Stars: The Anthology

by Janis Ian

  Of course, those teachers must long since be dead. And as Devon looked my way, for a moment I envied them.

  He had a glass of red wine in his hand, and he was wearing a dark gray suit. There was no sign of recognition on his face. Still, he came over. "Hello," he said. "I’m Devon Smith."

  I was too flustered to speak, and, after a moment, he went on. "You’re not wearing your nametag."

  He was right; it was still in my hand, along with the drink chits. I thought about just turning and walking away. But no, no—I couldn’t do that. Not to him. Not again.

  "Sorry," I said, and that one word embarrassed me further. I lifted my hand, opened my palm, showing the nametag held within.

  He stared at it as though I’d shown him a crucifixion wound.

  "It’s you," he said, and his gaze came up to my face, his brown eyes wide.

  "Hello, Devon," I said. I’d been a singer; I still had good breath control. My voice did not crack.

  He was silent for a time, and then he lifted his shoulders, a small shrug, as if he’d decided not to make a big thing of it. "Hello," he replied. And then he added, presumably because politeness demanded it, "It’s good to see you." But his words were flat.

  "How have you been?" I asked.

  He shrugged again, this time as if acknowledging the impossibility of my question. How has anyone been for six decades? How does one sum up the bulk of a lifetime in a few words?

  "Fine," he said at last. "I’ve had ..." But whatever it was he’d had remained unsaid. He looked away and took a sip of his wine. Finally, he spoke again. "I used to follow your career."

  "It had its ups and downs," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

  "That song ..." he began, but didn’t finish.

  There was no need to specify which song. The one I’d written about him. The one I’d written about what I did to him. It was one of my few really big hits, but I’d never intended to grow rich off my—off our—pain.

  "They still play it from time to time," I said.

  Devon nodded. "I heard it on an oldies station last month."

  Oldies. I shuddered.

  "So, tell me," I said, "do you have kids?"

  "Three," said Devon. "Two boys and a girl."

  "And grandkids?"

  "Eight," said Devon. "Ages two through ten."

  "Immortality." I hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but there it was, the word floating between us. Devon had his immortality through his genes. And, I suppose, he had a piece of mine, too, for every time someone listened to that song, he or she would wonder if it was autobiographical, and, if so, who the beautiful young black man in my past had been.

  "Your wife?" I asked.

  "She passed away five years ago." He was holding his wineglass in his left hand; he still wore a ring.

  "I’m sorry."

  "What about you?" asked Devon. "Any family?"

  I shook my head. We were quiet a while. I was wondering what color his wife had been.

  "A lot has changed in sixty years," I said, breaking the silence.

  He looked over toward the entrance, perhaps hoping somebody else would arrive so he could beg off. "A lot," he agreed. "And yet ..."

  I nodded. And yet, there still hadn’t been a black president or vice-president.

  And yet, the standard of living of African-Americans was still lower than that of whites—not only meaning a shorter natural life expectancy, but also that far fewer of them could afford the array of treatments available to the rich.

  And yet, just last week, they’d picked the person who would be the first to set foot on Mars. Of course it was a man, I’d thought bitterly when the announcement was made. Perhaps Devon had greeted the news with equal dismay, thinking, Of course he’s white.

  Suddenly I heard my name being called. I turned around, and there was Madeline Green. She was easy to recognize; she’d clearly had all sorts of treatments. Her face was smooth, her hair the same reddish-brown I remembered from her genuine youth. How she’d recognized me, though, I didn’t know. Perhaps she’d overheard me talking to Devon, and had identified me by my voice, or perhaps just the fact that I was talking to Devon had been clue enough.

  "Why, Madeline!" I said, forcing a smile. "How good to see you!" I turned to Devon. "You remember Devon Smith?"

  "How could I forget?" said Madeline. He was proffering his hand, and, after a moment, she took it.

  "Hello, Madeline," said Devon. "You look fabulous."

  It had been what Madeline had wanted to hear, but I’d been too niggardly to offer up.

