Shake Down the Stars (5 page)

He moves ninjalike on his tiptoes, his Taser raised with outstretched arms, as if at any minute Selwyn and I might pull something on him. He's of a brown-skinned variety that makes him appear all races at once, and he's dressed entirely in black with black combat boots and a heavy black jacket and black cap. A pencil-thin mustache floats between frog lips and a bubble nose.

He walks up to Selwyn as if after ten years on the job he's finally catching some action and wants to make the most of it.

“Stretch 'em,” he says. He kicks Selwyn's feet apart and actually starts to frisk him.

“Hey, leave him alone!” I yell. “He hasn't done anything.”

“Just let him do his job,” Selwyn says as though trying to keep everyone cool.

“Yeah,” the wanna-be cop says, “let a man do his job.”

He takes out Selwyn's wallet, checks his driver's license, and, unimpressed, returns it to his pocket. He then gives Selwyn one last pat and takes a step back. “You're clean.”

“I could've told you that myself.” He jerks his arm away and immediately straightens his tie as he goes about gathering back any remote traces of lost dignity. “Look, Officer. We got lost. We were on our way home from a party and got turned around.” He reaches for his back pocket.

Seeing him make a move, the cop leaps forward. “Watch it now!” he yells.

“Come on, man; you just frisked me. I'm clean, remember? I just want to give you my card.” He takes out his wallet and hands the cop a business card. “Name's Selwyn. Selwyn Jones.”

“He works for the mayor of Livermore,” I add emphatically.

The cop turns on his flashlight and reads the card. “So if you work for the mayor, what the hell are you doing out here?”

“Like I said, we got lost, but my lady here wanted to see the telescopes. We're having a tough night. You know how it goes.”

I shoot him a look.
“Your lady?”

“I'd like you to be.” He winks.

“You do realize we haven't known each other for a full twenty-four hours?”

“But think of it, Kil; it's been amazing. You just showed me Saturn. I knew there was something special about you, and I was right.”

The cop lets out a loud whistle. “Both of you, quiet! Shut up!” He steps closer. “You two need to be more careful. Lotta nuts come out here.”

“Yeah,” I say, staring right at him. “What are you, anyway? You're not a cop, are you?”

“Never mind what I am. I protect this facility here, and that's all you need to know. They have top-secret stuff in those buildings that radicals and terrorists would love to get their hands on.”

He starts toward the steps, leaving Selwyn and me to wonder what we're supposed to do. Once at the stairs, he pauses. “What the hell are you waiting on? When I say nuts, I'm talking about you. I want you two outta here!”

We do as we're told and rush over. He gives a satisfied nod, and we start down the stairs and back toward the front gate. We're back at the entrance in no time.

The cop unlocks the gate and waves us through. “All right, you two. No more breaking and entering for the either of yas.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Selwyn says.

When we have the courage to turn around, we see our cop watching us closely, rocking on his heels, arms crossed.

“What a weirdo!” I mutter.

“Laurel without Hardy.”

“Abbott without Costello.”

“Stop being a wise guy,” Selwyn mimics.

I laugh. “‘No more breaking and entering for the either of yas.'”

“Where do you think he was from?”

“I don't know. Some lost
X-Files
episode maybe.” And this time I wink.

Selwyn smiles and opens the car door for me. After we fasten our seat belts, Selwyn turns. “Where to?”

I know it's time to head back to the party, but I can't say I want to. I don't want to face Mom, or any of them for that matter. And Selwyn's right, in a way. It does feel like we have a connection, even if it's entirely imagined. “You really don't mind playing chauffeur?”

“Not at all.” He pauses as he thinks over what he wants to say. “This has been good for me.” He grins and rolls his head in my direction. “Since I'm playing your driver, might be nice to wake up in Mendocino tomorrow morning. Calistoga. I have all night and all day. Don't mind at all. We can make a trip out of it.” He puts the key in the ignition, grinning happily at the thought of a little B and B and a day of sightseeing.

