among the fallen stars_preview

7/29/2019 Among the Fallen Stars_Preview

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About the Book

***

For orphans and sisters Oacie and Raynell Taylor, abuse and loneliness became a way of

life as they went from one frightening foster home to the next. Determined but hopelessly

forgotten, they are sustained only by cleverness and a reciprocal bond of loyalty.

When they are unwittingly caught in the crossfire of a violent and abusive attack, a

sadistic Sherriff pursues them in a vengeful and twisted chase that eventually separates

them into two worlds where secrets become their only means of survival.

Now, after nearly two decades of estrangement, a husband sets out to reconnect these two

women, knowing that healing the past is the only means by which he can save his wife,

and the sister-in-law he has never known. With one languishing in prison and the other

living a life of pretense among the elite of Atlanta, these sisters soon learn that shining is

something we all do, even when our light has been buried for a long, long time.


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NOTE TO THE READER:

Oacie, Raynell, and Steve share the stage as first person story tellers. Because this is a

tale of secrets and isolation, the unique and personal perspective of each character is

pivotal to the story itself. Except for the voice of Oacies mother, who helps galvanize

their collective tragedy by sharing her own story, Among the Fallen Stars is experienced

more profoundly by listening to each of the three characters speak in first person, as

opposed to hearing a global storyteller chant in omniscience.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-

sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another

person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are

reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use, only,

please return to AmongTheFallenStars.comand purchase your own copy. Thank you for

respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents

are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author

acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products

referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The

publication and/or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or

sponsored by the trademark owners.

Copyright Camine Pappas


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Chapter 1 Reflection

Chapter 2Resignation

Chapter 3 Remembering

Chapter 4 Resolve

Chapter 5Reality

Chapter 6Radiance

Chapter 7 Revolution

Chapter 8Renewal

Chapter 9 Reconnection

Chapter 10 Rescue

Chapter 11 Redemption

Chapter 12

Revenge

Chapter 13 Resilience

Chapter 14 - Reunion


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By Camine Pappas

Chapter One Reflection

OACIE

Its only one little star, rather insignificant in its brightness, and certainly

nothing more than a piece of reflective, carbon shrapnel from a universe toobusy to number every bit of celestial dust. But I follow it, nonetheless.

Sometimes its appearance brushes against the top of the metal sill, waving

brightly for only a moment and lighting up my stone chamber with purposeful

iridescence. Other times it hangs low, and glimmers upward before crossing out

of sight, as dawn sounds her pinkish alarm. But it always passes in front of my

view, and winks as it ambles by, like it has seen me, and knows me, too.

As I lay here in the darkness, from a bunk just wide enough to accommodate my

shivering body, I feel the dampness more keenly than ever. And I think back

about what defines my life. For quite awhile now, I have forged a future with

nothing more than regret acting as both bellow and fire, a relentless locus of

sorrow bound up inside me, and this little craggy mote from an otherwise

unfamiliar sky salutes to me only because she cannot help it. She was destined

to glow, and I think thats why were friends.


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No one looks to anyone for light in here. And if they did, it wouldnt come from

me. Most dont know how afraid I am, or that regret has hung around my neck

like an expectant noose after nearly two decades of incarceration. Thats becauseI dont wear my guilt on a wrinkled sleeve. No sniffles or petty sarcasm escaped

my pursed and crackling lips when they asked me how I wanted to plea. It

wasnt until later that I snapped, crying with full, generous sobs as they

ratcheted down the handcuffs, and washed me with raspy sponges until all the

blood was teased so close to the surface that I appeared to have no skin at all.

Tonight the darkness is more distinct, which is why the star seems to stand out.

Which in turn makes me remember everything clearly, like one recalls the thrust

of a hornets sting while napping, making detail easy to extrude.

For instance, I know that there was a small and silly beetle ascending

impulsively up the side of the D.A.s desk, just at the moment I was sentenced to

a life in prison by a snarling jury of my peers, and a derisive judge who nearly

spat at me from her perch of absolute justice.

I even remember the musty odors of the rickety old bus that carried me to my

first jail cell, and the sorrowful dirt of a thousand shoes covering its unkemptfloor, both levitating at once into the air and into my nose.

