All the Major Constellations Page 8

  Beside me, inside me,

  An angel in my life, in my life.

  What was up with these lyrics? But now he was trembling and thinking about Sara. Sara in the cafeteria, flopping down in between him and Marcia and instantly making them cool. Sara in his car, turning up the music and howling out the window. Sara in her bathroom, half naked, flirtatious, and making him feel attractive and . . . confident. His eyes welled up. The singing grew louder. He covered his face with his hands and tried to control himself. Matt put his arm around Andrew’s shoulders, and at first Andrew felt a violent urge to shrug him off. But then Carrie released his hand and encircled his waist with her tiny arm. He leaned back into them both and quietly cried.

  • • •

  They spent the rest of the evening eating potato chips and singing. Andrew found the songs to be a strange mixture of moving and laughable, but he didn’t laugh. The truth was, Andrew felt better than he had in weeks. The candlelight was soft, everyone was nice and much more down-to-earth than he had expected. The only drawback was Laura, who was absorbed with one person or another, never him. Whenever he managed to catch her eye from across the room, she smiled at him, but her smile was a dazzling brightness that lacked any true connection.

  The group seemed to be taking a break. They were milling about the house now, getting more soda and breaking off into smaller groups. He stood up to stretch his legs and thought about going outside to get some fresh air. Maybe Laura would like to join him? He looked over at her. She smiled again, but this time she gave him a slight wink. His heart leaped as he started to walk toward her.

  “Do you have a headache?” It was John, who towered above Andrew. “It helps to rub here,” John said. He made small circular movements with his fingers on Andrew’s temples. John’s hands blocked Andrew’s peripheral vision so that Andrew was forced to lock eyes with him.

  “I don’t have a headache,” Andrew said.

  “That’s cool, man,” John said as he dropped his hands. “I’m really into alternative therapies. And, you know, sometimes I get a headache after I cry.”

  I will hit this guy, Andrew thought. Instead he glanced away, toward Laura, who was hugging the guy with the goatee.

  John followed Andrew’s gaze. “That’s Seth. He’s going to Ghana at the end of the summer.”

  “No shit?” Andrew said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, no shit,” John said flatly.

  For a moment Andrew felt that the brotherly love pretense was off. Was John a rival for Laura’s affections? Was pretty boy Matt? Seth? Were they all bullshitting about Jesus? Or was it real? Or both? It was just too much.

  “I have to go,” Andrew said. He made for the door, not stopping to say good-bye to Carrie or even Laura, who had pretty much ignored him all evening anyway and was probably still hugging Goatee Seth.

  “Wait, man. Wait. Andy!” John came after him. “Take this,” he said. It was a Bible. “Just take it, no big deal,” John said. Andrew was about to refuse but stopped at the look in John’s eyes. There was something painful in his expression, even tragic. Andrew blinked, and the pained expression was gone. Perhaps he had imagined it. He reached out and took the Bible.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” John said as Andrew slipped out the door.

  He walked briskly down the street and tried not to look back. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Maybe Laura was peeking at him through the windows.

  13

  HIS FATHER WAS UP. He saw the eerie blue light of the television flickering out the living room windows. He went in through the kitchen door and quietly greeted Becky. He heard his father laugh. How drunk was that laugh? Andrew was skilled at gauging the sobriety of his father based on his laughter, his snorting, his incoherent mumblings—even the way he moved around the house. Slightly drunk and he might verbally lay into Andrew about some minor infraction like leaving Becky’s dirty bowls in the sink. Very drunk meant that he would totally ignore Andrew but might suddenly, and without warning, grab him or throw a punch—although this hadn’t happened in a while. Rip-roaring past-the-point-of-no-return drunk meant that Andrew did not exist.

  Andrew decided that his father wasn’t quite drunk enough. His mother was probably asleep, and Brian was out doing whatever Brian did on a Friday night. For a second he felt a stab of pity for his father. He had so looked forward to Brian coming home, and Brian probably didn’t spend any real time with him. Andrew motioned for Becky to follow him out the door. They walked down the street together, free from the house, inhaling the starlight.

  His father’s drinking had gotten worse after Brian left for college. Brian’s stunning success on the football field, his golden boy status in their town (Brian “the Great” Genter), had been a source of continual happiness and pride for their father. Brian had enjoyed being petted and worshipped by everyone around him—their dad played a major role in this behavior. But all the dick sucking had made Brian an asshole. He seldom called. He spent most of the summer away or with his friends. He was home for two days during Christmas break and spent the rest of the time somewhere else.

  Until now it had not occurred to Andrew that Brian might be purposely staying away. That Brian’s relationship with their father, which appeared to be close, might in reality be strained. It must have been weird for Brian to realize, if he did realize, that their father lived through his athletic successes.

  As with their father when he was extremely drunk or completely sober, Andrew more or less did not exist to Brian. Brian would occasionally punch him in the arm, cuff his neck, and call him a fag, or something similar. This was the only way he had of communicating whatever affection or disdain he felt for his younger brother. A few times a year they mumbled hello and good-bye to each other, but that was it in terms of neutral interactions.

