Stars in the Grass

by Ann Marie Stewart

  “Joel!” His name echoed and reverberated throughout the empty rooms. “I wonder where Joel is today?” I yelled, imitating our childhood game. How strange that I could pretend I was looking for him. That I could make-believe he was just hiding from me and that in my play he could be found.

  Matt’s hiding places were less predictable, more challenging but perhaps less researched than mine. For nearly every Sunday of my childhood, during Dad’s sermons, the moments on the organ bench, and even during Sunday school, I considered my next hiding spot. That’s how I dreamed up the perfect hiding places. Once I stood on the men’s room toilet for over an hour while Matt searched the rest of the church in frustration. He came in the bathroom once, but he never checked the stalls.

  The next time we played, I took a pair of boots and pants out of the missionary donation box and designed what I called “Mr. Phelps” in one of the enclosed bathroom stalls. When Matt opened the main door to the bathroom, I heard him mutter, “Excuse me,” and close the door. I stood on the toilet with Mr. Phelps for what seemed forever, but at least I had a book. What I couldn’t know was that Matt also had a book he was reading while he waited for me to give up my secret location.

  Wherever Matt hid he always popped out at me when I least expected it, right when I was about to discover him. The anticipation was thrilling and terrifying and caused wild thumping in my rib cage. I couldn’t decide if I loved or hated it.

  “Matt? Come out! Please!” I yelled as I headed out of the sanctuary. “Everybody’s looking for you! We’re worried about you!”

  A voice down the hall said, “Can’t imagine why.”

  “Matt!” I exclaimed, running to find him in a small office down the hall, sitting in the dark, but unhidden. A figure behind a desk, leaning back in an office chair.

  “They’re all looking for you. What happened?”

  “I just went for a drive,” he said as I flicked on the light.

  “Oh, Matt, you’re hurt,” I said, pointing out the obvious. He had sustained a long cut across his forehead, his face was bruised, his clothes were wet, and he held a stack of paper napkins to his head that was soaked in blood.

  “It was an accident.”

  “An accident?” I asked.

  “Yeah, an accident,” he snapped back.

  “You accidentally took a car?” I asked. “Did you accidentally drink? Or what about that green stuff?” I sounded like my mom. First she’d rush over and comfort us, and then she’d yell at us to never, ever do that again. “And did you accidentally drive into the river?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “No,” I said. “No, I mean yes,” I corrected. “I want to know. Were you drunk?”

  “Would you believe it if I wasn’t? I really wasn’t,” he said. “I had one beer, but nobody else will believe that. So what does it matter?”

  “I’d like to think my opinion matters,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t we all.”

  “Stop it. Just stop it. You took something that wasn’t yours and you wrecked it. You don’t care about anything or anyone.”

  “Look, I just went for a drive, but I slipped on a patch of ice and slammed into the side of the railing and went over the edge. It was awful but I survived. I always do,” he said as if that wasn’t a good thing. “Then I needed time to think, and I didn’t know where to go.”

  “How about home?” My voice didn’t sound compassionate.

  “How’d you find me?” Matt asked, as if it had suddenly dawned on him that I had accomplished what the police had not.

  “I remembered playing hide-and-go-seek.”

  “That seems like a long time ago,” Matt said.

  “I wish we could just go back to when we sat in the balcony and counted bald heads. Remember that?” He couldn’t have forgotten.

  “Ratios,” he said and smiled sadly.

  We could never go back. I wanted us fixed, but I didn’t know how. I shook my head. If only I could have stopped him from taking Dad’s car. But then again, maybe some things were just meant to happen.

  Matt started pulling hymnals off the shelf and lining them up across the table.

  “So now I gotta go home,” he said, positioning them like a line of dominoes.

  I wanted to tell him how I’d go with him and how I’d explain what happened and that it would be okay, but I knew better.

  “Prodigal son,” Matt said, naming himself. “Do you think they’ll kill the fatted calf when I return?” he asked as he added another hymnal to his line.

