the desk and leather chair, four wooden arm chairs, and a tall glass cabinet of law books. Nellie could smell dust, and something else. Pot, she realized sniffing inside Ruth’s purse. She closed it quickly, wondering if the courthouse had any drug-sniffing dogs roaming the halls. She and her father sat facing the empty desk. They spoke in low voices.

  “Not very fancy, she whispered, breathing on her glasses and wiping them clean on her blouse.

  “Austere.” Her father looked up at the high tin ceiling. “Bet that was the ice storm. Last March.” He pointed to the brown-ringed yellow stain above the window. “That was something, huh? Lucky for us we had a generator. The old store came in handy then, didn’t it?”

  “I knew I should’ve worn pants.” She hugged her arms, shivering.

  “Want my jacket?”

  She rolled her eyes in reply. “Not even any pictures,” she said, looking around.

  “Lots of diplomas, though. That’s what counts.”

  The door opened, and a wide block of a man entered, carrying an armload of folders. He towered over her father, who stood up to shake his hand. He had silvery black hair, bushy black eyebrows, large eyes that stared, bright and unblinking, above an easy smile that made her want to like him.

  “Finn Cowie,” he said, introducing himself and repeating their names as he shook her father’s hand, then hers.

  “I know you probably hate missing school,” he said, winking as he sat down.

  “Actually, I do,” she said stiffly. She hated it when adults said such lame things to her.

  “Nellie’s a very good student,” her father said. “And very conscientious, which is why she understands the necessity of coming here today.”

  Equally lame, she thought, glancing at her father, then saw how nervous he was. Was he afraid of what she might say?

  “Well, this won’t take too long.” Mr. Cowie was opening a folder. “Just a few questions,” he murmured, turning pages. Which did she prefer being called, he asked, Ellen or Nellie?

  “Nellie’s fine, thank you,” she said, braiding the fringe on the useless purse.

  “Just so you’ll know, Nellie, when the time comes for you to take the stand and testify, all you have to do is answer the questions as best you can. Don’t be scared or nervous. You don’t have to please anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of saying the wrong thing, because there aren’t any wrong answers. It’s going to be about facts, the things you saw, the things you heard, and it’s that simple. Really. Nobody’s going to be shouting or yelling at you. It’s not like you see on TV.”

  “We don’t have a TV,” she said, not knowing why, other than to offset a whole new fear, the thought of being yelled at in front of a courtroom filled with strangers. Or worse, people she knew.

  “Really? Well, you’re probably a great reader then.” He seemed amused. “I’ll bet you read lots of books, don’t you?”

  Not true, lately, but she nodded, then wondered: was she under oath and lying right now?

  For the next few minutes, Mr. Finn Cowie proceeded through the same list of questions Detective Des La Forges had asked. Her answers were the same. And as the detective had, Mr. Cowie asked some again, rephrasing them, as if to be sure of every detail.

  “So were you down there with Max Devaney, in the cellar, every minute, the entire time he was working on the water pipes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nellie, in the courtroom you’ll be expected to answer yes or no.”

  She nodded, and he repeated the question.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you never left? Not even once?”

  “No.” She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

  “You stayed right down there with him.”

  Uncertain if these were questions or statements, she nodded. And for good measure, added, “Uh-huh, yes.”

  “Doing what? Standing there? Talking? Helping?”

  “Mostly watching. And talking, I guess.”

  “Really. Some people think Mr. Devaney’s a pretty scary guy. How ’bout you? Did he make you nervous? Or afraid?”

  “No! Max was always nice to me. Really nice.”

  “Your mother didn’t like him, though, right?”

  She looked at her father. “Well, just because he was in jail once, that’s all.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “After we found that out, my wife was, well, uneasy having him around. But, of course, we didn’t know then, all the details, that is.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yes, we’ve talked to her.”

  Who, me? she wanted to ask, glancing between the men, but knew her father wouldn’t like it.

  “We’ve asked her, and we’re satisfied that—” Her father cleared his throat. “That nothing of an untoward nature happened.”

  Nodding, Mr. Cowie considered this, as he folded a scrap of paper into smaller squares. “So, Nellie, how was Mr. Devaney nice to you? Did he give you things? Or take you places? What did he do to be so nice?”

  “Nothing really, he just was … nice, that’s all. He’d, like, talk to me, tell me things.”

  “What kinds of things would he tell you?”

  “About when he was a kid.” She shouldn’t have said that. Her mind raced to stay ahead: The way his brother had died had been in the paper. But why bring up anything negative? All she wanted was to help. “Things he did, fishing, how to stack wood so it won’t heave, stuff like that. And his dog. We talked about him a lot. Boone, that’s his name. Plus, he saved my brother’s life once.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And I can tell you’re a very sensitive and forthright girl, and you like Mr. Devaney, so do you think you owe him something for that? A favor or something?”

