Touching Stars (36 page)

She smiled at him. “Not everyone’s so helpful.” She looked down at the receipt, then up at him again. “Your total is $33.45.” She tore off the receipt and showed it to him.

Jared opened his wallet. He handed her two twenties and waited for change. The cash drawer opened, and she took out the bills and handed them over, then counted out two quarters and a nickel. Finally she placed the receipt in his outstretched hand.

“Next time look for the sales,” she said sweetly. “The Clear-blue Easy Pregnancy Test was discounted this week. You could have saved some money.”

“I’ll tell my sister…and her husband.” He grabbed the bag and started toward the door in humiliation.

“I didn’t know you had a sister, too,” she called.

But he was so far away by then he figured she didn’t expect him to shout a response.

The drive to Brandy’s house was filled with a hundred silent questions and no answers. This time he planned to read the instructions himself. He doubted Brandy had messed up the last test on purpose, but it
was
possible. If this one didn’t work, he would drive back and buy every single test on the shelves if he had to remove half his savings from the ATM to do it. They would have an answer tonight. He was going to make sure of it.

The only car at Brandy’s house was her mother’s old Buick, which would soon be Brandy’s. Since the Wilburns usually worked late, he figured he and Brandy would be alone long enough to get this finished.

He was preparing to knock when the front door opened. Brandy stood back to let him inside. Her hair hung lifelessly over her shoulders, and her usually smooth complexion sported a zit in the middle of one cheek.

“Hey.” He managed a smile. “Nobody blames you, you know. And Reese is fine. It turned out okay.”

“I shouldn’t have trusted anybody else. It was stupid. I guess I learned my lesson. I’ll be a lot more careful if anybody ever trusts me again.”

“They will. You’re a great babysitter.”

“After this, I’ll be so careful I’ll probably smother my own kids. I’ll never let them out of my sight.”

For a moment he couldn’t move. Then he cleared his throat. “About that? I, well, I bought another pregnancy test. We have to know.”

She waved away his words. “We don’t need that test. I already know.”

His stomach fell. She had run a test without him and discovered the worst.

She turned away and started toward the family room. “You got what you wanted, Jar-Jar. I’m not pregnant. I started my period.”

He supposed that a month ago talking about a girl’s period would have been way down on his list of stimulating topics. But he had never heard such welcome words.

He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “You’re sure?”

“What, you think I can’t tell?”

“Well, sure you can, but I just need to know if you’re being honest. You’re not just saying it to make me feel better?”

“I don’t care if you feel better.” She sniffed. “I was hoping I was. I know we’re too young and all that, but I just hoped, you know…?” She sniffed again. “I hoped you and I could maybe start our life together. I was going to finish high school at home and fix up a place for us really nice. You could have worked for my dad. It would have been cool.”

“Brandy, that’s like playing house. It’s not real life. Babies cry, and they get sick and need things. We wouldn’t have anything much to give one, and nothing to fix up a house. We’d have to live here or with my mom. I’d never make it to college. Don’t you see this is good news?”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t love me. You don’t want to marry me. You don’t even want me in your life anymore. You think I’m stupid, but I can see what’s what.”

“Then you ought to see this is no life to bring a baby into.”

She stared at him when he didn’t say more. “You mean all that’s really true? Everything I just said?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Brandy.”

“That’s it? The other stuff? Not loving me, not wanting me in your life?”

“I don’t know what love is and neither do you. We’re not old enough to figure out something like that. Not yet, anyway. I care about you, but I don’t know anything else. I don’t want to be tied down right now—”

He grabbed her when she tried to turn away, so he could get it all out. “Look, I don’t want to tie
you
down, either,” he said. “I’m not going to be here next year. If you tell guys I’m still your boyfriend, nobody’s going to ask you out. You won’t have a date for the prom, or for homecoming, or for anything important. And I’m not going to do that to you. We both need our freedom. Maybe later, when we’re older and know who we are, we’ll find each other again. I don’t know. But for now, it’s got to be over.”

She began to cry. He tried to pull her close to hold her, but she pushed him away.

“Brandy, there’s a whole world I need to see.” He tried to make her understand. “A huge world just filled with things neither of us knows anything about.”