I was alone, eighteen, and confused, and I stared only at the shaven head of the

driver as he swerved to miss the potholes that dotted the old dirt road. His head

was held high, and he seemed to take a special pride in the job of depositing the

vermin of society away from the innocent and the certain. Even though I was the

only passenger, I remember feeling sick as I smelled the putrid sweetness of his

after shave, noting that the beads of perspiration that dotted the folded nape ofhis freckled neck looked like diamonds scattered across the edge of a sandy

shore; their perfect roundness making him appear almost inanimate. I even

thought about leaping to his side, and clasping his shiny head in desperation

while I begged him to let me flee into the trees before it was too late. But I could

no more move than fly.


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Heres the truth of it. In the darkness, you make mistakes. And they litter my

path like so many dead cicadas after the heat of summer finally quiets their

shrieking calls of copulation.

I am not one to wallow in the unfathomable. I have a lot of life left in me. I am,

in comparison, better off than those who have no point of reference. In contrast

to much of the hardness that surrounds me, the first part of my childhood was

good; very good. It hummed with a kind of domestic harmony in my Southern

home town of Dillon, unfolding like rose petals softly stretching to catch the

sunlight; sharing sweetness with an absolute confidence that spring will always

come.

I spend a lot of my time thinking back to what home used to be like before the

chains and before all the mistakes, and the memories flow out me thick and

textured. They fall together quickly like straws spilling out on the floor, conduits

for new interpretations of disappointment, remade and retold until the darkness

fades into myth and for a time, I believe there are no shackles at all.

For instance, I have even heard that my house still stands strong and vertical,

even though it is now alone on a block that used to vibrate with laughter and thesound of bicycles, ice cream trucks and lawn mowers.

It was the kind of place where women sat on front porches smoking and

laughing as they waited for their husbands to return from work like a hoard of

denim soldiers marching to a casserole scented homing signal, and warm

chocolate pie smells drifted through the air and gathered in the alleys like

friends. The aromas and golden light called to me and I used to walk along the

back of each house and peer into all the kitchens, imagining I was the guest atthe table asking for seconds and thirds, hoping the paper napkin tucked into my

pocket would return home with extra biscuits for Mama and sugar cookies for

me.

Things really were glorious for awhile and I felt that the world was there just for

me. I used to sit in our backyard swing and make up whole stories about the


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people that walked by. Id pay attention to how they moved, or what they were

carrying and then Id begin. Sometimes the stories ended happily. Sometimes

they didnt. The truth is you have to have some sadness or the story isnt worthhearing.

It was a town caught in time, really because although technology was beginning

to creep into our private lives, the barber shop was still the center of social news

and the town square bustled with art shows and bake sales while lovers

intertwined on old blankets eaten through by moths breeding among the woolen

stitches. Parades were long, bands were loud, and ice cream cones were twirled

up high; their colors blending like the vortex of neon paint on an old tie-died

shirt.

In the summer we forgot about everything burdensome, and the moon always

seemed bigger, like it had swallowed a whole truckload of fireflies and needed

to expel the glowing powder into one, brilliant sneeze. It covered us all in a kind

of magical dust, protecting us from all the sorrowful things we could never have

known were so very, very close, pretending there were no dreams to be undone.

At night we listened to frogs croaking their anthems of courtship in the teemingpools of brown water, and by autumn, the trees would burn with color, casting

the jewels of nature at our feet. Even the few inches of white, magical snow,

sprinkled gently on a hill that sloped gradually down to the edge of an aging

town, were enough for an old inner tube to carry us away into fantasy.

Will all of this joy and simplicity, there wasnt one thing that prophesied the

doom in store for us. We went about as though paradise was free, and perpetual,

and deeded to us forever. We never thought about politics, or scandal, and myparents voted their conscience without the benefit of cable or the Internet. If we

had been connected, the only thing we could have done is be more afraid. And

thats no way to live.

Sown from the seeds of greed and progress, the inevitable soon enveloped us in

her cloak of economic lies. We never understood that the looms that fell silent in


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our community were only transported to another continent, or that only the ears

that heard their music changed. In actuality their spindles, vibrating with the

sound of healthy commerce, were now staining foreign balance sheets with theblack ink of progress. It didnt matter that we were patriots; America was now

only a word, and we were barely a mark on an empty page.