  A trick question, because saving a life was the highest form of courage and selflessness, so of course Max deserved something. If not a favor or award, at least her respect and gratitude. But that wasn’t what Mr. Cowie meant. “I don’t know. No.” Her stomach felt shaky.

  “What do you mean? What kind of favor, Mr. Cowie?” her father asked. “If I don’t understand you, I’m sure Nellie doesn’t.”

  Mr. Cowie rubbed his chin on clasped hands, the pause unsettling. There was something unpleasant he didn’t want to say. “It’s just that there’s quite a discrepancy here. Nellie says she was down in the cellar the entire time Mr. Devaney was working down there. But Mr. Devaney says she left him alone down there twice. I don’t understand, that’s all. On the one hand, it’s not to Mr. Devaney’s advantage to say he was alone down there, and on the other hand, why would Nellie
say she was with him the whole time if it’s not true?”

  “Because it is true!” She’d spoken too quickly, too heatedly. She saw the alarm in both men’s expressions.

  “You’re not afraid of him, are you, Nellie?” Mr. Cowie looked concerned.

  “No.” She had to stay calm.

  “Here, let me read this from Mr. Devaney’s statement,” Mr. Cowie said, running his finger down a typed page. “I was alone down there two times. Both times the girl went out to check on the dog.”

  Her face flushed. Being called “the girl” really bothered her, but then again, he’d also said “the dog” instead of Boone. “He just must’ve forgot, that’s all.”

  “Hm. He was pretty specific. He said you were worried about the dog being locked up in the hot truck.”

  “Well, yeah, but we just talked about it.”

  “He said you told him a neighbor had called to complain.”

  “I know. But I only said it so he’d let Boone out of the truck.”

  “So you made it up?”

  “Yeah. To him. But for a good reason. It was hot in the truck. But he didn’t care. He was mad, so I just … I was just there.”

  “He was mad? Mad at you?”

  “No! At Boone. He said he had to stay in the truck.”

  “Why? What did Boone do?”

  “I don’t know. Barking, I guess.” Her foot was tapping a mile a minute.

  “But Max seemed mad, angry, upset. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, bothered. But just about Boone, that’s all.”

  Her father’s foot nudged hers, so she locked her ankles together.

  “Nellie.” Mr. Cowie sighed. “There’s nothing Mr. Devaney can do to hurt you. Nothing at all. You do know that, right?”

  She nodded.

  “But you’re afraid.” He leaned closer. “Why? What’re you afraid of?”

  Of telling the truth, of getting up there and telling everyone exactly what I’d seen that day. Afraid where the truth might take us all.

  “I’m just a little nervous. About the trial, that’s all,” she said in a weak enough voice that Mr. Cowie assured her, as her father had earlier, that there was nothing to be nervous about. All she’d have to do is answer his questions. They went over a few more details, which she could tell was just his way of trying to make her feel better. Before they left, he gave her his business card and said she could call him if she thought of anything else they hadn’t discussed. Or if she remembered something or had any questions. Or if she just wanted to talk. She thanked him, and as she dropped the card into the purse, it amused her to picture Ruth discovering it among the illicit shreds of whatever substance she’d left in there.

  Chapter 22

  STRANGE, WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG, HOW QUICKLY PROBLEMS DISAPPEAR. If you don’t have to think about them, if no one’s talking about them, or better yet, if no one knows about them, then they cease to exist. And so it seemed with the Australian letters, lost in the blurred cascade of half-forgotten summer days. Surely by this time the dusty pages had been nibbled into oblivion by the autumnal influx of field mice, which were being caught in their cellar traps at the rate of one or two a day. For Nellie’s mother, the removal of each small gray corpse was more sickening proof of their hastened decline. For her father it harbingered winter’s premature arrival, deep snow, thick ice. He wondered aloud if he should double his shovel and salt stock at the store. Her mother didn’t answer. Instead, he pounded red-and-white driveway reflectors into the ground earlier than he ever had.

  The trial was starting. Jurors were being selected, a slow process, according to the district attorney’s office. They’d been keeping the Pecks informed, though at home, the trial was never mentioned. Not in front of the children, anyway. Far more pressing for Nellie were the history paper she had to write and a report for English class on Steinbeck’s The Pearl, both due in a week, and nightly worksheet pages of advanced algebra problems to solve, as well as the flattering and complicated attention of beautiful Brianna Hall to negotiate.

  The newspaper’s most recent account of the murder had run with a front-page picture of a younger, sweeter-looking Dolly, taken from her high school yearbook. The article mentioned “Ms. Bedelia’s thirteen-year-old neighbor, who had discovered the body, along with the accused.” In Brianna’s eyes Nellie had become a most desirable friend, a burgeoning celebrity touched by life’s darker forces. It was all she could talk about. Every day she presented a new scenario.

  “You know that guy, the killer—”

  “He’s not a killer—”

  “—yeah, well, what if you say something he doesn’t like, and he knocks the defense table over and attacks you?” she mused as they trudged uphill under the ever shifting weight of their backpacks.

