Beyond the Farthest Star

by Bodie Thoene

  Anne didn’t know why she had said what she said to Stephen about the stars. She had never really thought about the stars and definitely not what was beyond the farthest one. But the minute she said it, the truth was that she thought about it all the time. And that she didn’t know which was worse: not knowing what was beyond the farthest star or having this sinking feeling inside that never went away, ever, that once she had known … but had forgotten.

  Maurene’s shadow moved away from the door. Anne flicked the lighter one more time. Holding the trigger down, she inched the flame toward her exposed forearm. Hand shaking, she was on the verge of burning herself when the sound of Adam using a dial-up modem to log onto the Internet jolted her out of her compulsion to self-injury. She gasped and released the flame.

  After sitting stunned for a moment, she switched on the lamp. Focusing on a stack of moving boxes, she knelt before a long rectangular box at the bottom of one of the stacks. She pulled it out. A telescope box. Her telescope. Her birthday present from years before. It was labeled YOUR TICKET TO THE FARTHEST STAR.

  The colorful design was time faded and corner crushed, but the memory of her with Adam and Maurene in the backyard was clear. He had given her the telescope. They had peered through the lens in wonder and had seen double stars and clusters, and the star nursery in Orion’s Belt.

  Anne had gone in that night and drawn a picture and labeled it MY FAMILY. And when she gave it to Adam, he had helped her draw the stars above their heads.

  Tonight Anne’s tears fell on the worn box. How had the telescope survived so many moves? The stars still shone, but somehow Anne and Adam and Maurene had stopped looking up.

  So much forgotten. So much left behind. Like how Adam once knew what it was like to be America’s next Billy Graham. And Maurene once knew what it was like to give the valedictorian speech at her high school graduation.

  And Anne? She thought she once had been very certain, a very long time ago, What and Who was beyond the farthest star.

  Anne stood beside her window, parting the curtains and gazing up at the myriad of stars.

  What troubled her most was how they were all putting this pressure on Anne to solve the mystery of her life … when their own lives were just as terrifyingly unsolvable.

  It was a short drive to the sheriff’s office. Calvin didn’t even have time to shift the Porsche into third gear. He climbed out of the car and walked straight to the dispatcher’s desk.

  The woman whose name-tag read JOYCE took one look and evidently sized up Calvin as another fancy ACLU lawyer come to call on Senator Cutter.

  Calvin smiled inwardly. She was only half right.

  “Of course the senator’s still here,” Joyce announced. “He wouldn’t go home if we handed him the keys and told him to go. Seems you fellas could encourage him to make bail and get out of here.”

  Calvin presented his card. “Calvin Clayman. He’s expecting me.”

  “Not a lawyer.”

  “Other business.” He waved a tan legal-sized folder.

  “Can’t it wait until mornin’?”

  “Nope.”

  With a steely eye, she pressed the buzzer and called the deputy.

  He emerged from the cell block with an irritated expression. “Senator and I were playing chess. Just fixin’ to share some cookies.”

  The dispatcher scratched her cheek. “This fella’s come all the way from Michigan to see Senator Cutter.”

  Calvin extended his hand to the deputy. “Calvin Clayman’s the name. I’m an old colleague of the senator’s. Tell him I’m here.”

  Keys jangled as Calvin followed the deputy into the holding area.

  The deputy stepped aside as Calvin came into the light. “You’ve got a visitor, Senator. He says you’re expecting him.”

  Calvin grinned. “Sorry I’m late, Senator.”

  “Calvin! Good to see you!”

  “Playing chess? Who’s winning?”

  “Nobody … yet.”

  Waving the folder, Calvin suggested, “With what you’ve got on Pastor Adam Wells, I’d say the game is over.”

  PART THREE

  No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars.

  Helen Keller

  Chapter Twelve

  THE CHIRPING AND FLUTTERING of birds called Adam to consciousness. The sun was not yet above the horizon when he opened his eyes. He was still dressed and still at the computer, where he had fallen asleep the night before.

  The computer screen blinked NO NEW MESSAGES.

