Keeping Safe the Stars (9781101591215) Read online

  “Okay,” I finally said. “This was lots more than a quarter.” She should have paid a dollar for each boy. And it was late; I needed to start supper. Justine’s letters were waiting in the woodshop.

  “No,” Tommy whined. “They got more time. I want my equal turn.”

  “They didn’t,” I said. I reached up to help him off the saddle, but he kicked me in the stomach so hard I accidentally dropped him to the grass. Money or no money, I couldn’t keep this business up. All this, and we’d only made seventy-five cents.

  “Ow,” he howled. “She hurt me.”

  “What?” the mother glared. “What’d you do to Tommy?”

  “She threw me on the ground,” he sobbed. “She broke my leg. She did.”

  “I didn’t.” I hadn’t done a thing but get him off Scout; he hadn’t fallen far. “I dropped him ’cause he kicked me in the stomach.”

  “Can you stand up?” she said to Tommy. When she pulled him to his feet, he limped like Lady Jane with a burr caught in her paw.

  “I broke my ankle, Mommy!”

  Baby put his hands on his hips, squared his shoulders the way he did when he was mad. He didn’t like these tourists either. No wonder Old Finn lived a hermit life. “You can’t break your ankle getting down from Scout,” he said. “I can jump down from a tree. I jump off my swing when it’s almost to the sky.”

  “Aren’t you the smarty-pants?” the woman hissed. She lifted Tommy, hugged him like a baby. “Where’s your mother? I want to speak with her right now.”

  “Not home,” I said. This woman was so mean she’d probably call the county, tell them we were out here all alone.

  “Well, she better have insurance. My husband is a lawyer. You can bet you’ll get the bill.”

  I looked at Nightingale. Insurance? I didn’t know what this woman meant. And we didn’t have any money for her bill.

  “Let’s go,” the youngest whined. “I’m hungry. You promised we’d get candy.” He yanked hard on her dress.

  None of us said a word about the popcorn.

  “Get my purse!” she ordered. It was sitting at the swing with all her cigarettes. When the youngest finally ran back with her bag, I waited for our money, but instead she fished in and grabbed her keys.

  “It’s seventy-five cents.” Nightingale held out her empty hand. “That’s how much you owe us for those rides.” Somehow having customers made Nightingale braver. “A dollar now because all the rides took longer. They really each got two.”

  “I’m sure you must be kidding?” The woman sneered. “I’m not paying you. You’ll be paying me. And plenty when I’m done!”

  17

  NOT TELLING

  After that first customer, a couple new ones came, all tourists, but none of them as rude as that mean woman. They didn’t litter Baby’s swing with cigarette butts or order me to give their children extra time. When the last one drove away, we’d sold five more rides and seven bags of popcorn. We were worn out and starving, but we’d already earned $1.95.

  “We ought to have a Closed sign,” Nightingale said. The horses were brushed down; we were all done for the night. She stretched out in the grass and stared up at the sky. Ants crawled over her bare legs and Nightingale let them; she didn’t have the heart to harm a thing. “I’ll paint one in the morning. We can hang it from the apple tree on the far end of the driveway. That way folks will see it when they come.”

  “That’s good!” I said. “I’m ready for a rest.”

  “But first we have to eat.” Baby rubbed his hungry belly. “I can’t wait much longer, Pride.”

  I didn’t want to move an inch off that grass, but I knew Baby still had to be fed. “All right, all right.” I sighed to show I was exhausted. “I’ll go in and heat the can. It’s SpaghettiOs again.”

  “But we ate that last night, Pride,” Baby said. It wasn’t quite a whine, but it came close. I was the one who’d gone all the way to Goodwell once today, then walked back to the highway with a wagon full of signs. Baby hadn’t been kicked hard in the stomach or worn a stupid wig to pass for Mama or spent the last two hours leading Scout around the yard. If anyone could whine, it should be me.

  “But you always beg for TV foods from those commercials. Sugar Smacks and Twinkies. Frosted Pop-Tarts. Oreos. SpaghettiOs.”