“Actually, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking me to Martin Luther King and Fifty-fifth.”

“Martin Luther King Boulevard? In Oakland?'

“Yeah.”

“That's where you wanna go?”

“Yep.”

His entire body deflates as he lets go of any and all romantic notions of soaking tonight in a hot tub in Calistoga. He shakes his head wearily and turns the ignition. “Martin Luther King and Fifty-fifth it is.”

•   •   •

T
wenty minutes later we're standing in front of LaDonna Smith's altar. Candles are lit and burn quietly in the night. Nailed to the telephone pole is a laminated picture of Donna Hawks, LaDonna's mother, holding LaDonna in her lap. LaDonna was six years old when she died, two years older than Hailey. Above the picture someone has nailed poster board with the words
WE LOVE YOU
and
WE'LL MISS YOU
in bright pink glitter. Surrounding the candles are weighted balloons and teddy bears. I asked Selwyn to stop at the liquor store before we ended up here, and now I add a bag of gummy bears to the bowl filled with candy.

“Did you know her?” Selwyn asks.

“No.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Drive-by. They were going for someone else, and she got caught in the cross fire. She was in a coma for two days but didn't make it.”

“Tragic. Just tragic.” He stands and reaches for my hand, but I pull away.

There's another altar for Markus Money Burnett just at the end of the block. And on Fifty-sixth there's another for Anthony Tucker. Anthony, who was only fifteen, was shot by the police. He was a straight-A student, and just before his death, he had received a full scholarship to West Academy.

What Selwyn doesn't know is that I live only a couple of blocks away from where we stand. When I have insomnia, which is always, I sometimes leave the house at four or five in the morning and walk from one altar to another; there are at least four altars in a one-mile radius. Sometimes I leave gifts—flowers for Anthony, candy for Shawn on Sixtieth. I started a letter for LaDonna's mother once
. Our daughters would've liked each other,
the letter began,
but I was crying too much after only a few sentences and never finished it.

Selwyn kneels down and relights a candle that's gone out.

He stands, and we look at LaDonna's picture in silence. This time when he reaches for my hand, I let him take it.

“Where to?”

We're back inside the car. I figure now that I've shown Selwyn LaDonna's altar, there is one last place I'd like to visit. I know it's odd at best to want to show a virtual stranger your daughter's grave site, but it's been an odd night to say the least, so I may as well go the distance.

“Drive up MLK and make a right on Sixty-fourth.”

“You got it.”

Minutes later, we pull up to a massive front gate with its two large pillars on either side. Selwyn brings the car to a halt. “What's this?”

I didn't tell him where we were going, specifically because of the look he's giving me right now. “I want to show you one last thing.” I start to get out of the car, but he doesn't budge, keeping his gaze straight ahead as he stares at the gothic gates and black void just on the other side. His eyes widen, and his hands grip the steering wheel as if the car were careening down a hill. “That's a cemetery.”

“I know; I can explain.”

“No need to. I'm afraid this time you're on your own, Kil.”

“Why?”

He looks at me as if I were crazy. “It's a cemetery, that's why!”

“Selwyn, come on. Don't be ridiculous. You've practically been arrested and possibly shot at, and now you're afraid?”

“Hell yeah, I'm afraid! You should be, too. My momma always taught me, never go into a cemetery after midnight.”

“Your . . .
momma
?”

“Yeah, my
momma.
God rest her soul.”

I think for a second. “Where are you from, anyway? Before Livermore, I mean.”

“Alabama.”

I roll my eyes in a manner that says,
That explains so much.

“What?” he says. “You have something against Alabama?”

I hear banjos playing and envision broken-down porches. “No, not in particular.”

“Ain't nothin' wrong with the South. Despite the way we met, I want you to know you're looking at a real Southern gentleman right here.”

“Okay. Fine. So tell me why you're so afraid,
Rhett.
”

“All kinds of things come out in a cemetery at night. Ghosts, demons—”

“Goblins? Fairies?”

