Keeping Safe the Stars (9781101591215) Read online

  The Monet book? I remembered Old Finn teaching that in art. The time he made us take a close look at a painting, see all the blues and pinks and greens in a single tiny square. Was that a lesson from Justine? Did she know Old Finn taught us at the table?

  It is good to know your Addie’s on the mend. My grandmother had a series of small strokes, and I can’t say she fared as well. But that’s a story for another time. I can hardly keep the pen to paper with the rocking of the train.

  Be well, my love.

  Write. I look forward to your letters.

  Justine

  A series of small strokes? Old Finn never mentioned that. One of the actors on Miss Addie’s Edge of Night had a stroke and died. Did Miss Addie almost die? Was that why she needed medicine? To stay well from a stroke?

  I laid the letter on the bed, closed my eyes to think, but somehow my thoughts seemed to blur like rain. Miss Addie and azure. The sky the same as sea. Happiness for two solitary souls.

  20

  SUGAR SMACKS AND COFFEE

  Pride!” Baby screamed. I heard his little feet pound across the floor. He opened the back door, screamed my name again. “PRIDE!”

  “I’m just up here, Baby. In the loft.”

  Justine’s last letter was open on the bed. What was that word? Azure? I pulled the stack together, hid it in the crack between the mattress and the wall.

  “I fed Woody Guthrie,” Baby shouted. “You want us to have Sugar Smacks for breakfast?” I knew he’d wait there at the ladder until I surrendered and crawled down. “’Cause we should start; we have to set up shop. Sell our souvenirs.” A good night’s sleep and Baby was all ready to do business. “Nightingale’s going to print the prices now!”

  “Okay,” I croaked. I could hardly find my voice. My body felt so worn my butt ached to the bone. I rolled over on my side, tucked my hands under my cheek. Another hour, then I’d get out of bed.

  “Pride!” Baby said. “Come on! Someone’s driving in.”

  “A customer already?” I jumped up from the bed, quick changed into a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I wasn’t greeting folks in my pajamas. Then I heard the slam of the front screen, followed by the chatter of Baby’s gabbing with someone on the porch.

  By the time I got down from the ladder, both Nightingale and Baby were already outside. The two of them were talking to a man and his small daughter, or mostly to the man; the little red-haired girl was high up in his arms, her pixie face hidden in his neck like she was shy. Something in the man reminded me of Daddy—not his red mop of shaggy curls or the rusty stretch of whiskers on his face or his wire-rimmed round glasses—but something in the way he held that little girl, tight, the way Daddy used to hold me in his arms.

  The man had left his bright orange van parked crooked in our driveway with half-peeled protest stickers plastered on the back. Peace Now. Impeach Tricky Dick. People Before Profits. It looked like something from Serenity, not Goodwell.

  “Hey,” he said, waving, when I stepped out on the porch.

  Woody Guthrie gave a little growl. I leaned low and ruffled up his ears.

  “Hey,” I said, embarrassed. My morning hair was still in tangles; my teeth weren’t even brushed.

  “They’re looking for some food,” Baby said. “Like breakfast.”

  “Not a pony ride or popcorn?” I asked, confused.

  “I got to say we’re starving.” The man gave me a big smile. “Sage and I, and popcorn won’t quite do it. And I’m desperate for a coffee. Saw your signs out on the highway, thought we’d take a look.”

  “We’ve got Sugar Smacks,” Nightingale offered flatly. I could tell she didn’t see Daddy in this man. But here she was selling off our breakfast.

  “And I can make some coffee,” I said.

  “Everything’s a quarter each,” Nightingale said. “Sugar Smacks and coffee. Pony rides. The popcorn is a dime.”

  “Sounds good.” He scratched his rusty whiskers. More than coffee, he needed a razor and a bath. Both of them would look better in clean clothes. The little girl wore a wrinkled peasant dress dragging past her knees and her legs were nearly brown from too much dirt. It was the way Baby looked before I made him take a bath. “The only horse Sage ever rode was rocking.” He gave a great big laugh. “You got one of those?”

