Stars Go Blue

by Laura Pritchett

  From the glove compartment, she finds the cool cylinder of the flashlight. As she turns it on, the dog whines. She casts the light about the cab. She can see her own arm, the dog, the Valentine card Ben made her, the junk from the dash, all of it scattered around her on the passenger-side door and window. The dog has a cut on her forehead and is bleeding and Renny reaches out to feel it and can tell, with her fingers, that it is not deep or large, and that the dog is fine. Still, she says, “Oh, Satchmo. Sorry about that. Don’t worry.”

  Oh, god. She can’t breathe. What is she supposed to do? The wind outside is howling so loud that she can’t think. Or perhaps it is Satchmo that is whining. Perhaps it is the universe?

  Did she bump her head? Or is this seasick dizziness just nerves? She must be smart here. She must think. She must get her brain to work. She considers: If there was one snowplow, there will be another. If Anton goes to her house, he will find her missing. If she can start the truck, she can stay warm. On the other hand, she needs to make sure the exhaust isn’t covered; she doesn’t want to die of carbon monoxide. And the truck has, in fact, fallen on the side with the exhaust. She has the cell phone in her purse, doesn’t she? She must think, she must think. But over all this, twining through all this, is a simple childlike surprise. She never would have thought this. It simply seems impossible. She expected Ben to die, and that she would live. She’s thought plenty about Ben’s death; she’s been saying good-bye in various ways for some time now. But she hasn’t even begun the process—and how could this be?—of saying good-bye to herself.

  Vomit rises and she chokes as she swallows it down. Everything depends on the cell phone, and she’s forever forgetting to charge it, just like she forever forgets things like bringing mint for tea. With the purse tucked under her chin, and a flashlight in one hand, she tugs open the zipper and feels inside until her hand wraps around her phone. She turns it on, and miraculously, it lights up. 9-1-1. Only one other time has she called this number. Seventy-two years on this planet and she’s dialed it once, in order to save her daughter, and it was too late. By the time she heard the sirens, her daughter was in her arms, bleeding from her head all over. Convulsing. Shaking. Convulsing. Dead. By the time she heard the sirens, Ray had raced out, Ben had raced out after him, shouting after the black Ford truck that was peeling out of the driveway and then falling to his knees. By the time they came, her daughter’s eyes had turned still and although she had slapped her and screamed and tore off her own shirt to staunch the blood the eyes were still.

  Only once she has asked for help. It didn’t come. And so that part of her died. The part that is willing to reach out and ask. Be tender in that way. Because, for god’s sake, if you go through life and hardly ask for anything—and then you ask once, just once!—and there’s no response, well, then, the hell with it.

  9-1-1. She punches it in, praying to all the good people who know how to help. “Please,” she says aloud, “please-oh-god-please.”

  The wind howls and whistles around her as she waits, listening, for something on the other end. She holds her breath, waiting. It would be nice if, for once, she could count deeply on someone else.

  BEN

  The restaurant is so bright and loud against the dark of night and storm. People are waking and food is served and a baby cries and the boy-man paces and moves his jaw and scratches his wrists and cusses and the girl in the gray-plaid shirt reads a book. Ben gets up to stretch his legs and use the bathroom and a few folks stand for a moment or two outside the door so as to see the storm and feel the cold tight air that sucks at their lungs. He looks at a book that has been handed to him, but he can’t read small words anymore, only the big words on signs. He has no other way to pass the time and wishes for a football game but instead he watches people, cranky and hopeful, and one woman is crying in the corner. He closes his eyes and thinks of red willows and dark-eyed horses and how both ripple with the joy of the world.

  There are people with phones. He knows he should call but he cannot remember the number. He knows his wife’s name is Renny but he can’t remember the second name that comes after the first. He looks up to find the girl staring at him. It makes him feel shame, so he looks at a chain that’s hanging from his wrist. Why is it there? Has he been in jail?

  Water fills his eyes and spills over and he wonders about the source of that water, how at one time it was in the sea.

