Shake Down the Stars

by Renee Swindle

  When I can catch only the low murmur of their voices coming from the hall, I give up on trying to eavesdrop. As much as I want to hate Elaine, to be angry with her, I can’t. I know she’s right about me—and she doesn’t even know the half of it. I pick up my fork and toss it across the table, watching as it clangs against Spence’s plate. I then walk zombielike to the bedroom and climb into bed.

  Minutes later, Spence appears in the doorway. “Hey.” He walks over and climbs in next to me. We’re perfectly quiet until he reaches under the covers and takes my hand. “You know, maybe she’s right.”

  “About what?”

  “You know, making some changes.”

  “So you don’t want me to come over anymore? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all, but I’m not sure we can go on like this either.” He kisses the top of my forehead.

  “I’m sorry I asked for the divorce.”

  “I know.”

  I press my head into his chest and inhale deeply. I think of my drinking and the nameless, faceless men I’ve been with. “Your mom is right about me,” I say into his stomach. “I don’t know how to mourn properly.”

  “Who does?”

  He strokes my hair quietly. My guilt only intensifies, though. I’m not sure I’ve really thought of what I took away from Elaine—from everyone—who knew Hailey. She was a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin. I knew this, of course, but seeing how upset Elaine was makes me feel more culpable. I took her grandbaby away. I took Hailey away from everyone. I move to the other side of the bed and bury my head between my knees. Despite how hard I try not to, I soon start crying. “I’m sorry, Spencer.”

  “About what?”

  I can’t tell him about my driving that day, there’s no point at all. A confession won’t bring her back, and the guilt in the matter is my cross, no one else’s.

  He rubs my back. “Don’t let my mom get to you, P. She’s just upset.”

  “I know. I just—I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t take this anymore. I’m fucked-up, Spencer.”

  He moves up besides me, touches my chin, and forces me to look at him. “Hey now. Let me tell you something. We are both fucked-up. You don’t get a hold on crazy, girl.”

  I nod. After the funeral, the only thing that kept me from going and killing myself was the thought that I’d be leaving Spencer alone. Not to mention what my own suicide would do to the twins.

  I feel Spence pull me in closer. “We just need to give it time, remember?”

  This is our running joke; it seemed everyone told us all we needed was time. I force a fake smile while sniffling and wiping at my eyes. “Yeah, time. That’s the answer.”

  “Time heals all wounds,” he says.

  I’m equally sarcastic: “Yep. We’ll just wait it out and everything will be fine.”

  After wiping a stray tear from my cheek, he smiles. “Better?”

  I nod, and he hunkers down next to me and takes my hand.

  We soon find ourselves looking toward the doorway. Our fingers entwined, our heads touching, we stare at the doorway as if at any minute Hailey will come running into the bedroom. I know with everything I have that Spence is willing this along with me. We stare at the door, waiting for our little girl to show up, dressed in her jammies. She will be either still drowsy from sleep and complaining of a bad dream while holding her doll or teddy bear; or she will be wide-awake and running toward us, bounding into bed and asking Daddy to make her favorite chocolate chip and banana pancakes.

  Spence wraps his arms around me, and we stare at that door with everything we have. We stare and stare. We stare and wait until we hear the sound of someone starting up his car and neighbors chatting. And that’s when the spell is broken and Spencer pulls away. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”

  five

  “Hamlet was a pussy.”

  “Detrane, watch your language, please.”

  “Sorry, Miss Nelson. Hamlet was a fucking wimp.”

  “Detrane.”

  “But I’m stating the truth. How you gone watch your uncle kill your father and not do anything about it?”

  A few students nod their heads in agreement; others raise their hands.

  I survived the morning with Elaine and now sit on top of my desk discussing Hamlet with the sixteen students who decided to show up to seventh period. I call on Sharayray.

  “But if you kill somebody, you gotta make sure your shit is right,” she says.

  “Language.”

  “Sorry, Miss Nelson. I’m just sayin’ you have to make sure things are right, like, morally. Like when you have to kill, like going to war or something, ’cause otherwise you’re as in the wrong as the other person.”

  Arthur says, “My uncle Perry says everybody involved in politics is going to hell. That’s why I know Claudius was up to no good.”

  Every semester I force my juniors to make their way through Hamlet. Every semester it’s the same: Oh hell no! I can’t read this shit. But by the end, most recognize that Hamlet has been through as much as they have: death of a close relative by murder, backstabbing, cheating, parental abandonment, suicidal thoughts, incest, bad relationships—it’s all there.

  MacDowell High is one of the poorest schools in an already financially strapped school district. To the larger society, my students are merely statistics, their lives eagerly discussed during any given election season and soon thereafter forgotten. But we do our best here; well, most of us do. I couldn’t imagine teaching anywhere else. The reward of watching a student from MacDowell head off to the University of California or state college, hell, even community college, is far more gratifying than if I taught at a private school.

  Michelle raises her hand. “Miss Nelson? Why you think Ophelia wanted to kill herself? Me and Sharayray think she was pregnant. Why else would she kill herself?”

