Stars in the Grass

by Ann Marie Stewart

  “I’m sure you won’t be there to check it out.” I seriously doubted they were brave enough to head to the cemetery tonight.

  “But your brother will be there,” Kyle said slowly, daring me to say otherwise.

  And then I had the perfect answer, but it had to have a well-timed delivery. I would call his bluff. I stared him down and let a long pause grow between us. When he assumed he’d won because I hadn’t answered, I executed the one line to silence them both.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Both of them.”

  The Moretti brothers stood openmouthed. And for once they both shut up. I bit my lip trying to hold back the pounding in my head. I couldn’t cry. Not now, so I turned and walked as slowly as I could back up the sidewalk, leaving Rita behind, but as soon as I closed the door behind me, I ran to my bedroom, yanked off my television box, and flopped face-first on my bed.

  I might have won, but I had lost.

  TEN

  I had almost forgotten that wonderful feeling of anticipation and how to look forward to something. That is, until the Ludemas’ annual square dance and hay-bale maze, my favorite fall event. I was pleasantly surprised when revisiting good memories fueled a happy sort of expectancy. Hope snuck up on me.

  The Ludemas’ farm boasted the most beautiful barn in the county. Its base was rock and mortar, the sides were red planks, and the roof black tin. But my favorite spot was the silver silo that was a wonderful chamber hall.

  When it was empty, my voice echoed off its tall metal and cinderblock walls. But in late spring, freshly mown grass was blown into the top of the silo. As the silo filled and the grasses fermented and settled, there was no space for an amateur alto or her legato echo.

  Fastened along the exterior of the silo were metal ladder rungs, which Mr. Ludema scaled to reach the platform at the top of the silo. There he could check the height of the fermenting silage, his memorable balding head in the shadow of the silo’s shiny dome.

  Melody Joy Ludema was my good friend, second only to Rita. She was named Melody because Mrs. Ludema said she wanted to keep her in her head and heart. I hoped Melody wasn’t too much of a disappointment, since Melody couldn’t hold a tune.

  One Sunday when we were seven, our Cherub Choir sang “In My Heart There Rings a Melody” for the choral introit. We had eight singers, but the other six usually didn’t show, leaving me and Melody: the preacher’s kid who sang alto, and the girl with the musical name who only mouthed the words while in performance.

  So I sang with gusto, turning it into a harmony solo. Each time I arrived at Melody’s name, I blurted MELODY in her face. Considering we Presbyterians sang all three verses and three choruses, her name was everywhere and I proudly announced it all fifteen times. With my less-than-cherubic behavior, I shouldn’t have been surprised when she quit choir.

  For tonight’s potluck, Mom had made her favorite recipes of chili and corn bread, and that afternoon she and I had made three apple pies. The aroma of cinnamon, apples, and cloves made our house smell warm and loved. Mom let me roll out the dough and cut leaves to decorate the top of each crust. It amazed me how the combination of lard, flour, salt, and water could make such a flaky crust. Yet three of the same four ingredients were the base for my volcano, which was growing by layers in the basement and would never taste good topped by the apples picked from the trees in the Johannsons’ backyard.

  We drove out beyond town, where farmland replaced houses, and when we arrived at the Ludema farm, Dad parked on the grassy field near the silo. I jumped out of the car with one of Mom’s award-winning pies to see how the barn was decorated.

  “Be careful!” Mom called out. “Don’t drop it!”

  Red-checked cloths covered the tables, an area was cordoned off for square dancing, and Christmas lights hung from the rafters. The smell from the stalls on the floor below wafted up, and I inhaled deeply. It smelled clean and earthy. In the haymow above, a maze of bales would keep tunnelers busy all night. The annual Fall Festival was always a church highlight. The night should have been perfect.

  I climbed the ladder to the top floor of the barn to check out this year’s maze. The high school boys from youth group had stacked bales to form a narrow and intricate path with periodic holes where they could reach their arms through to scare an unsuspecting tunneler.