  “Mom has Chinese takeout in the fridge at Miss Patti’s,” I teased. He returned my smile.

  “I didn’t set the Ludemas’ barn on fire,” he said suddenly.

  “This isn’t about the barn.”

  “It might be to everybody else,” he answered, the line of dominoes almost ready to tumble. “You didn’t really say you believed me.”

  “What difference does it make whether I do or not?” I asked. “You said it yourself.”

  He stopped standing up hymnals long enough to look at me. Really look at me.

  “Maybe you’re right. I’d like you to believe me, but what I really want is for him to.”

  You haven’t given him much reason to, I thought. Matt touched the first hymnal and they began to tip over one by one, until the last books toppled off the desk and fell open on the floor.

  “And I need for him to believe that I really didn’t want Joel to die. That I should have kept him on my shoulders.”

  “But that would make Dad guilty,” I said softly.

  Matt began picking up the fallen hymnals, returning them to the bookshelf, then adjusting their spines until they were in perfect alignment.

  “Do you really think anything’s going to change?”

  “You mean about Mom and Dad?” I asked. “Or about Joel? Or about all of us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not even about Joel anymore,” he said and then looked up quickly. “Wouldn’t that be awful? Maybe we don’t even know what needs fixing anymore.”

  That was too big for me. It probably was not about Joel. But to figure out what it was about was even bigger than trying to figure out who we were as a family without him.

  “Do you think Joel can see us?”

  “Not if heaven is perfect,” Matt answered quickly.

  Matt was probably right. Seeing us would make Joel sad.

  “They’re really worried,” I said, thinking about Mom and Dad.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “And I should have said something last night.” Matt looked up at my words. “You were right,” I admitted, nodding my head. “Now what do we do?”

  “Dear Abby,” he said, invoking the name of the advice columnist with all the answers. “Dear Abby, always wanting to fix everything.” He wasn’t making fun of me; his voice was kind and gentle.

  “You can’t fix this, Abby. But one thing I know: someone needs to notice you need some fixing.”

  He couldn’t begin to know the feelings in my stomach or in my head and how I had so little control over them. But with all his problems, how could he ever make anyone see mine?

  Matt got up and headed for the door. When I followed him, he turned and looked at me as if I were a puppy on his heels and so I stopped.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not coming with you.”

  But I knew I’d go part of the way—just far enough to make sure he actually went home. I didn’t want him ever running away again.

  I waited twenty minutes by the side door, then headed home, arriving just as the police were leaving. When I opened the front door, I heard Dad and Mom and Matt in the kitchen talking about leaving for the hospital. Did anybody even notice I was missing?

  “Uncle Troy will be here any minute. What are we going to do about Abby?” Mom said, unaware I was standing behind her.

  “Where have you been?” Dad asked as I stepped forward.

  “That doesn’t matter right now,” Mom said. “We just need
to get Matt to the doctor. We can talk about this later.”

  I guess Matt hadn’t told them the whole story. Maybe none of us ever did. Maybe that had to change.

  “Matt didn’t light the fire,” I blurted out.

  That pretty much changed the topic, and everybody stared at me. I repeated it very slowly. “Matt did not light the fire.”

  “Nobody said he did,” Mom answered.

  “But nobody said he didn’t, either,” I pointed out.

  Matt looked down, Dad cleared his throat, Mom’s face wore a question mark. I don’t think anybody knew what to do next.

  “Right now we need to focus on what happened today, Abby,” Mom continued. “We have to deal with what happened today.“

  “The Ludemas’ barn is about today,” I said, not backing off.

  Matt wouldn’t look at anyone. He stared beyond me at what I assumed could be the clock or Mom’s farm calendar. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up after all. Maybe Dad really did blame Matt.

  “Does anybody blame Matt for the fire?” Dad asked. I looked over at Mom, whose face questioned Dad.

  “Are you accusing me?” he asked.

  “No one’s accusing anyone, John. Abby brought up something important, and maybe we didn’t handle that whole thing right.”