  “But I didn’t like them, Pride,” Baby complained. “I want Lucky Charms with the secret prize inside.”

  “We don’t have Lucky Charms. We’ve got SpaghettiOs or peanut butter toast. Carrots and zucchini out in Old Finn’s garden. Tomatoes. Potatoes in the pantry.” Baby hated vegetables.

  “What about fried chicken?” Baby said. “And Old Finn’s Sunday biscuits. Yesterday was Sunday, but we didn’t get our Sunday dinner, Pride.”

  Sundays Old Finn always made a special dinner. But I couldn’t mix his biscuits or fry chicken by myself. For some things, I still needed Old Finn beside me in the kitchen. “We can eat our chocolate cake,” I said. “That’ll be our treat.”

  Baby looked away, and from the side I could see his lower lip puff out in a pout. “But that lady was so mean,” he said under his breath.

  “What?” In all of the commotion, I’d already forgotten that mean lady had been here.

  “And she didn’t even pay us for the rides.” I heard the tears clog up Baby’s throat. Baby never ever cried, not even when he had to get the stitches or cut his hand deep on Old Finn’s army knife. “Did Mama ever act that way to us?”

  “No,” I said. “Not ever.” Baby was so young he didn’t remember Mama like we did. “And the other folks were fine,” I said. We spent so much time at Eden, we weren’t used to anybody mean. Old Finn never even raised his voice. In one day, I’d had snotty Suzy and that woman, but now Suzy didn’t seem bad. I reached over and rubbed Baby’s little back. “They were nice enough.”

  “Not really nice,” Nightingale added. All the kids had laughed at her pajamas except the ones too young to talk.

  I kissed Baby on the head the way Old Finn did before we went to sleep. “Some folks are mean,” I said. “Like the kids were at the shelter. But we’re the Stars, we’re tough enough to take it.”

  “You sound just like Old Finn.” Nightingale let a ladybug land on her small wrist. “He always wants us tough.”

  “I don’t want to live without Old Finn,” Baby said.

  “Me either.” I was already worn out from being oldest. And I still had to fix our supper, make sure Baby got a bath. “Old Finn home is what everybody wants.”

  • • •

  “What about Miss Addie?” Nightingale asked when we sat down for supper.

  “Miss Addie?” Miss Addie always ate off by herself, except on chicken Sundays when Old Finn walked a plate down to her trailer. “You think she needs some supper?” Miss Addie had her macaroni and Velveeta. “I’d have to heat up more SpaghettiOs.” The one can that I heated had hardly fed us three. I’d already given Nightingale and Baby all the meatballs so they’d have enough to eat.

  “I wasn’t thinking of her supper,” Nightingale said. “I was thinking of the pony rides and popcorn. Do you think we ought to tell her we had strangers at our place?”

  Nightingale already knew the answer to that question. Of course we ought to tell her, but Miss Addie wouldn’t allow us to run a business here at Eden. “She won’t want those tourists on our land.”

  “I know.” Nightingale pushed the soupy rings around the bowl.

  “And right now,” I said, “it’s the only business that we have. And we need to earn some money.”

  “I know.” Nightingale nodded.

  “So we can buy a chicken,” Baby added. “And stuffing. And green beans cooked in bacon. And Lucky Charms when Pride goes back to the Need-More.”

  “So?” I said to Nightingale. “Is not telling ju
st the same as lying?” It was Nightingale who had not lying on her list. A lie or two didn’t worry me that much.

  Nightingale rested her head against her hand, just the way she did when Old Finn posed a puzzle we couldn’t solve. “Not saying is a secret,” she finally said. “And a secret’s not a lie.”

  “But what about the president?” I said. “So we don’t end up impeached. Were his secrets or did he tell real lies?”

  Nightingale laughed. “I think impeached is only for the president.”

  “Well then,” I said, “I don’t think that we should worry. And bothering Miss Addie with our business might only hurt her nerves.”

  Nightingale nibbled at her meatball. “I guess,” she finally said. “We don’t have to say for now.”

