Yesterday's Stardust

by Becky Melby

  Maybe it wasn’t just the reporter in her that wanted to know his story.

  Evan stopped at a stop sign. “Do you really feel up to talking to strange kids right now?”

  “Let’s look for some of the kids we talked to in April. That way they’ll be strange, but not strangers.” She rubbed the rigid muscle on the top of her shoulder. “I need a diversion and a story for next week.”

  “So are you looking for good, bad, or ugly kids for this story?”

  “Bad. Who wants to read a story about perfect kids?”

  “Their parents. The ones who buy papers.”

  “Oh. Them. I’ll get to their kids eventually. When I’m in a better mood.” She closed her eyes and fell silent until Evan pulled into the Eichelman Beach parking lot.

  “What questions are you going to ask?” He reached in the back seat for his camera case.

  “I don’t know yet. Mostly I just want to get reacquainted, build relationships.”

  He shook his head. “There’s that fine line again.”

  “What ‘fine line’?”

  “The one Mitch told you not to cross. Reporters ask questions. Social workers build relationships.”

  “Right. And I’m just going to walk up and say, ‘Remember me? The reporter? I know you don’t know or trust me, but I’d like you to spill your guts right here in my notebook, please.’”

  “Ick. That’s disgusting.” He opened his door. “Fine. Let’s go forge some lifelong friendships with people half our age. ‘Hello, juveniles, we are here to build deep and meaningful relationships and save you from a future of substance abuse and crime and incarceration and—’”

  “They’re half my age. You’re practically one of them. Now hush up and take pictures.”

  Three boys lounged in the shade of the concession stand. Dani recognized two of them. “Mouthwash,” she said out loud.

  “In your glove compartment.”

  “No. His name.” She punched Evan’s arm. “That tall kid— remember him? His parents are into that war game.”

  “World of Warcraft.”

  “Right. What do they call him? It’s some brand of mouthwash.”

  “Listerine?”

  “Duh. You’re worthless.”

  “Well, maybe it’ll come to you when we get out there and scope out the situation.”

  Dani turned slowly and narrowed her eyes at Evan. “Grandma Agatha had a saying—‘Why be difficult when with a little more effort you can be impossible?’”

  “And that pertains to me how?”

  After a slow eye roll she got out and led the way to a picnic table. “Okay, Scope and…we met his friend with the backward cap, didn’t we?”

  “I’m paid to remember faces, not names. But I do remember him. He had a story that reminded me too much of me. Broken home, controlling mother, father who never says a word unless he’s screaming. He’s an insecure kid trying to look cool.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  Two girls crossed the sand toward the boys. “And here come the girls who remind me too much of me. Working too hard to look good for the cool, insecure guys.”

  “You and them and the girl in the diary. Nothing new under the sun, is there?”

  Dani stuck her hand in her purse and fingered her favorite pen. “What would you say to them if they’d listen?”

  “Give it up. Stop trying to please everyone. Stop blaming yourself because your parents are too messed up to know how to love you. Pursue God because really knowing Him is the only thing that will make that emptiness go away.” Evan stopped for a breath. “But they won’t listen.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t convey truth on some level. ‘Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.’”

  Evan nodded as he snapped a series of pictures from a distance that wouldn’t allow the kids to be easily identified. The girls copped poses, the boys laughed. After a few minutes the girls swayed off, taking full advantage of the audience watching their backsides.

  Dani picked up her bag. “Let’s go.”

  Scope waved as they approached. “It’s the reporter. Cool story. You doing another one?”

  “Yes.” She stuck her hand out. “Nice to see you again, Scope.” She turned to the backwards cap guy. “Sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “Broom.” Bony shoulders shrugged.

  Scope nodded at the third boy who hugged a skateboard like a little kid clinging to a teddy bear. “This is Zipper.”

  Dani raised both eyebrows. “Dare I ask?”

  The boy aimed a slit-eyed look at Scope. “Just Zip.”