After the mill closed, there were no relatives or neighbors. No one stayed behind

to fight. Only those who have been mashed into a gnarled figure of hunger

understand how hopeless it was. Quiet and silent like a grave, what remained

behind was just emptiness, and feeding on Dillons warm carcass like a parasite

the emptiness consumed everything, screaming through the cracks in crumpled

buildings, and muttering with the guttural language of poverty.

But still, I do cling to the memories of my carefree days, even though in doing

so I am dipped in melancholy. And why not, isnt every home significant?

Doesnt it define our earliest habits and memories? Doesnt it shape everything

we are? Aside from the obvious disrepair, you may not notice the curtains that

still hang in the upstairs window, or that the remnants of once hearty rose bushes

now crushed under the weight of weeds and drought. You may even overlook

the headless Barbie sticking out of one of the cracks in the sidewalk, or the

rusted clothesline standing askew in a yard full sorrow. Everything that meant

something is now covered up by time, kudzu and decay.

I wasnt the first to fall in love with our house, she boasts a history that reaches

back long before we arrived. As each family outgrew or out-loved her, they

always left behind a few scraps of paper, or badly placed nail holes in their haste

to move on. I like leaving things behind as well, so I carved my name, Oacie

Taylor, into the baseboard one night when I couldnt sleep, becoming part of allthat came before, and all that would be.

Oacie is a nickname of course. Its short for Omara Cecile Taylor, which I never

liked. The Cecile is okay since it was my Mamas name. However, I think you

will agree that Omara is an awful name. It was my second grade teacher, Miss

Grismore, the first to appreciate my story telling prowess and the best audience I


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ever had, who asked me to make up a nick-name for myself even after seeing the

note from Papa kindly requesting I be known by my entire, Christian name. She

understood what a bad name can do for you, so together we found one thatsuited me, and I never had to bother with that long name again. Oacie it was.

It some ways it suits me. Im gangly by most standards, and pretty by others as

beauty still clings to my face and eyes. My hair, which is completely devoid of

any natural curl, is the color of melting chocolate. My arms curve into my body

when I walk, arching back and forth like a runway models pale limbs; but thats

just because my hips are so narrow. In truth, walking for me is more up and

down than back and forth so swinging my arms completes the circle.

My eyes, easily my best feature are set deeply, a pleasing distance from one

another, and green as grass with dots of brownish gold around the edges. They

see a world that hasnt changed much over the last 18 years, squinting hard

through the tenuous delivery of sensory data that I extract from the limited

information that surrounds me.

I suppose if I had to define a trait that is most responsible for my circumstances,

it would be my mouth. It goes off without warning, especially when I hearpeople talk stupid. You stick around and listen long enough, thats just about

everyone you meet.

I wish I had said more though on the night that everything changed from bad to

worse and from fear to revenge. It was the night we saw too much, and stayed

too long, and didnt run far enough away from a scene we should never have

been a part of; a moment that set my fate in motion and made my sister a

stranger to me, forever.

She was only 11, I was almost 15, and we were blood stained, and aching with

fear. She was running behind me, crying and screaming even when I stopped

long enough for her to catch up to me, telling her to grab my torn pocket and

hold on until I could get us to safety. I dont know that her legs were on the

ground I was running so fast. But by the time we reached the end of the block


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we only stopped long enough to see the police car roll into the driveway and the

officers emerge with loaded guns. We knew that we had left horror behind us,

and that much of it was our fault. It is all mixed up now in the fog of regret and Ihavent breached the truth of it with her since that brutal day.

Its never going to be better if we dont talk about it. Its so secret that all

memories have now become a wall between us. A wall so high she has forgotten

our closeness, and our pact to always fight for each other. She may have even

forgotten that night, and rightly so. It was a catalyst of revenge, a moving target

of misunderstanding and survival, and a true testament to a moment gone wrong.

And when the time came, I made sure she got as far away as possible. I was no

good to her. She deserved more. This way I would never have to worry about

her seeing something in my eyes that brought all the details back to torture her

once again.

We should never have gotten away, really. It was only luck that opened a portal

to a temporary freedom. Actually, youd be surprised how far we got that night,

slipping away as we did after such violence. Maybe the caseworker assigned to

retrieve us had an appointment to get her brows waxed and finding two kids who

havent bathed in two weeks doesnt sit well when youd rather smell lavender

and cedar. It could be after years of chasing our kind it becomes obvious that all

we really want is a head start, and if we can escape without stealing a meal,

frightening an old woman or setting off any alarms, they all figure its good

riddance.

