All the Major Constellations

  “No shit,” said the man across the street. He looked none too sober himself.

  “I guess I wasn’t whispering then!” Andrew yelled. Andrew felt extremely clever when he said it. The man snorted. Andrew walked on, trying to appear nonchalant and in control. A police car drove slowly by, and Andrew kept his eyes on the ground and his hands in his pockets, his default physical position. He’d maintained this stance virtually his entire high school career. A defense position, he thought, like a Tai Chi–type thing.

  The walk home took an hour; at least it felt as though it did. At some point he stopped and pissed behind some bushes. When he reached his house, he sat on the steps and stared at the stars. If he stared at them long enough, they swam and zoomed before his eyes like a magnificent light show. A magnificent light show. He thought of David and frowned. The door opened behind him.

  “Andrew?”

  It was Laura.

  “What are you doing here?” Andrew said, his heart racing.

  “I live here.”

  Andrew looked up and down the street. He’d walked to Laura’s house. For a moment he was so embarrassed, he thought he’d die on the spot. Then a drunken careless confidence took over.

  “Look at this munificent light show. Brought to you by our Creator Himself!” Andrew said. He waved both arms toward the sky.

  “Shhh. Are you drunk?”

  Without looking, Andrew reached behind and pulled her over to him. She stumbled, but he caught her and gently placed her next to him on the porch steps.

  She rubbed her leg and grimaced. “I scraped my shin.”

  “Watch the lights.”

  “You are so drunk. And you smell like pot.”

  “And yet my reflexes are still intact,” Andrew said, and then he burped.

  “Andrew, go home,” Laura hissed.

  “I was just hanging out with John,” he said.

  “Oh?” she said slowly.

  “We didn’t go fishing. I can tell you that much.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you think we did?” He looked over at her. She was wearing some kind of filmy pink nightgown. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Where’s John now?”

  “And you apparently know what pot smells like.”

  “Look, Andrew, just go home. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

  “We’ll talk now!” Andrew said.

  “Shhh. If my parents wake up, we’re both dead.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

  “Take my sweatshirt.”

  “You don’t have one.”

  “Are you dating Matt?”

  “No.”

  “But you did?”

  “Why are you interested in this?”

  “Really, Laura? Really? You have nooooooo idea.”

  Laura frowned and looked away.

  “How ’bout John? Oops! Maybe not, eh?”

  “Andrew, please,” Laura said. She grasped his arm and looked at him intently, her eyes pleading.

  “Does everyone know? That’s it, isn’t it? Everyone actually knows that John is—”

  “Stop, stop,” she said, putting her hands over his mouth. He kissed her fingers. “Go home,” she whispered. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I promise.” She stood up and kissed his forehead.

  Andrew stood up. “The promises of Laura Lettel,” he muttered as he walked away.

  This time he managed to get to his house. Instead of going inside he made his way to the backyard and collapsed. He thought about Laura in that ridiculous pink nightgown. Who actually dressed like that? It was as though Laura were trying to be a fantasy dream girl. Oh God, what nonsense. What was he thinking? Where was his Bible? In the absence of Marcia, who usually had all the answers, he needed to consult something else, some weighty text. He patted his pockets. He must have left it at John’s apartment. In the sweatshirt.

  The wet grass was seeping into his clothes and moistening his back. It was cold but oddly soothing. Like a gentle cool kiss from the earth. Like that kid whose heart froze when he ate too much Turkish delight. What was that from again? Some book from his childhood. He’d loved that book. He wondered if he’d forget everything that he loved as he grew up. If as an adult, forty years from now, he’d forget Marcia and Sara. If memories of them would come to him only when he was drunk. The thought made him choke up, and he had to blink back tears that pooled into his eyes. Then he felt like a fool for crying.

  The backyard was his brother’s domain. Andrew hadn’t really spent time here for years. All Brian’s sporting equipment was stored in a special shed, built for that purpose. Brian had spent hours and hours out here tossing the ball around or kicking the ball around or bouncing the ball around. Andrew used to watch him. And then he stopped watching him. That was it. No story, no grand showdown. He used to be interested in his older brother, and then he wasn’t. Brian had never been interested in him. Or maybe he had. Maybe when he was a baby and Brian was three, Andrew had been a source of fascination or amusement. And then one day he wasn’t. They were like two would-be strangers peering at each other in the dark. Who is that? Oh, it’s you.

  “It’s me,” Andrew said to the stars.

  34

  WHEN HE WOKE UP, he was very cold and soaked through with dew. His head ached with such force that he thought he might pass out. He rolled over on his side. He dry heaved, spat, and glanced at his watch. It was already seven. He was an hour late for work. Cursing, Andrew shot up, ignoring the pain in his head, and ran into the house.

  Brian sat on a kitchen stool drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “You look like shit,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Get laid at least?”

  Andrew ignored him. He let Becky out and threw some food in her bowl. He sped down the streets and drummed his steering wheel impatiently at red lights. He’d never let Neal down before. His friends, Becky, but never Neal.

  When he reached work, Cory silently pointed him in the direction of Neal’s golf cart.