  I crawled into the narrow entrance, and within a few feet I couldn’t see a thing. The hay bales so muffled the sound, I could barely hear the children’s laughter and their parents’ voices. I inched forward like a mole, feeling my way along, making sure there were no sudden drops.

  Suddenly there was nowhere to go. I had reached a dead end and had to get the line of tunnelers behind me to back out. I clawed at the sides until I discovered I had missed the spot where the maze made an upward turn. I braced my feet and climbed up into the darkness, feeling for another tunnel to take me horizontal again. After leveling off, I felt an opening and knew that to get free I had to descend farther into the darkness. Turning around was impossible. The girl behind me clutched my foot as if I were her only lifeline, and her ticket out. I inched forward, the straw scratching my face and hands. My face flushed and my heart raced. Which way next? “We’re trapped!” someone yelled. I reached ahead to see if I could find anyone to lead me. Only blackness. I didn’t want to descend any farther into the dark.

  “Help!” I yelled. It didn’t feel like there was enough air. “Get me out of here! Please help me!” I didn’t care what the big kids thought of me; I just wanted out. “Help!”

  Suddenly people pulled off the bales from above and light exposed the way. I closed my eyes against the brightness, only to reopen them. The barn roof curved high over my head, a protective sanctuary.

  A congregation of high school kids looked down on me; a few smirked. “Sorry,” I mumbled in apology as I headed to the ladder. The fiddles tuned and I heard the music begin. Shaking off my embarrassment, I descended to the square dance below.

  On the middle floor, the dance was set up in the center aisle between the two rows of cow stanchions. Some of the church members wore denim and plaid and really got into the spirit. My dad was even dancing with Mom. They were do-si-do-ing, her curly hair bouncing with every step. Then Dad swung her around and she laughed, her cheeks a pink I hadn’t seen in a long time. I hoped there were plenty more dances for them tonight. More than anything, I wanted them together. I stood at the punch bowl, surveying the happy crowd and occasionally looking out for Matt, who must have been off with his buddies.

  When the caller announced a break and the fiddler put down his instrument, my dad headed toward the punch bowl, leaving my mom alone. Though the moment was over, I hoped we’d feel like a family again if we kept stacking pieces of happiness.

  Maybe it was sort of like inflation. Once I asked Dad why the government couldn’t make more and more money so the poor people would have enough, and he said it had something to do with inflation and that the value of the money would go down. It didn’t make sense to me at the time, but now I wondered if that’s how it was with happiness. If you had lots and lots of happiness, you didn’t appreciate it; but if you had a sliver, it was worth so much more. Tonight we all had a sliver.

  “Do you want some?” I asked Dad as I dipped the ladle in the punch bowl.

  “Sure, honey,” Dad said.

  “Can I dance with you later?”

  Dad smiled and I knew that meant no. “I’m afraid my big feet might get in the way,” he confessed and then scanned the room as if to find me a better partner. “Where’s your brother? I haven’t seen him all night.”

  “Maybe in the maze,” I answered, enjoying the fizzy orange punch. “It’s really dark. I was scared, Dad,” I confessed quietly. Dad stared ahead, a blank look on his face. Where was the dad who would have consoled? The fiddlers and guitarists began again and my feet moved in gentle motions beneath me, having a will of their own. I needed a partner. Was Matt tunneling in the maze over my head? It was strange I hadn’t seen him. By
now he should have been dancing.

  “I need a partner!” Mom called out over the fiddles as she joined us. “Which one of you will risk your feet?” She eyed Dad, who turned toward me.

  “Abby really wants to dance,” he said. “Give her a spin.” So Mom extended her hand in invitation, nodding her head eagerly. I didn’t want to be Mom’s second choice, but if I was, she didn’t show it. Dad sat on a hay bale and sipped the punch like it was hot cider.

  “The Virginia Reel!” the caller exclaimed, and I lined up across from my mother as we followed his instructions. The frenzy, the music, the spinning, the crisp night air capturing my breath before me, and my mother smiling—my heartbeat raced with exhilaration. Mom and I sidled to the front and suddenly it was our turn to run between two lines of arms forming an archway above us. Everybody smiled. Their outstretched arms pulsed with each beat, as if pleading for us to be happy. How badly we wanted to be happy. And I was.

