Keeping Safe the Stars (9781101591215) Page 3

  “Just for today,” I said to cheer her up. “Tomorrow he’ll be better.”

  “The nurse didn’t tell us that.” Nightingale looked so small and orphaned standing in that lobby, like a stray in long black braids and Mama’s faded shirt. A single tear washed a path along her cheek. Both of us were dusty from the ditch. “And, Pride,” she creaked, “Miss Addie isn’t Mama.”

  “I know,” I said. I didn’t want Suzy in her uniform to hear about my lies. I put my arm over Nightingale’s shoulder, nudged her through the door and out onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t say that she was. I only gave a hum.”

  “But what if Mama heard you?”

  “She didn’t,” I said. I used to think Mama watched me every day, that even up in heaven she could see inside my soul. But the longer she was gone the less I could believe it.

  “But God did,” Nightingale said. “And what if all your lies make Old Finn worse?”

  Nightingale had a fairy-tale brain; it’s why she thought her nightgowns were real dresses. Most days she disappeared into the make-believe of stories, book after book, but she didn’t think of those as lies.

  “They won’t,” I said. “God doesn’t work that way.” I didn’t really know how God worked, but no good god would make Old Finn get worse.

  “But now they want to meet with Mama,” Nightingale said. “And Miss Addie is too old.”

  “I know,” I said again. I grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and steered it toward the street. “Don’t worry, Night, I’ll get it figured out.”

  7

  IMPEACH

  I didn’t have the answer to the fever or how long we’d be alone at Eden or how I’d get someone who looked like Mama to go into St. John’s, but I could buy our groceries at the Need-More, check things off the list while Nightingale added all the numbers in her head. And I felt better being busy, better working for my family than standing on that sidewalk watching Nightingale fret. I filled the cart with all Miss Addie’s groceries, including her Velveeta so she wouldn’t go without, plus milk and butter, Wonder Bread and Alpo, four cans of SpaghettiOs and Sugar Smacks for us. Baby always begged Old Finn for Sugar Smacks.

  When we finished with the groceries, we had twenty-seven cents left of Old Finn’s money and Bernice’s ice-cream quarters just waiting to be spent.

  “What about the Butternut?” I said. We needed something happy to get our minds off Old Finn, how broken-down he’d been in that small bed, all those strange machines, the way Bernice wouldn’t say when he’d be well. “Let’s buy ourselves a treat.”

  “We should save.” Nightingale slipped the coins into her pocket. “Just in case we need more money up ahead.”

  “We’ll save the twenty-seven cents,” I said. “But we ought to get the ice cream Bernice wanted us to buy.”

  When we stepped into the cool of the Butternut Café, I saw right away it buzzed with some big news. The radio beside the register was on, and both the summer tourists and locals leaned in that direction just to listen.

  “I can’t believe our country’s come to this,” the waitress said. She splashed a stream of coffee into a cup.

  “You’re telling me.” An old man shook his head. “I voted for him twice.”

  “My kids can’t even watch cartoons,” one woman added. “I wish just once they’d shut this garbage off.”

  I knew then they were talking about Nixon. The trouble with the president was always on TV, boring daytime hearings that interrupted Miss Addie’s favorite shows. Old Finn didn’t own a TV, but I sometimes watched the Nixon troubles on Miss Addie’s little black-and-white. I didn’t understand what Nixon did exactly, but Old Finn said he lied to save his skin. Tricky Dick, he called him. And Old Finn said he ought to be in prison like every other crook.

  “He’s going to be impeached,” somebody else said. “That’s how it looks this morning.”

  “Impeached?” I said to Nightingale; she always knew strange words. It made me think he’d be cut up like a peach, set out on a platter, or diced into a jar. Or else a sword would be stuck straight through his chest. “Doesn’t that mean something with a sword?” I asked.

  “A sword?” Nightingale squinted. She laughed for the first time since we’d left the house that morning. “That’s impaled, Pride.”

  • • •

  Nightingale made us eat our ice cream on the curb, same place we always ate when we came in with Old Finn. The two of them couldn’t bear a place packed full of people.