Raynell has always been a bit fragile, and it was up to me to protect her. She has

long, blond hair and a cowlick that would stop a train. It looks like a crop circle

and bounces into place with violence if disturbed. I remember Papa complainingthat there was no way to get her hair in a ponytail without using a crowbar and

some serious hair gel. He said her upward-pointing curls were Gods way of

reminding the world she was born special, and when he first told her that, she

looked straight up to see if there was anyone looking down that might nod in

approval. I was afraid to look up in case it was true.


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Shes the beauty, Ray is, and her name is a handful like mine: Raynell Jeneva

Taylor Messner to be exact. Her skin is pale and clear, her lips wide, taking up

half her face. But it fits her and after you realize you cant stop staring becauseof that generous, curving mouth, you see a loveliness that is most certainly

doomed for sorrow. Her eyes are green like mine, and she can close those

gorgeous eyes and sleep like I was never able to.

Her ability to make things disappear is what I am most jealous of. Even over the

full figure she has developed and the brown mole on her cheek that makes

everyone look twice. She can move between lucidity and madness at the drop of

a hat, sometimes mesmerizing those around her with keen observations like she

was reading from a Junior Genius handbook. Then at other times appearing

blank and bereft. If she has continued this bi-polar roller coaster, she must be

driving everyone around her crazy. I could always see it coming and therefore

prepare for the two people she had divided herself into, but then sisters live in

their own world designed specifically for assumptions. No one ever explains to

you that mind reading is only a trick.

The fact is I havent seen her in more than a decade and its been even longer

since we talked as friends. Most of her correspondence has consisted of short,

impersonal letters, written in an impeccable, cursive hand with paragraph after

paragraph of updates about new blenders, lavish neighborhood parties, the

percentage of gold in her latest jewelry acquisition, and the silk pillows in her

sun room. Theres always a photo included in the linen folds of the stationary,

but its usually oriented from a distance and excludes any kind of detail that

would make it possible to see who she has become.

There are a few clues that she has slipped permanently into a kind of debutante-induced oblivion, proving further that she chooses not to remember our past. For

instance, she is always writing to me as though I was the editor of Vogue, not

her incarcerated sister, hoping I will be impressed with her materialistic savvy.

She will ask if Ive seen the new furniture line in Exquisite Home magazine, or

if I swoon over any the celebrities that she follows in earnest. I suppose elegance


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has always been a part of her because when we were small, she used to ramble

on about the ladies we watched in the beauty salon, legs dangling into foot baths

and arms extended like ballerinas in the spotlight. Shed say that someday shewould paint her nails all different colors and keep them long and nicely

groomed. Wed both have things, she used to say, and I would roll my eyes of

course because preening seemed like such a huge waste of time. What I never

considered is these rituals were actually her way of coping with a life encased in

hesitation.

Ray is my dear little sister and I love her. When she came along, I was only four,

prepared and anxious to be a big sister like nobodys business. I used to stroke

her yellow hair for hours as she lay asleep in her crib. I would watch her as she

sucked on her purple pacifier, listening to the air sift through her nose and echo

into her chest, and after a momentary hesitation, flutter out through a smile.

Mama said I was going to go blind looking at her so closely, but I couldnt help

it. She smelled good, like milk, and spit and earth. It was glorious, this having a

sister. It was like finally finding your lost sock. You always knew there were

supposed to be two.

As we grew up it was clear that we would always understand each other. No

matter what the distance, there would be a special bond that would connect the

emptiness caused by life.

And the sadness started early. By the time I was 13 we had already been in 5

foster homes. Long gone were the teachers with hearts, and pencils with your

name on them. Most days were spent sneaking food from the pantry because

feeding us was optional, and wiping down our own sheets to remove the bugs

before we went to sleep was a daily ritual.

When we were out, Raynell and I spent most of our time climbing trees and

staring into windows, always peering in to find someone who looked like our

mother. We always said she had to be wearing an apron with polka dots, and

sporting a hair ribbon or two. She would also have to be wearing pearls, be

covered in flour, constantly pulling her hand up to her brow as she fought an


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unruly cowlick. Once we thought wed actually found her and it made us stop

the game for fear it was true. This is impossible of course, since she died when

Ray was 4 and I was 8, but I swear, it had to be her.