“How are you going to see this huge world of yours tied to a chair in some lecture hall? You think you’ll see much of it at MIT? You’ll be going to classes and studying. It’ll be like high school, only harder and farther away.” Her eyes blazed. “That world of yours is just an excuse!”

He winced. He’d heard this argument before. One side of his brain duking it out with the other.

“I think you’d better go,” she finished. “Go on. You’ve said what you came to say. Maybe you can get your money back on that pregnancy test. At least I did that much for you.”

“Listen, you’re important to me. We’ve had a good year together. I’m not going to forget you.”

She pointed toward the front of the house. “Out.”

“You’re supposed to be at camp, too. I told Mr. Allen I’d bring you back with me.”

She shook her head. “I’ll drive myself over later, after the campfire. Or my parents will bring me. I’m not your responsibility anymore. Just leave. Get out. Now.”

For a moment he wanted to retract it all. He felt as if he were teetering on a tightrope. He wanted to edge his way back to the platform and climb down to safety. But he had put one foot in front of the other too many times, and now going back was as dangerous and as far as going forward.

“I’ll see you later, then.” He turned and fled.

He took the long way to the site. The campfire had already begun when he took his place at the end of the log where his campers were seated. Mr. Allen was just finishing up talking about the differences between what we know and what we think we know.

Jared only half listened. At the moment, he wasn’t sure if he knew anything, but he was beginning to believe that, like Robby Duncan’s, his life was about to settle into a path that nobody had anticipated.

1895

I
n the days that followed, I noted with dismay the many times Blackjack sought my mother and the many times he too easily found her. More than once, I found them chatting as if their friendship had begun in the cradle—although I was afraid there was more to it than that. She was softer when she was with him, and more attentive. The exhaustion that had been as much a part of her as bonnet and apron seemed to peel away when they were together.

Strange men, some in tattered butternut or gray uniforms, moved down our road, stopping for water or food. Some slept overnight in our barn, but the others pushed on, grateful for whatever we could give them.

In the evenings after supper I was still invited into the parlor. Sometimes Blackjack played our piano, and sometimes he read out loud while Ma worked on the Virginia Star quilt. Before he arrived, we had begun
Vanity Fair,
reading by smoky beeswax candles together. We had taken turns, although despite its moral lessons, neither of us had found the story improved our character.

Now Blackjack suggested we put the book away and read
The Tempest,
since Ma had been named for Miranda, the daughter of Prospero.
The Tempest
wasn’t a play I enjoyed. There were not enough fierce battles, struggles with honor, impassioned soliloquies. But my objections were ignored, and I was made to read out loud, taking roles as needed. Both Ma and Blackjack coached me as I read, until I wondered if I was in school again.

I didn’t like the way Blackjack smiled at my mother. I didn’t like the way his head bent close to hers, the way he appeared to be reading along as she recited Shakespeare’s words but was, in fact, gazing at her narrow wrists and long fingers.

I tried to stay nearby, but sometimes my mother sent me to do chores I couldn’t escape.

On one afternoon I came back to the house after a morning away. Rain had fallen all through the night, and the soil had been too muddy to plow. Instead, I had helped Ralph repair a wagon wheel, although at the moment we had no mule or horse to pull it. The residents of our stable had disappeared with the Confederate Army. Blackjack’s horse was the only one in residence, and the bay was not destined to be hitched to anything.

When I entered, I heard my mother and Blackjack talking in the parlor, so I stayed in the hallway and listened.

“You work so diligently on that quilt, although so many others are in evidence here,” Blackjack said. “It’s almost as if you need two dozen for each bed in your house.”

“There’ll come a time when my fingers will be stiff and my eyes poor. Then I’ll still have quilts to keep me warm.”

“You plan to stay here? With so little to gain and an entire world to explore?”

“Where would I go and how would I pay for it? Here, at least, we have land. Eb and Ralph can coax enough food from it to feed us until the leanest years are over. And the farm is Robby’s legacy. What else do I have to give him?”

“A mother with stars in her eyes and wind in her hair? A mother who hopes for adventure?”

“Adventure is a man’s hope. A woman hopes for a life that doesn’t destroy her.”

“Once you hoped for more. Sometimes I see it in your eyes. You hoped for love and the world at your fingertips.”

