To Catch a Falling Star

by L. Duarte

  “I wanted to talk to you today, but you vanished after service. Please, have a seat,” she says and sits across from me. Goddamnit. Is it a new sort of fucking hallucination, or am I kind of shaking at the perspective of being lectured by Maritza? I can’t fucking believe it. Christ’s sake, I don’t need this shit. Confusing and foreign emotions stir in my chest. My chest itches as if a thousand fleas just moved in.

  Shit.

  “Well, I’m not a woman to go around the bush,” she tells me with her rushed Spanish accent.

  “Oh,” I say. Maybe Mel told her about last night. The thought of disappointing this family upsets me. For fucking sake, pussies get upset. I’m pissed. It sounds better.

  “You and Mel are both grown-ups and whatever you do is none of my concern. However, I need to bring up one small factor.” She smiles; there is not a trace of judgment on her face. “Ella.”

  I remain in silence. How much did Mel tell her?

  “I can see that you and Mel are getting along. A beautiful friendship, if you give me the liberty to say so. But please consider Ella while you two get to know each other.”

  “I, um, what is this all about, Mrs. Miller?”

  “Oh, Tarry, it’s Maritza or Aunt Iza. I can see your interaction with Mel is beyond casual. I know my daughter, Tarry. For what it’s worth, I really don’t oppose or favor a relationship between you two. My only concern is Ella. And your concern should be Danny. He’s very protective of Mel.” She smiles and reaches again for my hand. Her fingers are warm and soft against my skin. It’s a motherly touch—pure and unconditional—and I wonder if I’ve ever been touched like this before. A suffocating knot settles in my throat.

  “You’re a good man, Tarry. You might not realize yet. But you are. Any girl would be lucky to have you. Just be careful with Ella, okay.” She leans in, kisses my cheek, and pats my hair.

  Unprecedented and shocking do not begin to describe what just happened.

  “Let’s join the others for dinner, son.”

  Tugging my hand, she pulls me up before I have the chance to reply, and hauls a stunned me, to the dining room.

  My usual seat beside Mel is empty. Maritza lets go of my hand and takes her seat next to Dan, who has his typical grin stamped on his face.

  When I look toward Mel, my fucking gut hurts. That fucker Steven is sandwiched between her and Lucas. His smile glares as bright as snowballs and somehow his buzz-cut hair accentuates his muscular biceps and chest. Fuck me. What is he doing here? I sink in the chair next to Mel. She glances my way with a tight smile, which is almost unnoticeable because the scarf she has wrapped around her neck obscures a part of her face. She’s probably hiding my mark on her.

  I nod toward everybody and mumble an inaudible “Hi,” and try my damn hardest to smile.

  “Finally! We’re starving. Ella, would you say grace, sweetheart,” Dan says.

  During dinner, I press my thigh against Mel. Jesus, she is so soft. I don’t know if she notices or is the slightest bit affected. She purposefully ignores me, and engages in a heated conversation with that fucker and Lucas.

  The jerk’s eyes fucking gleam whenever Mel utters a word. Numerous times during the conversation, he touches her hand or arm. I could kill him for staring at her with so much intimacy. Before ending him, I would peel the skin of his hand for touching her. How dare he? We are at her parents table for fuck’s sake. Show some restraint or respect.

  “Steve has a medal of bravery for saving a firefighter during a fire. What are the odds?” Mel says with a fucking grin. As if he’s a fucking hero from a fucking fairy tale.

  My fucking chest itches so badly now. Fuck. Did I forget to take my goddamned medication? I need to leave.

  I restrain my fucking shaking hands from scratching my chest. There is no way I will act as a flea-infested dog next to the fucking town’s hero. Instead, I reach for my front jeans packet, searching for a bag of coke. Shit. For a fucking moment, I forgot that I had quit.

  I glance up guiltily. As if reading my mind, Portia regards me from across the table. “Are you okay?” she whispers so no one will hear her. Her expression is seized with concern.

  “Yeah.” I nod, doing my best to calm her anxious eyes. “Forgot my meds.” I mouth. She raises an eyebrow in understanding and let out a relieved exhale. Whew, I convinced her. Contrary to Portia, I can lie my way out of anything.