  Niggardly. A perfectly legitimate word—from the Scandinavian for "stingy," if I remembered correctly. But also a word I never normally used, even in my thoughts. And yet it had come to mind just now, recalling, I supposed, what Madeline had called Devon behind his back all those years ago.

  Devon lifted his wineglass. "I need a refill," he said.

  The last time I’d looked, he’d still had half a glass; I wondered if he’d quickly drained it when he saw Madeline approaching, giving him a way to exit gracefully, although whether it was me or Madeline he wanted to escape, I couldn’t say. In any event, Devon was now moving off, heading toward the cafeteria table that had been set up as a makeshift bar.

  "I bought your albums," said Madeline, now squeezing my hand. "Of course, they were all on vinyl. I don’t have a record player anymore."

  "They’re available on CD," I said. "And for download."

  "Are they now?" replied Madeline, sounding surprised. I guess she thought of my songs as artifacts of the distant past.

  And perhaps they were—although, as I looked over at Devon’s broad back, it sure didn’t feel that way.

  ~~~~~

  "Welcome back, class of Nineteen Sixty-Three!"

  We were all facing the podium, next to the table with the portable stereo. Behind the podium, of course, was Pinky Spenser—although I doubt anyone had called him "Pinky" for half a century. He’d been student-council president, and editor of the school paper, and valedictorian, and on and on, so he was the natural MC for the evening. Still, I was glad to see that for all his early success, he, too, looked old.

  There were now perhaps seventy-five people present, including twenty like Madeline who had been able to afford rejuvenation treatments. I’d had a chance to chat briefly with many of them. They’d all greeted me like an old friend, although I couldn’t remember ever being invited to their parties or along on their group outings. But now, because I’d once been famous, they all wanted to say hello. They hadn’t had the time of day for me back when we’d been teenagers, but doubtless, years later, had gone around saying to people, "You’ll never guess who I went to school with!"

  "We have a bunch of prizes to give away," said Pinky, leaning into the mike, distorting his own voice; part of me wanted to show him how to use it properly. "First, for the person who has come the farthest ..."

  Pinky presented a half-dozen little trophies. I’d had awards enough in my life, and didn’t expect to get one tonight—nor did I. Neither did Devon.

  "And now," said Pinky, "although it’s not from 1963, I think you’ll all agree that this is appropriate ..."

  He leaned over and put a new disk in the portable stereo. I could see it from here; it was a CD-ROM that someone had burned at home. Pinky pushed the play button, and ...

  And one of my songs started coming from the speakers. I recognized it by the second note, of course, but the others didn’t until the recorded version of me started singing, and then Madeline Green clapped her hands together. "Oh, listen!" she said, turning toward me. "It’s you!"

  And it was—from half a century ago, with my song that had become the anthem for a generation of ugly-ducking girls like me. How could Pinky possibly think I wanted to hear that now, here, at the place where all the heartbreak the song chronicled had been experienced?

  Why the hell had I come back, anyway? I’d skipped even the fiftieth reunion; what had driven me to want to attend my
sixtieth? Was it loneliness?

  No. I had friends enough.

  Was it morbid curiosity? Wondering who of the old gang had survived?

  But, no, that wasn’t it, either. That wasn’t why I’d come.

  The song continued to play. I was doing my guitar solo now. No singing; just me, strumming away. But soon enough the words began again. It was my most famous song, the one I’m sure they’ll mention in my obituary.

  To my surprise, Madeline was singing along softly. She looked at me, as if expecting me to join in, but I just forced a smile and looked away.

  The song played on. The chorus repeated.

  This wasn’t the same gymnasium, of course—the one where my school dances had been held, the ones where I’d been a wallflower, waiting for even the boys I couldn’t stand to ask me to dance. That gym had been bulldozed along with the rest of the old Cedar Valley High.

  I looked around. Several people had gone back to their conversations while my music still played. Those who had won the little trophies were showing them off. But Devon, I saw, was listening intently, as if straining to make out the lyrics.

