She had just taken her real estate license exam, and she showed up with ideas about when to sell it and what we needed to do to stage it for potential buyers. She walked around touching the furniture, turning up her nose, opening closet doors and looking inside. I followed her from room to room and quickly informed her that I was not selling our house, and even though it was going to strap me financially, I agreed to pay her what she thought was fair to keep her name off the deed and her husband, the financial adviser she talked to once an hour, off my back.
“It’s a good house,” I say now, wondering where I might have gone if I had allowed Sandra to sell it. For some unexpected reason, I am feeling a little defensive that I live where I live.
“That’s nice,” Lou responds. “A good house is real nice.”
And I realize that with Blossom’s father I have nothing to defend.
chapter thirty-six
“THE Milky Way includes at least thirty constellations,” Lou says, breaking the silence and jarring me out of my thoughts about the house where I live and my sister who tried to move me out.
“Thirty?” I repeat. I had no idea.
I think about what I know about the galaxy of stars and planets stretching across the sky. It isn’t much. I remember that it’s called the Milky Way because with the naked eye one cannot distinguish individual stars, only a hazy band of light. I know that until the 1920s astronomers believed that the Milky Way consisted of all the stars in the universe, but after a huge argument between scientists, Edwin Hubble, of Hubble Telescope fame, proved that it was only one galaxy and that, in fact, there were billions of others. His conclusion, of course, unnerved the science community. Everyone was shocked to discover that there is more in space than we will ever understand.
I have only seen the Milky Way once or twice in my life, once out on a farm deep in Johnston County when I was interviewing migrant workers and stayed late talking and listening. The stars filled the sky as I drove home, causing me to stop and pull over just to see them all. And the other time was when I slept on the beach as a young girl with my mom, watching as the moon dipped below the horizon, the ocean reflecting starlight. I can’t see the Milky Way from my house or anywhere else in town because the night is lit up with streetlights and traffic traveling east and west along the busy corridor traversing through Clayton.
“It’s quite something,” I say, feeling insignificant under a wash of so many galaxies.
“The band divides the night sky into two almost equal hemispheres and the light from the Milky Way actually originates from unresolved stars.”
“Unresolved stars,” I repeat. “That sounds like they might need therapy.”
“And some of the dark regions, like the Great Rift and the Coalsack, are areas where light from the distant stars are blocked by interstellar dust,” he continues.
Lou Winters knows his Milky Way.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I get a little carried away and ramble on about the sky.”
“No, don’t apologize. I like it.” And I do. “I like the names of things that I don’t know anything about, dark regions like the Great Rift and the Coalsack. Those are good names,” I say.
“Blossom said you’re a writer.”
“A journalist, really.”
“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
I think about it. “Well, writing is generally required for journalism; but it’s more about reporting facts. I guess when I hear the word ‘writer,’ I think about the creative kind.”
“Reporting facts is creative,” he notes, but without really convincing me. “I would have a difficult time trying to write a story about something that happened even if somebody told me everything to write down.”
“Tell me more about the Milky Way.” I don’t feel like talking about my work. I’d rather hear about the stars.
“Okay, but you asked for it.”
And I pull the blanket even tighter around my shoulders and tuck my legs beneath me.
“That band of stars and planets is said to lie in a region the astronomers call a green valley, which means it is populated by galaxies in transition from the blue cloud, where new stars are being formed, to the red sequence, which are galaxies that lack star formations.”
“Green valley,” I repeat, wishing I had taken the astronomy class that was offered at the university instead of focusing only on my major, trying to graduate early so that I could do more at the paper. “How do you think they decide on the names of these galaxies and regions and clusters of stars?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they realize how complex everything is in space and so, just to simplify it for those of us not as smart as they are, they use the least complicated ways they know to describe things.”
“Blue cloud, red sequence.” I peer up at the sky, trying to see colors. “Green valley. Yeah, that’s pretty much Space for Dummies.”
We pause again in our conversation.
“The area of the sky obscured by the Milky Way is called the zone of avoidance.”
This makes me laugh. “Well, I suspect that if scientists are really trying to find life on other planets, they ought to start there,” I reply. “Because that’s not a bad place to hang out.”
“You avoiding something?” he asks.
“Only the hard stuff like truth and intimacy.”
I hear a slight laugh.
“Blossom really likes you,” he tells me, in a pretty abrupt change of subject. From stars to daughters.
“Yeah, well, I like her, too. She’s a smart girl.”
“About some things,” he replies. “Others, well, I’m not so sure.”
I know he’s talking about Dillon. Lou has been nothing but polite to the young man, but it’s clear he’s not happy that we’ve brought him along.
“I don’t really think they’re a couple anymore,” I tell him.
“Then why is he here?”