  “What’s that mean, impeached?” I asked again. I was glad to find another subject besides Old Finn in that bed. I ran my tongue along the ribbons of thick fudge. Fudge swirl for me; banana nut for Nightingale. Baby liked plain strawberry and Old Finn licorice ice. It made me sad to eat a cone without Baby or Old Finn.

  “I think it means he’s going to get in trouble. Old Finn always said he’d get what he deserved.”

  “What’s that?” I asked. I didn’t know enough to know what he deserved. It was Nightingale who asked Old Finn all the questions about Nixon.

  “It means he could lose the job of president for lying. All those lies, they’re finally catching up.”

  • • •

  When we wheeled up to the Junk & Stuff, Thor was on his front step sorting through a box of broken doorknobs—glass and brass and silver. He didn’t look too worried about Nixon.

  “You must have some strength,” Thor said to me. He nodded toward the groceries, Woody Guthrie’s bag of food. “That’s quite a load you’re steering.”

  My muscles burned, I had blisters on my palms, but I was proud I’d made it back from Goodwell. I could carry Baby, split wood, build a fire by myself. Saddle Atticus without an ounce of trouble. Now I could get our groceries, keep food in our bellies until Old Finn got well.

  “I got those eggs,” he said. He reached over toward the porch, lifted the gray carton from the railing.

  “The eggs!” I turned to Nightingale. “You forgot to save money for the eggs. I can’t bake the cake without them.”

  “We got twenty-seven cents.” She reached into her pocket.

  “The eggs’ll cost us forty.” I pointed to a tattered cardboard sign tacked up on the coop.

  “Twenty-seven cents would suit me fine.” Thor pulled the rumpled red bandana from his back pocket, dabbed it at the backside of his neck.

  “I’ll bring the rest tomorrow,” I said. Old Finn didn’t believe in charity. He told us taking always ended up as owing, that people gave to get, that in the end there wasn’t a lender you could trust. I didn’t want to owe money to Thor.

  “You just repay me with that cake. Next time you come this way I’ll take a slice.” He lifted up the Alpo. “You girls can’t get all this food home on a horse. You earned your badge, why don’t you let me drive the groceries to your place. Give your grandpa a hand with that bum truck.”

  Nightingale stabbed me with her elbow.

  “No, sir,” I said. “We haven’t earned it yet. We still got to get the food back by ourselves.” If Thor drove us out to Eden he’d see Old Finn was gone.

  “Then you’re gonna need some stronger sacks,” he said. “I got some old seed sacks in the barn. That paper won’t hold out.”

  Thor helped us tie the seed sacks to our saddles, then loaded up our bags. “I can see,” he said, “you girls got your grandpa’s independence—he always has to take things on his terms. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” He gave Atticus’s neck a gentle pat.

  “I guess.” Mama used to say the same about Old Finn. My father takes life only on his terms.

  Thor laughed. “Hard to think two girls can be so headstrong.”

  I couldn’t tell if he meant it good or bad. I nudged my heels into Atticus’s sides; I was ready for the privacy of Eden. “We’ll get your seed sacks back.”

 
“Don’t hurt none to lend a hand to neighbors,” he said. “Just this May, your grandpa helped me mend that broken fence. Put a new roof on my place.”

  “I know,” I said. “He was happy to help out.” Old Finn gave. It was taking help from others he didn’t like.

  “Me, too,” Thor said. “That’s why folks are here.”

  8

  READY NOW OR NOT

  Mama wasn’t speaking to Old Finn when Daddy died of cancer. She didn’t invite him to Serenity for Daddy’s funeral or send a picture two weeks later when Baby was first born. Mama said it was because Old Finn didn’t understand interdependence or why she and Daddy moved us to a commune, a living-all-together place in the mountains of New Mexico. Later, Old Finn told me it was the leader of Serenity, Daniel Walker, he didn’t like. Old Finn said Daniel Walker wasn’t fit to lead a dog, and smart people like our parents should have seen that for themselves.