  We hadn’t dated long—just until my parents found out he was black and insisted I break up with him. This wasn’t the song I’d written about us, but, in a way, I suppose it was similar. Both of them, my two biggest hits, were about the pain of being dismissed because of the way you look. In this song, it was me—homely, lonely. And in that other song ...

  I had been a white girl, and he’d been the only black—not boy, you can’t say boy—anywhere near my age at our school. Devon had no choice: if he were going to date anyone from Cedar Valley, she would have had to be white.

  Back then, few could tell that Devon was good-looking; all they saw was the color of his skin. But he had been fine. Handsome, well muscled, a dazzling smile. And yet he had chosen me.

  I had wondered about that back then, and I still wondered about it now. I’d wondered if he’d thought appearances couldn’t possibly matter to someone who looked like me.

  The song stopped, and—

  No.

  No.

  I had a repertoire of almost a hundred songs. If Pinky was going to pick a second one by me, what were the chances that it would be that song?

  But it was. Of course it was

  Devon didn’t recognize it at first, but when he did, I saw him take a half-step backward, as if he’d been pushed by an invisible hand.

  After a moment, though, he recovered. He looked around the gym and quickly found me. I turned away, only to see Madeline softly singing this one, too, la-la-ing over those lyrics she didn’t remember.

  A moment later, there was a hand on my shoulder. I turned. Devon was standing there, looking at me, his face a mask. "We have some unfinished business," he said, softly but firmly.

  I swallowed. My eyes were stinging. "I am so sorry, Devon," I said. "It was the times. The era." I shrugged. "Society."

  He looked at me for a while, then reached out and took my pale hand in his brown one. My heart began to pound. "We never got to do this back in ’63," he said. He paused, perhaps wondering whether he wanted to go on. But, after a moment, he did, and there was no reluctance in his voice. "Would you like to dance?"

  I looked around. Nobody else was dancing. Nobody had danced all evening. But I let him lead me out into the center of the gym.

  And he held me in his arms.

  And I held him.

  And as we danced, I thought of the future that Devon’s grandchildren would grow up in, a world I would never see, and, for the first time, I found myself hoping my songs wouldn’t be immortal.

  (Back to TOC)

  Hunger

  Robert Sheckley

  I hunger for you like the sky

  for the weight of the sun

  I hunger for you like the tide

  for the moon to come

  I hunger for you like the skin

  of a doe for the blade

  ~ from Hunger by Janis Ian

  I was sitting in my tub in the window seat. It was one of those hot, slow-moving summer days that seemed like it would go on forever. The flowers in the little garden outside were drooping. In a corner of the darkened parlor, a spider was spinning his web. He barely moved. I was heat-dazed, and the water in my little tin tub, which had started out as cool, was already lukewarm.

  I saw several children come into the field alongside our house. They were carrying a soccer ball. I couldn't imagine how they found the energy to play. But I wanted to play, too.

  I leaned out the open window and called, "Throw it to me!"

  They didn't, of course. They ignored me. I was the plump little mermaid freak. They didn't know that you needed a good layer of fat to live in the ocean. It's cold there. (So I had been told.) But I had never seen the ocean. It was a hundred or more miles away, to the east. I was afraid I never would see it. I hadn't even seen a real river. All I knew was this dusty little town of Piney Butte, North Carolina. There was a river just a few miles away, but Meg had never brought me to it. She always had an excuse. I guess she loved me in her own way, and didn't want to see me go.

  In this town, it wasn't any fun being a mermaid. There wasn't even a swimming pool to practice in, though I'd been told I'd take to the water naturally.

  Back in those days I dreamed all the time about the ocean. And I dreamed of escaping from this place, getting to the sea, and finding others of my kind.

  When I complained about a mermaid's life, Meg, my step-mother, always advised me to be patient, to ask for little, and to be grateful for what God had given me. I couldn't see that he had given me much except for gills and a tail. Which I had no use for on land. Meg always said there was a secret plan to these things, and that in time the plan would be revealed.