  “When he was like eight, he got his tongue stuck in his jacket zipper.” Scope reached behind Broom and slapped Zip on the back. The boy only glared. “Zipper makes him sound like a stud.”

  Dani laughed. “I’d like some input from you guys for another story. Mind if I ask some questions?”

  Broom looked down at the pavement between his shoes. Zip stared, unblinking. Scope was the only one who showed any sign of hearing the question. He looked at Evan. “Do I get my picture in the paper again?”

  “I just do what the lady says.”

  Dani sat down cross-legged on the blacktop and pulled her yellow pad out of her bag. “What do you guys do all day?” She directed the question at the only kid with a voice.

  “Sleep, eat, hang out here.”

  “Any of you have a job?”

  “We do today.” Scope nodded toward a pickup pulling into the parking lot.

  Dani recognized the driver. “That’s your dad, isn’t it?” Scope nodded. “You really messed with his head with that thing you wrote. In a good way. He’s outta the game.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And today he’s paying us to paint our porch.” Both thumbs shot up. “It’s like a reverse Tom Sawyer thing.” He stood. “He’s paying us ’cause we made him think we hate it.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Nah.”

  Broom smiled. “We paint even when—”

  “Hey, we gotta go.” Scope waved. “We’re here all the time if you got more questions. Or wanna take pics of my sweet face.”

  “We’ll find you.” Dani laughed and watched them slog away as if they dreaded the work ahead.

  Evan scratched his head. “So they like to paint. Next time I’ll bring my collection of wall art photos. Maybe they can autograph a few shots.”

  “How’s your exposé going? Any answers to the proposals you—”

  Her phone buzzed. By the time she found it in the bottom of her bag it had stopped. The voice mail chime gonged. She punched the number.

  “Danielle, it’s Mitchell. I want to see you in my office at eight sharp Monday morning.”

  Hands compressed into fists, Dani paced the width of Mitch’s office. “Was it a man? Angry voice, slight Italian accent?”

  “I didn’t take the call.” Mitch looked over the top of his glasses. “You think you know who complained?”

  “Yes.” She unclenched her fists but couldn’t keep them relaxed. Dominick Fiorini. How could she have entertained one second of a Cinderella fantasy about a man whose life goal seemed to be to make the world a more miserable place? “What did he say, anyway? I’d like to report a funeral crasher? It wasn’t invitation-only. I had as much right to be there as anyone else. I knew the guy’s girlfriend, and I thought she’d be there. I thought I could talk to her and…” “Save her.” Evan’s words taunted. “That’s not your job.”

  “And interview her for a story at her boyfriend’s funeral?”

  “No! I mean, I might have used something she said, but just in general. I just want to talk to her and make sure she’s doing okay and—”

  “I know that. But somebody who was there legitimately grieving over the loss of a friend or family member knew you worked for the Times and knew you didn’t have any real connection with the kid.” Mitch took off his glasses and ran a hand over his face. “It makes us look like vultures preying on m
isfortune.”

  Duh. “That’s kind of the definition of news, isn’t it? If no one is suffering, we have nothing to report.”

  Sucking his lips in, Mitch shook his head. For a split second Dani was sure she saw amusement in his eyes. “If a teacher kicks the bucket and all two thousand of her past students attend the funeral, you can blend into the crowd. When a crack addict blows his brains out and twelve people show up for his funeral, your being there becomes an ethics problem. Add the minor detail that his girlfriend blames you for the guy’s death, and we’ve got ourselves an issue.”

  “What did whoever talked to the guy—the caller—tell him?”

  “That we’d slap the backs of your hands with a ruler and make you promise never to do it again.” The amusement she’d glimpsed earlier spread across his face. “There. I said I’d have a talk with you, and I did.”

  “So you don’t think I was wrong to be there?”

  “I think you were gutsy. I like that about you, Danielle. You’ll do what it takes to get a story. Just keep it legal, Miss Gallagher, and you’ll never hear me complain.” He picked up a pink phone message slip, crumpled it, and pitched it at the wastebasket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

  Dani stood. “How can I find out the name of the caller?’