  “Aw, mister. You want me to call someone?” The waitress is rubbing her moon and he shakes his head, no, and then, to make sure she doesn’t worry, he goes into the bathroom to comb his hair and swish water to get rid of the thick taste in his mouth.

  Finally the bus driver stands up and yells something. The sun will soon be up, the man says, and the plows have gone through and although it’s still snowing, they will continue on.

  Ben follows the others into the whipping snow underneath a black sky. He boards the bus and finds a seat and he is glad, so glad, that the boy-man sits elsewhere and that he is left alone. Ben has his jacket, his wallet, and his suitcase. He knows he’s done a good job. He is worried that someone is going to stop him, but in fact no one does.

  The bus pulls out of the big parking lot slowly, bumping over a poorly snowplowed area, and then onto the highway. A few people cheer, but Ben can tell that it’s going to be slowgoing, very slow. From the side window he can see only the flakes hitting and melting or the ones whizzing close by. It seems to him that the snow is very tender. Or trying to be.

  Sometimes they pass signs or small towns and one lit-up sign advertises FILM * GIFTS * OXYGEN and another THE FAMOUS GROUSE. He passes a trailer house that also has a lit sign in the darkness, and it says it is a library and it makes him sad, such a small space for so many huge ideas. The snowplows pass every once in a while, throwing white on the windows, and he likes to watch their power, likes to know that they are clearing the roads so that he can go back to Renny. There are two pieces of paper in his pocket, and he gets both out to hold in his hands.

  It is not so long—hardly time to nap, even, although he feels himself fall asleep for a while—when the bus driver stops the bus and says, “Greeley,” and when Ben doesn’t move, the bus driver comes back. “Greeley, sir. Your stop,” and Ben hands him the note.

  The man looks at one and squints and hands it back and says, “Don’t know what this one means,” and Ben looks down to see numbers and letters, something about ccs, and some other words that he doesn’t quite remember although he feels embarrassed that the man has seen it. The other note the man reads aloud. “My name is Ben Cross. I’m trying to get to Greeley, Colorado,” and he says, “Well, Gramps, you made it, this here is Greeley.” So Ben does what the man wants, which is to grab his suitcase and get off in the dark night with the snow slapping his face in small little bits of pain. The blizzard is not so bad here as it was near the mountains, and the snow only goes up past his ankles, wetting his socks.

  The bus station is really just a car lot with a small lit building, and he ducks his head and walks inside. Some others get off with him, then they seem to disappear, into waiting cars or out into the dark. Only a few mill about, the boy with the bok-bok face and that girl too, but they disappear in the back of the room, where he can’t see.

  He needs to think. What was he going to do now? He just needs to rest, to get some peace and quiet. His brain is tired from being with those people in that restaurant and eating all that pie. Soon he will know what to do.

  He carries his suitcase with him into the men’s room, which he knows is the men’s because he has double-checked for the stick drawing of a man. In the bathroom he tries to pee but cannot. He tries for a long time to open the suitcase but he cannot figure out the latch. Finally the suitcase falls open and inside is a clean button-down shirt and he puts it on. There is also a toothbrush and so he brushes his teeth, because they feel very dirty. He washes his face in the sink and dries it with brown paper towels. There is nothing else in the suitcase and so he stares at it for
a long time, wondering why he’s been lugging this suitcase around with only a shirt and toothbrush. Wasn’t there something else in here? Wasn’t he going to use it if worse came to worse?

  He sits on the toilet and finally a small stream comes and he tries to think of Ray’s last name. Ray who was with Rachel. Rachel Cross. And then, he feels himself leaning, falling asleep, right there on the toilet, propping himself up with his arms, which are braced on his knees. Later, in his sleep, he feels himself move to the floor of the bathroom, where he continues sleeping, and then he dreams that someone is above him, moving his face onto a shirt.

  When he wakes, his face is indeed pressed against a shirt that he does not recognize. And he feels that someone he knows put it there—was it his daughter? The one who died? And then it comes to him, like a gift. That is why he is here: Ray Steele.

  He climbs up, pees, washes himself, and then walks out. Yes, Ray Steele.