  Meg had once been a scientist at Wood's Hole before the fire storms of ‘62 destroyed it and she went back to where she had been born. She had gotten pretty religious since returning to North Carolina. Our country's present series of catastrophes hadn't shaken her faith.

  Once upon a time, so she told me, she had believed that science would save the human race. Now she thought that God would do the trick.

  Meg was not a comforting woman but she could be nice sometimes, like when she told me stories about how people had once thought it would be fun to be a mermaid. But for me it had no benefit, not in Piney Butte, and that was the only place I knew.

  I wondered why Allison and Greg, my real parents, had allowed the scientists to do this to me. It was cruel. I imagined my parents saying, "Go ahead, make her a mermaid, it's the coming thing." And then they died when the smallpox came to New England, and I got placed with Meg, and she and Les moved to this stupid town far from the sea.

  As it turned out, that afternoon I watched the soccer game marked the beginning of the next catastrophe.

  It began to rain. It rained for the rest of the day, and all night, and all the next day, and the day after that. A hard, relentless rain, driven by a summer storm. It must have been brewing down in the horse latitudes, and after that circling in the Sargasso Sea until it built up strength. Then it moved inland, crossed the Outer Banks, and came to us in Piney Cove.

  Everyone got out and went to work to shore up the dikes that protected our low-lying land. And that's when the next catastrophe struck.

  I was alone in the house. There's nothing much a young mermaid can do to fix a wall on land. I heard the sound of a rifle shot. The next thing I knew, the front door was pushed open and men came in. Five or six of them. Strangers. Hard-looking unshaven men with long hair, wearing ragged clothing. They came in, holding rifles, shaking the water out of their long hair. They saw me and gathered around my tub.

  "Well, what in the world have we here?" one of them asked.

  "She's got a tail," another said, peering into the tub. "Damned if we haven't got ourselves a mermaid."

  They made some jokes I didn't understand. Then one of them said, "What are we going to do with her?"
<
br />   "Sell her in Raleigh!"

  "No market, the country's running over with freaks."

  "She's half fish, ain't she? Let's roll her in flour and pan-fry her!"

  "Take her along with us! It's about time Davis's Raiders had some fun!"

  I begged them to leave me alone, but they just laughed, and two of them pulled me out of my tub. They made a lot of jokes I didn't understand. There were more of them outside the house. They were all mounted on horses. They slung me up to one of the riders.

  "What have you got here?" a big older man asked. He wore a slouch hat pulled down over his bearded face, and there was a lot of blood on one leg of his overalls.

  "We got us a mermaid, Cap'n."

  "And what do you propose to do with her?"

  "Have a little fun once we get a chance to camp again."

  The Cap'n frowned. "You boys ain't got no sense. Half the county militia coming after us, and you want to play with a little fish girl!"

  "We got needs, just like everybody else! And besides, the militia won't be out looking for us in this rain."

  The Cap'n was a serious man. He looked like he might order them to put me down. But he wasn't looking too good, not with that wound in his leg, and the man he was talking to looked feisty and ready for a fight.

  "You find any food?" the Cap'n asked.

  One of the men said, "A sack of corn and a couple of chickens is all."

  "Then let's get out of here!"

  ~~~~~

  They threw me across the saddle like a sack of corn, and they galloped away. I had no idea what they were going to do to me, but I feared the worst. We rode for a long time through the rain, and I got sick, bouncing on my belly across the saddle. We passed through small forested hills and valleys. The rain stopped. By late afternoon the sun was out and we came to a brook.

  The Cap'n—his name was Dan—held up his hand, everyone stopped, and they made camp. They tied a rope around my waist, with the other end fastened to a tree. They seemed to be in very good spirits, even Dan, even with his wound, which made walking difficult, but didn't stop him from riding. They took out a jug—whiskey, I suppose—and passed it around. They offered it to me, but I didn't want any.