“Every silly girl wishes for those things, but in the end we settle for less.”

“Did you settle for less? Is that what marriage was to you?”

“That’s an impertinent question.” But she didn’t sound as if she minded as much as she should have.

“Tell me,” he insisted. “Your husband was a good man. On this we’re clear. But was he a man you could love?”

“You forget yourself.”

“I’ve learned to ask questions now, because tomorrow may destroy my chance to ask again.”

I knew I shouldn’t hear this, that whatever she answered wasn’t meant for my ears. But I couldn’t make myself move away.

“Mr. Duncan was much older than I. For all our days together he worked hard to be a fit husband, and I worked as hard to be a good wife.”

“Words with no meaning.”

“Words with all the meaning I care to give them.”

“There’s no love in them.” His voice grew softer. “Did you ever know love?”

She was silent. I wished I could see what was happening, then was glad I couldn’t. I turned to go, my pulse beating rapidly at the base of my throat when he spoke again, this time with words I recognized. The feeling behind them was easily recognized, as well.

“‘Admired Miranda. Indeed, the top of admiration; worth what’s dearest to the world. Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time the harmony of their tongues hath into bondage brought my too diligent ear. For several virtues have I liked several women; never any with so full soul but some defect in her did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, and put it to the foil. But you, oh, you! So perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature’s best.’”

Blackjack had a musical voice. He said he had studied theater at school during a boyhood in New England and that it was his favorite subject. He also claimed to have been blessed with a nearly perfect memory, so he could read lines and easily remember them. When we read together, he was able to take any part and give it meaning.

The meaning was perfectly clear here. Blackjack Brewer was courting my mother with the play for which she had been named.

I left again, angry and confused about what I should do. I was now the man in our family, but nothing had prepared me for this. Blackjack Brewer was courting my mother in the house she had shared with my father. Yes, my father had been dead for almost two years, and deep mourning had ended. As required, she had worn what black crepe she could find at a time when too many needed it. Although my father was buried in Pennsylvania in an unmarked grave, she had promised to mark a grave here for him, as soon as we could afford a stone and stonecutter.

But even though many months had passed, I couldn’t understand how Ma could so easily abandon all mourning and turn to a stranger. The only thing we really knew about Blackjack was that he kept secrets. Now the roads were filling with men. His leg had healed enough for travel; he and his horse had rested. But Winchester no longer seemed to call him, and I thought that Johnston’s army had never been his intent.

I debated whether I should reenter the house, stomping my feet or calling for Ma. In the end, I went down to the cabin to visit Aunt Cora. I wasn’t going to report what was happening, but I thought I might solicit a little advice.

As I approached, I saw she was on the porch shelling dried lima beans. When she heard me, she looked up and smiled. “What are you doing here, Robby? Eb was just looking for you down in the barn.”

Earlier Uncle Eb had gone to bargain with a neighbor who had two mules. We were hopeful that we could come to some arrangement for one of them. At the moment we had to take turns hitching ourselves to the plow.

I perched on the step and gazed up at her. She was resting on the bench that ran between the two front windows, pressing her shoulders against the house for comfort. She owned shoes but rarely wore them. Now her toes stuck out under the hem of a much patched blue dress.

“Did Uncle Eb have more work for me?” I asked.

“Eb brought you something, but he didn’t want to show it to you in front of that Blackjack fellow.”

I heard the note of distaste in her voice and used it to my advantage. “You’re not fond of Blackjack, are you?”

“What’s he still doing here, anyway? Eb says he’s well enough to move on, but he sure don’t seem to be moving.”

Aunt Cora’s hair is almost completely gray now, although I can remember when it was as dark as mine. Like Ma, she pulls it back in a knot worn low on her head, but Aunt Cora’s hair is thin and lank. Ma’s is thick and glossy, and no matter what she does, it lies in waves against her head. Before the war, when she brushed it dry in front of the fireplace, my father would watch her as if this was all the gold a man really needed.

“I don’t know what Blackjack’s doing,” I told Aunt Cora. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone with Ma.”

I expected her to respond, but she was silent. I watched as she shelled the beans faster.

“What do you think of that?” I prompted at last.