It’s a fair question. I think about how to answer it. I try to remember how he suddenly appeared out of nowhere to join us.
“I get the feeling he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
I think about how Dillon looked when he showed up, how eager he was to see Blossom. Maybe it wasn’t just because he wanted them to become a couple again. Maybe he seemed in need of just something as simple as a little kindness. I think about how quickly he bonded with Casserole, how protective he’s become of Roger. I remember how sad he was in Shamrock, how nervous he got when Ronny showed up.
“I don’t know what his expectations are for Amarillo, or anywhere else for that matter, but I think he’s been pushed out of Tennessee and he’s just trying to find a place to land.”
I hear the chains on the swing squeak and watch Lou light up another cigarette. I can see him when he strikes the match. He’s wearing his hat, and looking even more like a star from the Western movies that my mom and dad used to watch together.
“I thought after she lost the baby that she was through with Dillon Montgomery; I know I was.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s the same relationship.” He asked her to marry him again just today and she, sternly but carefully, said no. But I don’t mention this to Lou.
Blossom and I haven’t talked about it, but I get the feeling that she’s moved on and that any kindness she’s offering to her ex-boyfriend is just that, simple kindness, without any expectation of something more to grow between them.
“He’s not playing with a full deck, that boy,” Lou notes. He takes a drag and I see the light of his cigarette grow and fade.
“Well, maybe not, but he didn’t abandon her when she was pregnant,” I remind him.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he agrees.
“And he’s basically harmless,” I add. “Kind of like a puppy.”
“I suspect I’d have less trouble keeping your three-legged dog,” he re
sponds. And there’s the chuckle again. “Which reminds me, I checked your car.”
He must have done that while I was taking a shower.
“I think it’s just a leak. I can probably replace the gasket tomorrow. But if you want, you can take my truck to Grants and stop by on your way back east, pick up your car. That way I can make sure it’s okay. You know, test drive it around here before you hit the highway back to North Carolina.”
“That’s a nice offer,” I say. “But I don’t want to put you out.”
“Well, I suppose I need to confess there’s an ulterior motive to having you come back.”
And I’m glad we’re sitting in the dark because I’m sure I’m turning red. “What’s that?” I manage to ask.
“Well, if you stop on your way back through, I have a better shot of sending Dillon home with you.”
The heat that flared in my face is surely starting to fade. “Oh, sure, I told him I would give him a ride back to Tennessee. That’s fine.” I feel as flat as an old balloon.
“It also means I might get a little more time with you.”
“Oh,” is all I can think to say.
“Well, I’m going in, try and get some sleep with the harmless puppy.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Okay,” I add, glad to have another word. I hear him get up from the swing and suddenly feel him close.
“Sleep well, Al,” he says, touching me on the shoulder as he passes by.
And just like that, he’s gone, and I’m left sitting alone in the quiet night, the stars even brighter than when I first arrived.
chapter thirty-seven
IT’S a five-hour drive to Grants, New Mexico, from Amarillo, Texas, and I’m sure I can get there by the early afternoon. I took Lou up on his offer, left Faramond in his care, and I’m driving his truck, planning to stop back in Texas before I head home. Casserole and Dillon stayed behind with Blossom; and so, for now, it’s just me and Roger heading west in a short-bed Ford.
It’s a beautiful day to be on the interstate and I’m glad for the peace and quiet. I enjoyed having company when I was on the road before, but right now I am grateful for some time to think, a few hours to ponder the things Lou said last night and to consider what I will find in New Mexico. I need to think about what I will do with Roger and, of course, I plan to replay the phone call from Phillip in my head a few more times. I glance over at the box of ashes.
“Well, apparently you owned some property,” I say out loud. “I Googled the county records before I left Amarillo,” I explain aloud. “And what do you know? You’re in there,” I tell him. “You own two acres near a place called San Rafael; so I finally have a place to start.”
When I first found the ashes, I called the funeral home director whose business card was attached to the box. He put me on hold for a few minutes and then came back on the line to explain that his establishment had in fact handled the cremation of Roger Hart, but that he could not release information to anyone other than family. Harold Candelaria, his name was. When he learned that I simply wanted to return the remains, he promised to call family members. After not hearing from him for days, I called him back, only to discover that he had no current phone numbers on file and as best as he could tell, there were no family members to reach. The remains, paid for in full, were mine to do with what I wanted.
I Googled Roger’s obituary and found nothing, then used several people-search websites, but never came up with a name or address. I left Clayton less than a week ago with only the name of the funeral home in the town where he was cremated and just a glimmer of hope that Mr. Candelaria would give me something more when I showed up at his door.
Now, however, I have vital information. I have an address. I have a place to go. All because of my conversation with Phillip yesterday. And I reach down and pat the box, relieved that I have a destination for my passenger’s remains.