  “Look at me, Matt,” Dad said. Matt slowly turned his head and swallowed hard. Was he going to cry? My throat felt suddenly dry. Thick.

  “I know you didn’t light that fire,” Dad said. We all nodded in agreement about his innocence. “But what about the other stuff?” Dad continued. “Were you drinking when you took the car?” Matt was expressionless, a soldier answering his superior.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Have you been doing drugs?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And my pearl necklace? The one from Dad?” Mom asked.

  “I sold it.”

  “You stole it,” Mom clarified. And this time I could see his eyes water and his face crumple.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it,” he said.

  “Stop. That’s enough. I don’t need to know any more,” Dad said softly as Mom wrapped her arms around Matt. Dad clapped his hand on Matt’s shoulder. He was back. But would he really quit drinking and smoking and stealing? Of course he wouldn’t be driving, but how hard was that now that we didn’t even have a car? It didn’t feel safe to hope for a happy ending.

  “You said some people run away and they don’t want to be found,” Dad said, turning to Mom. “You said some people are lost.” Mom’s eyes grew misty as Dad continued. “Maybe that’s me.” Dad’s voice quivered but he kept going. “One thing I know for sure: Without you I’m lost.” I could see his eyes watering.

  “And maybe you’re lost, too, but I think you want to be found,” he continued. “And you know the way home, Renee.” Mom’s face softened. “Come home, Renee. Come home,” Dad whispered.

  My nose tingled like it does when I’m about to cry. Maybe I was lost, too, and maybe I needed to be found. Maybe I had a lot of questions and doubts, but the one thing I was sure of was that she was not coming home.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Holy Week begins with Palm Sunday and concludes with Easter, which always brings out the “A and P” Christians, short for ashes and palms. Holy Week is also spring break, which, until this year, was Dad’s busy season. But even this year we weren’t going anywhere for all the obvious reasons: death and taxes. Good Friday is a part of that week, and if you ask me, it’s an oxymoron. What’s so good about a day you remember someone’s death? Hadn’t we spent months now doing that? And look where it got us.

  But Mom and Miss Patti were hosting Uncle Troy and Miss Mary Frances, Dad, Matt, and me for Easter dinner, and so on top of doing her taxes, Mom was getting Miss Patti’s house ready and planning Sunday’s menu.

  On the Wednesday before Easter, Rita and Miss Patti were already up and dressed and ready to go somewhere. Rita said she couldn’t play and Miss Patti told Mom she didn’t need her that day. Nearly two months of sleepovers had gone by and maybe they were tired of us. Mom argued they had work to do to make the April 15 deadline, but Miss Patti and Rita had a resolve I couldn’t understand. “Go work on your dinner plans.”

  “It’s a special day for us. Something we do every year,” Rita explained. I must have looked hurt because then Rita spilled the secret. “It’s April seventh. It’s Daddy’s birthday,” she whispered. I raised my eyebrows. Daddy’s birthday?

  Patti then filled in the gaps. “Jeff restored an automobile. I keep it in the garage. It’s about all we have left of his. We take it out on his birthday and Father’s Day. We keep it alive. Or him alive. It’s just something we do.”

  Mom nodded, but I could tell she looked confused. A hidden car?

  That afternoon Miss Patti and Rita headed out the back door toward the alley. Miss Patti opened the garage and they disappeared, only to reappear in the most amazing car I had ever seen. Mom’s eyes widened. It was a shiny red and white automobile with huge fenders, whitewall tires, and no top. Truly, it looked like it could fly.

  Miss Patti gave it a real honk and then Rita leaned back in her seat and wrapped her scarf around her neck like a movie star.

  “What is that?” I asked Mom.

  “I don’t know, but I think they call it a speedster.” She shook her head in amazement. They blew by us and I felt a sense of longing. I wanted to race the wind with them and bring someone back to life with the turn of a key. Oh, to be riding along in the most incredible automobile in Bethel Springs. Especially since we didn’t even have a car anymore.

  Mom and I could have gone back inside, but instead we sat on the front steps, waiting for their return. Uncle Troy came down the sidewalk, whistling through his teeth.

