Light from a Distant Star

by Morris, Mary Mcgarry

  Sympathy, Nellie noted, bullshitting the bullshitters.

  “What’s been the hardest part of it all?” Mrs. Fouquet asked.

  “Not being believed.” She looked at each of them.

  “Not being believed by who?”

  Whom, she wanted to say. “Nobody believes me about anything. Except maybe my brother. I think.” And they’d probably brainwashed him, too.

  “Why do you think that is?” Obviously, going for the kill, Mrs. Fouquet repositioned her chair. “That nobody believes you about anything.”

  Interesting technique, Nellie thought, the way she reframes each answer. “Well, first of all, it’s probably because I’m a kid, which I get. And maybe even because I’m a girl and I’m supposed to be all hormonal and emotional all the time, which I’m not. Hormonal, that is. But I guess the part I don’t really get is how people can call me a liar just so they can keep on lying to themself. Themselves,” she quickly corrected.

  “No one’s calling you a liar!” her mother gasped, to which her father added, “And we never would. That word is not in our lexicon,” he informed Mrs. Fouquet.

  “Just because you don’t say the word doesn’t mean you’re not thinking it,” Nellie said in her most precise diction.

  “Nellie,” her mother implored, shaking her head.

  “Excuse me, Nellie, let’s try something,” Mrs. Fouquet said. “Put yourself in your parents’ shoes, switch places, so to speak. Now, every time they tell you a story, you have a hard time believing it, and the reason you can’t is because of all the things they’ve made up before that weren’t true. So then one day there’s a terrible incident and they come to you and try to explain exactly what happened. But by then, you’d have a hard time believing them, wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Fouquet’s face glowed with cleverness.

  The little boy who cried wolf? That was weak. Better not to get tangled up in the analogy, Nellie decided, opting to sidestep that one. “But they never do, they never lie. Mostly, they just don’t tell us things. They wait till we leave the room. So I usually just try and figure things out myself,” she said, eliciting wan smiles from her parents.

  “We don’t argue in front of the children,” her mother tried to explain. “We never have.”

  “But you must argue sometimes,” Mrs. Fouquet said. “Most couples do.”

  “Not really,” her mother said with a quizzical look at Nellie’s father.

  “Disagreements, the quick kerfuffle,” he said. “And the occasional slammed door. Or frosty silence,” he intoned in a deeper voice, so stern faced that her mother giggled. “Icicles.” He shivered, and Nellie smiled, observing them across a barrier only she knew was there. She loved them, she did, which made their tenderness toward each other only the more isolating. And bewildering.

  Now came Nellie’s time alone with Mrs. Fouquet. Her parents left to sit in the waiting room, relieved and grateful, their burdens already lighter. Mrs. Fouquet wanted to stay on the subject of Nellie’s figuring out things for herself. Nellie got right to the point. She explained what she couldn’t actually say to her parents. There was only one reason they didn’t believe her, and one reason only. They needed Mr. Cooper’s help.

  “Do you really think your parents would do that just to sell some property?” Mrs. Fouquet had gone skeptically squinty eyed on her. A bobby pin dangled over one ear.

  “Maybe they don’t think of it that way, but that’s what they’re doing.”

  “You sound angry. Are you? Are you mad at them?”

  Nellie thought a moment. “Not really. More like disappointed, I guess.”

  “How so?”

  She cringed with the annoying expression. It made her more determined to say exactly what she meant. “Sometimes I think it’s easier for kids when their parents are all messed up. They don’t know, so they have to find everything out for themselves. They’re tougher then, stronger in a way. In my family there’s the right way and the wrong way, so it always seemed easy. You know, just follow the rules. But it’s like this muscle you never get to use. Then all of a sudden when you have to, you find out, whoa, wait a minute, there’s all these other reasons, but we won’t talk about those, so you just do what we tell you.” She looked up, conscious of the warmth and the low light in the room, the watchful silence. “I’m sorry. I can be very loquacious sometimes. Actually, most of the time.”

  “Oh no, not at all. I’m impressed,” Mrs. Fouquet said, repinning her hair. “You’re very mature and you have a great deal of insight, which is a gift, but it can also be difficult when you’re young. And confusing.”