  “It was an anonymous call.”

  She nodded and walked toward the door.

  “Danielle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let it go. You might be wrong about who called, and if you’re right you’ll only make things worse.”

  “Right.” Sure. You bet. Not.

  By midmorning, fatigue hit like the flu. She took the rest of the day off. Mitch didn’t bat an eye when she said she needed a personal day.

  Inside her apartment, she dropped her purse, kicked her shoes toward the kitchen, and slogged to the bathroom. In the shower, she shut out everything but the thrum of water on tile. Steam rose, shrouding the room.

  She dressed in worn-thin cotton shorts and an oversized shirt imprinted with Snow White’s Sleepy. Walking into her kitchen, she said an automatic prayer. The rent she paid for her above-garage apartment was nothing short of a miracle. Less than a week’s wages for tile floors, marble counter tops, and a breathtaking view. Her landlord was a deacon in her church. As her mother had taught her young, it’s who you know that matters.

  She took a chicken potpie out of the freezer. While it baked, she tore lettuce into a salad, added vinegar and oil and a sprinkling of oregano. Settling into a faux suede chair, she stared through rain spatters at the green lawn of the Kemper Center and the lake beyond it. In the 1860s, the original building was home to Wisconsin’s first US Senator. Later it became an Episcopal school for girls. The chapel, with beams the color of dark honey and an intricately carved altar, was a popular wedding venue. Someday, maybe.

  She took a bite of salad. The smell of oregano brought a face to mind. Dark eyes narrowing at her while the mournful notes of “Angel” bled into the room. Her fingers tightened reflexively around her fork. She’d stomped out of Mitch’s office this morning and straight to her computer to look up the phone number for Bracciano. Every word she’d use to put Dominick Fiorini in his place strained at the tip of her tongue as the website popped up.

  Italian restaurants close on Mondays.

  With no place to go, her irritation had brewed in her head, building pressure until it sent her home early.

  She flicked through song titles on her iPod. Nora Jones matched her mood. Soothing, mellow. Guitar chords led into “Come Away with Me.” Her head and shoulders swayed with the notes. Dark eyes came back into focus. Strong hands cradling her foot as if they held a fragile kitten.

  Stop!

  The timer buzzed. She ate at her little round table to the sound of rain and piano music. After cleaning up the kitchen, she slid into bed. She set her alarm for five. That would wake her, if she fell asleep, with enough time to dress for dinner at Vito’s. She propped brown and blue pillows behind her. As she folded the geometric pattern of her bed spread over her belly, the diary slid to the floor. She winced and crawled to the edge of the bed. The book lay open. Her gaze landed on an entry at the bottom of the page.

  June 24, 1928

  Busy but fun night at Bracciano again.

  September 30, 1924

  “We have no choice.” Daddy folded his hands on the kitchen table and looked at Francie with sad, tired eyes. Mama sat in her rocker, head bent over her Bible. Her lips moved but made no sound.

  Daddy stared into the coffee Mama had poured half an hour ago. He hadn’t yet touched it. “I know you’ve been saving the money from the Husebys for Christmas, but this is an emergency. We owe Doc Volden too much. He won’t come out again unless we can pay, and Applejack won’t make it without help. I’ve tried everything I know to do for obstruction and it’s not working.”

  Francie nodded. Tears stung, spilled onto her cheeks, and left darkened spots on her overalls. She had found Suzette’s address and sent a letter saying she would be there by the middle of October. She couldn’t tell her parents. So here she sat, looking like a selfish, spoiled child, crying about money while her favorite horse writhed in pain in the barn. “I’ll go get it.”

  “Thank you.” Daddy stood, put on his old plaid coat, and took his hat off the hook. “I’ll ring the doc from the feed mill.”