  “Now that’s somethin’ else,” he said, staring down the road. “A 1936 Auburn Boattail Speedster. I thought I saw one of those once before. Maybe even on this street.” How did Uncle Troy know something about everything?

  “They take it out once or twice a year,” I said, as if I also knew something about everything. He whistled through his teeth again and then looked at Mom in that serious way he did before a church talk.

  “Look, I want to help you out however I can, and I don’t think most people know,” he began. “But I know you’re here, not there.” He nodded at Miss Patti’s and then the parsonage.

  Mom bit her lip and then looked from me to Uncle Troy and back at me.

  “I’m going home. To our house,” I explained. “I’m going over there,” I added, as if I needed to, and left them talking.

  “You feel okay?” Matt asked when I slammed the door behind me.

  “I should be asking you that question,” I snapped. He had stitches in his forehead and one broken rib, but the doctor said otherwise he was in pretty good shape and a very lucky guy. For some reason “very lucky” had made Matt look sad. What made some accidents unlucky?

  I followed Matt to the washing machine, where he proceeded to put everything from his laundry bag in one load. He could do it his way. What did I care?

  “Miss Patti has a 1936 Boattail Speedster she keeps in her garage.”

  “No kidding,” Matt said. “I’ve never seen one of those.”

  “I don’t know why I told you that.”

  “I’m not going to steal it.”

  “That would certainly get everybody’s attention.”

  Matt poured detergent in the machine, turned the dial, and dropped the lid with a bang.

  That Sunday morning, right before church, Mom put a ham and scalloped potatoes in Miss Patti’s oven. In between tax returns, Mom had also baked hot cross buns and made Matt’s favorite marshmallow and mandarin orange Jell-O salad.

  Last year we had hunted for eggs and even Matt had participated. He hid our decorated eggs for Joel and me to find. I avoided the obvious eggs, knowing Matt had “hidden” them for a three-year-old. But some were clearly my eggs: the ones high in the branches, the one in
the downspout, and the one in the mailbox. Mom helped Joel find the eggs, but he only wanted the orange ones, disappointed by all other colors.

  That same Easter someone had asked Dad about whether it was appropriate to have Easter egg hunts and Dad smiled. “New life,” he added. “Finding new life in Christ.” Back then Dad always had an easy answer for everything.

  This Easter, we didn’t decorate any eggs. This Easter, Dad wasn’t in the pulpit, but he did join us in the balcony. “You can see everything from up here!” I encouraged, hoping he’d see church the way I did. Miss Patti and Rita sat in my row, both wearing dresses, which was rare. Once pants were allowed in school, Rita had never looked back. Now she scratched at her legs as if her stockings were eating holes in her skin.

  The sanctuary was crowded with men in suits, women in new spring dresses, and little girls with hats and gloves. I’ve always worn hand-me-downs from the Douglas girls. This year’s installment was a yellow gingham dress with puffy sleeves.

  “Christ is risen!” Reverend Davidson announced with cheer.

  “He is risen, indeed!” the congregation answered.

  “Let us now sing ‘Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.’”

  “Alleluia!” I whispered to that. I wanted Rita to like the hymns. Christmas Glorias and Easter Alleluias were my favorites.

  Miss Patti stood next to Mom and mouthed the words. Rita tried to figure out the music staff. I giggled each time she read one line and dropped to the wrong verse. Matt stared down at his hymnal, but I sang out, hoping Dad would, too. Most of all, I wanted him to like church again.

  “He is risen!” Reverend Davidson repeated.

  “He is risen, indeed!” the congregation echoed. When we sat down, I pointed out where we were in the program to Rita and Miss Patti, who were not very good at the Presbyterian stand up/sit down stuff. And as a matter of fact, Miss Patti had pretty much decided she could stay seated and sing instead of getting up and down all the time.

  Though I wanted to doodle or play games, Matt had his eyes closed like he was about to fall asleep, and Dad was watching everything as if he had never really been to church before.