  He can’t remember exactly where he is, but he’s in a small room, but he senses that, like nature, it will unfold correctly. There’s a short-haired older woman sitting behind a desk, and the woman says, “Oh!” when he walks toward her. And then she says, “Where did you come from? I didn’t know anyone else was here! Were you on that delayed bus?” and she glances at the two or three others, sitting in the yellow chairs, and then she peers at him, and says, “What can I help you with, sir? Need a ticket somewhere?”

  He nods at her, trying to form words. “See, I’ll tell you what. See.” He reaches into his pocket and hands her some slips of paper and she reads them and looks at him, then glances at the papers and then at him again.

  And then she says, “Why, you are Ben Cross. Oh, I love when small towns are still small towns.”

  “Ben Cross, yes. That’s me.”

  “Well, I’ll be. Criminy. I suppose you don’t remember me. There’s no reason you should. You went to high school with my older sister. She’s a teacher now. Or was. She’s been retired for some time. I was four grades younger, though. But I remember you. Watching you play baseball.”

  “Oh, that,” he says. “Those were some good days.”

  “Oh, they sure were. I was at your parents’ funerals. Probably you don’t remember. You own a ranch up north, right?”

  “Hell’s Bottom Ranch,” he says, so happy that his tongue found the words. “Prettiest place on earth.”

  “Oh, I believe it,” she says. “I do. My name is Rachelle Forkner, by the way. Maybe you remember me? My folks owned the grocery.”

  “Oh, sure,” Ben says, and he has a memory of walking in there when he was young, a list of items written in his mother’s perfect Palmer handwriting, and checking them off. Eggs, butter, vanilla, that white stuff that makes bread. “My mind isn’t what it used to be, but I remember things back that far, sure.”

  “Some storm out there. Horrible. Glad the electricity is on, though. Glad the bus made it. They might be shutting down I-25 again, I hear. It’s worse up near you. Where you left from, I mean. And of course, all the side roads are down.”

  “A bad one, yes.”

  “Well, it sure is good to see you.” She hands back the slips of paper.

  He hesitates, wondering if he should trust her. “I’m here looking for a man. Ray Steele.”

  She scratches her head with the tip of a ball point pen. “Ray Steele. Never heard of him. Greeley’s gotten pretty big, you know. Gangs and all that. Meth and so on. The downtown part is nice, though. And the campus is still nice.”

  Ben looks at his shoes. Then he remembers the bigger piece of paper in his suitcase and pulls it out. It’s an old creased newspaper account of the murder, and he slides it across the counter to her. She reads it, shaking her head and making clucking noises like a chicken, which makes him wonder about his chickens and makes him worry about Renny.

  “I remember reading this. Didn’t remember the name of the man, though. This town has gotten so big I don’t recognize people anymore. He’s in Greeley now, you say? He probably rode the bus, got off right before my eyes, and I wouldn’t have known him. A murderer! He probably took a bus from the prison to here. Great. I miss Greeley the way it used to be. The way that Mr. Horace Greeley intended it. And here we got a murderer in our vicinity.” Then she stops, peers at him closer. “You came to see him? Your family know where you are?”

  Ben opens his mouth and closes it. If he could just ask for what he wants, if he could just remember what to say. Instead he says, “Well, sure. We have an . . . appointment. Boy, my mind’s not working so good. That bus trip and sleeping in the café. That was a bit hard on my old brain.”

  The woman peers at him a moment and then says, “Hang on a minute, Ben,” and he sees that she’s making a phone call, and then another. He shifts his weight—just like an old horse, he thinks—and glances around the room. There’s a girl that is wearing a flannel shirt, just like one he used to have, and she’s got her head buried in her hands, sleeping.

  He wants Renny here. But there’s something he alone needs to do. And the woman is still on the phone. Finally, out of sheer weariness, he leaves the counter and sits in one of the yellow chairs, next to the girl. Finally, the phone-woman waves him over. “All right, Ben. I called around and got hold of Ray Steele. The criminal element in this community is all connected, although that’s very unchristian of me, perhaps they’re all turning their lives around, including Ray. Ray, I spoke to that man myself.” Here, she widens her eyes, looking startled at herself for being startled in the first place. “I don’t get surprised by much these days. Can’t believe I had it in me. But he said he wrote you a letter, asking for a visit. So I guess it’s all right. He says he’s coming here, to this building, as soon as he digs his truck out, and it shouldn’t be much longer. He lives a little out of town, though, on a county road.” She pauses and cocks her head. “You came here to see him? I think that’s mighty brave, Ben Cross.”