  18

  AN EVENING TREAT

  Let’s take Miss Addie cake,” Nightingale announced when our SpaghettiOs were finished. I wondered if the secret already hurt her conscience. It was awfully late to carry down dessert.

  “Okay,” I said, “but Baby needs a bath.” And I still wanted to get back to Justine’s letters.

  “I can take a bath tomorrow,” Baby said. He was always trying to work his way out of a bath.

  “We don’t have to stay there at the trailer,” Nightingale said. “But I know she’d like to see us.” Nightingale and Miss Addie were two peas in a pod.

  • • •

  We looked like a parade marching through the meadow, Baby at the head with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, Nightingale carrying the cake, me bringing up the rear with Miss Addie’s wig and slippers, the emerald earrings safe in my left hand. So many things had happened in one day it hardly seemed only this morning that Miss Addie had smeared makeup on my face.

  Those boys out on the street. Suzy in the bathroom calling me a hoot. Old Finn sent to Duluth. A brand-new business started. Letters from Justine. I hoped tomorrow things would go back to slow and steady, the way they were when Old Finn was in charge.

  “My dears,” Miss Addie said when she opened up the door. “I haven’t heard from you since morning. I thought for sure one of you would stop by.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nightingale said. “We’ve just been so busy.”

  “Busy with crocheting?” Miss Addie asked as if needlework could eat up a whole day.

  “Only some,” Nightingale confessed. “I didn’t get too far.”

  “Crocheting’s not a race.” Miss Addie smiled at the cake in Nightingale’s hands. “Oh my child, I love an evening treat!”

  She shuffled to the cupboard, handed me a stack of mismatched fancy dishes. Sometimes at the Junk & Stuff Old Finn found a teacup with a saucer or a fancy silver fork, and brought it home with Miss Addie’s magazines. Miss Addie did love dishes, even though we were the only company to serve.

  “How was the costume, Pride?” Miss Addie asked like she only just remembered.

  I slid the biggest slice onto her plate. I could make another one tomorrow; we’d have chocolate cake all week. Now that we had Thor’s eggs, all of the ingredients were here. “I changed my mind,” I said.

  “You did?” Miss Addie frowned. “After all our work this morning? You looked so lovely, dear.” Only in Miss Addie’s eyes, but I didn’t say it. “But what about those nurses at St. John’s? The ones who had you worried?”

  I was glad Nightingale had her nose in the TV; I didn’t want her saying she’d warned me I was wrong.

  “They sent Old Finn to Duluth,” I said. Miss Addie should have known that. They spoke to her today.

  “Oh dear,” she fussed. “Duluth’s so far away.”

  “They said he’d get well faster. Didn’t they call this morning and tell you that same thing?”

  “This morning?” Miss Addie blinked. “Oh yes,” she said. “A doctor called with something.” She took a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to me. “Here.” It was a number in Miss Addie’s wobbled writing. That, and a word in shaky cursive I couldn’t read. Enceph—— something. “What’s this?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said, confused. “I think it’s the number to St. Mary’s.”

  “It’s long. And I’ve never seen a phone number like this here.”

  “That’s long distance, Pride,” Miss Addie said. “Unfortunately it costs money to make a phone call to Duluth. You’ll have to pay.” She slumped down in her seat. “Do you know when someone’s coming?”

  “Coming?” I repeated. I wasn’t sure what she was asking. Had Miss Addie heard the cars?

  “To help us get along here. At least until Old Finn . . .”

  “No,” I said, “we’re fine. We don’t need any help.”

  “But my medicine is gone. I discovered that today. And Old Finn is the person who keeps track.”

  “Your medicine?” Nightingale asked, worried. Suddenly she snapped off the TV, walked over to the table, and sat down at her plate.

  “He always picks it up at Wagner Drug.” Miss Addie pinched the loose skin on her neck. “I need it for my blood.”

  “We’ll get it in the morning,” Nightingale promised. “First thing when we wake up. It’s too late to go to town tonight.”

  “You will?” Miss Addie smiled weakly.