I didnt really tell you about my mom because its not part of what made our

lives so bad, she was wonderful and we loved her. In fact everyone loved her. I

just dont like to talk about it because losing her is certainly what made the bad

start.

Truth is; she was needed in heaven. Thats clearly the case. We were left behind

to take care of Papa for awhile, and the house, the house, because it was the only

place she touched us and we touched her.

And those curtains I told you about that are still hanging in the window? Mama

and I picked them out together, putting them up not long before Ray was born. It

was the perfect room of a soon to be big sister and we did it up right. I knew it

as soon as I saw the pattern on the curtains that they were meant for me because

they had stars on them, and moons and cows leaping like dancers on a stage.

The cows mouths were upturned, and they wore lipstick and big earrings and

bracelets around their hooves. Even the moons had faces, and everyone seemedto be dancing to a trumpet and drum-march, while fireworks erupted in the sky.

Of course we made sure the bedspread matched the curtains, and the striped

wallpaper was light green with red stars running up and down from floor to

ceiling. The whole ensemble in fact made my bedroom enchanting.

I counted those stars on the wallpaper to help me sleep and to take away the

sense of panic I always had, especially when the cancer started to close in and

mother was too tired to sing.

Shes still there, you know, inside a small opening in the wall behind my chest

of drawers. It is there I keep a picture of her tucked into a small yellow tin, a

prize from a Cracker Jack box and just the right size for storing treasures. Along

with the photo there is a letter from her written three days before she died, and

the bracelet she wore in the hospital when I was born. The picture is still there to


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this day because when we moved out of that house, I had to leave it behind.

Otherwise, the cows on the curtains might stop singing and then the house

would always be sad and I couldnt handle that.

I kissed her picture hard when I walked out the last time and hoped she would

know where to find me wherever I went. She was among the stars that stayed up

high, and lit up heaven. I have remained down below, grasping the cold

firmament, and staying out of reach of everything comforting but her memory. I

had her face in my head, and that was enough. She belonged in my room

forever. Cecile Victoria Ermengarde Taylors spirit was too important to ever

move away from her own castle.

It was different with Ray; she took everything from her room when we moved.

She grabbed her magic glitter pens, her set of Cinderella underwear, her

Tinkerbelle wings, and even the cracked silver comb we had found behind a

supermarket during one of our many stealth missions for candy. She took all of

her hair ribbons, and two of her secret keys that came with the magic book Papa

bought her on her last birthday. The day we left, she had done her own hair and

placed a big, red clip right over her swirling, curling part because she knew it

was a better way to wave to God, and our parents, as we both left the house and

the memories behind.

When I think about it I realize we both used to be someone else, glowing with

the light of protection and promise. The numbers in my life were about seasons,

and the heartbeats that marked the depth of the love I had for family. Now the

numbers in my life are across my left breast, or neatly tucked into square boxes

on a worn clip board. And if the bars of my cell were the vertical columns of a

timeless abacus, they would show the largest number of all to be the days since Ihave seen Ray.

Could it be too much to hope that she will come back; returning to hear our

whole story, and maybe make peace with it? If no one has helped her remember,

who better than a sister to soothe the wounds of mortality? But I must believe


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Garner, my handsome, nine year old son, channels a cruelty that is more subtle

and silent than his sisters, even though on occasion he takes my si de. Maybe I

am being too harsh on him because at least he will say I look pretty even whenmy eyes are swollen and red. Bless him for that. Its why I buy more presents for

him than anyone else, but I certainly would prefer a thank-you now and then.

His tenth birthday is next month and hes already starting to exhibit the gangly

appearance young boys are saddled with as testosterone begins its early

transformative powers. But his dark hair is beautiful and long, and his hands are

smooth and sure. Im not ready for him to grow up, so his being awkward

endears me to him. Hes smart, too, with a wide smile, and a slightly pigeon -

toed walk which I think he got from Papa, but Steve said its because I didnt let

him walk enough when he was a toddler.

When I was pregnant with him, I used to rub my belly and talk about the

mysteries of consciousness, give him long lists of books he had to read, and

musing about what kind of girl he would marry. He would kick in approval and

cut off my breath, and I took that as an omen that his birth would come hard,

and I was right. Even when his diaper was full of that awful yellow stuff that

scares the hell out of you the first time you see it, I pretended to understand all

the rituals that heralded the arrival of another baby in my home.