As I drive, I take in the vast horizon and the endless blue sky. I think about Phillip’s phone call and I consider once again his suggestion about the property records. I wonder how long he thought about it before he called me, if he did his own research and came up with nothing but still wanted to let me know of his idea. I wonder if he really wanted to give me the suggestion or if that was just his cover to let me know he was coming to Clayton; but of course it doesn’t matter. He’s coming home and he’s asked to see me and I cannot believe my good luck. It’s like having a dream finally come true. I let out one long breath.
And then, I think about last night and the conversation about stars and the Milky Way with the father of a girl I only just met but who is now clearly my friend. I think about how easy it was to sit and talk with him, covered in his blanket and sheltered by the darkness, how funny he is, how sweet he was to cook my breakfast this morning.
“So, there’s Phillip,” I say to my silent companion. “The guy I have loved since I was twelve, the guy who has never paid a bit of attention to me and is now helping me find your home and has basically asked to see me when he comes back to Clayton.”
Just to say his name makes me feel all funny inside. I think of how he looked on prom night almost twenty years ago—that classic tuxedo, the small arrangement of flowers in a box in his hand that I wanted so much to be mine. I think of our high school graduation night and how he hugged me and swung me around, saying what a good friend I had been, leaving me breathless. All four years of college, I pined away for him, the boy I loved. I think about his pictures now posted on Facebook, how he hasn’t changed very much, how handsome he still is, how grown-up and smart he sounds, and how I seem to be getting one more shot at happiness.
I shake my head as we drive across the line to the last state I will have to traverse before I head home.
“And then there’s Lou,” I say to Roger, worried that I may have lost him since I wandered off in my thoughts. “He’s the father of my friend who kind of made a pass at me last night, although I’m not completely sure that’s what it was.”
I think about how he watched me at dinner, how he laughed at my jokes, took to Casserole right away, how he changed the sheets on his bed and tidied up before letting me in, his arms full of linens and laundry as he moved away from the door, giving me room to enter. I think about our late-night conversation, how he talked about the stars and planets and the simple, easy way he spoke of his love for his daughter. I think about his sturdy hands and the stillness he did not push away.
I think about breakfast, the smell of eggs and bacon pulling me from the bed and how I finally got to be the one who woke up Blossom, knocking on her door and letting her know what a beautiful day she was missing, how hard and long I laughed when she came to the table, drowsy and uninterested, asking me what happened the night before that caused me to be so perky and cheerful so early in the morning.
I am definitely confused by recent events.
I glance down.
“What do you think?”
But of course Roger doesn’t answer.
“I bet you were in love. I bet you died a young man in love with your childhood sweetheart and she took you with her to the ocean, where she wanted to live, where you had never been before. And I bet she was saving your ashes to mingle with hers but in some grand, tragic way, she died, unable to see to it that your remains were scattered together.”
I think about this scenario, wondering if even with an address I will ever find out anything about how Roger Hart died and why he ended up in Wilmington, North Carolina, when he was cremated in New Mexico, about two thousand miles away.
“Or maybe there were two lovers, two women that you were unable to choose between; and one of them stole you after your funeral, slipped the box under her arm, and drove you home with her, while the other one still cries for you. And when I give you to her she will cling to this box, promising to keep you always with her.”
Then I have this crazy fantasy of Phillip a
nd Lou sitting in a funeral home chapel, both of them mourning my death as my lovers without either ever knowing about the other one sitting only a few pews away. This thought, I have to say, makes me laugh a little. I’m just envisioning Phillip throwing himself on my casket when my phone rings. My father.
“Hey, Daddy, what’s up?”
“Just wondering where you are,” he says.
“Tucumcari,” I answer, reading the signs as I pass.
“Where’s that?”
“New Mexico,” I reply.
There is a pause.
“So, you’re almost done.”
I think this is a question, so I answer, like the dutiful daughter I am. “Almost done.”
“Good.”
And then there is another pause.
“When will you be home, then?”
I think about the trip so far and how long it will take me to return to the Southeast, knowing I plan to drive as quickly as I can.
“Three or four days, I suppose.”
“That’s good,” he says again. “The VW okay?” He knows about the smoke.
“Yeah, it should be fine. Blossom’s father is taking care of it.”
“You mean you can’t handle the repair?”
I smile. What daughter gets to hear that from her dad? “He just had more time,” I explain.
“Oh.”
I wait. Something about this conversation doesn’t sound exactly right.
“Is everything okay, Dad?”
“Yep, it’s fine. I just wanted to see when you’ll be back, how to assign next week’s stories.”
This is just like him. He has a list and he needs to mark things off.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, wondering about the stories he intends to cover.
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