  But then the fiddles screeched like a car slamming on its brakes at an accident, the music dissolved, and the line of dancers formed new clusters at the barn windows for a view of whatever was happening outside. My heart pounded in anticipation. For a minute, I imagined it was something good, a surprise finale. A midnight hayride, fireworks, maybe even a bonfire and marshmallows. Then I heard my brother’s name.

  I raced outside to find Matt had climbed to the top of the silo and was swaying on the narrow platform at the top of the ladder near the opening of the dome. “We’ve gathered here together …” His words slurred. I rocked with his movements, like a mother with a fussy child, as parishioners commentated.

  “Somebody better get him down.”

  “He’s drunk.”

  “Get his dad.”

  And then all the mothers seemed to be looking for the missing band of high school boys they thought had been arranging hay bales, but in reality were doing whatever the preacher’s kid was now guilty of.

  Matthew hung on to the platform’s low railing, a safety precaution designed for a farmer guiding loose hay up to the drop chute hatch in the top of the silo, not for a drunken high schooler with little concern for his mortality. I knew he could topple over anytime. My only brother.

  “Matt!” I screamed. “Come on down!”

  “That’s right!” he announced. “Come on down!” he mimicked and then began singing our Sunday school chorus—“For I’m going to your house today! I’m Zacchaeus up in the tree! Can you see me?” He laughed.

  The large sliding doors on the second floor of the barn opened and there was Dad, standing at the edge, backlit from the lights of the party, looking up at Matt.

  “It’s time to come down now,” Mom called from the bottom of the ladder. For some reason there was no panic in her voice. She was calm, even gentle. “Let’s go home,” she said, as if Matt had climbed a slide and the playdate was over. She waited and then with more urgency called out, “Matthew!” And then again like all mothers, she added the middle name. “Matthew John!”

  He turned his head toward her voice, trying to connect with Mom, the woman who seemed to know the way home—maybe for all of us.

  “Mom?” His voice cracked. “Mom?” He sounded young and vulnerable, just like Joel had when he was frightened.

  Matt turned toward the crowd and his body whirled suddenly. One hand lost its grip, but the other hand clung to the bar while his foot stumbled on a ladder rung. The crowd gasped collectively, and I heard Mom suck in her breath. Matt recovered his footing and grabbed the bars with both hands to begin a clumsy descent down the ladder. I counted how many rungs to the bottom and prayed he would not slip. A few men stood at the base as if they could cushion his fall should he lose his footing. Uncle Troy was there. He was always there.

  The crowd was strangely quiet as Matt’s foot reached downward, searching for the next rung. We saw him readjust his hands and then stretch his leg as his foot sought a new foothold. Fifteen rungs to the bottom. The process painful and slow. When both feet landed on solid ground, we all breathed again. Matt stood alone in the dirt patch at the base of the silo until Mom pushed her way through the crowd.

  “Oh Matt,” she said and put her arms around him. His arms remained limp at his sides. “Let’s go,” she whispered to him.

  “Let’s go,” he echoed softly. I followed them to the car. The party was most definitely over.

  Two nights later, nearly every fire truck in the surrounding three counties responded when the Ludema silo exploded into flames. A filmy haze sifted through the air, and the smell of smoke penetrated for miles around. The day after the fire was out, Sheriff Merchant made an unexpected visit.

  “Hey, Abby, how’re you doing?” he asked when I opened the door.

  “Okay,” I said. Always a safe answer.

  “I need to speak with your father.”

  “Dad!” I called down the stairwell. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  “Is your mom home, Abby?” he asked. I shook my head no. I felt like a mute; I wasn’t exactly used to having a sheriff in our kitchen. Friendly Sheriff Bob came around to the elementary school for fire safety drills and to talk about drugs, but he didn’t usually make house calls.

  When Dad got to the top of the stairs, he raised his eyebrows at seeing Sheriff Merchant in the kitchen.