  “Dad, tell the story about the funeral you did for Mrs. Cosmell’s cat,” Mel requests with her melodic voice.

  Dan retells the story and we all laugh as he describes the outfits of the sixteen cats attending the funeral. During our regular Sunday dinners, I usually stay to myself. Occasionally, I laugh at funny remarks. But today, a bitter taste regurgitates in my mouth and prevents me from making an occasional comment or eating. After sliding the food from one side of the plate to the other, I place my fork down, giving up on forcing another bite.

  Mel glances at my plate briefly, but she’s too engrossed paying attention to the fucker boasting of yet another save-the-day routine deed.

  Okay, I admit it. I’m officially a pussy. Why? Fuck me, but I remain in my seat to avoid being rude and hurt my hosts’ feelings. I endure the sugary tales of a police officer—risking sugar coma—while hearing the gasps of admiration from Mel and all others present. Yeah, yeah. I’m definitely a pussy. Did I mention how fucking badly I want to scratch my chest?

  “How about you, Tarry? You must have some great stories about traveling the world. You have a most fascinating job.” Dan tries to include me in the conversation.

  “Oh, no, no. Nothing worthy of mentioning. Traveling with a band has endless hours of rehearsals, miles of asphalt spreading in front of your eyes, and a great deal of smelly sacks,” I say with a forced half a smile.

  “Come on, Tarry, you’ve got to have done some crazy stuff.” Lucas pushes it.

  “No, sorry to disappoint,” I say with a shrug.

  “He’s being modest,” Portia pitches in.

  Oh, no you don’t. I shut a warning stare at her. Russian Roulette, breaking someone’s nose, orgies, shooting up a car’s worth of coke, and trashing hotel rooms are hardly heroic stories appropriate for dinner at a preacher’s table. If Portia tells them one of my stories, even a sheepish one, Dan and Maritza will certainly exclude me from the Sunday dinner. It sucks to admit, but I do enjoy coming here on Sundays. I really do.

  “Tell us one, sweetheart,” Dan encourages Portia.

  Before I open my mouth to say anything, she starts.

  “Jeez, Dad, in all honesty it’s hard to pick one. But I’ll tell you my favorite.” She smiles at me the way only she can and I know I won’t interrupt her. Even if costs me my Sunday dinners.

  “Just bear with me, because it’s the cliché of all stories,” she says with so much pride that one would think she’s about to retell an event worthy of a Purple Heart medal.

  “Before Tarry became this big-shot musician, there was this time back in middle school that Mark, the son of the mayor—who was stuck-up and a bully—put his foot across the way of John, a scholarship student. John fell, hit his nose on the ground, and shattered his thick glasses. With his nose bleeding profusely, John stood up. Not satisfied, Mark spilled the contents of a trashcan on the floor and told John to pick up the scattered garbage. John’s father was the school janitor.” She looks my way and fixes her eyes on mine. “Tarry, taller than all the kids, grabbed Mark by the neck and made him pick up all the trash. After Mark cleaned the floor, Tarry pushed Mark to his knees and made him apologize to John.”

  She sighs and looks around the quiet table. “Later that week, Tarry sold his best guitar on eBay and sent the money to John’s family to replace the glasses.” Her eyes are glassy. “I already loved Tarry with all my heart. But on that day I knew I would never allow anything to ever tear us apart.” She dabs a tear from the corner of her eye. Damn the hormones of a pregnant woman.

  An awkward silence settles at the dinner table. I wan
t to become invisible.

  “Careful there, peaches. Stories like that can ruin my bad-boy rep. It could cost me my career y’know,” I say, smiling at Portia.

  “Wow, that’s a cool story, dude.” Lucas grins from his seat.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  After dinner, Dan lights the fireplace and everybody gathers around the fire for coffee. I perch on the doorframe in a strategic place. I want the hell out of this place. Seeing Mel and not touching her is torture. Seeing the fucker touching her is agonizing as hell.

  “How was the new Italian place you guys went last night?” Will asks the fucker.

  “It was awesome. Great food, right, Mel?” He leans toward her, practically on top of her. They are squished on a love seat that can barely fit a person.

  “Portia knows the owner’s wife. Their child is the same age as Dominick,” Will says.

  “I’m going to hit the sack,” I say, interrupting the conversation. There is only so much I can take.