  He rubbed his face and shook his head, trying to remember why he was in his office. Why still dressed. He had some reason to check e-mail last night … What was it?

  The image of Calvin Clayman’s mocking grin jogged his memory. An e-mail Maurene had said she never received …

  Adam opened the file menu and spotted the SENT option. He hesitated, then clicked SENT MESSAGES.

  The last entry read: TO: Calvin, re: trip to Leonard; FROM: mwells@qmail.com:

  Adam’s eyes narrowed as he read Maurene’s message to Calvin. Proof of her lie was like a hard blow to his gut.

  And then the thunderous wailing of electric guitars and drums erupted, shattering the quiet Texas morning. Maurene’s unexplained deception took ominous shape in Adam’s mind. His fury grew with the pounding of the drums. Anne’s voice was clear, though he could not recognize the words. Adam jumped to his feet as though he had been burned. The chair fell over as he hurried toward the source of the offending music.

  Bursting into the garage, Adam took in the scene. Anne was bright and animated behind a microphone. Adam could not make out the words to the song, but he felt the angry, chaotic message in the music.

  Stephen played bass guitar. Clifford was on the drums. Kyle played the guitar and wore a flamboyant rhinestone-studded duster. Kyle’s expression showed that he resented every chord of the Magic Pillow original.

  But Kyle’s expression was nothing compared to Adam’s. Jaw set with anger, Adam marched to the sound board. He ripped at the cords, unplugging mic and amplifiers and electric guitars. The feedback squealed.

  Anne spun around. “What? What?”

  Panting, Adam clenched his fists. “You tell me what, Anne! We had a deal!”

  “You had a deal!” she replied defiantly.

  He countered, “So I come in here expecting Hymn 567 and get more vampire music?”

  “It’s not vampire music.”

  “Then what? What is it, Anne?”

  She glared at Adam. “Like you care.”

  Stephen replied quietly, “A song, sir.”

  Adam kept his focus on Anne. “About what, Mister Miller? What is my daughter’s ‘song’ about?”

  Stephen looked at Clifford, who stammered without expressing a coherent thought. Anne grabbed her backpack to run from the humiliation of her father’s rage in front of her friends.

  Stephen stepped to block her. “Annie, don’t run off. Your dad just wants to know what your song is about.”

  “No, he doesn’t!”

  Adam interjected, “Yes, I do. I would really like you to tell me.”

  Anne waved her hand toward the rafters. “Adam just descended upon us from above, so Adam—”

  Adam boiled over. “What’d I tell you, Anne?”

  She talked over him. “So Adam could trick us into one of Adam’s sermons about how all rock music is from the pit of—”

  Adam gripped her arm hard. “Didn’t I tell you I expect to be called—”

  “Dad, I know. You said.” Clearly, she was startled by his rage. “You’re hurting me. Let go.” Shaking herself free from his grasp, she backed out of the garage and ran out the door.

  Clifford stared blankly at Adam and then blurted, “Hell. Right, sir? All rock music is from the pit of hell. Right?”

  Stephen glared at Clifford. “We’ll git the gear out this mornin’, Pastor Wells.”

  “Thank you, Mister Miller.” Adam did not even glance at the boys as he left.<
br />
  Kyle seemed quietly pleased by the confrontation. “Can git our gig back at the Lazy T. Tried to come over last night, Stephen, ‘cause yesterday—”

  “No.” Stephen began to wrap up cords.

  “—the principal over at Alamo called about the Bullriders playin’ their Homecomin’ and—”

  Stephen glowered. “Said no, Kyle.”

  Clifford chimed in. “Yeah. No way, dude.”

  “Shut up,” Kyle snapped at Clifford.

  Clifford challenged, “It was humiliating being compared to the Oak Ridge Boys.”

  Kyle threatened, “Didn’t I say shut up?”

  Clifford shrugged. “My granny listens to the Oak Ridge Boys and—”

  Kyle roared with rage and jumped on Clifford, pinning him to the floor, punching him in the face. “Didn’t I say shut your mouth, puke?”