  The door opened to the cool, late-afternoon air. When it shut, the room seemed to close in around her. Stew simmered on the mint-green and cream-colored stove. Francie remembered the day Daddy brought it home. “Things will be better from now on,” he’d said back then. He bought the icebox the same year. Mama had oiled and shined its golden wood every day for months. Now black fingerprints surrounded the handle. The War had been good for farmers. But it didn’t last.

  She stared at the Currier and Ives print above Mama’s chair. Home to Thanksgiving. In the picture, snow covered the ground and the barn roof. The front door of a cozy house stood wide open as a woman in a long dress greeted guests. Oxen pulling a wood-sided sled; a dark horse was harnessed to a sleigh. A peaceful scene of life on the farm. Francie turned away and walked up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 7

  Monday. Finally. The day most people dreaded was the day he lived for.

  Nicky stared at his reflection in the flawless black finish on the car hood, threw the polishing rag onto Todd’s workbench, and slid into the car.

  Squinting through the garage door at the glare of midafternoon sun ricocheting off concrete, he groped for the sunglasses he’d left on the bucket seat a week ago. He slid them on then turned the key in the ignition. The Javelin purred as he drove out of the garage.

  He parked facing the street, got out, and rolled down the door on the single-car garage. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He wiped his forehead with his arm. Only a real mental case would run half a mile to pick up his car so he could drive a mile and a half to the park in air-conditioned comfort to go Rollerblading in the middle of July.

  If the shoe fits.

  He climbed back in. Todd and his brother had done the bodywork, and he was slowly paying them off. Two more payments to Todd and the Javelin would be his, free and clear. Since Nicky didn’t own a garage, Todd kept it in his—in exchange for using it whenever Nicky was working.

  He turned up the radio on the way to Simmons Island Park. He parked the Javelin then got out and sat on the ground to lace his skates. After using the bottom of his torn Kenosha Kings T-shirt to mop his face, he stood and pushed off. In minutes the muscles in his calves burned with the welcome strain. He wove around a middle-aged woman walking a cocker spaniel. Beyond the breakers, the lake shimmered, white sparks glinting on the waves.

  Miles of pavement and a free afternoon stretched ahead of him. He breathed in the lake air and exhaled all thoughts of a struggling business and a rebellious sister.

  Rena Fiorini slid her notebook into her dresser drawer. Working on a new song usually lifted her spirits. It didn’t work today. S
he wasn’t looking forward to meeting Jarod.

  Someday, maybe, she’d have choices.

  Hoisting her bike onto her shoulder, she thudded down the stairs toward the propped-open back door. Someday she’d own a house with an attached garage in a safe neighborhood.

  Right. And someday pigs would sprout wings. Her skate bag swung into the wall as she descended. The narrow stairway mirrored the rest of her life.

  A door opened behind her. “Where you off to?”

  Rena froze. She hadn’t heard him come home. Her father’s voice, heavy with sleep yet tinged with suspicion, switched on her defenses. She turned and gave him her best little-girl smile. “Morning, Daddy. Sleep good?” Or was it strange to be in your own bed?

  His face softened as she spoke. He nodded. “How’s my little Wren?”

  “Great. Looking forward to a day off. I’m going to the park.”

  “Alone?”

  Going alone. Not being alone. “Yep.”

  “Where’s Dominick?”

  “I don’t know.” And don’t care.

  “Family night tonight?”

  Where had that come from? Dredged from the deep, dark recesses of their pathetic family history. They hadn’t spent a Monday night together in over a year—since the last time he’d had a revelation from God and turned a leaf that lasted almost four weeks. “Wow, that would be fun, but Nicky and I have plans. Maybe next week.”

  As usual, his expression melted her. He pouted like a spoiled little boy deprived of a cookie, and once again she became the parent. “How ‘bout I make breakfast just for the two of us tomorrow? Prosciutto and mozzarella frittatas, okay?” She ladled on the accent so heavy she could have been his—God rest her soul—sainted grandmother. As her father slowly retracted his pout, she wondered if the great-grandmother she’d been named for had been anything like the Fiorini legend she’d become.