  “I will,” I said. Nightingale made the promise, but she wouldn’t be the one riding Atticus to Thor’s, then walking into town. I’d be the one riding into Goodwell twice. “But could you wait until three thirty? Because Baby sees the doctor then. And after that, I can go to Wagner Drug.”

  “Three thirty?” Miss Addie said. “I’m not certain that I should. Perhaps Wagner’s would be willing to deliver?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re not calling Wagner Drug to ask for help.” I stuck the slip of paper in my pocket; I didn’t want Miss Addie calling anyone and telling them our truth. Plus medicine cost money. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Addie said like she’d been scolded. “I don’t need the medicine before tomorrow night.”

  19

  TWO SOLITARY SOULS

  Old Finn wasn’t the only one who believed in self-reliance; Mama taught it every time she counted on my help. Plus the commune constitution made kids and grown-ups equal, so just living at Serenity gave me lots of practice solving problems for myself.

  “Don’t worry,” I told Nightingale. “I’ll get Miss Addie’s medicine somehow. We got a dollar and ninety-five cents, and more we’ll earn tomorrow.” Baby’s fresh bath body was sprawled between us in the sheets. I’d tucked him in so late, he’d gone to sleep in seconds.

  “I hope,” Nightingale murmured. She sighed a slow, loud yawn. “Aren’t you out of steam?”

  “Not yet,” I said. I’d been racing past what-next since Old Finn got his fever, and no matter what last happened, some new problem waited to be solved. I had too much on my mind to fall asleep. I closed my eyes and tried to say the prayers. Dear God, please get rid of that infection. Dear God, please get rid of that infection. Dear God, please make Old Finn well. I counted on my fingers. Twenty-five was taking way too long. Plus I wasn’t sure who listened to my prayers—was God only make-believe or was there really a good God caring for Old Finn? Out of all of us, Nightingale was the only one who had a sense of God. Baby didn’t much wonder, and Old Finn didn’t want to say. Still, he never took us to a church.

  “Nightingale,” I finally whispered. “Will God really make him well?”

  Woody Guthrie gave a grunt, stretched out his long dog legs until all four of them were pointing toward the ceiling. I wondered if Woody Guthrie thought of God.

  “Nightingale?” I said again.

  I slipped out of bed and looked out Old Finn’s window at the night. I didn’t want to think alone on God. God made me think of death and heaven, and how someday I’d lose everyone I loved. Outside, the moonlight w
ashed the backyard blue. Justine’s letters were waiting in the woodshop. Justine’s Dear Mick would take my mind off God. I dashed out the back door, ran across the grass like some dark spirit was behind me. But it wasn’t night that scared me; it was the emptiness of Eden.

  • • •

  I took the letters to the loft, snapped on the little cowboy nightlight Old Finn bought for Baby, stretched out on my stomach, and unfolded the next envelope. It was another piece of tissue paper that opened to a page.

  September 20, 1972

  Dear Mick,

  So today we’re on the train to Nice. The Cote d’Azur is lovely, the same azure as your beloved Eden sky. Remember that night we sat out on your porch and watched that gorgeous sunset, and you said the sky was really just the ocean upside down?

  I couldn’t imagine Old Finn saying that. Maybe Justine’s letter was meant for someone else. I looked back at the address. Mick Finnegan. It had to be Old Finn.

  Those are the silly things I think of.

  It sounded silly. Old Finn could name the stars; he knew they weren’t fish.

  I must confess, all this lovely quiet has made me reconsider your offer of a summer spent at Eden. I don’t know who would tend my garden in Duluth, but I can see the magic of painting at your cabin—the perfect peace, your animals, the steady sky and sun. Pines and birch and the wash of sunrise pink just beyond the hills. And to know you’d be nearby, carving in your woodshop. I’m beginning to believe two solitary souls could build a life together.

  I am working on that little watercolor that I promised, small enough to mail to your place. It’s impossible to get the colors perfect. I see now that’s why the painters did so many studies.

  If you look at that Monet book I bought for you last Christmas, you’ll see the blue I mean. Find Fort of Antibes. That’s it. Azure. The color of your summer sky.