  “Hey, Tarry, we’re going to the movies and then shoot some pool at the Green Pool Hall. Want to come with us?” Lucas asks.

  Mel’s body tenses. She bites her lower lips and her eyes are bright with shades of a desperate plea. She doesn’t want me around.

  “Nah, I’ll pass.”

  “Thanks for dinner, Dan, Maritza. Good night, you all.”

  “We’re leaving too,” Will announces. “Mel, can Ella come with us? You can pick her up on your way home,” he suggests.

  “Sure, that’ll be nice,” she says.

  We say good-bye and leave. Before I enter the car, Portia approaches me.

  “Hey, Tarry, what’s with you today? Are you all right?”

  “No, I completely forgot the damn meds. That’s why I’m so moody. Sorry, peaches, I didn’t mean to worry you. As soon as I get home, Ill fix that. Okay?” I kiss her head.

  “You sure? You’ll tell me if there is something bothering you, right?”

  “Sure, you gotta trust me Portia. You know I’m determined to do this.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

  After Will straps the kids in the car, he stands by the door, waiting for Portia.

  “Are you coming over?” she asks.

  “Nah, probably not. I started a real good song and I want to finish while it’s fresh in my mind. If is not too late when I’m done, I’ll come over.” I flash an overly-charming and carefree smile.

  “Okay.” She smiles broadly. I can almost weep with relief. She’s convinced. The last thing I want is to fuck with her well-being. Dealing with a pregnant woman is much like walking on quicksand. Unpredictable. It looks fine when undisturbed, but one small step and it can quickly submerge you.

  I light my cigarette. From the corner of my eye, I see Mel, Lucas, and the fucker getting out of the house.

  “Love you,” Portia says over her shoulders.

  “Love you back, peaches.” I draw a healthy long drag of smoke and wave to Will.

  “Last chance to come with us,” Lucas offers as he opens the door of his Charger.

  “Next time, bro.” I turn to the Jeep without looking at Mel. If I look at her again, I’m going to lose it.

  I enter the car and wait while Will and then Lucas leave. Then I drive off. I search my iPhone for “Sweet Death Agony.” After connecting the phone to the new radio I had installed in Will’s car, I hit repeat mode. I open the windows. The old Jeep vibrates under the blaring music.

  Aimlessly, I drive into the twilight. The violet-blue sky sprinkled with scarce silver dots slowly yields to its black mantle of night. A moon, partially obstructed by clouds, climbs from behind trees. It casts a murky light on the darkening roads of the fucking suburban town in which I’m a prisoner.

  I’m clueless of where to drive to, but I know I don’t want to go home. It’s too quiet there. Silence, I’ve found recently, speaks too loud. Also, silence can be brutally honest and reveal secrets hidden in our souls that I’m too afraid to discover. Suddenly, I’m stricken with one realization: I feel sad. Very sad. I reach for the phone and scroll my contact list. My finger hovers on Dan’s number. I shove the device away. I don’t want to have Dan telling me how wonderful I’m doing and how much fucking faith he has in my recovery. I’m a worthless piece of shit, but I’m not a hypocrite. I don’t deserve his words or help. Especially after fucking his daughter.

  A patch of skin on my thigh begins to itch simultaneously with my chest. Tiny ants crawl under my skin, damn them. I search the dashboard for any bugs, but there aren’t any. But I know they’re here, I can feel they making their way in between my hair, rupturing my skin, sucking my sober, tasteless blood. I need to get rid of them. I can’t stand it. It’s fucking gross.

  Who am I trying to fool? I deserve the affection of these crawling creatures. Mel will never forgive me. Fuck, I screwed myself this time. I really did.

  THROUGHOUT THE EVENING, I have the turmoil of emotions wrestling inside my chest. When Lucas invited Tarry to come with us, I almost begged him with my eyes. I know this is silly, but I secretly hoped he would want to spend time with me. But, with a cold glance my way, he clearly sneered “No.” Remembering his discomfort during dinner makes me cringe. It was palpable. Fucking me was that bad. It hurts.

  But what bothers me the most is the hollow stare in Tarry’s eyes. For a moment, I wonder if he was upset. When he looked at me, I saw a sea of resentment in the depth of his gray eyes. Maybe I’m mistaking the look for regret. He might fear I’ll tell others about us.