  “Because people think you don’t know what you’re talking about, right? I mean, when you’re a kid.”

  “Sometimes the hardest part of being a kid is accepting when something’s out of our control.”

  “But it’s not! Out of my control, I mean, because I’m the one that can make things right. The way they should be.”

  Air ball, not even close, Nellie realized, seeing Mrs. Fouquet glance at the glowing red numbers, the tiny digital clock on the side table, unobtrusive, but strategically placed. “In any event, Nellie, that’ll take some time,” she said, closing a folder. “And patience. A lot of patience, both on your part and your parents’.” She reached across the desk and shook Nellie’s hand, her firm grip holding a moment. “And by the way, that muscle, that’s a good muscle to keep flexing,” she said with a wink.

  RUTH HAD GOTTEN all A’s on her midterm report. Henry had a boil on his cheek that had just been lanced. His description of what came oozing out made his sisters beg him to stop. Charlie was back home, most days spent in bed. He had agreed to a visiting homemaker and nurse after her mother threatened to petition the court for legal guardianship. Benjamin’s half-filled application for a job at Home Depot was still on the kitchen counter. Her mother was working on invitations for the jewelry party she was planning to have two weeks before Christmas. Might as well turn the notoriety to some commercial advantage, she’d decided. Lazlo regretted selling his prizewinning painting, he told Benjamin. It had left him with a great emptiness, which he admitted didn’t make sense. Maybe it wasn’t emptiness so much as the well he needed to keep filling, her father suggested, likening it to his own experience. He was still trying to find a publisher, but in the meantime he’d started the research for his next book. It would be about George C. Humboldt and his connection to the old railroad line, a subject few people knew anything about. After two very long and productive visits with the Humboldts, he’d already filled an entire notebook. Tenley had begun sorting through ancient family papers, boxes of them in their attic. Louisa said she hadn’t seen her brother this engaged, this excited about anything, in years. If ever.

  NELLIE HAD STARTED a letter to Max. Twelve pages long, it was mostly fiction, Charlie feeling better, her long walks with Boone, but she couldn’t seem to finish it. Something needed saying, though she wasn’t sure what. Or maybe there was nothing to say, no good ending. Not a satisfying one, anyway. Maybe she just needed to keep on writing. Maybe that was it, her connection.

  SHE HAD BEEN sent to keep Charlie company. Mrs. Kirkley, his day nurse, had to leave a little early, and Nellie could fill the gap until the night nurse arrived. She came directly from school. She was almost at the junkyard when the Shelby twins drove by on their souped-up bicycles with Boone leashed to Rodney’s handlebar. ASTRO BOWLERAMA, said the bold white stitching on their satiny black jackets. They stopped and rode back.

  “Boone! Hey, Boone.” She dropped to her knees and hugged him. “How’re you doin’, big fella?” The dog’s tail whipped back and forth and he nuzzled his head against hers. He knows I tried—she could feel it, rubbing his broad chest. “His heart,” she said, looking up, “it’s beating so fast.” The brothers were grinning at each other.

  “Cuz he likes you,” Rodney said.

  “No, I don’t! You do, you’re the one!” Roy said.

  “I meant him.” Rodney pointed to Boone.

&n
bsp; “You both do, then,” Roy said, rocking back and forth, an awkward attempt to calm himself that had amused many tormentors over the years.

  “Shut up!” Rodney swiped his brother’s arm.

  “It’s true. You even told Mom,” Roy said, and Rodney’s face turned red.

  Saying she’d better go, Nellie stood up. Her own face felt hot.

  “Hey, that crazy guy, he was guilty, huh?” Rodney said quickly.

  “He wasn’t crazy.” She started walking. Rodney rode slowly next to her, with Roy trailing.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call him normal, okay?” Roy said then gave his snorting laugh.

  “Yeah, like sneaking around, spying on us all the time,” Rodney added with such grating self-importance it was all she could do not to run.

  “He was a pervert, that’s why. A registered sex offender. My mother said she should’ve called the police; if only she had, that lady’d still be alive,” Roy called from behind.