Come to think of it, Im not sure they even need a mother. If a bus wiped out

both Steve and I tomorrow, they would survive and thrive, looked after by their

own sense of entitlement and fiscal opportunity. Sure were the parents, but

theyre being raised by a G4 connection and ninety nine cent ring tones. Who

are we to intervene?

***

Theres that sound again. The paper boy has just whacked our front door with a

black and white missile he calls the paper. It brings me back to hear the creaking

of the house as the hot sun awakens her from a very long night. It must be 5 a.m.


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Im sorry; I didnt mean to be so forward. My name is Steve. Steve Messner. I

am verypleased to meet you.

Likewise, and I appreciate your chivalry. I purred.I have to say, it shook me

up. I keep trying to convince myself I fit here, but the truth is no one in that

boutique has anything interesting to say.

Wait, perhaps I shouldnt be so candid in return. If I was going to snag this guy,

best I play the part. So I sighed heavily and coaxed a small, burning tear into my

eyes, just to see how vulnerability played into the moment, continuing with a

voice I hoped rang with the tone he craved.

Anyway, thank you. Im still shaking a bit but I will be alright. Im sure you

were on your way somewhere important, and Im just getting in your way.

It must have been the right reaction, because he cleared his throat, straightened

his sweater and asked,

Do you need some time to gather yourself? Why dont we take a walk by the

water?

I nodded weakly to seal the believability of the faade, ran back into the store

for my purse, and we immediately wandered off down the street, like two

dancers on stage, feeling a breeze hit us squarely as we turned to face the ocean

that swallowed us with a sting of salty air.

He looked at me intently, cocking his head to one side, reaching down with a

clammy hand to clasp mine, and in spite of the wind we both realized we wereas well suited as any two people could be. He always said what he was thinking,

and I was always thinking about what not to say.

Our meeting happened within hours of Steve arriving in town for a vacation,

there to clear his head after finishing his Veterinary School exams in Georgia.

He was looking forward to a little cold beer and a couple of nights by the sea.

Meeting me was, in his words, A wonderful surprise.


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Mom, please dont wear those pink shoes to my recital tonight. You look crazy

when you wear those.

Nell was already yelling from the kitchen, digging in to me before I was even

vertical. Gee, how could someone so small insure that my day started so badly?

Thats Nell for you.

Oh sweetheart, I bought another outfit just for the occasion. You will be so

proud of me!

And I lumbered into the kitchen, pulling my hair into a pony tail and checking to

make sure there was nothing dried and stuck to my face.

The sweetness I try to imbue into our conversation is abruptly soured by her

next statement that slides off her tongue like venom from a snake who wears

petticoats and cherry lip-gloss. You buy too many things. Thats why you and

dad are always fighting.

Climbing back up into the kitchen from the pit she has thrown me into I retort,

Nell, sweetie, dont talk to momma like that. Now lets get you some breakfastand get you on the bus.

Unfolding her arms in retreat, she turns to the door to walk out and discovers the

empty tray the mound of pink and purple confections that should have been

piled onto its porcelain plateau are missing, and theres nothing more than a

broken promise sitting in their place and shes furious. Where are my

cupcakes? Aaaaaahhh! You forgot again. I told you it was my turn for treats!

And then with a voice of panic she adds, Youre not going to drop them off are

you? Please, just forget about it now. I will just tell Miss Darnell youre sick

again.

Her tirade is actually quite impressive. If Hollywood were ever to come calling,

shed be set for life.


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***

You had enough, Steve? Mick always watches me, especially when I go offinto a stupor like this, but if I wanted another hed grab the bottle and pour me a

generous round of denial.

She was really doing better for awhile; starting to talk to us, to me, and sharing

things like a person with things to say. Thats what I thought anyway. And then

I went up into the atticmy God, Mick, its like Im in a dream theres so much

stuff all over the place. It set me off all over again.

What is she buying now? He asks, as one bushy eyebrow disappears into his

hairline. I think about not answering, but if I dont talk to Mick its like it hasnt

happened.

I dont know. Every box in there is huge, for Gods sake.

I shift in my chair as I hear a glass break in the background. I just stood there

shocked that it was happening again. She told me she takes her medication; she

promises me for Gods sake but I found a full bottle this afternoon behind hershoes. Jeezus, its like Im...like Im some jerk who has to sneak around my own

house to find the truth.