  Ben nods and some of the dust clears and he can hear his words and that his words come out in the right order. “He killed my daughter. He got let out of prison. I figured while there was still time I ought to look him in the eye.”

  “Well, I’ll be. No joke. That’s something, Ben.” Then she pauses, clears her throat. “I hope you don’t mind, Ben, but I also called your home. Found your number in information. I just left a message on your machine. I suppose your wife would want to know that you were here and all, after the blizzard. Or at least I would, if I were married to you. Did you call her?”

  He pats his pockets and says, “I lost my . . .”

  “Cell phone?”

  “Well, that thing in my suitcase—”

  “Well, dang. That’s no good. But that’s why I called her. Just to let her know. I can redial the number, if you want to leave a message yourself.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. Thank you kindly.”

  “She knows you’re here?”

  “Oh sure.”

  “Well. I don’t know why she let you out of the house in such a storm. I remember her being a bit . . . ornery. Anyway. Here, have some coffee. Sun’s about to come up.” She hands him a white cup and a white powdery donut from a bag that she’s got behind the counter.

  “Oh sure.” He takes a sip and thinks of the last time he saw Renny, holding her at the cemetery, saying that he was going inside to take a nap, and she knew, she knew, she knew that was not his plan. She knew the plan, he’s sure of it. “If you don’t mind,” he says, and then indicates the restroom with a tilt of his head.

  Ray Steele is coming. This man was . . . What was he to do? . . . His brain can’t think it through, but his heart seems to know, because it’s revving up to the point he is going to be sick. Maybe his heart will take it from here? The brain has checked out but the body still doing good. Revving of heart = courage is all he can think, and he knows it doesn’t make sense.

  He stands at the window trying to calm the rev and keep his stomach from coming out his mouth. It hurts his brain to focus on the signs so ther
efore it feels important. In the gusting white world lit by streetlamps he sees GREELEY MONUMENT WORKS. FRANK’S SEED AND HATCHERY. LOT CLOSED FOR FARMERS’ MARKET WEDNESDAY AND SATURDAY. He looks at the hedges and blooms of pure white snow, watches a snowplow go beep-beeping by in the dark. He looks at the old depot, at the metal silos, and now he knows where he is—close to the road that will take him to the farm where he was born, to the place where he became a man.

  It’s right that he’s here.

  He goes back into the bathroom and sits, relieves himself, and sits some more. Gets his heart and vomit to go back down where they should be. He remembers when the doctor said, Dementia, probably Alzheimer’s, and he remembers the snap of heartbreak and fear. He wishes he could go just a few minutes without feeling his disease. Just a few moments of clarity.

  He pulls out a slip of paper from his pocket. My name is Ben Cross. I am trying to get to Greeley, Colorado. It takes him a long time to understand why he wrote that, but then he pats the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small bottle of liquid and two syringes wrapped in plastic.

  There was something important, but his mind can’t catch it. He decides now just to trust the instinct.

  He unwraps the plastic—he has to use his teeth—and takes off the cap from the syringe. Sticks it in the bottle. The liquid is very thick and thus his needle is a large bore, 18-gauge, and requires a bit of strength and patience. He’s glad he’s still strong. He’s glad he’s operating out of habit. Because of habit and know-how, he can pull the liquid back into the syringe, all the way to the top, 20 ccs. He remembers that a one-thousand-pound horse would get 100 ccs, and so a two-hundred-pound man would get 20, he knows this by instinct and not by thought, and he’s aware of the difference.

  Trust your heart and gut, he hears himself saying, not your brain. Probably you already did anyway. He doesn’t know what he means by that, even, but the words repeat themselves over and over. Aloud or inside his head, he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore. He is in a world that doesn’t quite operate in the usual way.