  “That’s so weird! Why do you say such weird things all the time? No wonder people are always making fun of you!” She pulled open the creaking gate, hurried inside, then banged it shut, shaking the rickety fence on both sides.

  Nellie sat across the room, with her history book open, waiting for Charlie to wake up. Still agitated by her run-in with the twins, she couldn’t concentrate. She felt terrible. She shouldn’t have said what she did, especially when she was the only person they ever talked to, probably in the whole town. Trusting her, they’d let their guard down and she’d turned on them. The worst of it was realizing she was just as mean as everyone else.

  Charlie lay propped up against pillows. His cheeks were sunken and unshaven. His eyes were closed. Even from here she knew he wasn’t asleep. She could tell by his breathing, and sleeping people didn’t keep licking their lips.

  “Charlie?” she whispered, getting up. She wanted to talk about Max. “Are you awake?” She asked again when he didn’t answer. “Charlie?” She stood over the bed. “You still sleeping?”

  “Jesus.” His eyes opened wide. “Not anymore I’m not.” He closed them again.

  “Want some water? Your cup’s here.”

  When he nodded, she guided the straw to his mouth. One sip and he pushed it away. She asked if he was hungry. No, he said. Could she get him anything? No. One of those hard candies on his night stand? No, nothing. How about the TV, did he want it on, she asked hopefully. He didn’t. This morning’s paper, she’d read it to him if he wanted.

  “You know what I want?” He looked sideways with one eye open. “To get this over with, that’s all the hell I want.”

  “Get better you mean?” She knew what he meant.

  “No point dragging it out. A sick animal—you wouldn’t think twice, right? Put it out of its misery, that’s what you’d do. Hey! Why’nt you go get that hammer and—” He thumped the side of his head, then turned away with a sour laugh.

  “You think Max’ll write you again?” she asked quietly.

  He snorted. “Dead men don’t write letters.”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice was strident.

  “Like he wanted for his dog.” He slashed his finger across his throat. “Better’n being caged up, don’t you think?”

  “No. There’s always hope.” Even the word sounded bleak.

  “Got news for you, girlie. Guys like Max, they got nothin’, and they’re born with less. I seen enough to know. Poor bastard, last of the losers. Last one I’ll know, anyway.” His mouth trickled into a wan, wet smile.

  “I thought he was a very nice man.” Her voice broke.

  “For all the good that does. ’Specially when you’re so far down from the get-go.”

  She got up and stood by the window, arms crossed, looking out at the sea of discarded, unwanted, useless trash Max had tried to organize. Caught in the wind, a torn cardboard box tumbled the length of the rutted driveway. She didn’t want Charlie to see her crying. For a few moments the only sound was the rasp of his labored breathing.

  “What’re you doin’ over there, crying? Jesus!”

  “I just feel so bad.” She covered her mouth.

  “Well, don’t. Guy like him’s just not worth it, that’s all.”

  “No!” she cried, spinning around. “That’s not true, and you know it! He worked so hard around here, and he really liked you. And I don’t know why, because you didn’t even care, did you? Making him sleep up in the barn like he was some kind of bum.”

  “He was a bum! But I was damn good to him, and look how he pays me back, goddammit. Like I haven’t got enough goddamn problems. And now I gotta listen to you?” Charlie gasped, straining to squeeze out the words between pants as she grabbed her jacket and backpack and headed for the door. “Yeah, go! Go on! Go! Just get the hell outta here, will ya. I don’t need this shit, especially from you … you—” Coughing, he couldn’t catch his breath. Wide-eyed, he writhed from side to side, struggling to sit up. She slung her arms around him and pulled him up, then had to hold him so he wouldn’t fall back. His head hung heavily against hers as his chest rose and fell with each long, desperate wheeze for air. When he tried to speak, the words came like water sloshing in his lungs.

  “Breathe, Charlie, please breathe, please,” she whispered against his cold, bristly cheek. “Please!” She couldn’t believe what she’d done, first to the Shelby twins, then to her poor, sick, old grandfather.