“Watch it,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Selwyn.”
I let my tone do the work for me.

“I'm not going. But if you want to, go right ahead. If you're not back in fifteen minutes, I'll dial 9-1-1. Go on. Nobody's stopping you.” He waves a hand. “Bye.”

I lean back in the seat. “If you believe in demons and ghosts, then you must believe in angels.”

“And?”

“Well, if you believe in angels, then you know that angels are protectors and will protect us from demons.”

I'm in uncharted territory here. But I also know that talk of angels always makes people go soft. After Hailey died, everyone kept talking about angels and how Hailey was now an angel, as if that was supposed to make her death okay. When I returned to work after my leave of absence, Beatrice Krackau (Mrs. Butt Crack to the students), a teacher I rarely talked to, walked into my room during my prep period and proceeded to stand behind me with her hand on my shoulder as though we were asked to pose for a painting. “She was needed in heaven, that's all. God needs his angels.”

I glared up at her from my desk, but she only shrugged in a way that implied there was no fighting God's need for more angels. “Are you serious?” I asked. “I'm sorry, but if he's
God
, and assuming
—omnipotent
,
why the fuck does he need angels in the first place?”

“She's helping our Lord.”

“She was four years old! What would God need with a four-year-old child? Get out of here with that shit! I mean it—out!”

Poor Mrs. Krackau looked at me as though I'd gone insane, and maybe I had. The thought that Hailey died for some inexplicable “plan” made me livid, and thinking of her as an angel didn't help a bit. It felt like an insult, actually.

But tonight I'm determined, and if I have to speak of angels, so be it. “Don't be afraid, Selwyn. We'll be protected by angels, I'm sure. If there's evil out there, there's good, too, and good always wins.” I realize how silly I sound and, embarrassed for myself, reach for the door. “Oh, fuck it. I'll go alone.”

I start to climb out of the car but then hear him say, “I'm an idiot.”

I turn and make a face that says,
Well, if you say so.

Selwyn doesn't smile, though, and instead he shifts his gaze beyond the black gate.

“What?”

“It's taken me this long to realize why we're here.” His face goes soft. “I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to apologize. I should apologize. It's beyond strange to bring you here in the first place. But I feel like being here. I come here at night sometimes. I know it's weird, but it's what I need right now. I just thought I'd like to invite you, but if you don't want to, I understand. I do.”

He takes a breath. “I'd be honored. Besides,” he adds, taking the keys out of the ignition, “Momma also said a person should stand up to his fears.”

“I love your momma,” I say, my smile growing big and wide.

He looks at me a beat, his eyes round and shiny. “That smile. That smile.”

•   •   •

S
elwyn holds the flashlight as I guide us through the cemetery. In hopes of making him feel less afraid, I ramble on about how pretty the cemetery is during the day—how it's more like a park with all the great views, the duck pond and boysenberry bushes, the people who come here to walk their dogs, but he remains dubious at best and mutters a sarcastic “Oh yeah, it's
exactly
like a park.”

To keep him focused, and because I don't know a thing about him, I ask him to tell me something about himself.

“Well,” he says, ready to settle into a good story, “when I was a boy of about eight or nine and growing up in Alabama—”

I'm exhausted already. “Oh God, never mind.”

“What?”

“I'm just not in the mood to hear about the South—those willow trees and june bugs, Southern witticisms.” I shiver dramatically.

“Girl, you have more attitude than ten women dressed in too-tight shoes.”

I give him a look that says,
See what I mean?

We finally reach the top of the hill we've been climbing for what feels like several hours. We stare silently at land and sky spread out before us, the bright expanse of city lights, and the bay and both the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge far off in the distance.

We stand without saying a word until Selwyn murmurs, “My, my, what a beautiful view. It's so peaceful.”

I turn and wave my hands in the air.
“Boo!”

“Everybody's a comedian,” he mutters.

After a few minutes of gazing at the view, we continue to walk until we reach a crest.