  “Hercules,” Baby said. “He’s a great big rocking horse on springs. I’ve still got him in the barn, but I don’t use him. We could pull it out.”

  “That still would cost a quarter,” Nightingale added.

  “You kids drive a hard bargain.” He gave a smile to Nightingale, but she didn’t smile back.

  “So altogether you owe us a dollar.” Nightingale held her hand out. When it came to money, she didn’t seem so shy. And after that mean lady, Nightingale always got our money first.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn wallet, faded at the edges just like Daddy’s. For years, Mama kept Daddy’s wallet in her drawer—Daddy’s wallet with pictures of Nightingale and me. Now it was in the box of Mama’s things up in the alcove. “Here.” He handed Nightingale a dollar. “I’m Nash,” he said. “This is my daughter, Sage.” The two of them looked alike with their red hair, just the way Nightingale and Daddy were both dark.

  Nightingale closed the money in her fist, but she didn’t offer up a name.

  “I’m Baxter,” Baby blurted to be friendly. “But I just go by Baby.”

  “Baby?” Nash smiled wide at Baby. “I like that name a lot.”

  “And I’m learning how to read! Old Finn teaches at the table.”

  “You are?” Nash said. Sage turned to look at Baby. It was the first she’d pulled her face out of Nash’s neck. “Maybe you can give a hand to Sage.”

  “How old is she?” Baby asked. “’Cause I’m already six.”

  Sage looked too young to read; I didn’t learn to read until I was almost nine, and even then, I didn’t read all that much, but Nightingale taught herself to read at four. At Serenity, kids got to study what they wanted. Mostly I picked fishing or baking, tending to the ponies or playing duck-duck with the young ones in the yard.

  Daniel Walker called our learning free school, but Old Finn called it no school, which is why he made us have our school lessons all year round. Old Finn said we’d missed a lot of ground.

  “She’s five,” Nash said. “A little on the shy side.” He reached up and gave a sweet rub to her curls.

  “Nightingale’s shy,” Baby said.

  “I’m not.” Nightingale blushed.

  “If you can stay awhile,” Baby said, “we’ll have our souvenir shop all set up.”

  “Souvenirs?” Nash raised his eyebrows. “Pony rides and popcorn? Breakfast on the fly? You kids are sure industrious. Who’s the boss?”

  “I am,” I said. I didn’t want him asking questions about Mama or Old Finn.

  “She’s not,” Baby said. “Pride’s not the only boss. I’m the one who thought up the souvenirs. There’s Nightingale and me working this business.”

  “Pride?” Nash asked, confused.

  I stepped forward and squeezed Baby’s little shoulder. He’d already said too much. Young as he was, he still needed to keep quiet. At least he should have said Kathleen and Elise. Pride and Nightingale weren’t names for the world.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “But she’s still not the boss.” Baby shook his shoulder; he couldn’t bear to be held down.

  “Nice name,” Nash said. “Pride? Don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

  “She was Mama’s pride and joy,” Baby said. “And I was Mama’s baby.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Nash nodded. “I say the same to Sage. My pride and joy. My dad said it to me.”

  “He did?” Baby said. “I never knew my d—” I squeezed his shoulder harder. I d
idn’t want him saying Daddy died. He should have learned his lesson yesterday.

  “So that means you must be Nightingale?” Nash tried another smile, but Nightingale just gave him a dull stare, the way she was with any sort of stranger. “I’m guessing you must sing. Or someone hoped you would.”

  “It’s just for her pajamas,” Baby said. “Nightingales. It’s all she likes to wear.”

  I grabbed him by the elbow, cupped my hand over his mouth. “You come in and get the Sugar Smacks,” I scolded. “I’ll put on the coffee.”

  Baby wriggled free, pulled my hand away. “I want to get out Hercules for Sage,” he said. “Come on.” He gave Sage’s foot a friendly tug. “You can help me move it.” At Eden, Baby never had a kid his age to play with—he only ever had the two of us.

  Nash lowered Sage down to the ground, and right away she took off with Baby toward the barn.