  I think Old Finn was right because four years after we’d scattered Daddy’s ashes, Daniel Walker accidentally crashed the peace van he was driving, killing everybody in it in an instant, even Mama, and leaving us alone with no one in the world. By then, we didn’t even have an address for Old Finn.

  That’s why the sheriff took us from Serenity and put us in the shelter, a crowded old motel run by the county, a crabby place that mostly kept rough kids. A place where Nightingale cried herself to sleep, and the big boys bullied Baby, shoved him down the stairs, took away his toys. A place where Mrs. Traynor lined the children up for lice checks, and Miss Hawkins threatened to shave off all our hair, even Nightingale’s long braids she’d been growing like a garden. A place where some mean girl broke my locket, and Miss Hawkins said I knew less than a nit, all because I told her it was Nightingale’s human right to keep her braids. And everyone made jokes about Serenity, called us Commune Kids and Flower Power Freaks. And no one cared that Mama was just gone.

  And then one day Old Finn arrived from Goodwell, a man big as a bear, with thick, strong arms, Mama’s wide, smooth face, kind gray eyes identical to Mama’s, and short white hair shaved down to bristles on his head. He got down on his knees, squeezed the three of us so hard he almost took my breath, and he promised us he’d get us from the county, go through the court, jump through all their legal hoops, work through their red tape, and as soon as that was finished he was taking home the Stars.

  Which is exactly what he did. And three weeks after Mama died we had a new home here at Eden.

  I knew we owed our good life to Old Finn. It was Old Finn who got us from the county, who always said his job was keeping safe the Stars. So if I had to tell a few white lies or ride horseback miles through the heat or wheel groceries home from Goodwell, I didn’t mind so much because I knew it’s what Old Finn would want. He’d want to keep the Stars out of a shelter or sent away to fosters, the kind of horrible things that happened when a guardian was gone. A lesson we learned well when we lost Mama.

  • • •

  “We’re going to need some quiet.” I thumped a wooden spoon against the table; we’d held lots of family meetings, but always with Old Finn.

  “Pride,” Nightingale argued. “Quit acting like the boss.”

  Acting like the boss was in my blood; Mama always joked I’d been born bossy, but Nightingale hated to be bossed. “Okay.” I shrugged and tore a sheet of paper from the teaching tablet Old Finn used for school. “You go ahead and start.” I handed Nightingale our shoe box of old crayons. “You make a list of how we’ll all survive.”

  Nightingale pulled out a purple crayon, then she stared down at the paper like she wanted her first sentence to be perfect, just the way she did when we had to write a composition for Old Finn.

  “Go ahead,” Baby said. He was born impatient.

  Finally, Nightingale printed out a number one.

  1. Say a hundred prayers a day for Old Finn’s brain.

  2. Stop with all the lying. (PRIDE!)

  3. Get back to our lessons.

  I couldn’t believe Nightingale wrote that; if it were up to me we’d take these few days off. Kids weren’t even meant to be in school in the summer, but Old Finn made us have our lessons all year long.

  4. Earn the money to pay Thor his thirteen cents. And more if we need groceries.

  “That’s good,” I said. “But we can get the thirteen cents from Baby.”

  “Take my pennies?” Baby fussed. “But I don’t want to give those up.”

  “It’s just thirteen,” I said to Baby. “Thirteen pennies isn’t much. But a hundred prayers a day?” I looked at Nightingale. “Who’s going to say all those?”

  “I thought we could divide. Thirty-three apiece. Thirty-four for me. Or twenty-five if Miss Addie wants to join.”

  “Of course.” Miss Addie nodded. “I will pray.” She was drooping at the table, dozing on and off. The long day spent at our cabin had worn Miss Addie out.

  Nightingale passed the shoe box on to Baby. He was just learning how to print, so instead he made a drawing. He drew the three of us holding hands under a rainbow with Woody Guthrie sleeping at our feet (just the way that he was right now) and Miss Addie in her ringlet wig standing near her trailer. And up above the rainbow, he drew a man that had to be Old Finn. Old Finn or God, but it was Nightingale who mostly thought of God.