  “Lemme go,” he gasped, and she told him, no, because she wasn’t going to let him die, she wasn’t. “I gotta lay down,” he pleaded, so she eased him back onto his pillows, then stood watching until the pace of his breathing slowed. His eyes finally opened. “You still here?”

  She nodded.

  “Max.” He closed his eyes again. “He liked you.”

  “He did?”

  “Only one he ever talked to. Besides me.”

  Chapter 26

  SHE COULD FEEL THE COLD GRAY SKY PRESSING DOWN AS SHE hurried along, determined not to look back.

  “Wait up! Wait up!” Brianna Hall kept calling until Nellie finally turned around. “I been running the whole way!” Brianna was out of breath.

  “I didn’t know it was you,” Nellie lied, shifting her backpack.

  “You saw me,” Brianna panted. “Then all of a sudden you go the other way.”

  Just as Nellie’d gotten to the sidewalk, she’d seen the Shelbys’ car pull up next to Rodney and Roy in their shiny black jackets. Sitting next to Mrs. Shelby was Boone, his big head high over the dashboard, the way he used to ride in the truck with Max. Attached to the car, on what looked to be a homemade rack, were the two bicycles. After the twins took them down, they opened the door, tossed their backpacks inside, then pedaled off down the hill. As Mrs. Shelby drove by, Boone stared straight ahead, not even a yip of recognition.

  In the week since seeing the twins on her way to Charlie’s, she’d tried to at least smile at them in class, but neither one would look her way. She’d been eliminated from their necessary field of vision as completely as everyone else who’d ever been cruel to them.

  Brianna was asking Nellie again to come to her house. Her older brother had just gotten two new video games and he’d be at football practice until suppertime.

  “I told you,” Nellie said irritably. “I have to be home for when my brother gets there.” Having lost sight of the twins, she walked slower. Probably just as well. Even if she did catch up, anything she said would only make things worse. And maybe it was best this way. Mrs. Fouquet said she shouldn’t always be trying to be all things to all people, because it held her back from being her true self, a conundrum because her true self was the very person no one wanted her to be, including herself. She woke up every morning with this same emptiness inside. And the worst part was not knowing what was missing. In their last meeting, she had shown Mrs. Fouquet her Get Tough! manual. She told her how excited she’d been the first time she’d read it. But now when she looked through it, it seemed ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. S
he couldn’t understand why it had once seemed so important to her. So meaningful.

  “Because your world is changing. You’re changing,” Mrs. Fouquet told her. “It’s like climbing a mountain. The higher you get, the smaller things seem back in the distance. The more insignificant.”

  So maybe that was it. A depressing thought. Worse, though, was the fear that perhaps nothing had ever been the way she’d always believed. Not just Max’s innocence but her own for thinking all things were possible and within her grasp, her power.

  “Eighteen hours in labor,” Brianna was saying. “Can you imagine? By that time, I’d be screaming for them to just cut it out of me.” Yesterday during last period, Mrs. Duffy’s water had broken in front of everyone, dribbling down her swollen ankles, staining her tan shoes. The principal had driven her to the hospital. Julia Marie Duffy had been born at eight A.M. A great cheer had gone up in the classroom this morning when it was announced over the PA system. And for some reason, Nellie had almost cried. While nothing could make her happy, happiness left her feeling only more hollow inside.

  “I’m not going to have any kids,” Nellie said.

  “Yeah, right. You’ll probably have, like, ten or something,” Brianna laughed.

  As they came down the hill, Nellie noticed a crowd at the far end of the park. There were a few girls, the rest boys. Four more boys ran along one of the paths toward the swelling group. Whatever the attraction, it was taking place near the flagpole.

  “Let’s go see!” Brianna hurried ahead in a half trot. “C’mon, I think it’s a fight!”

  Like so much else lately, Brianna’s excitement was only wearying to Nellie. Her feet felt like cement blocks as she dragged farther behind. The hoots and howls filled her with dread. She’d just keep walking. All she wanted was to get home so she could be alone. A fight was the last thing on earth she wanted to see. Brianna came running back.

  “It’s awful!” she said, grinning. “Poor Rodney, Bucky’s got his crazy bike halfway up the pole and everyone’s laughing.”