  “She’s sure not shy with him,” Nash said, surprised. “He ought to run for president. He’s got a lot of charm. And we could use a new one that’s not Nixon.”

  “I know,” I said. “And Nixon is impeached.” I was proud to use the word.

  “I’m hoping that he will be,” Nash said.

  “You want sugar in your coffee?” Nightingale asked. Old Finn drank his with extra sugar.

  “Black,” Nash said. “Black as oil is best.”

  21

  FRIENDLY QUESTIONS

  Nash and Sage felt more like company than customers, maybe because right away Nash treated us as friends. He said he was a writer for a travel magazine out of Chicago, a sometimes freelance writer really, who had pitched a piece on northern Minnesota, a land he’d always hoped to see, so he and Sage set out on a quest, hunting down the best of the back roads of northern Minnesota—something more than Paul Bunyan Land or bait shops.

  “And not the usual tourist traps.” He laughed.

  While he and Sage ate cereal, we listened to his stories—how Sage’s mother was in school to be a lawyer so she’d stayed home in Chicago to study for a test; how he and Sage had spent a night in a Finnish farmer’s barn that doubled as a chapel, and how Sunday morning church folks stumbled on the two of them still snoozing in the straw. He said they’d already visited the Hockey Hall of Fame, but that baseball had been his sport when he was young. He asked us if we played, and Baby brought out the new blue mitt and the baseball Old Finn bought him for his birthday; then Nash and Baby tossed it back and forth between them, Nash catching that hard ball with his bare hands.

  When their baseball toss was finished, Sage and Baby ran off to ride on Hercules again, and Nash stayed put on our front porch steps still making conversation, asking friendly questions, more than I could answer, and most I had to answer with good lies. Through all of this, Nightingale listened, silent, from a distance, refilling Nash’s cup for a quarter every time.

  I told him that we lived here with Mama and Old Finn, which really could have happened if Mama moved us up to Eden the way that Old Finn wanted after Daddy died. I said Mama was an artist who learned to paint in France. Especially the sky and grass. And she studied lots of painters like Picasso. The longer that we talked, the easier it was to mix truth in with my lies.

  When he asked about Old Finn, I said he was a carver and a history professor who’d moved all the way to Eden to find peace. It made me glad to brag about Old Finn. And when Nash asked if he could see Old Finn’s wooden carvings, I told him they were sold at the Northwood Nook in town. Old Finn had statues on the shelves out in his woodshop, but I knew he’d never let a stranger step inside.

  “Your mom’s paintings at the Northwood Nook?” Nash asked.

  My heart stalled for a second; I didn’t want him asking Nosy Nellie about Mama. “No,” I said. “Mama’s paintings are in Paris.”

  “Paris?” Nash said, surprised.

  “In some of the museums,” I said. “Paris has a lot.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said. “Then your mom paints in the cabin?”

  “No,” I said. “She paints out in the fields. Farther down the wood path.”

  “And you kids just run this business by yourselves?” Nash asked. “Because it’s a whole lot more ambitious than your average Kool-Aid stand. And it sure puts my sixth-grade paper route to shame.”

  “We’re doing it for charity.” I didn’t want to say we had to buy Miss Addie’s medicine, plus three tickets to Duluth.

  “Charity!” He smiled. “Well, good for you. What charity?”

  I looked at Nightingale. “Multiple?” I tried. “Multiple discov—”

  “Muscular dystrophy,” Nightingale interrupted. She flashed me a mean look.

  “Ah,” Nash said. “Muscular dystrophy. Worthy cause. I’ve seen those backyard MD carnivals put on in Chicago. Don’t they send you kids some kind of kit?”

  “We’re not working from a kit,” I said. “We invented it ourselves.”

  “But you run the thing all summer?” I could see he was impressed. “Aren’t those MD carnivals usually just a day?”

  “We’re not sure how long,” I said.

  “You must make a fair amount. You’re already earning money off me and it’s still morning.”

  “More coffee?” Nightingale interrupted. She took the cup from Nash and handed it to me. “You get it, Pride,” she ordered and pointed toward the cabin. I didn’t like Nightingale bossing me around.