So she stopped taking her meds? Now both eyebrows have vanished. I dont

think Ive ever noticed just how long and stringy his hair really is.

Shes so good at being this demonic Stepford wife and Im so sick of seeing

her cry that I stopped asking long ago. Even the kids avoid her. Nell wont touchher, and I see Garner trying to stroke her hair or look into her eyes; anything to

make contact. She casts them both off like enemies.

I take another swig of Jack and set the glass down a little too hard.


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I know when I get home tonight it will be like nothing has happene d. She will

walk up to me and put her hands on me and I will respond just like I always do.

And she will assume everything is okay.

Man, I know you feel like you have to protect her, always have. Shes a

delicate little thing and that last bout in the hospital about did you in, buddy.

Hes moving around behind the bar now, looking for olives for the waitress, but

I know he hears every word Im saying.

She thinks were all against her. I continue, knowing that having his face out

of sight makes telling the truth easier. We smile, and she says weve got it in

for her. I have always known shes screwed up but I always thought if I loved

her enough, shed be okay.

That last part slipped out; one of many unsolicited emotional outbursts that Im

famous for. Its not that I have a problem with my feelings, but it seems so

sappy to sit here, nursing a glass of woe is me and whining to a bartender

about my inability to move off the dime with my wife. He looks long and hard at

me and Im afraid hes going to walk the other way, tired of my complaints. Andwhy wouldnt he? I imagine every regular comes in with their own name tag and

story tacked to their chest, Hi, Im George; my problem is I cant get it up.

Hey, Im Cindy; my husband beats the crap out of me. Yo, Cal here, Ive

been stealing from my boss for 20 years.

Im just a part of the parade of losers.

My son is in prison, Steve. Did you know that? he had barely turned to look atme, and I shifted in my chair so he knew I was listening.

Mick,II had no idea you even had a son.

I wasnt surprised by his admission, but still I could see he was about to share

something personal, and I wanted to know it. I felt better then, about being so


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float away with them to some ethereal place where people held you without

extracting all of your strength and listened to you without waiting for you to

finish so they could retort with some kind of compliment laden, pre-scriptednonsense about themselves.

When I heard a waitress yell at an obnoxious man about his tab, my attention

snapped back into place. I suddenly remembered this isnt the kind of place you

find answers; its a place you hide from your problems. These walls are covered

with memories that cant be left behind. Every glow from the lights, every wail

from all the songs, every glass stacked against the mirror is laughing at the

people huddled inside, slowly and insidiously whispering back that theyre

worthless, and that theyll never escape.

The last sip didnt taste as good as it should so I knew I needed to go. I placed

the $20 down and turned to walk out. Mick winked at me and slowly added,

Think about it, pal.

I nodded without turning. He understood why.

As I walked home that night I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the glassof the stores lining Walker Avenue. The dirt in the windows cast an ugly light

on my otherwise lean reflection. Pulling my hand above my head I smoothed

down the one curl that always wrapped over my freckled forehead. My red hair

made me look younger than I was, and the fact that I was never going to be

muscular made me appear almost emaciated in the golden, milky light.

I thought about the time I first met Ray and how stunned I was by her wide

mouth, golden hair and soft, smooth, outstretched arms. Her legs looked likethey could carry her on air and maybe me, too, and when she pushed away my

red curl; I grabbed her and kissed her bravely for a long, long time.

From then on we were inseparable. We seemed to strike this bond of silence

where we both jumped in without oxygen. She clung to my need to make it all

better; her fragility making me come back for more. I too had lost my mother


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Her rationalization although transparent, was a sharp departure from her usually

closed mouth and open legs, giving me the permission I needed to say what the

whiskey demanded I share.

Theres more to life than trinkets and PTA meetings, honey. But she was

already using her mouth to trace thin circles around my fingers, which made it

hard to say what I needed, but not impossible. We cant keep fighting like this.

Things, well, things have to... and I hesitated because after all, one wrong word

and she would fall apart.

What was I, an idiot? She wasnt listening at all.

Her next statement insured I was right.

Everything will be better tomorrow, sweetie. It always is.

And I grabbed her and continued with our ritual. She was beautiful, striking and

intelligent and oh, so screwed up. And I loved her too much to separate it all out.

Together it made Ray and that combination made us. It was then I made up my

mind for sure that tomorrow, tomorrow everything was going to change.

among the fallen stars_preview

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