  I’m about to comment, when Gladys Edwards, the school’s principal, enters the room. As soon as I see her, I hop off my desk and resume teaching as though I’ve been standing all along. She only smiles, though, as she moves to the side of the room, motioning to the students who look her way that they should pay attention. Gladys is another reason I continue to teach at MacDowell. Even with her whispery chipmunk of a voice, she keeps everyone in line. Students and teachers alike want to please her.

  I check my watch. There are only three minutes left before the bell, so I tell my students to write about Ophelia for their homework. Was her suicide a suicide at all? Is suicide ever justified?

  Gladys asks Brandon how he did on his last math test as he leaves, then asks Valerie to tell her mother hello. She wears her usual skirt and jacket over a crisp white blouse, her packed round body erect and all business.

  I walk up to her after the class files out, prepping myself for a lecture. I’m not sure exactly what I’ve done wrong, but as of late I haven’t done much right either. I hardly attend departmental meetings anymore, and I’ve been tardy a few times here, absent a few times there. Before the accident, I was considered one of the top teachers in the school, dedicated and hardworking, but that was almost five years ago, long enough by now that most people probably don’t remember the old me.

  I decide to make the first move. “I’m sorry for arriving late this morning. It couldn’t be—” But she surprises me; shocks me, really, by taking me in her arms.

  “Oh, Miss Nelson! Oh, Miss Nelson!” She pulls me down several feet until my nose remains stuck somewhere in the crook of her arm. “Oh, Miss Nelson!” She sways me like a wrestler about to take down her opponent. “Oh, Miss Nelson!” she cries, finally letting me go. “Thank you so much! God bless you!”

  “You’re welcome, but . . . what did I do?”

  “Don’t be modest.” She grins conspiratorially as she pokes her long fingernail into my chest. “I didn’t kn
ow you had it in you to keep something like this from me. I am your principal, after all.”

  Her eyes go shiny as she takes from her pocket what can only be a check. She unfolds it directly in front of me, long enough that I see the number one followed by a series of zeros.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” I hear myself say.

  “Yes! Ten thousand dollars! Ten thousand dollars in the name of that beautiful little girl of yours. Oh, Miss Nelson, we will honor this gift at MacDowell High for many a year to come, and you know we will buy books for the English department and computers!”

  She lightly taps the side of my cheek. When she removes her hand, I touch my cheek as well. I know of only one person who can write a check with that many zeros. “Curtis,” I say.

  She pulls an envelope from her pocket. “Here’s the letter. He’s so kind, Miss Nelson. I’m just so impressed with him, Miss Nelson. Oh, you know I’m including this in my collection! I’m going to have it framed. Oh yes.”

  Gladys is the only person at the school who knows I know the football player. I’ve never wanted people asking me to ask him for favors or looking at me differently. But Gladys is a huge Raiders fan, and for her birthday last year, I asked him to sign a shirt and football for her. Apparently this was a big deal. She practically cried when she saw her gifts and later told me she had them encased behind glass in her den.

  She hands me the letter. I immediately recognize Margot’s handwriting as I skim over the page.

  “He says you convinced him he had to help our school. He’s given a donation in your daughter’s honor!”

  I have never talked to Curtis about doing anything in Hailey’s honor, and I have to assume his sudden generosity is to make amends for the weekend. Even so, the timing of everything doesn’t compute. If the check is to somehow make up for his video presentation on Saturday, how did it get here so soon?

  I hand the letter back. I don’t want to lie, but I also don’t see the point in telling Gladys I have nothing to do with the surprise check. “I guess I have to confess that I didn’t know he was going give you the check today. I just saw him over the weekend, and he didn’t say anything. When did you say the check arrived?”

  “Not thirty minutes ago. A man straight out of a movie came into my office. Just as handsome as he could be. I thought he might be a detective and was about to inquire about one of our students, but then he greeted me politely as could be and handed me the envelope.”

  This sounds like Tru, Curtis’s personal bodyguard and chauffeur.

  I smile, and Gladys and I hug. Ten thousand dollars is no joke, as my students would say, but Curtis could have easily afforded fifty thousand.

  “Miss Nelson, we will honor Hailey with this money. Starting with a computer lab in her honor, if it’s okay with you.”

  “That would be great, Mrs. Edwards. Just—I don’t want her name anywhere or anything. You understand?” I hope I won’t need to explain why: I don’t want to pass by her name every day, even if it’s for something as terrific—and needed—as a computer lab.

  She takes my hand. “I do, Miss Nelson.”

  “And if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if we kept this private. I’d still prefer people didn’t know I know Curtis or that I had anything to do with his gift.”

  “I understand. People might start thinking you’re getting preferential treatment. I know how people gossip.”

  After a final hug, I pack up my things and head out. Besides having to figure out a way to get my car, I need to call Curtis and find out what’s going on—and thank him.

  I leave the main building, wondering if I should skip walking home and take the bus. When I reach the parking lot, I see a group of twenty or so students. My first thought is that a fight has broken out, but they’re all too quiet and all staring at something or someone with such amazement that they appear, in what can only be described as an anomaly for our students, dumbstruck.