  “This is what I want,” Baby said. “I want my family safe. And for me to get my thirteen pennies back. I’ve only saved to forty-six so far.”

  “You’ll get them back.” I kissed his bristled head. “I promise you that, Baby. And I’m going to keep you safe.”

  “You go now.” Baby passed the crayon box to Miss Addie.

  “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’m not really family.” Up until last night, Miss Addie was a friend, an old actress who occupied a little patch of Eden, and I had a hunch she didn’t want to be much more.

  “We need you in our family,” Nightingale said. “You’re the only grown-up we’ve got.”

  “Isn’t that a sorry state?” Miss Addie fiddled with her earring. “I don’t think your grandpa meant to leave you here with me.”

  “He said we ought to wait there at your trailer,” Baby said.

  I squeezed her hand; I didn’t want Miss Addie giving up on us. “And so far we’ve done just fine.”

  “Let’s hope.” Miss Addie sighed like she wasn’t quite so sure. She sifted through the crayon box until she landed on the color that matched the rose red of her lipstick and her nails.

  I don’t know, she wrote in shaky cursive, then she stopped. She set the crayon down on the paper. “I don’t know where I’ll sleep,” she said. “I already miss my trailer. Lady Jane must be meowing at my door.” Lady Jane was probably mousing in the barn or curled up in the hay. “I’m afraid I can’t stay here.”

  “You want to leave?” Nightingale said like she hoped it wasn’t so.

  “Sweet child,” Miss Addie said. “I don’t want to leave you children home alone, but I can’t sleep at someone else’s house. Not at my age.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll be all right tonight. And tomorrow night, if Old Finn still isn’t home.”

  “We will?” Nightingale said.

  “I have my bow and arrow,” Baby chirped. “I could kill a burglar.”

  “You see,” I said to Nightingale. “If Baby isn’t worried, we shouldn’t be worried either. We’ll lock the doors, sleep here by ourselves. If trouble comes, we’ll run down to Miss Addie’s place.”

  “You’re sure?” Miss Addie stood up slowly, held steady to her chair before she took a couple small steps from the table.

  “Sure,” I lied. Even if I wasn’t, Miss Addie was already heading toward the door. We were on our own, whether we were ready now or not.

  9

  WISH YOU WERE HERE

  The three of us didn�
��t sleep up in our loft. Instead we left on every light inside the cabin and climbed into Old Finn’s bed where the smell of hard work was still clinging to his sheets. Minty soap and sawdust, garden dirt and grass, summer sweat from the hours he spent tending Eden. At the bottom of the bed, Woody Guthrie was snoring on my feet; even Woody Guthrie wouldn’t stand guard.

  At every little creak we’d startle, huddle closer. Just the sound of branches scratching at the screen gave us all a scare. Finally, Nightingale said we’d feel safer saying prayers, our twenty-five apiece for Old Finn’s brain, but I didn’t even make it up to five. I couldn’t keep my mind on praying; I still had the problem with the hospital to solve. That nurse, Bernice, expected to meet Mama.

  When Nightingale and Baby had the heavy breath of sleep, I climbed out of Old Finn’s bed, went out to the sofa to sit there by myself. I couldn’t think with all that sleepy breathing going on. By tomorrow, someone needed to be Mama. Someone would have to go into the hospital to talk about Old Finn.

  I need someone to be you, I thought to Mama.

  That’s you, she said to me. You’re my spitting image. Old Finn always said I looked like Mama; Mama said it, too, but I couldn’t see myself growing up to be as pretty as she was. Maybe one day my freckles would fade like Mama’s did, and my teeth wouldn’t look so big, or my legs and arms too long for my body. Maybe my thick brown hair wouldn’t tangle into frizz. But that day seemed a long time off right now.

  I try, I said. I’m tall like you now, Mama. I knew Mama’s voice was only in my memory, but it helped my heart to imagine she could hear. I even have your big, long feet. I’m size seven now.

  My pride and joy, Mama said. I can always count on you, Pride. I pictured Mama setting Baby in my lap the way she used to do when she was busy fixing supper.

  You can, I said. Though I wish that you were here.

  • • •