  “Neal,” Andrew said as he jogged toward the cart. Then he stopped, gasped, and doubled over. He dry heaved. When he stood up, he saw that Neal was watching him with a solemn expression on his face.

  “You okay, son?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Andrew felt humiliated.

  “Not like you to be late.”

  Andrew stared at his shoes. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s all right. First time for everything,” Neal said.

  “Thank you. Ben’s out by the pond?”

  “Why don’t you stay out of the sun today?”

  “Okay.”

  “You look like you’ve been partying.”

  “Oh, I—” Andrew said.

  “You’re okay, son. Head over to west shed and tell Cheeve I sent you.”

  “No problem,” Andrew said. He looked up and smiled, but Neal had already turned away from him. Andrew followed his gaze. Neal was watching Ben, who was hacking away at some bushes by himself. Andrew shoved his hands in his pockets and took off in the direction of west shed. He felt awful, guilty, and rejected. Work was the one place where he generally kicked ass, or at least didn’t suck too badly. And now Neal didn’t even want him to work with Ben. He was fucking up all over the place.

  West shed was a misnomer. Like the shed behind Neal’s office, it was a vast warehouse that had always struck Andrew as eerie. When he entered the darkness of the place, he was momentarily blinded. He heard a noise to his left, a soft shuffle, and then a cough.

  “Cheeve?” Andrew said. He felt positively frightened.

  “Hello?” a voice called.

  “It’s Andrew.”

  “Oh. Hey. What are you doing here?” Cheeve stepped forward into the light. He looked perplexed and almost frightened himself.
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  “Neal sent me.”

  “Working on some window boxes. You know how to handle a hammer and nail?” Cheeve said.

  “Sure do.” Andrew straightened up when he spoke.

  “Is that right?” Cheeve said.

  They worked hard and spoke little. Andrew started to feel better, manlier. We’re just two guys hanging out and hammering shit, he thought. No weird overtones, no gay subtext, no bullying.

  Because I am a bully, he realized. Andrew had teased John, interrogated him, drunk his booze, smoked his pot, ate his food, and threatened his neighbors. He’d also had some bizarre exchange with Laura, the details of which were vague in his memory. Had they kissed? What had he said to her exactly? He hammered harder in an attempt to vent his anger and guilt.

  “You all right?” Cheeve asked.

  “Aren’t window boxes on a corporate building kind of mismatched?” Andrew asked.

  “They’re not for the main buildings. They’re for the sheds. Make ’em look nicer,” Cheeve said.

  “Weird.”

  “I know it. Some busybody in corporate didn’t like our ugly warehouses, so the window boxes became priority number one.”

  Andrew didn’t know what to say in response, so he just grunted in disapproval. They were too far away to join the others for lunch, so they sat alone on a shaded picnic table by the shed. Cheeve offered him half of his sandwich, but Andrew’s stomach was still too queasy to eat anything. Cheeve asked him about his life, what school he was going to attend, and what he wanted to be. Andrew told him that he’d never given it much thought. Privately, he realized that this was because his obsession with Laura had clouded over any ideas about his future. But he told Cheeve that he assumed he’d study English or history, subjects he was good at, and figure out his life at some point along the way. Cheeve nodded as if this were the most sensible thing in the world.

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” Cheeve said.

  “You think so?”

  “Sure,” Cheeve said pleasantly. “You’re a good boy, Andrew.” He took a big bite of his sandwich. Then words came flying out of Andrew’s mouth.

  “I’m in love with this girl who is super-religious. So I infiltrated her youth group and pretended to want Jesus in my life or something, so I could get her to love me. Or get her to make out with me. Or both. Shit, I don’t know anymore. Then maybe I had these experiences with God or something. There’s this guy, John, who’s totally gay, and he likes me and I like him too, but I don’t know about the gay stuff. I let him kiss me because I was bored and angry and . . . other things. I don’t know. John is part of the religious group and they’re pretty conservative, probably like anti-gay and shit. So he’s all fucked up, you know what I mean? And also I slept with this other girl in the group. And my friend is in a coma. And my best friend is all wrapped up with taking care of her at the hospital, and something about it just isn’t right. My mom doesn’t care about me. And, Christ, my fucking brother . . .” Andrew stopped and put his head down.

  Cheeve swallowed. “Hmm,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I told you those things,” Andrew said in a small voice. He pressed his face into the picnic table, willing himself to disappear through the slats. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Stop apologizing.”

  “Okay. Let’s just forget—”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to spill your guts to someone you don’t know that well. That’s normal, okay? There’s nothin’ wrong with that.”

  “Thanks,” Andrew mumbled.

  “My wife died slowly. She was in the hospital, dying, for six months.”

  “I’m so— That’s terrible,” Andrew said. He picked his head up and placed his hand on top of Cheeve’s arm. Cheeve glanced at Andrew’s hand and patted it gently.

  “I can’t help you with the God stuff,” Cheeve said.

  “I know.”

  “Or the gay stuff.”

  “I’m not gay,” Andrew said quickly.

  “Whatever,” Cheeve said.