  Andrew walked Becky to Halgin Park. They stood under the last streetlamp at the edge of the woods as Andrew contemplated whether he should go in at this time of night. He heard the river gurgling in the darkness beyond. Salamander River skirted the perimeter of the park and flowed into the lake. On warm days Andrew would take Becky for a swim either at the lake or just to splash around in the river.

  It was a relatively warm night, and Becky started panting and galloping around the riverbank.

  “It’s kind of dark out, Becks,” Andrew said.

  Becky whined and touched his feet with her paws.

  “I don’t have a flashlight.”

  Becky started to dance around in circles, lifting her limbs up and down very quickly. When Becky had been a puppy, Andrew had enjoyed her I-want-something dance so much that he encouraged it by giving in to whatever it was she was demanding.

  Becky had actually been a gift to Brian. For several months Brian had been begging his parents to give him a puppy for his twelfth birthday. All his friends had dogs, he argued, and he promised to take care of it. At Brian’s party his wish was granted. There were many pictures taken that day of Brian and his friends running around the yard, playing games, and eating cake. Two rolls of film were allotted to the opening of his many presents, puppy included.

  Andrew kept one particular picture from that day. In the picture, Brian is holding the puppy and smiling for the camera. Their mother is looking at Brian with an expression of delight. All Brian’s friends are looking at Brian and the puppy with jealousy and rapture. Andrew lies underneath a chair that had been dragged in from the kitchen. He is squeezed between the legs of the chair, on which sits his father, who is also grinning at Brian. His uncle (now dead) took the picture. The only living things in the room who are not looking at Brian are Andrew and the puppy, who are staring intensely at each other.

  Brian grew tired of Becky within a matter of weeks. He didn’t really have time to take proper care of a dog because of all his practices and games and general lack of awareness of anything but him
self. It took a while for their parents to realize that Andrew, not Brian, was Becky’s caretaker. Andrew fed and walked her. He prompted his parents to take her to the vet when she was sick or due for a physical. He kept her vaccination record in a worn manila envelope in the top drawer of his desk.

  Becky continued with her tap dance. “Fine. But I’m leashing you,” Andrew said. He reached into his pocket and put her leash on, which she generally didn’t need because she followed all Andrew’s commands.

  They walked to the river. Andrew stumbled a bit in the darkness, but Becky was surefooted. He sat on the edge of the river in the wet grass while Becky splashed around. He heard rather than watched her. He lay back on the grass and examined the sky.

  Marcia had once taught him and Sara how to identify all the major constellations. All he could recognize now was the Big Dipper. With his hand he traced the outline of it and thought about that wacky prayer group. The winks, the smiles, the caressing hands, the overly long hugs—what exactly was being communicated? Maybe they were all just sexually frustrated. He could relate. Andrew wondered where Laura’s parents had been. Probably they had their own prayer group somewhere else.

  The dew from the grass tickled the hair on his arms. He sat up. It occurred to him that he couldn’t hear Becky. He groped around and realized he was no longer holding the handle of her leash. It must have slipped out of his hand.

  “Becky!” he shouted, and stood up.

  Silence answered him.

  “Becky, come here. Come here now.” Andrew strained to hear a pant or a bark, but all he heard was the gurgling of the river.

  “Becky, come!”

  Andrew approached the river and squinted up and down its length. He couldn’t see anything. He walked a few feet upstream and shouted some more. Then a few feet downstream. His foot slipped, and he cursed as his knee smashed into a rock. As he hoisted himself up he fell again, and half his body went sliding into the water. He was alarmed at how cold the water was, and how strong the current. He pulled himself to the bank and tried to catch his breath. A sliver of light beamed down on him. He gazed up at the full moon, briefly revealed between the clouds. The light illuminated his surroundings. He looked around and said, “Becky?” in a tone so soft that it was almost a whisper. Then he said her name again, louder this time. There was no answer. There was nothing.

  He lunged toward the river, shouting and tripping on slippery rocks. Upstream or down? Up, he decided. He fell several times before he realized that he could make more progress running on the side of the river instead of in it.

  But along the bank there were thorny branches and pricker bushes. He fought a rising hysteria as he crashed through the woods. The river grew thinner here. He had made the wrong choice. Becky would have traveled downstream, where the water grew deep and still before it entered the lake.

  He turned and ran. He breathed hard, gasping almost, as panic overtook him. He blundered forward, fell again, felt something wet trickle into his eyes, rubbed at it, and kept going. He shouted Becky’s name until his voice was hoarse. He tasted something metallic in his mouth and spit. Becky’s a good swimmer, he chanted to himself like a prayer. Becky’s a good swimmer.

  He was worried that she might be drowning somewhere and unable to bark, so he leaped back into the water and pushed along. He stretched his arms out to his sides as he moved, hoping that he might catch her if he couldn’t see her in the darkness. The river was now chest deep, and its movement toward the lake was deceptively slow. Some tenacious power kept pulling his feet out from under him.