  I make my way around a small cluster of kids. I recognize some of my own students, but no one pays me any attention. A Mercedes comes into view with blackened windows and a shiny exterior; parked nearby—hold on a second—is my own car, looking forlorn and sheepish next to such a sleek and fancy rival.

  I hear his name before I see him.

  “That’s fucking Curtis Randolph,” the kid next to me whispers. “I’m telling you, it’s him. Gimme a pen, man. Hurry up.”

  Whispering, “Excuse me,” I move through the crowd. I see him, then, bending over as he signs autographs.

  As the texts and calls escalate, more kids start coming from all corners of the school. A few people watching from across the street make their way over.

  Just then someone shouts, “It’s Curtis fucking Randolph, y’all!” The gathering crowd starts screaming, too: “Curtis Randolph in da house! Yo yo! Over here!” More people start to rush over. They come out of nowhere, running toward us, pointing, screaming.

  Tru gets out of the car. He’s three times the size of the football player and tends to handle moments like these with a hard stare as his sole weapon. He calmly tells everyone to step back, then walks over to the football player who leans with his back against the Mercedes as he continues to sign pieces of scrap paper, notebooks, soccer balls, anything shoved in front of him. Tru leans in, and the footballer whispers something in his ear. He nods. “Okay. Form a single line. Everybody form a line and wait your turn.”

  I move to the front of the crowd just as the back door of the Mercedes opens and Margot steps out, one mile-long leg at a time. She’s done up in a kind of bodice-shaped jacket with a fur collar. There are fifty people standing around now, maybe more. They all crane their necks and stand on tiptoe to get a better view. She looks familiar enough, but they can’t quite put their finger on who she is. Then, all at once, they seem to realize she’s nobody, a beautiful nobody but a nobody just the same, and everyone’s attention goes back to the football player, except for two boys up front who continue to stare.

  She walks directly over to me. “P!” I quickly pull her away from the ever-growing crowd.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We thought we’d bring your car,” she explains. “The girls were curious about where you work, so here we are! Surprise!”

  “The girls are here?”

  “They’re in the car. We had Tru drive your car. Which was a sight, let me tell you. He could hardly fit.”

  “So what’s going on? What’s up with the check?”

  She pouts her lips. “Well, I was angry with you at first, but Daddy pointed out that you were upset and, anyway, we’re both sorry for what happened, P. We didn’t know those pictures would hurt your feelings. Curtis thought a donation to the school would be a nice way to make it up to you.”

  “Curtis or you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Guess not, but considering how much he’s worth—he couldn’t do fifty?”

  “Piper! You ruined his performance!”

  “So what? I was upset! He had no right. I told you I wanted Hailey left out of it.” I feel my stomach tighten at the thought of the picture and Curtis’s dreadful song.

  Margot makes a point of gazing disapprovingly at the school’s main building and trailers next to the track field. “Well, ten thou’ or five, I’d be grateful, ’cause it sure looks like you all could use it.” She looks at me now. “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  “Where did you go, anyway? Who was the short guy you left with?”

  Selwyn already feels like years ago, frankly, but I’m defensive just the same. “He’s not that short. I had on heels. And even if he is short, who cares?”

  “Well, who was he?”

  I pause long enough to shake away the image of the look on his face when I told him good-bye. “Nobody—a friend.”

  “Well, as long as you’re all right.” />
  “I’m fine.”

  I look over at Curtis grinning at his fans. It strikes me that I’m being played. Their reasons for showing up here are all too odd, too—generous. They bring my car and make a donation to the school and expect nothing in return? Uh, not in this particular universe.

  “What’s really going on?”

  “What do you mean? I told you, we wanted to give you the check and bring your car.”

  “And what else, Margot?”

  “You always think I’m up to something.”

  “That’s because you are. Now what do you want?”

  She rolls her eyes. “A tiny favor, that’s all. Curtis and I need to get away.”

  “From what?”

  “Curtis has so much on his plate right now, and then when things didn’t go well at the party—” She gives me an accusatory look.

  “I know you’re not blaming me. I was upset.”

  “I know, but you hurt his feelings. You called him an idiot in front of his family.”

  I widen my eyes. What can I say? I call ’em as I see ’em.

  Margot clicks her tongue. “Curtis wants to drive to Tahoe for a few days and get some R and R. Mom says she can watch the girls, but she can’t get them until tonight. Can you watch them for a few hours until she can pick them up?”

  I try to make sense of it all. “You two are going to Tahoe . . . right now?”

  “Well, yeah. I told you, he needs to de-stress. I don’t think people appreciate all that man has on his plate—the album, the wedding, the book deal, and let’s not forget he does play football. He really needs this. He had our bags packed this morning. I’m supposed to figure out what to do with the twins.”

  “That’s a nice way to talk about your children.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s not like I didn’t warn them that I’d be busy until the wedding.”

  “And what was your excuse before the wedding?”

  “Look, I didn’t come here to be judged. Can you watch them or not? We wouldn’t have to ask if not for the African sorceress; now she says she won’t be back from LA until tomorrow. So if it’s not you, it’s Danielle.”