  When I stepped into the cabin, Nightingale followed at my feet. “That man asks too many questions! And you’re telling all those lies!” Nightingale meant it as a whisper, but it came out as a hiss.

  “They’re just stories, Night. I didn’t say anything I shouldn’t. I couldn’t let him know we’re out here all alone or earning money for our tickets.”

  “You can’t lie about a charity. People do those for good deeds. It’s wrong to make him think we’re going to give away the money.”

  “Come on,” I said. “He’s just passing through. And the longer he listens, the more money he spends. We still need Miss Addie’s medicine. Our tickets to Duluth. And Baby wants a chicken dinner—he won’t last on SpaghettiOs for long.”

  “Pride?” Nightingale rolled her eyes. “That can’t make it right. And Mama as an artist?” Nightingale stared at me. “How’d you make up France?”

  “Just thought of it, I guess.” I wasn’t going to tell her now I’d snooped through Old Finn’s things.

  Nightingale sighed a long, sad breath.

  “What?” I said. “It’s just a couple stories.”

  “Lies,” Nightingale corrected. “And you promised at our meeting that you’d stop. But now you’ve told so many.”

  “Why didn’t you try to stop me? You know when I get started on a story.” I stared into her black eyes. Sometimes I saw the worst of myself there. I didn’t have an ounce of Nightingale’s goodness.

  “What now?” she said.

  “He’ll leave any minute,” I said. “They’ll go. And that’ll be the last.”

  • • •

  “We’re all out of coffee,” I said when we stepped out on the porch. “And we got to go to town. Baby’s got those stitches to get out.”

  “Sure enough,” Nash said, but he didn’t make a move to leave. Over in the side yard Sage and Baby were bouncing wild on Baby’s old spring horse. I wished I could be Baby’s simple age again.

  Finally, Nash walked over to his van and opened the back door. Inside it looked like someone’s messy bedroom, clothes thrown over a big mattress, pillows, piles of magazines. Nash scrounged around and pulled out a big black camera. “I’d like to take a picture,” he said. “Show this scene to Sage’s mother. She’d want to see our girl on that spring horse.”

  “A quarter each,” Nightingale said.

  “A quarter for a picture?” Nash said, surprised.
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  “A dime is fine,” I said. I couldn’t see charging Nash for a picture of his daughter. I wished Mama were alive to see Baby on that horse.

  We walked with Nash toward the barn, stood beside him while he snapped pictures of Sage and Baby riding tandem on the horse, Sage in front, Baby’s little freckled face peeking out behind her shoulder.

  “So is that the real live pony?” He pointed toward the side corral where Scout and Atticus had wandered in for water. “The one kids pay to ride?”

  “That’s Scout,” Baby shouted. “I can ride her bareback. Atticus belongs to just Old Finn.”

  “Ah, literary.” Nash took a couple pictures of the horses. “To Kill a Mockingbird. Someone must like books.”

  “Nightingale,” Baby said. “She can’t get her nose out of a book. Old Finn either. He has shelves and shelves of books.”

  “And where’s Old Finn this morning?” Nash asked. I’d already said Old Finn had gone to Goodwell; I didn’t know why Nash was asking Baby now.

  Baby froze and looked at me. For once he knew better than to blurt.

  “He went to town for groceries,” I repeated.

  Nash nodded. “Think that I could get one shot of you girls with that real pony? Or maybe all of you? Could Sage and Baby sit up on its back?”

  “I’ll do it.” Baby jumped down from Hercules. “Someday I’m riding in a rodeo.”

  “I bet you will,” Nash said with a laugh.

  Baby ran to the corral, climbed between the fence slats. He dragged the empty milk crate to Scout’s side, grabbed hold of her mane, and hoisted his stubby body up onto her back. I opened up the gate and stepped inside.

  “If I set Sage down in front,” Nash asked, “do you think that you could hold her?”

  “Sure,” I nodded. Even Old Finn would understand a picture for a mother; one photo of our family for someone in Chicago wasn’t going to hurt.