  “Becky!” he yelled, but his voice was weak. He swam and ran and thrashed along, wildly waving his arms at his sides. Then a mess of weeds wrapped around his ankles and gently tugged him down. When his head went under the water, he panicked and swallowed. He opened his eyes, but all he could see was watery blackness. Moving through darkness. He wanted to scream.

  Andrew kicked at the weeds that gripped his feet. He came back up, sputtering and dragging his body over the bank. Muddy water came out of his mouth when he coughed. His eyes stung terribly. In the distance, behind him, he heard a bark.

  “Becky,” he said, attempting to stand. She thundered toward him. When they were close enough to touch, Andrew wrapped his arms around her and Becky embraced him back, sitting upright with her paws around his shoulders. She whined and licked at his various wounds. He felt dizzy. Then he heard himself muttering a small prayer of thanks, repeating some of the words and phrases that he’d heard at Laura’s house.

  He lay on his back and caught his breath. The moonlight broke through the clouds again, and Andrew saw that he had traveled pretty far; the lake was just up ahead. He stood up, using Becky for support. They picked their way through the brush until they were walking back along the bank of the river. Andrew coughed again and spit out the metallic-tasting liquid in his mouth. He touched his hand to his lips and then examined his fingertips—blood. He wiped his hand on the side of his pants. Everything hurt all at once. His head, legs, arms, back, and even his kneecaps ached. Becky trotted beside him with her head down. Either she was tired out or she had reflected and was ashamed of her part in the evening’s drama. Andrew patted her head and said, “It’s okay. It was my fault.”

  The house was silent when Andrew returned. He carried Becky through the kitchen and up the stairs so that she wouldn’t get her muddy paws all over the place. Then he dried her off with some towels in his room and told her he’d give her a hot bath the next day. She inhaled some jerky treats, settled in next to his bed, and fell asleep. Andrew went to the bathroom to assess the damage. He had some scrapes on his legs and a gash on his left arm that was long but not too deep. He assumed he had bit the inside of his mouth one of the times he’d fallen. He raised his hands to his scalp and felt a sticky mess of hair and blood.

  He took a hot shower and dressed his various scrapes with Band-Aids, gauze, and antibiotic ointment. The gash on his arm had stopped bleeding, as had the cut on his head, but the pain from the wounds diffused throughout his body into a single dull ache.

  The moment before he closed his eyes, he had a fleeting fantasy of telling Laura that he had gotten beat up. Who knows? She might be into that.

  14

  ANDREW STUMBLED DOWN TO THE KITCHEN and made a pot of coffee. He had the worst headache of his life. The scratches and cuts on his face seemed to itch and ripple in rhythm with the pulse in his temples. Images from the night before came back to him in weird flashes: John’s hand on his back, Laura’s brilliant smile, the moonlight on the water.

  God, my head hurts, he thought.

  He tried to distract himself from the pain by glancing through his college paperwork. He had qualified for a work-study program where he’d be shelving books part-time at the library. He could either make his paycheck apply toward his tuition, or it could be extra money in his pocket.

  Since he was twelve years old, Andrew had almost always had some type of part-time work: delivering newspapers, washing dishes, making photocopies at his father’s real estate office, or tending to the palatial grounds at Avella. Andrew was good at work, especially if it was monotonous and lonesome. He could disappear into a task, committing his whole self to its completion. Shelving books at the library answered all his needs for employment.

  He wondered if Marcia had qualified for work-study. Probably she had. He assumed that her father’s life insurance policy had dwindled away by now. Marcia’s mother was not capable of working, given her depression. Andrew thought that Marcia’s successful brothers supplemented their income, but he wasn’t sure, and Marcia never talked about it. Jack was a lawyer in New York City, and Walter was a banker of some sort. Walter lived in New Jersey and rarely visited.

  “What happened to you?”

  Andrew was startled out of his thoughts by his mother’s voice. He looked at her in a daze. She seemed upset.

  “Becky and I were in
the woods last night. I tripped and fell.”

  “That’s it?” she said.

  “I didn’t get beat up,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  They looked away from each other. When she reached for the coffeepot, Andrew got her a mug from the cupboard and held it steady as she poured herself a cup.

  “Is the paper here?” she asked.

  “Not here yet. Or maybe it is. I don’t know,” Andrew said. He put her coffee cup on the counter and walked down the hallway to the front door. He saw the Bible that John had given him on the floor and quickly picked it up and stashed it under a pile of his old schoolbooks. He doubted that either of his parents would care, but he wanted his bizarre foray into Christianity to be a secret from them. He grabbed the newspaper from the front steps and was ambling down the hallway when he heard the back door open and his brother come in. Andrew put the paper on the kitchen counter and grabbed the cordless phone.

  “Hi, baby,” their mother said.

  “Hey,” Brian said.

  Andrew was about to go upstairs when Brian stopped him.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “Tripped in the woods.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Why would that be weird?”