  Stephen pulled Kyle off Clifford, pressing his face onto the coarse concrete floor with his knee. Kyle’s lip and chin were bloodied, and in that instant their friendship was broken forever.

  Stephen released Kyle cautiously. He stood slowly, dusting his hands. Finished. “Magic Pillow’s gonna find someplace else to practice, Kyle, and if you don’t make some kind of attitude adjustment, someone else to play guitar.” He tossed Kyle a handkerchief.

  Kyle roared, “Ya’ll can’t kick me out of my own band, Stephen!”

  “Then call it Cliff and me quittin’ one band and joinin’ another.”

  Kyle spat the words bitterly. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Kyle.” Stephen resumed packing equipment. “Now you gonna help us pack up or not?”

  Kyle’s eyes were wild. “Not gonna let you do this.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Not gonna let you jus’ throw away our dream of getting’ our palm prints—”

  “Suit yourself, Kyle.”

  Kyle stood there, the outsider now, and watched as Stephen and Clifford continued to pack in silence. Tossing the bloody handkerchief at Stephen, Kyle spun and ran out of the garage.

  Where was Anne? She was not in the house, and Adam was not finished with what he wanted to say to her.

  Adam hurried into the driveway, searching both directions on the street. Was that her, rounding the corner?

  Just then the garbage truck screeched to a halt in front of him, blocking his view. The garbage collector leaped off the truck and grabbed Adam’s garbage can. Adam caught a glimpse of a burgundy binding as the man lifted the can to his shoulder.

  “Wait!” Adam called. Reaching into the garbage he retrieved the hymnal from the coffee grounds.

  So this had been Anne’s final act of defiance as she fled.

  Backpack over her shoulder, Anne hurried up the street. She caught a fleeting glance of Stephen hauling an amplifier to his pickup as Adam dug through the garbage for his precious hymnal.

  Around the corner, she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, feeling a sense of relief. She did not know where to go. Anywhere but here. The bus stop? She had a little cash. She could buy a ticket to as far as her cash would carry her.

  The low, boatlike rumble of the Porsche rolled up beside her. The man from the night before—her mom’s old boyfriend … it had to be, Anne had figured, from the way her mom was acting—was behind the wheel.

  Window down, he called to her as she took another long drag on her smoke. “Does the Ad-man know you smoke? Can’t imagine he’d approve.”

  She glanced over at him. “He couldn’t be more pleased.” She continued walking, saying nothing else.

  “Know who I am, Anne?”

  She hesitated at the mention of her name and then quickened her pace. Calvin’s car followed slowly.

  When she did not look at him, he tried again. “Did your mother tell you?”

  “Some boy she knew in high school. Whaddya you want?”

  The ice was broken.

  “Wanna know if you want a lift.”

  “A lift?”

  “To school. I’ll let you drive. A hundred miles an hour.”

  Anne stopped and considered the Porsche and the man inside the car. “So … a hundred miles an hour?”

  Adam smiled and waved the hymnal at the garbage collector as the truck hauled off, nearly hitting Kyle. With a fierce glare at Adam, Kyle jogged up the street.

  Maurene, keys in hand, considered Adam. Who was this man? Waving at the garbage collector after throwing kids out of his house? What had happened to the predictable, steady man she’d married?

  “You grabbed her, Adam.”

  He turned and his smile faded. “Maurene …”

  “Why would you do that?” Not waiting for his reply, she strode toward her minivan.

  “Have a meeting in town, Mo, and my car’s in the shop. So you’ll need to drive me if you’re taking the van.”

  The driver’s door ajar, she opened her hand, revealing Anne’s prescription. “We have to leave right now. She won’t take them on her own.”

  “Need to get my briefcase.” Adam seemed not to notice or care as Stephen and Clifford hauled a load of musical instruments down the driveway to Stephen’s pickup.

  Stephen’s eyes locked on the prescription bottle in Maurene’s hand. His brow creased with concern as he continued with his task.

  Chapter Thirteen

  AS ANNE PUSHED THE PORSCHE’S PEDAL to the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust on a desolate farm road, she laughed out loud at the roar of the motor and the sharp tang of the cold wind on her face.