“I think your ma’s been without a man too long. She’s sad and lonely, and he’s a charmer. You’re a good son, Robby, but you’re a son, and sometimes a woman needs someone her own age she can talk to.”

Blackjack had never said how old he was, but I guessed he wasn’t as old as thirty, while Ma was already thirty-two.

“He’s younger than she is,” I said. “At least I think he is.”

“That never stopped no world from turning.”

I had hoped for reassurance, but instead I was rapidly growing more alarmed. “What should I do?”

She considered it awhile. This time I stayed quiet and waited.

“There’s nothing
to
do,” she said at last. “Your ma’s all grown. She’s a widow woman, and she ought to have some sense about men. You got to trust it, that’s all.” She paused. “Of course, it won’t hurt to keep your eyes and ears open a little, maybe not pay as much attention as you should to their privacy. If you know what I mean…”

I was afraid I did, but I didn’t want to sneak around and catch Ma and Blackjack together. Not only did it feel wrong, I wasn’t sure what I might stumble on.

“You think he’ll want to marry her? Maybe he wants our farm.”

“I don’t guess marriage is on his mind, and this farm, well, it ain’t no prize anymore. Maybe we could use a man young enough to put it all back together. But I don’t think Blackjack Brewer’s the one for that job.”

I didn’t think so, either. But was that better than the other possibility? That Blackjack was only playing with my mother’s affections while he waited for the exact moment to melt into the masses of men returning home?

Aunt Cora got to her feet. “Here’s Eb.”

Uncle Eb was just coming out of the barn. She waved, and he started toward the cabin. He looked tired, and I was glad there’d been no plowing today. Both he and Ralph needed a day without hard work.

When he saw me, he stopped, turned and went back to the barn. He came out a moment later carrying something under his arm. When he got to the porch, he held out another newspaper.

“Thought you’d like this.”

I took it gladly. “When did you get it?”

“Just this morning. Henry Baggit offered it to me when I was there seeing about the mule. It’s newer than the last one we got. I was holding on to it, on account of Blackjack made off with yours last time, and you had to wait till the next day to read it.”

I grinned, glad for his thoughtfulness. “You want me to read it to you?”

“Got no time to listen right now,” Uncle Eb said. “Last thing I heard, the old woman here needed some wood chopped for the cookstove. Else I don’t think there’s going to be any supper tonight.”

“I hurt my back,” Aunt Cora explained, since she usually split her own logs. “Eb’s treating me kindly.”

I was just as glad not to have to read out loud, because that was slower, and I was anxious to see what was happening in the world. Aunt Cora didn’t much care for the news and would have found an excuse to go inside, anyway.

“Can I stay here a while?” I asked.

Uncle Eb frowned. “You mean rather than go up to your own house and have it snatched away? Durn right you can.”

They left together, chatting about the visit to Henry Baggit’s house. By the time they were out of earshot, I’d learned that Henry had stumbled over a nest of copperheads and nearly gotten bit, that the mule Uncle Eb hoped to trade for was as bowlegged as a horseshoe, and Mrs. Baggit was due to have another baby to add to the five Baggit children sometime in early summer. Uncle Eb wondered how the Baggits planned to feed the ones they had already. He thought a barrel of flour and any other food we could offer would get us the mule.

I opened the newspaper and started to read. Not surprisingly, the end of the war was still the main topic. The editorials were not as outspoken as once they’d been. Richmond was in disarray, and although the editors counseled courage and hard work, it was clear that a lot of both would be needed in the days ahead to return the city to anything like its former glory.

On the second page I found an article about the murder of the President. Details were available now, and I skimmed with interest a longer version of the capture of John Wilkes Booth in Port Royal.

The man who killed Lincoln had run for nearly two weeks. The doctor who had set his leg was in jail now and would be tried for treason, as would the man who’d been with him and others involved in the assassination. Some would surely hang.

Set his leg.

I frowned and started over. When the actor jumped to the stage below the box where he had shot the President, he had caught his spurs in bunting draped from the presidential box, landed hard and broken his leg above his ankle. Medical attention had been required, and although he’d managed to escape the city and ride to Maryland with the injury, once he arrived, he had to find help. The doctor who helped him, a man named Samuel Mudd, was someone he had known before.