  Now we are at a pool bar. I’m a fierce player. Tim had an old pool table in his basement. He taught me to play when we were fourteen. He was a good teacher, and soon I exceled and surpassed his skill. Tim always teased me, admitting that he allowed me to win because he was a gentleman. He was an excellent player and, at times, I wonder whether it was true.

  Tonight, my mind keeps returning to a steamy bathroom and to smoky-gray eyes. I’ve lost every single game.

  “Mel, your turn,” says Lucas.

  “Oh, sorry.” I try to focus on the game.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever won a pool game against you. What’s wrong, you lost your mojo?”

  I look over my shoulder. Steve is at the bar ordering a new pitcher of Guinness and, since I’m the designated driver, a refill for my soda.

  “Just tired. Too much overtime.”

  “What’s between Tarry and you?”

  Jeez, I just hate this family trait of asking blunt questions. We’re all to the point.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but nothing.”

  “Yeah, right. The tension between you is too noticeable. But tonight, anyone could cut it with a butter knife.”

  “Nine, left corner,” I call. I miss it.

  “And now here we are. You can’t even concentrate on the game,” he calls and shoots. Damn.

  “Damn, Lucas. I just feel so confused with anything related to Tarry.” I call a ball and miss it again.

  “Tarry is a real nice guy. He’s working damn hard to recover. But, you should really think hard before getting involved with him. He is a womanizer, Mel.”

  Before I answer, I feel the familiar vibration of my cell phone on my front packet. I fish for the phone and an unknown number flashes on my screen.

  “Hello,” I answer.

  A deep voice speaks on the other side, but is inaudible due to the loud music in the background.

  “Hello, sorry but I can’t hear you.” My eyes squint with the hope of understanding whoever is in the other line. Where the hell… Is it Tarry? I immediately go into alert mode.

  “Can you hear me now? I need to speak with Melody Miller?” A voice shouts.

  “Speaking.” My hand starts to shake. Who is this man?

  “I’m Ben Harrison, a bartender at Cave Tavern.” The noise becomes distant and I can hear him better. He must be in a different room. “I have a costumer passed out here, and all he had on him is your card. Unfortunately, I don’t know h
is name. But maybe you know him.” He adds a brief description and it confirms my fear. For sure, it’s Tarry. Oh, God, no. He’s in a bar. Passed out.

  “Yes, I know who he is. He’s a friend. You said Cave Tavern, right? I know where it is. Keep him there no matter what. I’m about two minutes away.”

  “Don’t worry about him leaving. I tried to wake him, but he is bombed out.”

  “I’m on my way.” I hang up the phone, gather my purse and jacket from a chair, and turn to leave.

  Steve is placing a pitcher of Guinness and a refill for my Coke on a table.

  “We have to go. Someone from Cavern called. Tarry is drunk.”

  Before they have time to register what’s happening, I storm out of the room without even looking back to see if they’re following me.

  As soon as I settle in the driver’s seat, I see Lucas and Steve slide inside the car. I take off before Steve shuts the door. My mind is in replay mode of Tarry’s sad eyes earlier today. How didn’t I see this coming? Guilt swamps me. I hope this is just a setback. My stomach feels raw, as if there is a flow of continuous drops of acid dropping in it.

  My soul is freezing cold. I try to shake off the feeling. I have only felt this way once. It was when I heard of Tim’s death.

  I speed my way to the bar, ignoring red lights and stop signs. I cut off other drivers. Jeez, this car is dangerous. Owning such a potent machine should be prohibited. I park near the door and soar to my feet. The back of my neck is sweaty, though the temperature has dropped considerably tonight.

  I’m not conceited, but I take pride on being a good officer. The academy taught me well, and I put all of me into following all protocols, and always being in control. I always have a rein on my emotions. Tonight, I feel jittery, like a satellite that has lost earth’s orbit and away it goes, spinning off into outer space.

  The bar is stuffy. I squint, scanning the room for Tarry. My breath comes in shallow gulps of air. I see him and my heart comes to a halt. He sits on the dirty floor, leaned against a stone post. A red light tints the cloud of smoke that hovers in the air. Tears blur my vision. I push away the urge to cry and stroll his way.