  “Sorry about the intrusion, John.” The sheriff extended his hand.

  “What can I do for you, Bob?” Dad wiped his hand on a towel before shaking the sheriff’s hand.

  “I know things have been rough on your family these past few months. I’m sorry about what happened,” he began, and Dad nodded in acknowledgment. “But we just need to ask you a few questions about the night of the party at the Ludema farm.”

  “Is there some reason you need to question me?” Dad asked.

  “I’ve heard some rumors about Matt and want to lay them to rest. We’d like to ask you both some questions.”

  “Abby, run upstairs and get Matt, will you?” Dad asked. As I left, I heard the sheriff say something about a lawyer and Dad answer that he didn’t think it was necessary. When Matt came down, he also looked surprised to see a sheriff in the kitchen.

  “Matt, Sheriff Bob is here to ask some questions about the Ludema party.” Matt nodded and looked down. I was embarassed for him.

  “And Matt, should you choose, you could have a lawyer present,” the sheriff continued. Matt frowned in confusion and then shrugged his shoulders.

  “Son, I know these last couple of months have been rough on your family, and I don’t want to make it any tougher. But the hard part of my job is asking questions, and I need to ask some about what happened at the Ludema party.” Sheriff Merchant waited. Matt nodded slowly. I couldn’t read his face. Then the sheriff continued, “I’m a part of the fire investigation. Unfortunately, I’ve heard some rumors. People are talking about that party. I’m just following up on some of the things people say.”

  “Things people say,” my dad repeated quietly. “Things people say can’t start a fire,” he said.

  “That’s right, John. I’m not jumping to conclusions. I’m just asking Matt some questions.” And then to Matt, he said, “We heard you were drinking and that you were at the top of the silo.”

  Matt nodded in agreement.

  “I have to ask you, did you notice anything unusual about the silo that evening?”

  “No, sir,” Matt answered, the same blank expression on his face.

  “Do you have any ideas what might have caused the fire?”

  “No, sir.” Matt looked from the sheriff to Dad and back to the sheriff. “Why are you asking me?” he asked. “Why do you think I would know anything?”

  “We’re just trying to determine a source for the fire, Matt,” Sheriff Merchant said.

  A source? Were they saying my brother knew the source? I looked at Matt and then at Dad and tried to figure out who would say something next.

  The sheriff continued, “And it may not be what caused the fire but who.”
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br />   “You’re suspecting arson, Bob?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know. This is just the hard part of my job, asking questions.” The sheriff rubbed his forehead.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of your son on the evening of November ninth?”

  “No.”

  That was the truth. Dad could offer no alibi. He could not defend his son.

  “Have you asked all your questions?” Dad seemed impatient.

  “I believe so,” Sheriff Merchant said. “For today, at least.”

  Matt looked to Dad as if in disbelief.

  “Let us know what you find out. I’m concerned about what happened that night, too.” Dad said it to the sheriff, but his eyes were on Matt.

  “If you remember anything, give me a call,” the sheriff said to Matt.

  “Will do.” Dad motioned the sheriff to the door.

  Every few days, following Matt’s instruction, I went to the basement with a mixture of clay to add another layer to the bottle. Matt checked on my progress, and with each additional layer, he gave the same precautions about the clay.

  “If it’s too wet, it won’t dry on the inside.” He frowned. “Then it’ll pull away from the bottle. You don’t want that.”

  I nodded. I wanted it to work. I didn’t want Matt to be mad at me or disappointed with our volcano.

  “But if it’s just a little wet and the outside dries and the inside expands, it’ll crack the surface.” He looked more serious than Matt usually does. “That’s what happens with volcanoes, anyway.”

  “Cracks and bumps are good,” I said. “Volcanoes have bumps. So that’ll be okay, right, Matt?”

  Matt nodded and left me to work alone.

  A week later the insurance investigators concluded the fire was caused by a problem with the hay. They gave us new vocabulary, words laden with meaning. They said “bacterial fermentation,” “no external source,” and “spontaneous combustion.” Nobody was acquitted, no apologies, and no forgiveness.