  “He wouldn’t do that. And besides, I won’t be saying anything bad about him.” She’d said the same thing yesterday.

  “Yeah, and my father said there’ll be all kinds of police there, too. I hope it’s not like that show last winter. Remember? The Prosecutor? They’re in the court and the killer, he’s got this, like, knife thing he made, like, all pointy and sharp, like, from a spoon or something …”

  Nellie enjoyed Brianna’s company, in spite of her fascination with serial murderers. She said her parents had an entire bookcase filled with crime books, and they loved watching the Crime Channel, which, until then, Nellie’d never even heard of. Brianna told her all about Ted Bundy, this handsome guy who lured pretty college girls to their doom by wearing a fake cast on his arm so they’d take pity on him. She told her about this sicko who’d dress up like a clown and kill kids, then bury them under his house. And then there was the guy who killed an apartment full of nursing students. It was the first time she’d heard these stories, and they were a numbing distraction in their creepy way. Dolly’s murder scene paled compared to Brianna’s gory tales. Nellie could almost think about it without feeling dizzy.

  “Imagine,” Brianna mused while they waited for the light to turn. “Everything you say, every single word, someone’ll be there, writing it all down. You’ll be like, oh, my God, what if I say the wrong thing, they’re all gonna be, like, flipping out all over the place,” she said, tenderly adjusting the strap on Nellie’s backpack. For one so conversant with violence, she was very caring.

  “Not really,” Nellie said. “It’s not like on TV. People don’t yell and scream. They just don’t.” More and more lately she found herself making important pronouncements. She was starting to sound like Ruth.

  “Wait!” Brianna stopped, and in her admiring gaze Nellie saw her well-earned place in her pantheon of all things strange. Brianna was taking a camera from her backpack.

  “Smile!” She took a picture. “Now, look upset, like, oh, my God! What’s that? Like you just discovered the body.”

  With the second flash, Nellie said she’d better get home.

  “Okay, and then you can show me where it happened, the murder.” She said she’d call her mother from Nellie’s house. Nellie told her she couldn’t, that she had to work on her paper. Telling her she’d see her tomorrow, she hurried off. All Brianna’s crime talk was starting to get to Nellie. In that way she was like Jessica: once latched on to a subject, she couldn’t get off. Lately though, Nellie hadn’t had to worry about avoiding Jessica. She was always with Bucky. They’d even been caught smoking in the Coopers’ pool cabana. If Mrs. Cooper had any concerns about Bucky, she’d surely overlook them as long as Jessica finally had a friend.

  At home the mailbox was stuffed with catalogs. When Nellie pulled them out, the regular mail fell onto the porch floor. On top was a long manila envelope. Mr. Daniel Brigham, read the return address label. She ran straight up to her room. Sealed shut, then taped, there’d be no steaming open this one. With it trembling in her hands, she sat on the edge of her bed. Why so thick? Was it some kind of warning? A threat? A lawsuit? She might have confiscated the other letters, but Ruth had kept right on writing. Nellie ripped
open the envelope.

  There were two handwritten sheets of lined paper. Folded inside was a newspaper clipping headlined ROBBERY FOILED BY STORE MANAGER. The grainy picture showed a paunchy, round-faced man. Balding, with wire-rimmed glasses, he stood next to a supermarket register. Instead of a wild Hawaiian shirt he wore a snug, dark jacket with a store logo on the breast pocket. Brigham had tackled an armed robber fleeing the supermarket in broad daylight, with receipts from the office.

  What propelled Mr. Brigham into action was seeing the robber shove a woman carrying a small child out of his way as they were entering the store. Mr. Brigham said, “It was hard losing the day’s receipts, but company policy says to do whatever the thief wants. They don’t want us risking harm to customers or ourselves, and I was in full compliance. But then I saw the punk knock the mum and her baby down, and, well, that was just too much for a man to take. Pure reflex, that’s all. So off I went, and took him down.”

  The article called him “… a genuine hero, bringing the thief down with an American football tackle. Brigham’s actions may contradict company policy, but his employees say they’re not surprised by his quick-thinking bravery. Lucille O’Day, head cashier, describes him as “a fair boss who runs a tight ship but is always kindhearted and pleasant.”

  “Dear Ruth,” began the letter’s almost illegible scrawl. Nellie had to decipher each word, reading sentences countless times to understand it.

  After I received your last letter, I felt very bad. I didn’t understand why you kept ignoring me when I asked you not to write. It was so upsetting to me that I finally told my wife and asked for her help. She said she would write and explain how I felt. But you kept writing anyway. And to tell you the truth, that only made me angrier. You see I haven’t had an easy time of it lately. My wife has had many health problems and has been let go from her job. Our youngest daughter (we have three) has spina bifida and requires special care. Our middle daughter has severe learning disabilities so she has to attend a specialized school that is almost an hour’s drive from home. Thankfully, our oldest girl is blessed with good health and normal intelligence. I tell you all this so you’ll understand why your complaints about your lot in life fell on such deaf ears.