  “Slow down,” Calvin warned.

  “A hundred miles an hour, you said,” she shouted against the noise.

  “On the freeway, okay? Not on a dirt road.”

  She laughed again, certain she would never need her medication again if only she had a silver Porsche in her hands.

  “Slow down,” he warned again.

  “I never want to slow down!” She glanced at him. “Ninety!”

  “Please.”

  The fear on his ashen face made her happy. “Who are you, again?” she asked.

  The Wellses’ minivan stopped in front of the police station. Adam, unable to meet Maurene’s accusing glare, opened the passenger’s side door but did not get out.

  Maurene reminded him, “Need to find Anne.”

  Snapping open his briefcase, he pulled out the hymnal and set it on the dashboard. “Please return this to her when you do.”

  “Okay, Adam,” she agreed in a weary tone. “Whatever you—”

  “Thank you.”

  Adam knew she had lied to him about Calvin’s e-mail. He watched her drive off past a small group of protestors gathered under the scorched star of the nativity. He felt no emotion for her. Not pity. Not resentment. Just nothing but being fed up with the drama that had run his life into the ground. As far as Maurene shoving Anne’s medicine down her throat, what good had any of it done? They were walking on a high wire, balancing their lives day by day as Anne continually threatened to jump off and take them with her.

  Adam caught his reflection in a dusty storefront window. He was still wearing yesterday’s suit. A day’s growth of beard. No tie. His lip curled in disdain for Maurene, for Anne. He reached into his pocket and felt something: the tie Calvin had given him. He thought, “Look what they’ve done to me.”

  He paused before entering the sheriff’s office.

  The dispatch area was buzzing with the growing nativity controversy. The place went silent as Adam entered and approached Sheriff Burns.

  “Here to bring ‘destruction of private property’ charges against—”

  The sheriff continued sorting papers. “‘Fraid we’re not gonna be able to oblige you on that matter just yet, Pastor.”

  “If it’s your intention to obstruct the law by denying the church our right to—”

  Mayor Hillman interrupted bitterly. “You got your public hearing, Pastor. News cameras. National uproar.”

  “When?” Adam demanded.

&nb
sp; Sheriff Burns interjected, “Tonight. ‘Round seven. And you will be given opportunity to speak, Pastor.”

  The mayor raised his chin defiantly. “Opportunity to try and talk the folks of our town into their own end. And by their own hand.”

  Sheriff Burns attempted to calm him down. “All right, Harold.”

  “‘Cause losin’ Cutter’s restoration project will be jus’ that to this community!”

  Sheriff’s tone sharpened. “That’s enough, Mayor.”

  The city official pressed on. “Suicide, Pastor Wells … if you don’t mind that?”

  So the small-town rumor mill had made the connection between suicide and the Wells family.

  Sheriff Burns’s lips were grim as the mayor and Adam faced off. “Just go now, Mayor.”

  Mayor Hillman snorted in disgust and left as Burns took Adam’s elbow. Ring of keys in hand, he led Adam to the heavy metal door leading to the cells.

  “My wife, Esther, and me, our first date, so to speak, was in that nativity Cutter burned. Insisted I meet her family ‘fore we went to the movies is how she put it.”

  Unimpressed, Adam checked his watch. “I have a ten o’clock, Sheriff. Was there something else?”

  Burns stared at Adam, then turned the key and opened the door. “Told John Cutter I was expectin’ you. He asked if I’d show you in. Buzzer’s on the wall when you want out.”

  Adam hesitated before entering the cell-block area.

  Behind him the dispatcher said, “That was a beautiful story ‘bout Esther, Sheriff.”

  Then the heavy door clanged shut.

  The cell-block area consisted of an open corridor spanning two small cells. Adam fixed his gaze on the silhouette of John Cutter, who stood by a small cement-block window bathed in morning sunlight.

  Bittner, the ACLU attorney, spoke first. “Pastor Wells—Adam—we weren’t expecting you but … do you know the senator?”

  “The senator’s wife attends my church.”

  Bittner seemed surprised. “Really. I didn’t know Missus Cutter attended the pastor’s—”