  “No, really—”

  “I mean it, whatever, it doesn’t matter. And I doubt that bit about your mom not caring about you.”

  Andrew snorted. “How do you know?”

  “Sometimes, in a family like yours, the normal one gets the shaft.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So you think I’m normal.”

  “Don’t be ornery,” Cheeve said.

  “I’m not—” Andrew began before he stopped himself. Cheeve was right. And Andrew knew exactly what he meant. Instead of dealing with the shit storm of dysfunction that was Brian and their father, his mother had chosen to distance herself from him. And she had done this because he was normal, because he was safe. He might snap at his mother every once in a while, but unlike his father, he never yelled or hit. And unlike Brian, he didn’t ignore her or treat her thanklessly.

  “Okay, I get it,” he said.

  “What’s going on with your friend in the hospital?”

  “Maybe she’ll wake up; maybe she won’t.”

  “I meant the other one,” Cheeve said.

  “Marcia? She’s really smart. She’s going to be a doctor. She’s supposed to be getting ready for college, but instead she’s practically living at the hospital and taking care of Sara. It’s like they’re drowning together.” As soon as he said it, he realized it was true.

  “She sounds like she needs help,” Cheeve said.

  Andrew plucked at his T-shirt. “What can I do?” he said.

  “You know what to do,” he said.

  Andrew felt like sobbing. The truth was that he didn’t know what do to. How could anyone expect him to know what to do? At any rate, something was expected of him, whether he could rise to the occasion or not.

  “Well, those goddamn window boxes won’t build themselves,” Cheeve said.

  They walked back to the shed.

  35

  “I’VE GOT TO GO TO New Hampshire,” Andrew told his mother.

  “That’s where Sara is?” she said.

  “And Marcia.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve got to go help. Will you take care of Becky for me? I’ll be gone a few days, I think. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I can do it. What about work?”

  “I fixed it with Neal.” Neal had been very understanding, but perhaps just the tiniest bit remote. Andrew was no longer the only summer hire who showed up stone sober. He was ashamed, but he had bigger problems to think about.

  He picked up his keys. He’d already showered, packed, and written a list of instructions for his mother regarding Becky. The one thing he hadn’t done was call Marcia. He didn’t want her to talk him out of coming, something he sensed she might do

  “What’s going on with Brian’s case?” he asked, more out of consideration for her feelings than actual interest.

  “It’s complicated,” she said.

  They rarely hugged. But he put his bag down and held her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” she said, or at least that was what he thought she said. Her voice was muffled in his chest.

  “I love you, Mom,” he said. “I know you feel bad about everything. It’s not your fault.” She held him tighter. “If you ever want to leave,” he began, and he felt her stiffen in his arms. “I mean, if you ever want to change things, change your situation, I’ll help. I’ll help you.” She patted his back, once, twice, then she let him go.

  • • •

  During his three-hour drive, he thought about Marcia and the night they had become friends. They were eleven. She’d been alienated, friendless; he nearly so.

  It’d been all over a game of Kick the Can.

  Marcia. Little
, weak, weird Marcia. The white girl with the foreign accent. Shy in an arrogant way, awkward, bone pale, the last picked in a pickup game of anything. Marcia in the cafeteria with a hot tray under her nose and a book held open by her elbow. Eating and reading. She could not do a single sit-up or push-up in gym class. Her classmates had giggled at her behind her back, but they’d also left her alone.

  Andrew had avoided feeling sorry for her. Already he’d known that pity and sorrow, feelings that were very natural to him, were not to be indulged or exposed. It was unmanly, something he’d understood without anyone having to tell him. He’d known to avoid the painful tug that scratched him raw. The dying baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and landed on the sidewalk in front of his house, the commercials about starving kids in Africa, his mother’s face after a fight with his father, and the friendless loner with no father at all.

  In the summertime and early autumn all the kids in the neighborhood assembled themselves for a nightly round of Kick the Can. A coffee can was placed in the center of the sidewalk. Then the designated can guard closed their eyes and counted to fifty while everyone else hid. The goal for the can guard was to find where people were hidden and then touch the can while shouting the names of those he had discovered. The goal for everyone else was to kick the can while the guard was away looking for the hidden players. Once the can was kicked, or all the players were discovered, the game was over.

  As with all sports, Brian had dominated. He’d hid ingeniously close and sprinted out as soon as the guard had crept away. He was speedy and decisive. His confidence was thrilling. Even then, there’d been something remarkable about his skills, something special. Andrew had been aware of this beauty, this specialness, aware of it and respectful of it. But Brian had not spoken to his brother during the game. He’d had his own set of friends.

  One night Andrew had made an outrageous and ill-planned dash to kick the can. He’d been defeated as everyone had watched from their hiding places. After the first round was over, Brian had sneered at him. Andrew had drifted away, kicking rocks in front of him, imaginary cans, thinking thoughts long lost to him now.

  Andrew had wandered with his hands shoved into his pockets, his face hidden beneath a baseball cap and a hooded sweatshirt. It had been late September, and the breeze had had just a snap of winter in it.